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 buyout 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 fuckup 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 Stanwycks’ 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
