I’m sure my ancestors had amazing skill. I’m just saying there are holes in the story. And that Czarina watched The Sound of Music too many times after inheriting the flutes from her own grandmother. Fact and fiction have always been blurry for Czarina, which is one of the many qualities I appreciate about her.
Her notorious temper, however—I’m terrified as hell of that. I don’t mind being on the receiving end of her lower-scale expressions of irritation, like when she finds out her booze supply has been depleted or her precious Persian carpet has a new, dark booze stain. I can even deal with her medium-scale fury when she learns that Sam broke out her best champagne, the authentic and very pricey French kind that Czarina doles out on her birthdays ending in 0 or 5, and on occasional New Year’s Days for her New Year’s Eve “hair of the dog” hangover cure. But I cannot, and will not, be on the receiving end of Czarina’s nuclear tantrum if any of the drunks at this dinner party table breaks one of her precious champagne flutes.
I’ve had eighteen years of taking the blame whenever Sam and/or my hijinks caused trouble, but this infraction—should it happen—I absolutely will not be responsible for. If something happens to one of these glasses, it’s on Sam.
Who bloody thinks he’s moving to California!
Holding the sacred goblet intimidates me so much that my hand shakes as I raise it in toast. But the loose grip puts it in mortal danger, so I tighten my hand and say, “To Sam’s wishful destination, the Sunshine State!” I’m too busy worrying about the flute; I have no idea how to finish off this toast.
Before I can continue, Caspian says, “If you mean California, that’s the Golden State.”
Little bitch.
“The Golden State!” I continue. “Land of drought, traffic, smog—”
“Those are more SoCal problems,” KK interrupts. “I think Sam sees himself farther north.” She laughs. “You’ll hate it there, Sam,” she says to him. “It’s so not you.”
Sam says, “Coming from you, KK, I’ll take that as Northern California’s most ringing endorsement yet.”
Li says, “I don’t know why the Bay Area is referred to as Northern California. It’s more in the middle. If you look at a map.”
Johan says, “That’s true! I’ve gone hiking up in the Siskiyous. True Northern California is a whole other world from the Bay Area. May as well be another country.”
Parker begins to sing, “I left my heart in San Fran—”
“Can I finish, please?” I ask. So much rudeness. Everyone’s glasses are still raised to toast. Let a toaster finish her damn toast already.
The interrupters around the table hush. Shit, with their raised glasses and expectant expressions turned in my direction, it’s like they think I am going to say something profound. (Those are the toasts by Sam, not for him!) I say, “To Sam! Who hates too many sunny days—”
“Again, that’s Southern California you’re thinking of,” says KK. I might kill her.
“It never rains in Southern California,” Parker sings.
“Let Ilsa finish her toast already,” says Li. “My arm hurts.”
“And I’m thirsty for champers,” says Caspian.
I take a breath and try again. “To Sam, who can’t survive ten whole days off the island of Manhattan—”
This time it’s Sam interrupting me. “That was seven years ago, and I broke my leg! I couldn’t stay at Camp Ticonderoga!”
He totally could have. He left me there, alone, for five additional days of mosquito bites, basketmaking, and preadolescent lesbian crushes on camp counselors.
I ignore him. “To Sam, with dreams of California, but who breaks out in hives if he’s outside a twenty-block radius of Lincoln Center.”
“Cheers?” says Li, and takes a drink.
“Cheers,” the others add on, except for Sam. They all take a drink. Sam’s eyes narrow at me, and then he takes a drink. As do I.
“Quality champers!” exclaims Caspian.
“Really? You tasted it?” asks Li, eyeing Freddie.
KK licks her lips. “Ah, much better than that cheap Trader Joe’s crap that Ilsa swipes from her parents’ fridge.”
“Those are wine coolers our parents keep in the fridge,” Sam tells KK.
KK says, “I drank wine coolers with Ilsa?” I nod at her. KK gasps. She glares at Sam. “You could have allowed me my ignorance.”
“And spared my joy at your horror?” Sam asks. “I think not.”
The champagne is indeed delicious, but I can’t relax enough to enjoy it. Neither can Sam, apparently. He puts his glass down and asks me, “So what makes you think I can’t survive California?”
I say, “I guess you could if a precise plan was set out for you. But just going there on a whim? No way. Not only would you never survive…you’d never go. So no big deal, right?”
“It is a big deal,” says Sam.
“I’m not stopping you from this fantasy,” I tell my brother. “Go, if it’s that important to you.”
“Where I go isn’t the big deal,” says Sam. “It’s that you know me so little you think I can’t get there.”
“Whoomp, there it is,” sings Parker.
No one knows Sam better than me. What’s he PMSing about?
“Of course you can get there,” I say. “There’s planes, trains, cars, whatever. I’m not talking about transportation.”
“Neither am I,” says Sam. “I’m saying you have me nestled so comfortingly in your idea of who I am, you have no idea who I actually am. I might be capable of moving to California for no good reason other than it’s not here and I have no idea what I’d find there.”
“This California idea is very reverse Felicity,” says Johan.
“Who?” everyone else at the table says.
Johan says, “Do you Americans not even know your own pop culture? Felicity was a TV show about a girl from Palo Alto, California, who had a crush on a guy from her high
