Rachel Cohn - Sam and Ilsa's Last Hurrah

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.