seventeen
ILSA
“Where should we go?” I ask.
My brother and I will have no choice but to skip town since he’s gone and broken one of Czarina’s sacred flutes. Who’s the reckless twin now? She’ll blame me, of course, but make up for it on the back end by resenting Sam and me equally, perhaps into eternity. When she grabs on to one, Czarina will hold a grudge for a very long time. She hasn’t spoken to her own brother since before Sam and I were born. Some might call that stubborn. I call it dedicated.
“We shouldn’t go together,” says Sam, and I immediately snap, “I know.” I wasn’t saying we should go anywhere together, and truthfully, after tonight, I’m ready to be far away from my brother for a good long time. For both our sakes.
Except on our birthday in January. We’ve had eighteen birthdays together so far, and on our eleventh, we made a pact to always be together to celebrate the day. Our parents made us sign the pact—it can be seen framed and hanging on their kitchen wall—because it was the rare day Sam and I weren’t squabbling as hard as we were playing together. Give a kid that much cake and of course they’re going to commit to a lifetime of birthdays with their sibling, regardless of the future reality of the promise. I admit I want the birthday streak to go on for as many years as possible, even though I accept the unlikelihood that Sam and I will annually be found at the Central Park boathouse doing a January polar bear run around the water wearing only shorts, T-shirts, and sneakers.
“Except for our birthday,” says Sam, and I immediately love him again. “Shall we consult the hat, Ilsa?”
“The hat! Of course!” I jump up from my chair and retrieve the long pointy black hat from the coat closet in the foyer while Sam retrieves some index cards and pens from the kitchen. We return to the table at the same time, with Sam having also retrieved another bottle of bubbly.
“That had better not be a wine cooler,” warns KK.
“Czarina doesn’t even know what a wine cooler is,” says Sam. “But as penance for her beloved glass that I willfully broke, I downgraded us to the C-list champagne bottle from her fridge.” He hiccups a little, good and tipsy. “California Brut.”
Parker, whose parents are wine enthusiasts, gasps. “Czarina stocks domestic champagne in her fridge?”
Sam says, “Yes, but only for guests like her lawyer or the Stanwyck’s condo board.” He looks at me. “Do you want to explain the hat, or shall I?”
KK groans. “I’ll do it, you bores. One year for Halloween, Sam went as Harry Potter and Ilsa was the Sorting Hat. They kept the hat, and the family uses it at parties to play Where in the World, a really fucked-up Dora the Explorer game of hollow adventures, where no one actually goes anywhere, but they talk for a long time about where they could go, all because of the magic hat’s suggestions.”
“Your enthusiasm is delightful, KK,” says Sam. “Now, would you like to explain how the game works? Or if it’s so boring to you, I bet Jason would love a nap cuddle buddy back in my room.”
KK convulses momentarily at that last suggestion, as do I. Then she says, “I’m staying. If only to hear about the jail where the twins will be going once Czarina sees what you’ve done to her glass. Sam.” Dear, loyal KK. There’s no reason to adore her, other than that I do. If I don’t, I fear no one else will. She passes the index cards around the table, along with a pen for each person. “It works like this. Everybody write down the name of a place on a green index card, and a thing you might take there on a pink index card.”
Johan says, “This feels like Mad Libs. But for fate.”
“Pastel-colored fate,” says Parker, looking at the pink and green index cards.
“Pastry fate!” says Li. “My parents don’t want to hear it because they want me to be a doctor, but I’d like to be a baker. Not now, but maybe in the future. Can we also write down a profession?”
“Great idea,” says Sam. “But no. The idea is to discover what you’d want to do based on the place and the thing, and not have it suggested to you.”
Li frowns slightly.
“But I think you’d make an excellent baker, Li.” I go on, “The place should be real, somewhere you could find on a map.”
Sam says, “That means, no Boulevard of Broken Dreams, no Galaxy Far, Far Away, no Salome’s armpit. KK.”
I say, “And the thing can be anything except—”
Caspian says, “If you have to qualify it, then it can’t be anything.”
I would smack that little bitch if I thought it would actually wound him.
I continue, “Anything that’s not an electronic device like a phone or computer.”
“What about my Fitbit?” asks Li.
“What about it?” Sam asks.
“Can I take it?”
“To count your steps going nowhere?” asks KK. “Take it. The Fitbit: the muumuu’s perfect accessory. Someone tell Project Runway.”
I suggest, “Wear that Fitbit proudly but don’t write it as a choice for the magic hat. We want less technology-oriented options.”
“Aha!” says Johan, scribbling on his paper. “I’ve got a good one.”
I write down my choices—Paris, and feral cat. (Because I feel like Geraldine with the lazy eye, on my dress, has suggested it.)
“This gel pen writes like a dream,” says Li. “My hand is practically having an orgasm.”
Sam says, “Czarina is a pen collector. That’s one of her favorites, from an office supply store in Tokyo that she loves. She always
