First published in Great Britain in 2018

by Electric Monkey, an imprint of Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

First published in the USA in 2018

by Alfred A Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books,

a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

Text copyright © 2018 Rachel Cohn & David Levithan

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted

First e-book edition 2018

ISBN 978 1 4052 8401 1

Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1752 6

www.egmont.co.uk

CIP data is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Stay safe online. Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont is not responsible for content hosted by third parties. Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.

To my Bubbe and my Bebe grandmas

R.C.

To Grandma Grace and Grandma Alice

D.L.

People need, demand fantasy. I try to help them do this for a little while, to help them forget work and problems and enjoy, vicariously, a folderol of fun, good music and fancy dress. I give them a little recess from the humdrum.

Liberace

Invitation

WHAT: Recess from the Humdrum! Dinner Party

WHO: Sam & Ilsa

WHEN: May 16, 8 p.m.

WHY: Last dinner party at Czarina’s Palais de Rent Control!

Sad face!

Also, Liberace’s birthday.* Sequin face!

WHERE: Sam & Ilsa’s grandma’s.** (map attached)

WEAR: Garish.***

* If you don’t know who Liberace is, we don’t know how you got invited to this party. But you can ask Mr Google if you need help.

** Don’t worry, Czarina is out of town and will leave us alone for the evening!

*** Ask yourself, WWLW: What Would Liberace Wear?

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

1: ILSA

2: SAM

3: ILSA

4: SAM

5: ILSA

6: SAM

7: ILSA

8: SAM

9: ILSA

10: SAM

11: ILSA

12: SAM

13: ILSA

14: SAM

15: ILSA

16: SAM

17: ILSA

18: SAM

19: ILSA

20: SAM

21: SAM & ILSA

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

1

ILSA

My brother is way too obsessed with our grandma’s sex life.

“I think Czarina has taken a lover,” Sam says, holding out his hand to me. “Spatula. Stat.” My job is to maximize the chef ’s surgical efficiency by passing him the gadgets he requests. I hand him the spatula. “That’s an egg-turner spatula. The spoon spatula, Ilsa,” he says, like it’s so obvious. “Observe!”

I look at his bowl, filled with cheese and spinach. Seems like any old spatula could work in that bowl, but if it were up to me, we’d order takeout from Zabar’s and not bother with DIY cooking at all. Sam’s an amazing cook. But all that work! No, thank you. He gets me for a half hour as sous-chef, and the rest of the meal is on him. My job is planning fabulousness, not catering it. I should have been the gay man, not my twin brother.

I hand Sam the spoon spatula. “What makes you think Czarina has taken a lover?”

“She’s gone to Paris three times in the last six weeks.”

“She’s a fashion buyer. That’s her job.”

“There’s something different about these trips. I feel it. Did you notice how . . . nice she seems when she gets back? It’s upsetting.”

“What are you really upset about? That she’s been nice, or that she took Mom and Dad and not you to Paris with her for the weekend?” I love when Czarina goes away and lets us use her apartment. Then I get to be the queen of her castle, and not have to share Sam with her.

“That’s the thing! She never takes Mom and Dad anywhere. Says they’re bourgeois bores.”

“I love ’em, but they kind of are.”

“Don’t be bitchy.”

“Don’t ask me to be anything other than who I am.”

Sam laughs, then raises an eyebrow at me. “Aren’t you just a little concerned? Czarina even said we didn’t have to leave her bedroom door locked. Of all the dinner parties she’s let us host in her apartment, her one and only strict rule has been” – and here Sam mimics Czarina’s gangster-worthy growl – “‘no teenage miscreants shall miscreant in my bedroom.’”

“Yeah, that’s why she always shows up during dessert, despite saying she was taking a night out to go to the symphony, and even when she’s locked away all the liquor. The control freak can’t take our word for it that we won’t let anyone in her bedroom or break into her booze.” I reconsider what I just said, and then amend my statement. “I mean, take my word for it. She knows Sam the Saint won’t break her rules.”

“Not true. Remember the party when #Stantastic wanted to see Czarina’s vintage Dior gowns?”

“You texted Czarina and got her permission to go into her closet. That’s not rule-breaking.”

“#Stantastic had a beer!”

I let out a sigh. “Scandal.”

What constitutes legit rule-breaking? Perhaps that party two years ago when Parker and I jimmied our way into Czarina’s brandy collection and then ended the party making out on her bed, with the bedroom door locked so no one else could get in. Best aperitif ever. Miscreants, and proud! Czarina was in Milan, so I knew for a fact she wouldn’t be barging in. My parents say I’m too reckless, but even I know not to expose myself to Czarina’s in-your-face wrath. I know exactly how that brutal wrath works, because it’s the primary trait of hers I inherited. That, and we both look good wearing almost any shape of hat.

I aspire to be more like Czarina in ways other than being wrathful. I’d like to be a heartbreaker, rather than the one left heartbroken. The boss of any situation. Like Czarina, I want to travel the world and have wild affairs, but with the security of a grand Manhattan apartment as home base. (Insert the sounds of my parents’ cynical laughter here.) Unlike Czarina, I don’t aspire to wear bright-colored caftans and chunky jewelry as my signature look. Aside from dinner parties, I’ll be content with the more humdrum look of skinny jeans and extremely cute tight shirts.

Sam counters my sigh with his own. It might be our only twin thing: supportive sighing. “I can’t believe this is our last party here. I can’t believe she’s finally leaving this place.”

Where Sam and I live with our parents – a few blocks away, in a bland Manhattan apartment that’s, typically, too small, with an office alcove converted to a third bedroom that Sam uses – is the real humdrum. Czarina’s abode? Spectacular. Our grandmother lives in a gorgeous apartment in a historic building called the Stanwyck, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It’s a huge two-bedroom apartment with a dining room and a study big enough for Sam’s piano, and views of the city skyline and the Hudson River. (Anyone who feels bad about Sam getting the crap office alcove for a bedroom at our parents’ apartment should know that Czarina’s spare bedroom is basically a shrine to Sam – decorated with his music awards, photos of Sam at every recital since he learned to play piano, and the most comfortable bed in the world, picked out by Sam. The duvet on the bed – also chosen by Sam – might as well be embossed with needlepoint hand-stitched by Czarina, announcing: SAM! SAM IS MY FAVORITE!)

Czarina has experienced a good but not lucrative career, so no way has she had the income to support this type of Manhattan real estate. By New York City real estate standards, she’s a pauper, but she’s lived like a queen, all because when Czarina was a young, broke fashionista, she moved in with her grandparents, into their rent-controlled apartment. And she never left. Hers was the only apartment in the one-hundred-unit building that didn’t convert to condo. (Thank Czarina’s bulldog lawyer.) Her building is now basically 99 percent rich people, and Czarina. She’s the 1 percent at the Stanwyck.

