Sam and Ilsa's Last Hurrah Page 5

  “I have chips,” I mumble to no one in particular. “I’ll go get them.”

  But instead of heading to the kitchen, I head in the direction of the guest room. The door is closed.

  Like always, I knock.

  “Don’t rush me, jerk!” Ilsa hollers. Two seconds later, she throws open the door. For a nanosecond, I see a genuine thrill in her eye. Then she drowns it.

  “Who did you think was knocking?” I ask.

  “The Secret Service.”

  “What’s going on?” I look down. “And why are you wearing the cat dress? You didn’t tell me there were going to be costume changes tonight. I haven’t worked them into the run of show.”

  “I was just feeling feline. Can’t a girl get her purr on if she wants to?”

  “Parker asked you to wear that, didn’t he?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “He’s always been your catnip. I thought you’d built up some immunity. Clearly not.”

  “Shut up and zip me.”

  I step into the room and do so. I feel it’s my brotherly obligation to point out that her earrings are now all wrong, and that she better resist the urge to wear cat-print shoes, since that would cross the line between fancy and Cat Fancy. Our invitation definitely requested the former, not the latter.

  “You better be careful when you say that—they can hear you,” Ilsa warns. I wonder at first if she means our guests. Then I realize she means the cats on her dress. “They come to life when you’re sleeping. And they have claws.”

  “And thank you for tonight’s nightmare!” I chirp.

  “By the way, what are you doing here? Why’d you leave the party?”

  “To help you with your dress, clearly.”

  “Evasion! Let’s try this again. Why’d you leave the party?”

  “Because Jason is here. And he’s already established himself as my ex. I thought the water had gone under the bridge, but instead it’s turned acidic and is trying to pull the bridge down.”

  “You invited him. Not me.”

  “I wasn’t accusing. I just thought things would be…better.”

  Ilsa sighs. “Well, the night is still young. I don’t think Jason will get any less tedious as the night goes on, but maybe you’ll at least appreciate that he was way too safe for you.”

  I don’t want to have this conversation again.

  “I should go back,” I say. Especially since it’s highly likely KK has commandeered the festivities in our absence.

  “Before you do, can you unzip me and tell Parker he needs to come back and zip me up?”

  “Ilsa…”

  “It’s all about the summoning. In fact, don’t unzip me—but tell him he has to come back and zip me anyway.”

  I know I should be relieved. I know that not-so-secretly I’ve wanted my best friend and my sister to be on better terms. To make my life easier, and for other reasons, too.

  But now I’m starting to wonder.

  Having been given my assignment, I know there’s no point in trying to get any more from Ilsa. So I go back to the piano room.

  “Where are the chips?” KK asks instantly. “I was told there would be chips.”

  I don’t think KK has eaten a potato chip in her life.

  “Do you need any help?” Li asks.

  “Parker, my sister needs help with her dress,” I say.

  Parker’s eyebrow rises. “Is that a request or an order?”

  “It’s an orquest. A reqder.”

  He picks up his drink. “I think I’ll be needing this where I’m going.” Then he heads down the hall.

  “Fool,” Jason mutters.

  “Thus spoke the pot of the kettle,” KK observes.

  “Ahem.” It’s Caspian who clears his throat. “Can I help you get the chips?”

  “Can you even eat?” KK asks.

  “Sure.” I say this to Frederyk, but he gestures down to Caspian, so I direct my next words to the sock. “This way.”

  We head into the kitchen. I find a bag of Kettle Chips in the pantry. Caspian, meanwhile, is taking a look at the sink.

  “If you have a wrench, I can fix this,” he says.

  “Which one is a wrench?” I reply. Caspian stares at me unnervingly. “It’s a joke,” I explain. I retrieve the tool kit from the laundry room…but don’t know whether to put the wrench in Caspian’s mouth or Frederyk’s other hand. I’m too scared to do the wrong thing, so I just set the whole box down next to the sink.

  “Just one thing before I start,” Caspian says. “I know why your sister brought me here—but I just want to confirm it.”

  “Okay,” I say. I honestly have no idea why Ilsa invited him.

  “Be honest with me—she wants to set me up with her friend, doesn’t she?”

  Her friend.

  For a minute, I don’t get it. Then I hear the buzz saw of her voice from the other room, and see how it translates to music in Frederyk’s head.

  KK. He means KK.

  He thinks my sister is setting him up with KK.

  And he is totally into it.

  seven

  ILSA

  I remember it like it was yesterday: the first dinner party that Czarina allowed Sam and me to attend. We were eight. In the weeks before the party, Czarina relentlessly schooled us on proper etiquette:

  1. Don’t invite only people who already know each other. Choose guests from different backgrounds, and preferably include someone who’s a little bit bigoted in some way but doesn’t know it, to keep conversation lively. Mix it up.

  2. Make each guest feel welcome, and like they’re the most delightful person in the room, even if that means being insincere.

