“You are SUCH a fuckface, Sam! Will you listen to me? I’m not talking about you and me being together. I’m talking about it being a great fucking school. A great fucking music school. And when it came time to go there, you choked. No. That’s wrong. You didn’t choke. You fucking strangled yourself. Because you didn’t want to leave your fortress. It’s what the two of you have most in common: You can’t find the way out, even when it’s right there in front of you.”
Jason has never talked to me this way. No one has ever talked to me this way.
“Fuck!” he moans, then leans over the toilet again. He retches a couple of times, but nothing comes out.
“False alarm,” he says as he slumps back against the wall. His eyelids are drooping. “Look,” he says, “I’m not talking anymore about you and me being together. I still believe that we should be together, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about you getting out. You need to get out. Because if you don’t get out now, you never will. Even your drunk ex-boyfriend can see that.”
“Well, I’m not going anywhere right now,” I say. His collar’s gotten messed up, and I fix it.
He smiles. “Appreciated.” Then he closes his eyes.
“Hey, friend,” I say. “Maybe the bathroom’s not the best place for a nap?”
“Right right right.”
I help him up and get him to the bed in my room. He collapses as quickly as a Macy’s balloon filled with sand.
I think he’s out as soon as he hits the pillow. But as I turn off the light and start to tiptoe away, he says one more thing.
“It was really great to hear you play again,” he tells me. “It’s so stupid you stopped playing for other people.”
I thank him. And I allow myself to say that, yes, it was.
thirteen
ILSA
Typical.
Sam’s always had a secret Spidey sense alerting him when I’m on the warpath, allowing him to dodge my mad mood like the adorable, handsome coward he is. It’s too bad my twin wasn’t another girl. Our menstrual synchrony would put us on the same PMS-bitch-rage schedule and then we could quickly and efficiently have at it like siblings should. Tussle, scream, fight, pull hair, get it out, then done and besties again, until the next time.
This duck-and-run maneuver of Sam’s is getting old.
I’m ready to pounce. He sensed it, and escaped to the bedroom with Jason.
Jason Fucking Goldstein-Chung.
I’m insulted.
And anyone thinking I am being too hard on Jason should know this about him:
1. He’s cheap. One time he took Sam on a “surprise date” to Fire Island, but Sam had to buy his own train ticket, and while Jason did buy their lunch, that lunch was stale sandwiches from the train station because Jason couldn’t spring for a nice restaurant at the lovely ocean where he’d dragged my brother. Jason’s not poor, either. He’s had his own website design company since he was twelve. Hashtag, AnnoyingOverachiever.
2. He smells weird. Because of the cheap cologne he wears to ward off the smell of his insecurity.
3. He’s rude to old people. I don’t care if Jason’s rude to me, but being rude to our parents and Czarina is unforgivable. Only I am allowed to do that, and only because I know to profusely apologize afterward. What kind of boyfriend shows up for a family dinner—wreaking of Insécurité pour Homme, I might add—and proceeds to tell the grandmother how she could decorate her apartment better, and then proclaims himself a math genius by explaining to his boyfriend’s parents that they’re really not making enough money to send their kids to college, and they should think about taking on extra jobs? A smelly one, that’s what kind.
4. He knows every line of every song from Xanadu, the musical.
5. I take back #4. That’s maybe the one decent quality of Jason’s.
My boobs feel heavy and my stomach crampy. PMS is definitely contributing to my hostility—but that doesn’t mean the hostility’s not deserved anyway.
“Throw me a brew,” I call to Parker. He tosses me an unopened beer bottle. I pop it open and take a good long chug, finally ready to be a part of my own party.
Everybody is tipsy and having a good time. What Sam’s cooking couldn’t accomplish, reliable ol’ alcohol has. Johan fiddles the tune of Prince’s “She’s Always in My Hair” while Parker croons the lyrics, shooting his sexiest smile my way. KK and Freddie are slow dancing, with Caspian snuggled into the crook of KK’s neck. Li is in her happy place: She’s pulled out the knitting bag she always carries and continues work on a stunning teal sweater sleeve.
Parker sings, “Whenever my hopes and dreams / Are aimed in the wrong direction,” and I don’t know why it took two years to finally hit me, but at last, I hear it. He’s so off-key!
Parker wiggles his index finger at me, an invitation to join him in the song.
“Don’t do it, Ilsa!” KK calls over to me. “Do not fall into his Prince-croon trap. Again.”
It was Parker singing “Purple Rain” during Sam’s and my birthday karaoke party our sophomore year that undid me, and caused me to undo every button holding up my clothing later that night.
I shrug at Parker’s invitation—nah—and take another sip of beer. “’Kay, KK,” I say.
If I want to be better than awful, I should start with Parker. Stop resenting him and wanting him and feeling hurt by him as much as I’ve wanted to be back with him. Let it go, Ilsa. (#6: Jason’s love for Frozen sing-alongs. Honestly. Do that in private like everyone else, in the shower, where it belongs.) (Also, Elsa with an I—Ilsa: superior spelling.)
The song ends. “Want to break into the empty studio apartment across the hall?” I ask the group. They cheer, except for KK, who would never allow herself such common enthusiasm. Enough alcohol, and sneaking into a small