Or, she was. After twenty years of buy-out offers, Czarina finally agreed to leave her palace. All it took was an extra zero at the end of the financial settlement – before the decimal point. She basically just won the lottery. She’s been married five times, and we thought she’d won big when she divorced the Brazilian taxidermist. That settlement was nothing in comparison; she used most of the windfall from that sicko, preserved-moose-head man’s money to splurge on a baby grand piano for her Virtuoso Sam, and on a fancy oven for her Chef Sam, so her precious grandson could wow her guests with his amazing meals and music ability. Tonight, I get those all to myself.

I should be mad that Czarina chose my brother over me as her favorite, but even I will acknowledge that Sam is a better person than me. He’s everything I’m not. Patient, kind, sweet, talented. I would choose him if I was Czarina too. To be honest, it’s a relief that Sam’s the star in the family. Being the fuck-up bitch is the role I know. I fit into it like anyone’s favorite pair of jeans.

I notice the furrow between Sam’s eyebrows and the tightening of his forehead. Pre-party jitters. “Where’s the spiralizer?”

“What’s that?”

“A utensil to spiralize veggies. I thought I might thread in some zucchini to the –”

“Don’t. Your menu is perfect as is.”

“You used the good silver to set the table, right?”

“Yes. The table looks beautiful. I even fancy-folded the napkins.”

“The –”

“Yes, the good ones that Czarina brought back from Dublin. I promise you don’t need to halt your cooking to do a last-minute inspection of the dining room. The table is set, the decorations are up and the cardboard Liberace table centerpiece looks better than a flower arrangement.”

“Candles!”

“Done.”

“Set out the dessert plates and silverware on the buffet.”

“Done.” I need to stop him from a deeper descent into anxiety about the state of the dining room. “Give me a hint about someone you’ve invited.” Sam’s bedroom – er, the guest room – is spread out with my sequined halter tops, feather boas, plaid-patterned polyester bell-bottom pants and flapper dresses. How can I know the best costume for our party if I don’t know who the guests are?

“No. You know the rules. You choose three people, I choose three people. The mix is a surprise – to us, and to them.”

“You’re going to dress like Ray Charles again, aren’t you?” I love my brother’s classic suit and tie, of course – but he always wears the same thing. I want to see my brother wearing a sequined cape or a star-spangled-banner leisure suit with beads hanging off the arms. I want him to shake things up for once.

“Yes,” says Sam. “But I’ll be enjoying the gift of sight. May he rest in peace, Brother Ray.” He pauses, and then says, “Please promise me you didn’t invite KK.”

“I promise,” I say.

I totally invited KK!

My guest list:

Kirby Kingsley: heiress, party girl, my non-sibling BFF. No one likes her besides me. But it’s not a party without Kirby. She lives in the Stanwyck’s penthouse apartment, with panoramic views of Central Park to the East River, and midtown and uptown to the Hudson River, and probably God too, if you point their telescope straight up through the glass dome in the ceiling of the atelier room.

Li Zhang: my chem-lab partner. Great at board games. Great conversationalist. Never shows up to a party without a gift of beautiful boxes of sweets from Taiwan for the hostess. Should be invited to every party.

Frederyk Podhalanski, aka Freddie: the wild card. He’s an exchange student from Poland, living with a family on the Upper East Side. I met him when I was with KK, watching hot guys play basketball in Central Park. Tall, blond, muscled, deep-blue eyes, uncomplicated. I’m pretty sure Freddie’s the guy I’ve been looking for – the one who will break my brother’s heart.

My brother still hasn’t recovered from not getting into Juilliard. He goes to Fiorello LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts, only a few blocks away from Czarina’s Palais de Rent Control. Sam should have been thrilled not to get into Juilliard. Too fucking close for comfort! He did get into Berklee College of Music, in Boston. A whole new city, new adventure and a prestigious music school too! But no. My brother opted to go to Hunter College next year, to stay close to home, to play it safe.

Even though I think he should have opted for Berklee, Sam really, truly wants Juilliard, so I want it for him too. Next year, he’ll reapply. Sam should have gotten in. The solution: Sam needs to drop out of his safety zone and go wild for the wrong guy. He needs a recess from the humdrum stream of predictable boys he dates. My brother’s heart needs the distraction of infatuation with someone out of his league. To be clear, Freddie’s not in a better league than Sam (no one’s in a better league than my brother). It’s just a different one. I’ll call it the League of Ridiculously Beautiful Guys Who Aren’t That Bright and Who Will Give My Brother Exactly the Fun Distraction He Needs Before Dumping My Brother When They Realize My Brother Is Too Smart and Good for Them. My brother needs a pointless, pleasurable fling with someone gorgeous and easy.

When Freddie inevitably dumps Sam, the pain will be sharp, but quick. Pain is what makes all the greats great. Known fact. So if pain is what it takes to bring Sam to that pantheon, then I have just the dinner party to give him that necessary shock to the system. It will be a welcome pain compared to the kind Sam inflicts on himself from over-thinking and overstressing. And Sam will have loads of fun along the way. You’re welcome, brother.

Like Sam, I also experienced the pain of not getting into my first-choice school, or any of my top-tier choices! I applied to the Sorbonne, the University of Tokyo, and that fancy one in Scotland where Prince William met Princess Kate. But I had no real shot at them. No matter; I don’t speak French or Japanese, and let’s be real, who even understands Scottish people when they speak? I also didn’t get into my second-tier schools – NYU, Skidmore, Fordham. And that’s awesome. Because now I can hoard all that money I saved babysitting the many little critters who live in the Stanwyck, and not waste it at Quinnipiac University, which is somewhere in Connecticut, I’m told. (I visited but have since tried to forget the experience, because I was basically forced by my parents to go.) It’s the only school I got into, and my parents were so relieved, they enrolled me for the fall. I can’t even pronounce the school’s name. Please.

“Are you sure Czarina hasn’t taken a lover?” Sam says. I’ve got to set him free from attachment to her apron strings too. When she finds out I broke the leaf on her dining-room table when I was setting it, she’ll lose it at him. At me too of course. But I’m used to it. Sam the Saint is not. It will be healthy. For both of them. Maybe in my future travels I will check out old Freud or Jung’s universities in Austria or wherever, because I obviously have huge potential as a psychoanalytic genius.

“Of course I’m not sure!” I say. “She could be bonking every Frenchman with a croissant for all I know!”

“Because every Frenchman has a croissant, right?”

“Oui! Don’t you know that’s what the French Revolution was all about? Life, liberty, le perfect flaky croissant.”

“Tongs,” says Sam.

“Frenchman torture method?”

“No. Hand me the tongs so I can pull out the strips of lasagna from the boiling water.”