  3. Serve delicious food, but don’t reach too high trying to create culinary masterpieces. Go with classics you know will be hits. This is not the time to try to make a soufflé.

  4. If the dinner is terrible, all is not lost. Wine fills the well of disappointment.

  5. Keep your guests’ drinks topped off. ALWAYS.

  6. Dessert is the most important course. DON’T MESS THAT UP.

  It’s clear to me now what Czarina’s education neglected.

  1. How to talk to a sock puppet.

  2. How to feed a sock puppet.

  3. How not to laugh in the face of a sock puppet.

  Yet, Caspian would do Czarina proud as a guest. To everyone’s surprise except his, Caspian turns out to be the life of the party.

  When Li Zhang emerges from Czarina’s bedroom wearing one of Czarina’s “schmattes”—a long, loose housedress that looks like an eggplant-colored muumuu—Caspian admiringly tells her, “Purple becomes you.”

  Li Zhang blushes. “Thank you! And you were right. I do feel a lot more comfortable now that I’ve changed.” She glares at KK, sipping a martini triumphantly.

  I’m pretty sure Caspian made the suggestion for Li Zhang to change into something of Czarina’s so KK could have exclusive maid-uniform rights, not so Li Zhang would feel more comfortable, but it was a win-win suggestion, so who cares.

  I’m not sure what I’m more mesmerized by—Caspian or Johan’s Dolly Parton action figures—when I realize that one of the Dollys has a scruffy mutt by her side, with long legs and a spot over one eye, like a patch. “Who’s that supposed to be?” I ask Johan, pointing at Dolly and her dog.

  Johan says, “I call him Cracker Jack.”

  “You gave him a name?” I ask, impressed.

  Caspian sings from a Dolly song, “He wasn’t much to look at / But he looked alright to me,” and his pitch is so perfect, and beautiful, that everyone claps.

  Then Parker reaches over Caspian to grab some pretzels from a bowl on the coffee table, around which everyone is gathered, waiting for Sam to serve the meal (dinner is taking forever!), and quickly the sweet song moment goes sour. In his eager reaching, Parker accidentally bumps Caspian’s…er…sock, and Caspian apparently doesn’t like to be touched. Caspian lets out a small shrieking noise that
sounds like a bird being squashed by a tennis ball (served by Serena Williams). The shriek is sharp, piercing, and awful; there’s nothing Dolly-like about this noise of Caspian’s at all. The surprise chirp of horror causes Parker to jump for a moment, and nudge Jason’s elbow, which then causes a splash from Jason’s drink to land directly on KK’s very exposed cleavage. KK slaps Jason, and then Parker, but Caspian saves the day by exclaiming, “It’s not him, it’s me!”

  Everyone laughs—even Parker, who Sam has told me hates this joke.

  KK looks at Caspian and then shoots me a look like, Who is this guy? Not like, Who is this nutjob? but more like, Where has this guy been all my life?

  When KK and I were scamming on hot guys playing basketball in Central Park, and our eyes landed on pale but beautiful, blond Freddie, we honestly had no idea about Freddie’s friend Caspian. I guess Caspian naps when Freddie’s hands are otherwise busy? We totally believed Freddie’s story about him being an exchange student from Poland. His English was stunted and accented, he was wearing a white T-shirt that said SOLIDARNOŚĆ in red, and he drank a cold-pressed beet juice to cool off during time-outs. He had the awkward but resigned dribble of a player groomed in a formerly Communist country. Seemed plausibly Polish to us. Freddie should have been excellent Sam-bait. Eastern European accent: check. Sporty-looking but poorly sport-playing: check. Bleeding-heart lefty: check. Healthy-juice drinker: check.

  Fooled us.

  Caspian? He has a flawless American accent (sounds like New Orleans or New Jersey, which are pretty much the same accent, according to Czarina), and his English is perfectly fluent, if not downright native. By the way he stares at KK’s cleavage, he’s definitely not gay. Freddie’s blue eyes are stone cold and unmoving, but if it was possible for drool to form from Caspian’s pert little red-stitched mouth as his green button eyes ogle KK’s maid outfit, it would.

  Caspian’s charm is short-lived, however. In my direction, he exclaims, “Geraldine, I see you and your deformity! I despise you!”

  Everyone looks at me. Clearly, he’s talking to me, but I don’t get it. “Who’s Geraldine?” I ask Caspian. I’m slightly wishing that Geraldine is another sock puppet. I’m feeling sad for Czarina. So many dinner parties she threw in this apartment, and here’s the most interesting guest of all time at the end of this apartment’s tenure in our family, and Czarina’s not here to meet him.

  Like it’s obvious, Caspian says, “The blue cat on your dress.”

  I point out, “There are several blue cats on my dress. It’s a pattern.”

  “Geraldine!” Caspian spews. “The one with the lazy eye! She disgusts me.”