I hand him the tongs. “That’s a whisk, Ilsa.” He reaches over me to grab the contraption known as tongs. “And I’m telling you, Czarina has taken a lover in Paris.”

“You just want to say ‘taken a lover’.”

“Guilty. You know me too well.”

Maybe Czarina has taken a lover in Paris, but that’s not the reason for her trip. She thinks we don’t know, but I know. Czarina likes to be secretive, but she has no idea what a browser history is, and that she should clear it regularly. Our grandmother is in Paris because she bought a small apartment and plans to retire there, in a little studio with no bedrooms for me or Sam. (Unfortunately, this knowledge came at the cost of also learning that Czarina really likes browsing photos of Sean Connery as James Bond wearing barely there swimmer briefs. And she loves porny fan fiction devoted to that most hirsute of the Bond men.) (I’m going to throw up just thinking about what I’ve seen in her browser history.)

Sam will survive the Paris news. What better place to visit a grandmother? What’s really going to finally push Sam out of his comfort zone is when he finds out I am moving into his bedroom at Czarina’s, with the new owners, who have invited me to be their family’s nanny after Czarina moves out. Sam has too much talent and potential to be stuck in the same old place; I’m fine there.

Tonight is our chance to celebrate our last twin dinner party here. Lasagna, booze, chocolates, with our friends and some strangers. Tonight we can swing from the chandeliers like we’re Liberace.

Tomorrow we can deal with the heartbreak and the humdrum.

2

SAM

Dinner parties always seem like a good idea until you have an hour until the guests arrive and you realize you have about four hours’ worth of things left to do. Life becomes a whirl of counter-space choreography, stovetop stress and table-setting trauma. I want everything to be perfect, and I also know this is an impossible and even cruel thing to want. Still, there’s something deep inside me that won’t let go. If things are imperfect, it won’t – can’t – be my fault.

Ilsa, bless her, is trying to aid me. Unfortunately, her aid is coming in the form of sartorial suggestion.

“Why aren’t you wearing your black velvet? They’ll be here any moment. You’re still in jeans.”

I am not wearing my black velvet because the lemon tart requires a dusting of confectioner’s sugar in about two minutes. It will take about two minutes to explain this to Ilsa, so I try to shoo her from the kitchen instead, telling her that she should make sure the dinner-party playlist is to her liking. My mood is all Glass, and if she wants to add swing to the thing, it’s better for her to do it now than to make a scratch mid-song.

My stress gets more level when I am alone in the kitchen. I like being alone in the kitchen. My thoughts fit well into the sound of bubbling, boiling and refrigeration. I can be the conductor of this minor orchestra.

It’s only when other people get involved that the conducting becomes unwieldy, and arrangements get messy.

I don’t know who Ilsa’s invited, although I suspect that, despite her denial, KK will soon besmirk our doorway with her usual gusts of privilege. Ilsa can’t resist KK – she’s the fashion plate my sister eats off of, her droll model. I personally can’t fathom how a girl so rich can also be so rich with complaint. But she’s never wanted me or anyone else to like her. I guess there’s some power that comes from that. Only I’m not really sure what you can use that power for.

My guest list is, I hope, a little more amenable to amiability.

First, there’s my best friend, Parker, since even though Ilsa placed him on the Banished Guest List, I am not having this last dinner party without him. Ilsa claims he broke her heart, but she needs to get over it. Mostly because the breakup was totally her fault, and nearly ended my friendship with him, which wasn’t fair.

Next up is Jason. I figured if I was inviting one of Ilsa’s exes, I should balance it out with one of mine. Although it’s not really the same, since Jason and I managed to stay friends. He had this whole I’m-going-to-Tufts-and-you’re-going-to-Berklee! plan, and when I decided to stay in Manhattan, it was like I’d slapped his future, which in turn said oh-no-you-didn’t and stormed out the door. This left the present standing in the middle of the room, slight and awkward. Jason withdrew his application for soul mate, and we went from there. Still looking for true love, but not with each other.

Which maybe leads me to my wild card: Subway Boy. I’ve been seeing him on the 1 train for the past few months. And around the city, especially around Lincoln Center. Sometimes he’s carrying a violin case. I have mapped more fantasies out onto Subway Boy than I care to admit. And after a while, I saw that he was recognizing me as much as I was recognizing him.

Still, I didn’t want to ruin it by talking to him. Until, last week, he was right there when I got on board the train, and it was like the party invitation in my pocket began to vibrate. Before I could tell myself to halt, halt, halt, I was handing it to him and telling him he should come.

“There’s no RSVP,” he said when he finished reading it.

He didn’t look at me like I was bad crazy. He looked at me like I was good crazy. Bold crazy. Romantic crazy.

“Regrets only,” I told him.

“Well,” he said with a smile, “I can’t say I have any regrets.”

As we hit his stop, I ventured a “See you later?”

“Absolutely,” he replied.

And that, it seemed, was that. I haven’t seen him since. I’m not even sure he’ll show up. I’m afraid that, if he does, Ilsa will ask me his name.

I have no idea what his name is.

Nor, for that matter, do I know if he’s vegan. Or only eats meat. Or is lactose intolerant. Gluten agnostic. Kale monogamous. So I’m making a little of everything, which adds up to way too much.

“You do realize we’re only having six guests?” Ilsa, back in the kitchen, asks as I bedevil an egg. The flapper dress she has on would make even Clara Bow fall silent in respect. “And none of them, at least on my list, eats this much.”

I can never keep my sister out of the kitchen for that long, not when we’re the only two people home. It’s not that she likes watching me cook. And it’s certainly not that she likes assisting. She just hates being in a room by herself.

“I’ve invited Rudolph Tate,” I say. “He requires at least six servings.”

This is mean. Rudolph Tate eats like a bird and looks like a bird and flew the coop after two chirpy dates with me. Ilsa had set us up, and since it was only the latest in a mess of maladroit matches, I asked her to never, ever set me up again. It was getting to be that when a male at Ilsa’s school came out of the closet, the first thing he found was my sister standing by the closet door, saying she had someone he should really, really meet.

“If you’d invited Rudy, I would have heard about it,” Ilsa says, her faith in gossip unwavering. “He’s the apple of #Stantastic’s rebounding eye now. And #Stantastic tweets anything that makes him jealous.”

My date with #Stantastic had been even worse than my date with Rudolph. As we were talking over dinner, he kept typing it all down on his phone. I tried not to give him any material, and as a result ended up being called #sleepyandhollow when he gave everyone his side of the story. Amazingly, he didn’t understand why I passed on a second date. I know this because he told his (fifty-six) followers he was #Stantagonized by the fact that I hadn’t been #Stantalized.

I study Ilsa’s face, to see if she’s invited Rudolph or #Stantastic. It’s looking like a no. I’m relieved . . . and still a little worried about who else that leaves.

I check the oven, and at least everything there seems to be going according to plan. Satisfied by the tick of the timer, I sugar the tart and give the Waldorf salad an extra toss, making sure the lemon-juiced apples haven’t defied me and started to brown. I know it’s time for me to take off my apron and get into host mode . . . but I want to linger in the kitchen a little bit longer. It’s so much safer there.

“This is it,” I tell Ilsa. “Our last dinner party of high school.”

This is the beginning of all the goodbyes. I’ve been preparing for them, in my own way. I’m ready for graduation. But I’m not ready for life to change so much, so soon.

I can’t say any of this to Ilsa because it’s too depressing. And my sister does not like to be depressed. I may be the gay one, but she’s the one who lives by gaiety. Carefree and careless, the life of the party trying to make a party out of her life – that’s my unidentical twin, with her unidentity.

“It all looks so grand,” she says, trying on the last word like a little girl tries on her mother’s shoes.

Or her grandmother’s shoes. I guess we’re both wearing our grandmother’s shoes. Look at me, with all of my culinary creations – I want to dazzle. Look at Ilsa, in her shimmering flapper dress – she wants to be dazzling.

“The humdrum won’t know what hit it,” I promise her.

“It won’t dare set foot in this apartment, not while we’re around.”

“It shall be a night to remember.”

She nods. “For the ages.”

I make one last check that everything is boiling, brewing and baking as it should. With ten minutes left, I retreat to my room to change. My clothes hang ready on the closet door. Black suit. White shirt. Dark blue tie. I always wear this outfit because I don’t think I look as good in anything else. And I want to look good tonight.

Despite myself, I have hopes.

I’m far from certain that he’s going to show up. This boy whose name I don’t even know.

I told Parker about it, of course. I’m sure one of the reasons I did was because I knew it would make him think I had the potential to be at least momentarily brave. After months of him telling me to talk to Subway Boy, of him threatening to go up to Subway Boy and say, “Hey, my friend here likes you,” I finally made the move.

And now, the waiting.

You’re good, Parker tells me. I need to borrow his voice sometimes, when I don’t trust my own.

Eight minutes. I button my buttons.

Six minutes. I tie my tie.

Five minutes. I –

I –

I can’t go out there. I can’t do this. I can’t. I really can’t. I’m going to tell Ilsa I’m feeling sick. I can’t let any of this happen. Whatever’s going to happen, I don’t want it to happen. This was such a mistake. I am such a fraud. I want to stay in the kitchen. I don’t want anyone else to come in. I don’t want to have to talk to anybody. My body knows this. My body is shutting down, saying, That’s enough for you, Sam. I tried to believe I could. I tried to trick myself. But the only thing I’m smart at is knowing when I’m going to fail. There’s no way to disguise that. I am going to fail.

Four minutes.

I can’t fool anybody.

Three minutes.

Ilsa is calling my name. I am trying to do all the things the doctors told me to do. Slow down. Deep breaths. Affirm. I can do this. Whether or not he comes. Whether or not this is the end of our dinner parties. Whether or not Ilsa appreciates it.

Two minutes. I consult my mirror.

I do look better than I usually do.

I remember that at some point in the night, I’ll be taking the jacket off. So I’m careful. Very careful.

I make sure my sleeves are rolled down and buttoned, covering any lingering trace of my damage.

One minute. The buzzer buzzes.

The first guest has arrived.

3

ILSA

I open the door and immediately I know.

This must be Wild Card Boy.

I know because he has the shy, sweet look of so many of Sam’s city crushes. Starbucks Boy. AMC Theatre Boy. Pret a Manger Boy. Terminal 5 Boy. Trader Joe’s Boy.

Whoever this guy standing here is, he’s exactly why I’ve invited Freddie. Our dinner party absolutely needs a Smoking Hot, Seemed Uncomplicated on the B-ball Court but Could Be Deeply Disturbed Eastern European Guy to break Sam’s infatuation mold of Nice, Safe Boys.

Wild Card Boy is long and skinny, just like the others, and he’s wearing black jeans (not garish at all – did he even read the invitation?), just like the others. Wild Card’s major improvement is his white T-shirt picturing a hipster black cat standing on its hind legs, playing a fiddle with its front legs. The shirt says, I PAWS FOR BLUEGRASS. Wild Card Boy is pale-skinned like he’s a shut-in, with shaggy ginger hair and a scruffy ginger beard and deep-green eyes. With his red-orange hair and black skinny jeans, Wild Card Boy looks like an upside-down pumpkin. But Wild Card Boy is highly cute, and has a big, warm smile that I try not to find suspicious. He holds a violin case.

“Hi,” I say. “Welcome. I’m Ilsa. And you are . . . ?”

“Johan!” he says jovially. “Delighted to be here, but disappointed that Czarina won’t be here! With a name like that –”

I interrupt. “You have a funny accent. Are you Australian?”

“South African.”

“Isn’t that like the same?”

“In no way whatsoever.”

“You’re a long way from home, Johan. What brought you to New York?”

“Juilliard. I play the violin.”

“Classical?”

“At school, yes. But American bluegrass is where my heart is.”

I hear Sam’s voice behind me. “Stop with the interrogation, Ilsa! Let the poor guy in already. He’s not a vampire.” He stands behind me and loudly whispers in my ear, “Is he?”

I turn around and see Sam wearing his favorite suit, with his regrettably red-cheeked blush revealing his every feeling. Hope! Anticipation! The kid’s never going to be a poker champion.

“I think this one’s mortal,” I tell Sam. But just to be sure, I ask Johan, “You’re not a vampire are you?”

“No,” says Johan, “despite how tempting your neck is looking.” He winks at me, then at Sam. “His neck too.”

What. A. Pro. My favorite guest of the night, already.

“Come in, please,” I say, holding the door open for him to step through.

Johan carries in his violin case, but nothing else so far as I can see. You can tell a lot about a person by the type of gift they bring for their host (Pret a Manger Boy – leftover cookies; Terminal 5 Boy – flowers; Starbucks Boy – gingerbread syrup), or if they don’t (Trader Joe’s Boy – the worst). I suppose Johan is in the Don’t category. Maybe they don’t bring gifts in South Africa. Not like I throw a party just to get the gifts. (But please bring those amazing chocolates, Li Zhang.)

“This is your granny’s actual apartment?” Johan asks as we lead him through the foyer and into the living room, which is at the building’s corner and offers views of the Empire State Building and midtown Manhattan to the south and the Hudson River to the west. “Everyone I know lives in dirty dorms or crowded shares in Bushwick.”

“The apartment’s been in the family for three generations. Before everything got so crazy expensive around here,” says Sam, sounding like he’s apologizing for Czarina not living up to starving-artist, bohemian standards.

“Rent controlled,” I add, so Johan will know we’re only surrounded by lucky moneybags folk. We’re not them.

Sam hates hates hates when I bring up the rent-control subject – especially so soon – to total strangers, but I’ve found it’s a good way to appraise their character right away. Either they’re happy for you or they literally hate your guts for having such luck in your family. It’s better to know right away. What’s it matter, anyway? The luck’s all ending.

Johan says, “This is what rent controlled means? I’ve heard about it, but I thought it had to be an urban myth.”

“It’s a rarity, but not a myth. And it’s all going bye-bye,” I say, pointing to the movers’ boxes against the far corner of the living-room wall. “This whole apartment cost our grandmother significantly less every month than you probably pay for a tiny dorm room you share with a snoring roommate, or mice, or both.”

“I have both!” Johan says.

“May I get you a drink?” Sam asks Johan, trying to change the subject. “We have sparkling water, pomegranate juice, ginger ale . . .”

“Beer?” Johan asks. With his accent, the word sounds like beeyrah?

“Sorry,” says Sam the Saint. “I promised our grandmother we wouldn’t serve alcohol.”

“I’ll get you one,” I say. “Sam Adams or Sierra Nevada?” Sam and I have a tacit understanding: he repeats the party line about Czarina’s rules, then looks the other way when I disobey them.

“You choose,” says Johan. “Thanks, mate.”

I leave for the kitchen, to give Sam some time alone with Johan. New guests – especially if they’re not from the city – always want a tour of the grand, chipping-away old apartment. I hope Johan appreciates my party-decorating efforts. I pinned decorations across the living-room walls, picturing Liberace in his many years of spectacularly garish fashions. I dangled small, mirrored disco balls from the chandelier over the dining-room table. I stocked the bathrooms with Czarina’s best hand towels from Ireland, and stocked the bathroom vanity drawers with Advil (for guests who can’t handle the booze), Pepto-Bismol (can’t handle Sam’s cooking) and a colorful array of condoms (want to get handled).

The house phone in the kitchen that connects our apartment to the building lobby, rings, like it’s still 1956 and people don’t have cell phones.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Announcing . . .” the doorman starts to say.

“Please don’t announce, Bert. Please just send them up. Thank you!”

I hang up the phone and pull out a Sam Adams from the fridge for me and one for Johan, taking a count of the beers in there so I know how many I’ll have to replace with swiped stock from KK’s parents before Czarina gets home. They never notice the beer missing any more than they notice that KK practically subsists exclusively on sushi and frozen Jell-O pops.

As I head to the front door, I hear Sam playing the piano in the study, Duke Ellington’s ‘Prelude to a Kiss’. Bold move, brother, so early in the night! Such a sweet, hopeful melody. I’m encouraged. This is going to be our best dinner party ever. I can feel it.

I wait for the doorbell to ring, as I always do, resisting the urge to open the front door and look down the hallway to see our guests disembarking from the elevator onto the eighth floor. A good hostess welcomes her guests but doesn’t seem desperate for them. I look at myself in the mirror in the foyer, blotting my matte burgundy lips, de-smudging the black kohl lined beneath my eyes and smoothing down the black bangs of my newly cut, razor-sharp twenties showgirl bob, whose ends come to points on either side of my chin.

I wish upon the next guest: Please be Wilson Salazar, please be Wilson Salazar. Johan, one of Sam’s three mystery guests, has been accounted for, and I can already tell Johan is awesome. Sam will obviously invite Jason Goldstein-Chung, because Jason is Sam’s habitual safe choice. Jason is like the comfort food of ex-boyfriends. That leaves one more guest on Sam’s list, and I salivate with hope that Sam finally extended an invitation to Wilson Salazar, the most talented and hottest actor in the senior class at LaGuardia’s. Wilson killed as Macbeth last fall. He broke my heart in West Side Story this spring.

The doorbell rings. I cross my fingers and softly sing a little prayer invoking Wilson Salazar’s presence. “Tonight, tonight / It all began tonight.”

I open the door.

DAMMIT!

“You’re looking very fetching, Ilsa,” Parker Jordan manages to say, seemingly effortlessly, while holding a rose stem between his teeth. He’s wearing the sequined, Michael Jackson-style black and white tuxedo he always wore when we used to compete as ballroom dance partners. He’s let his hair grow to high-top, Fresh Prince of Bel-Air height, the style Parker always used to tease me that he’d finally get when I wasn’t telling the barber how to shave his head anymore. Wish = fulfilled.

I grab the red rose from his mouth and throw it down the hallway. “Fetch this, Parker!” I say.

Parker laughs. “Oh, Ilsa. Bygones already.”

“You’re early,” I tell Parker.

“What time was I supposed to arrive?”

“Never.”

“Right on time!” Parker says.

He doesn’t wait for me to usher him, but boldly steps past me, walks through the foyer and into the living room with the ease of someone who’s been here a million times. I close the front door and follow him. He hands me a brown paper shopping bag. “Here. These are from Mom and Dad.” His ears take notice of the sound of the piano-playing coming from the study. “Ellington. Nice start, Sam.”

I snatch the bag from Parker’s hand and don’t bother with “Thanks”. I’ll save that for an email, later, directly to his parents. The bag has two stacked boxes inside it, and I know exactly what’s inside them: a sweet potato pie and a lemon chess pie, my favorites from Parker’s parents’ vegan soul food café in Hell’s Kitchen.

I guess if they’ve sent my favorite pies, they’ve forgiven me for the video I posted of Parker breaking up with me, which went viral (at least among everyone we know, and a good deal of Manhattan). According to Sam’s report, that video has caused Parker to be besieged by hordes of angry girls recognizing him on the street and repeating his line back to him: “It’s not you, it’s me . . .” Then the girls swat at him and shrill, “JERK!” (I’m pleased every time I get this report. Sisters who’ve been dumped, unite!)

I guess if Parker’s here tonight, he’s forgiven me too.

I don’t know how long it will take me to forgive Sam though. He knows I have a moratorium on seeing Parker again until the school year is officially over. I don’t want to be so blatantly reminded of Parker until after prom night, until after senior week, until after graduation and all the things Parker and I were supposed to share together.

“No gifts to me from your parents?” Parker teases. I resist a laugh. No one was more relieved when we broke up than my parents. Relieved for Parker, not me.

“They’re at Home Depot right now looking for just the right ax to bash your high-top down to baldy height.”

“Tell them no interest on purchases over $250 if they use their HD credit card. They oughta splurge on that plasma welder your dad’s always dreamed of owning to finally shut your damn mouth.”

My parents don’t even know where Home Depot is.

Sam and Johan return from the study and Sam introduces Johan to Parker.

“You look familiar,” Johan tells Parker. “Do I know you from somewhere? Like a commercial?”

I try to telepathically message Johan the punch line of his recognition. It’s not you, it’s me . . . JERK! But Johan doesn’t receive it, and Sam quickly changes the subject. “Ilsa. Where have we decided to check the phones tonight?”

After four dinner parties ago, when #Stantastic #livetweeted #Stanstunnedbyboredom all night, we banned cell phones from our parties, which improved our parties to an infinite degree. Now our guests savor their food instead of just Instagramming it. They enjoy the city view instead of getting lost on their phones trying to add “@theStanwyck” location to their Facebook posts. They talk to each other.

Now I have a change of heart. “Let’s not put away the phones tonight.” I maybe can’t handle a whole evening of witty conversation with guests when suddenly I’d rather spend the night crying in my room because Parker is here, and he’s probably going to talk all night about what amazing (not reckless) girl he’s taking to prom, or about all the first- and second-tier colleges he got into because what Ivy League school wouldn’t want a half-Dominican, half-African American male valedictorian who’s also a star lacrosse player, a champion ballroom dancer (in his previous Ilsa life) and the son of vegan baking royalty.

I’m going to be a hostess like Czarina tonight. I’m going to act like everything’s just grand even though I can’t believe Sam invited Parker. I feel so betrayed. Much as I think it would be healthy for Sam to have his heart broken, I would never then invite the cause of his pain to his own party after the breakup! This hurts.

“Please, let’s put away the phones!” says Johan. “I’ve always been curious to go to a party without them. I know, we could lock the phones in my violin case.” He walks over to where his violin case rests on the floor by the foyer. As he’s about to open the case, Johan looks up at us and says, “I didn’t know what to bring as a host gift. So I brought the ‘garish’ inside here.”

4

SAM

Once upon a time, there was a marketing genius. And this marketing genius noticed that boys wouldn’t play with dolls, so dolls for boys needed a new name. He decided to call them action figures, and because of this, boys began to play with dolls. The marketing genius must have been proud.

I wonder what this marketing genius would think of what’s inside Johan’s violin case. Because these are definitely action figures. Same height. Same plastic.

Only, all of these action figures are Dolly Parton.

It’s not just the chests, which would make a shrimp out of Barbie’s. It’s the whole package. Petite and big and bold all at the same time.

There’s Dolly in her coat of many colors, a poor, sweet girl about to make millions.

There’s Dolly singing ‘I Will Always Love You’ – which you know because an angel-winged Whitney is smiling behind her.

There’s Dolly standing on a desk in a triumphant 9 to 5 pose. Her boss cowers, hog-tied below.

And finally, there’s Dolly arm-wrestling . . . someone.

“That’s Sylvester Stallone,” Johan explains in his charming woodwind voice. “From Rhinestone.”

Rhinestone.

I am nearly at a loss for words. “You’ve built Dollywood. In a violin case.”

“I like to think of it as a fiddle case. But yes. When you specified garish, I assumed you meant awesome.”

Parker gives me one of his oh, so this is what white people do in their free time looks, but I can tell he’s glad Subway Boy hasn’t proven to be the instant disappointment that most Subway Boys must be once you have them over for dinner. Ilsa looks annoyed – maybe because Parker’s within ejection range without a trapdoor in sight, or maybe because a stranger has just upped the garish ante, and she’s not sure how many chips she has left to place.

“Let me get you that beer,” she says, off to the kitchen before Johan can tell her the hair in the Dollys’ wigs was spun from unicorn tears.

“I’m going to go see if she needs help carrying that beer,” Parker says, following.

Johan moves to close the violin case, and I cry out, way too loud, “No! Don’t!” Then, as if to compound this manic burst of uncoolness, I walk over to the piano and clear a place for the case . . . by sweeping off all the sheet music with my arm, as if I’m in some retirement home’s production of Amadeus. As a result, the Goldberg Variations scatter through the air, Debussy ducks for cover under the bench, and Muhly mulishly meanders toward Czarina’s beloved lime-green couch.

If Johan is alarmed, he doesn’t show it. He gives the Dolly clones their pride of place. He casually plays a few notes on the piano in honor of the installation. I hear the words in my head.

Islands in the stream.

That is what we are.

If Ilsa were here, she’d be on the piano, singing along.

I –

I –

I look away. I know a new person is supposed to mean a new start. But I’m still me, and eventually he will see that.

“Do you want something to drink?” I ask.

He looks at me like I’ve made a joke. Then he realizes maybe I haven’t.

Right. Pretty much the only fact I know about him is that he wants a beer.

“It’ll be any minute now,” I say, looking down. I am rolling over Beethoven. I want to apologize to him.

“I loved hearing you play,” Johan says.

“I loved the feeling of you standing right behind me as I played,” I don’t reply. “There was even a moment when I forgot to worry about impressing you and actually enjoyed myself.”

It had been so simple. He’d seen the piano. Asked me who played.

All I had to do was say, “I do.”

All I had to do was sit there and let the song happen.

No. Make the song happen.

“I gave it up,” I find myself saying to him now.

There are so many things I am saying underneath this. Mostly to myself. But beneath that. Something I am trying to give him. Some indication of who I am, of what this is.

“When?” he asks.

“A couple of years ago,” I tell him. Even though it was actually only seven months ago, after I sabotaged myself out of music school and vowed never to perform in public – never to be put on display like that, with all of the pressure – ever again.

“But clearly you didn’t give it up entirely?” He lifts some fallen notes from the floor.

“That was the weird thing. I gave up on it, but it didn’t give up on me.”

“Music is inescapable, isn’t it?”

The way he says it, I can tell there are things he already knows.

I nod. Even if I wasn’t playing in public anymore, it was still a part of my most private self.

He’s looking at me with such curiosity. I was Subway Boy to him too, and now I am not. I have yet to be determined.

We have yet to be determined.

The doorbell marks the arrival of another guest. I pause, trying to sense some movement from the kitchen. When I don’t notice any, I make an excuse to Johan and head for the door.

I am sorry to leave him. Which seems prematurely foolish, but there it is.

When I get to the door, I open it and find Ilsa’s friend Li, who is usually a model of sense and sensibility.

But tonight she’s dressed in what can only be called a slutty French-maid outfit. By which I mean: one of those Halloween costumes that’s supposed to look like a French maid, only sluttier.

She takes one look at my outfit and another at my face. Then she says, “It isn’t a costume party, is it?”

I shake my head.

“Why did I think it was a costume party?” she asks.

I have no answer for this.

“I live in Jackson Heights.”

Meaning: there is no turning around and going back home. This is what she’s wearing tonight.

“And I’ll never fit into your sister’s clothes.”

Meaning: no, really, this is what she’s wearing tonight.

“Well, it is garish,” I say. “I’m sure there were at least three guys at each of Liberace’s parties wearing the exact same thing.”

I can see her compartmentalize her embarrassment. I envy that.

She holds up a bag. “I brought the chocolate your sister loves.”

I gesture behind me. “She’s in the kitchen. Just make sure she shares.”

Li reaches behind her and pulls out a second bag.

“This is for the rest of us.”

Such a good guest.

She is wearing heels that I sense are a little higher than her usual elevation. So there’s a certain teeter as she angles toward the kitchen, bags in hand. I close the apartment door behind her.

“Parker’s here too,” I tell her. As if to confirm this, there is a crash of breaking glass in the kitchen, and my sister shouting something that sounds demonstrably like ASSHOLE.

“Maybe I’ll hold off,” Li says. “This chocolate is too good to be thrown at someone’s face.”

“This way,” I tell her.

When I get back into the piano room, the sheet music is all stacked in a neat column alongside Johan’s violin case, like an office tower built over the Guggenheim.

“Johan, Li. Li, Johan,” I say.

As Li is shaking his hand, she asks, “And how do you two know each other?”

“Mass transit,” Johan replies, offering no further explanation.

The noise from the kitchen has reached the decibel level known by musicologists as hollering. The doorbell takes this as its cue to ring again.

I assume Ilsa will use this as her excuse to leave the kitchen.

She does not.

“I’ll get it,” I say. As if either Li or Johan could be viable candidates for the task.

I figure it’s going to be Jason, but when I open the door, I find someone who is not even remotely Jason. On the hotness scale, Jason may have been a firecracker . . . but this guy’s the sun. He is wearing clothes, but my body reacts like he isn’t. My gaze rises from his strong shoulders to focus on his face.

“Hello,” I say. And it sounds like hell, because the oh comes out so low.

I see he has one of our invitations in his hand. This has to be one of Ilsa’s guests.

Then his other hand gets my attention.

Because –

It has a sock on it.

A white tube sock with green button eyes.

And a red stitched mouth.

And brown yarn hair.

“I hope we’re in the right place,” the sock says.

It has a disturbingly attractive voice. English as a second language . . . with Sexy Beast being the first.

“Excuse me?” I say. Because nine out of ten times, when you’re confronted with a sock puppet, that is the only valid response.

“This is Ilsa’s party, isn’t it?” the sock continues. I look up at the godlike guy, and his lips aren’t moving.

“It is Ilsa’s party,” I say. I am not talking to the hand. I am talking to the hot guy who is looking at me like his hand isn’t talking to me. “I’m her brother, Sam.”

“Nice to meet you,” the sock says. It holds out its hand. Which is his pinkie. Under a sock.

I look at the guy, as if to say, You can’t be serious.

He looks back at me, as if to say, This is my life choice and you must respect it.

I shake the sock’s hand-pinkie.

“I’m Caspian,” it says. “This is Frederyk. He met Ilsa when he was playing basketball. I am not allowed to accompany him on the court, so I missed the chance to meet her. But I am happy to meet you now.”

“Come in,” I say. “Please.”

I am fairly certain that Ilsa’s wild card is a bit more wild than she imagined.

Or she’s fucking with me.

Which isn’t nice.

She knows how I get.

She knows.

“What a lovely home,” Caspian tells me, looking around with his button eyes.

“Thank you,” I say.

Can she be fucking with me?

No. Yes.

If this is an act, he’s really good at it.

“I must admit that I knew you were Ilsa’s brother. I have heard such lovely things about you.”

No. No no no. That’s too much.

“Did she put you up to this?” I ask Frederyk. “She did, didn’t she? This is going to end up on the Internet, isn’t it? Where’s the camera?”

Frederyk smiles sweetly at me.

No. This is my life choice and you must respect it.

“You’re even cuter than she said you were,” Caspian tells me.

Wild. Card.

I don’t know whether to take them – him – straight to the kitchen or back to the piano room.

“What the hell? ” a voice intones.

Six eyes – two of them buttons – turn to the still-open front door.

“I’ve only been here six seconds, and already I’m bored,” KK bitches.

Hard as it is to believe, she’s wearing a French-maid outfit too.

5

ILSA

“ASSHOLE!” I shriek at Parker after he makes the most provocative and completely absurd request I’ve ever heard from him. I take an icy beer glass from the freezer and lob it directly toward his high-top ’fro head. He quickly ducks. The glass hits the kitchen tile behind Parker’s head and shatters, as it always does. It’s been so long since Parker and I have had this kind of fight, all the old broken beer glasses have been replaced, and I don’t remember where to buy these particular ones anymore. Hopefully Czarina won’t notice we’re down to three German beer glasses in the freezer. Hopefully this level of fight no longer heats me so hard I want to jump Parker’s bones immediately after breaking something.

“Chill. The. Fuck. Out,” Parker tells me, but he’s completely unfazed, which agitates me even more. He walks to the pantry, pulls out the broom and pan, and begins sweeping the broken glass into the broom pan, way too comfortable with this old habit. “Do you want to do it or not?”

“NOT!” I declare, because my pride is speaking for me.

But my heart longs to do it. My body literally aches for it.

“Come on, Ils,” he says, laying on his sweetest voice, which he knows I can never resist. If I was wearing a button-down blouse, the button at my boobs would pop open right now, just from hearing Parker use this particular cajoling tone, which worked so effectively on me in the past. “Once more, for old time’s sake.”

“I don’t remember how,” I lie. It’s so long since I’ve done it. Like, since Parker and I broke up.

There have been other boys since. I even did it with KK once. But none could do it with me like Parker could. And the KK time involved a lot of Jäger shots to get me into position.

Parker dumps the broken glass into the trash, then steps behind me and lightly gyrates his pelvis against my rear. “Of course you remember,” he whispers in my ear. The feel of his breath scorches my neck, and the rest of my body tingles. He places his arms around my waist, so boldly, and I don’t resist. For a moment, I clasp my hands over his to tie him around me. The old rhythm of desire and familiarity returns too easily. I want to believe this is right. I want to believe so badly that this could happen.

But I don’t trust. I remember how much I thought he loved me. I remember how much I knew I loved him.

I pull away from him and turn around. “Why now?”

“I think it’d be fun,” he says, turning the pleading tone up to its highest decibel of smooth sexiness.

“Don’t you have some other girl to do it with?”

“None who move like you. You know that.”

I do know that.

Light bulb! Ding ding ding! I can’t believe I’m even considering this, but I say, “It would have to involve the cats. It –”

“No,” he interrupts. “No cats. They ruin it for me every time.”

Got him.

“Cats,” I say. “Or no Ilsa.”

He exhales deeply. “Okay. Cats.”

“I’ll think about it.”

But I’m already imagining the new moves I’m going to amaze Parker with. Since we broke up, I’ve taken up barre classes, and snoozer yoga (mostly for the nap time at the end, which feels like the only time I ever rest), and even dabbled in some pole-dancing classes. I now have bendy moves in my repertoire that Parker’s never dared dream his partner could do, because his subconscious doesn’t yet know they’re even possible.

“Don’t think about it. Go change now,” Parker suggests, knowing full well I stored my show dresses at Czarina’s and that once I make the change, there’s nothing to think about anymore. I’m totally in.

I will go change. But not for a few minutes yet. I want Parker to yearn and hope and wait. I want him to remember what that feels like. I won’t give him the satisfaction too quickly. Prolonging his wait, making him unsure if he’ll achieve the conquest he so ardently desires, was always my favorite dance with him. But oh, what glorious results.

I look down at my sad sack of a little silver, sparkly flapper dress. An hour ago it seemed so cute. But my dinner party invite was a call to arms for garish, and then the hostess herself didn’t live up to the invitation’s promise. An outfit this boring? It’s like I let Sam pick my attire. What was I thinking? I specified the party was a recess from the humdrum, and then I outfitted myself in humdrum. Obviously I needed Parker here to remind me to unlock the cats from the garment bag where they’ve been hiding in Czarina’s closet since Parker and I broke up. Of course! I get it now. GARISH. Let’s go, Ilsa! The cats are coming out of retirement. Meow for the wow.

Czarina is a great seamstress, and she created a fabulous A-line cocktail dress for me with fabric I found at a cheap fabric-bolt store in the Garment District. The pattern on the off-white fabric is called AccessorCat, and it features pastel-colored illustrations of various cats wearing various accessories: a gray-and-tan-striped tabby cat wearing bright blue eyeglasses, an orange marble cat wearing a debonair purple scarf, a black cat wearing an emerald-green cowboy hat. “If Princess Grace Kelly was a crazy cat lady,” is how Czarina characterized the atrociously awesome dress. It was my favorite to wear when Parker and I competed in ballroom-dancing competitions, until he forbade it, saying just the sight of it had made him allergic to animals. But if he’s bold enough to request that I come out of retirement and be his dance partner once again at some mystery dance-off on the Lower East Side later tonight, surely he’s man enough to handle the cat dress again.

So what if my initial reaction to his request was typically Ilsa knee-jerk rage. I’ll grow out of it at some point, Czarina promises. (We both secretly fear I won’t.) Now I’m seeing the potential. A midnight-hour dance-off downtown, one last spin with my once and never again true love.

YES.

I won’t commit just yet. I’ll let Parker know that I’m in later, after the appetizer course is served.

Parker reaches to the kitchen counter and picks up the steel shaker that Sam had been using to sprinkle powdered sugar over the lemon tart. He shakes a dash of powdered sugar on my hair. “Change now,” Parker requests. “So I know you’re in. Pretty please?” He shakes an extra dash of sugar onto my head, and some of it lands on my eyelids and nose. He presses his index finger to my nose, lifts off some sugar, and then offers his finger to my lips, knowing full well how hungry I am.

I lick the sugar from Parker’s finger – delicious! (the sugar, and the finger) – a ruse to grab the shaker from his other hand at the same time. I dash a dollop of sugar on top of his head as Parker wrestles me to grab the shaker back. We are laughing and fighting for supremacy of the shaker when we hear KK announce her arrival in the kitchen.

“Enough with the food fight!” KK bellows. “People are waiting on beers! Be a proper hostess, bitch!” Parker and I separate, giving KK and her French-maid’s outfit a long stare. It’s not so much garish as full-on slutty. Classic lame-o Halloween, not classic Liberace. KK points at me. “There’s a pudgy girl in the living room also wearing the same outfit. Fix it.” She walks between Parker and me, giving him a cursory nudge. “You again. Ugh.” She reaches the fridge, pulls out a light beer, pops it open, takes a swig, then asks, “Is something burning in here?”

As if he heard her from the other room, Sam comes rushing into the kitchen and opens the oven. “Shit! Some cheese exploded onto the bottom of the oven.”

“Is that lasagna?” KK asks him.

“Yes,” Sam says as he pulls the tray from the oven.

“Obviously you forgot that I’m gluten- and dairy-free,” says KK.

“I didn’t,” says Sam. He looks toward me. “Help!” he pleads.

He means, Get everyone out of the kitchen. Dinner parties have a peculiar habit in which all the guests congregate in the kitchen while Sam is trying to coordinate food preparation, blocking his way and commenting on his concoctions before he’s ready for judgment. “We should just call them kitchen parties,” he’s often lamented.

“Everyone to the living room!” I declare as a faint smell of smoke wafts out from the burnt cheese at the bottom of the oven.

“The sock puppet has arrived,” Sam tells me.

“Huh?” I remember no such Wild Card. Sam must mean Jason Goldstein-Chung has arrived. Jason always has some weird trick up his sleeve – or sock, as the case must be.

“Go see,” Sam says. He pulls some beers from the fridge – a sure sign that he’s starting to stress, if he’s taking direct responsibility for alcohol consumption – and hands them to me. “Go forth and entertain your guests, Ilsa. All of them.”

I start to lead Parker and KK out of the kitchen when I hear a weird sound that’s somewhere between a belch and a puke. I look to Parker, then KK, then Sam, but none of them looks squeamish. The sound grows louder, and we all look around, trying to identify the sound, and then it identifies itself.

A small volcano of bilge erupts from the kitchen sink.

I’m no cook, but I’m pretty sure if our sink is backed up, that will make further food preparation difficult, if not impossible.

“Fuck!” Sam exclaims.

KK says, “Hallelujah! Tell your chef dad to come over and bring a proper meal to replace the one you’ve ruined. Gluten-free, please. We’re not savages!”

Sam says, “Sorry, KK. The folks are at the annual Gluten-Glee Carb Fest in Wheatland, North Dakota, this weekend. Sbarro and Papa John’s are headlining this year. Cap’n Crunch is the opening act!”

KK throws her hands over her ears. “Stop it! I’m getting fatter just listening to the latest lie about your parents.” KK never quite believes our parents exist. They do. They just rarely come to the Stanwyck. Probably because it hurt too much knowing they’d never inherit it. And it would be a compliment to say that KK is their least favorite of my friends. You’d never find my parents trolling opportunities for more KK time.

Sam pops open a beer and takes a hearty swig. He never drinks at our parties. “Stress,” he sighs.

I counter-sigh in support. And triumph.

This is bad.

But could also be excellent.

Finally, my brother may be ready to let loose.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.