  And there it is. Our bigot: check. Czarina would be so happy.

  There’s a palpable pause from the other guests, as I believe we’re all trying to figure out exactly where that line is between eccentric and lunatic, and should we be amused or scared? Sam arrives from the kitchen, sweaty and disheveled, before we make the official determination. He carries the lasagna to the dinner table and pronounces, “Time to eat. Sorry it’s late. The sink thing threw me off. Thanks for the wrench save, Caspian.” We gather around the table and inspect Sam’s creation. It looks crisp, steaming, with browned, gurgling cheese on the top. Sam adds, “It’s a little overbaked. Sorry.”

  I’m pleased. Jason Goldstein-Chung loves Sam’s lasagna, and tonight, he won’t get to enjoy it at all. If we’re lucky, it will burn his mouth and give him indigestion. Jason was never good enough for Sam, or Sam’s lasagna.

  Parker pats Sam’s back supportively. “Looks delicious,” Parker says.

  The salad is already on the table, and Caspian leans over to inspect it. There’s no scrunching of his nose (because he doesn’t have one), but he lets out an audible sniffing sound despite Freddie’s nose and mouth both not moving. Caspian says, “Is that…mayonnaise I smell in the salad?”

  Of course we’re all wondering how Caspian actually has a sense of smell, but gentleman Sam answers Caspian straightforwardly. “In the dressing,” Sam says. “It’s a Waldorf salad.”

  “Why don’t you just pile a can of lard directly on the lettuce greens while you’re at it?” Caspian spews.

  “Hey!” I start to say, about to put Caspian in his place. Why’d he get so suddenly bratty? Low blood sugar? Skipped his meds today? Then I remember he’s a sock puppet. Somehow it seems exactly right that he should be so inconsistent with his moods.

  KK’s already on her phone. “Just ordered a sushi platter.”

  Li Zhang says, “Should we order a pizza? I mean, in addition to that amazing-looking lasagna?” Her face reveals total revulsion to Sam’s cooking. I don’t know why he’s so off tonight. Usually his meals are masterpieces. I pray the anxiety that Sam tries so hard to suffocate by not acknowledging it exists is not the chef really in charge of Sam’s soul—and culinary prowess—tonight.

  Sam sighs. I sigh. I’ll fucking kill anyone who dares to order in more food. (I can’t do anything about KK, and the sushi platter will make her less whiny. But everyone else better g-damn love my brother’s lasagna.)

  Always knowing my feelings before I speak them, and sounding like the tallest and strongest and deepest-voiced man in the room that he is, Parker intones, “We will love this lasagna. And we will love it hard.”

  I try not to look at him. I don’t want Parker to sense how fast my heart is beating. I set my expression to my best poker face.

  Johan hums the tune, And I / will always love you.

  We’ve barely sat down at the dinner table when the doorbell rings. KK runs to the door, expecting her sushi platter. But the newest guest is one we didn’t invite. It’s Madeleine Hogue, the seven-year-old daughter of the family next door, my favorite babysitting charge. She runs into the living room holding out a plate of cookies. “Here, Ilsa! Cook and I made your favorite cookies for your last party!” Maddy has a maid, a nanny from Paraguay to help her with her Spanish, a family chef, and a personal Pilates instructor at her disposal. She’s livin’ la buena vida here at the Stanwyck.

  I take a whiff of the most sincerely sinful cookies in the history of the world. It’s a recipe I saw in People magazine once at the dentist’s office, and Dr. Segal would not approve of its ingredients (or maybe she would, in the interest of keeping her business afloat). They’re called Junk in da Trunk cookies, and they’re like chocolate chip cookies, but with butterscotch morsels, malted milk balls, peanuts, potato chips, and pretzels added in. If I were a scientist, I’d run a study to find out if there was ever a more delicious cookie recipe invented that could be worse for your health. Maddy knows they’re my favorites.

  “Thank you, my darling Maddy,” I say. I place the cookies on the coffee table and return to my dining chair, and hold out my arms for Maddy to jump onto my lap.

  She takes her usual seat and I introduce her to the gang that don’t already know her. “Everybody, this is Maddy. She lives next door. Her parents bought this apartment and they’re going to knock through those living room walls to combine their unit with this one. Maddy, this is everybody.”

  In a few months, after the renovation, Maddy’s sweet, privileged life will be even better, because her nanny is going back to Paraguay, and I am going to take the nanny’s place. I am going to live in Czarina’s guest room when it becomes Maddy’s nanny’s room. It will be my own. Maddy knows not to tell our little secret, though. I wanted to wait until after the last dinner party, until a few weeks after Czarina has moved out, before announcing my new job to Sam and the rest of the family. We haven’t even begun sitting shiva for the apartment. The timing is still too delicate. They all still think I’m leaving for Quinnipiwherever at the end of the summer.

  “Hi, Maddy,” everyone says, except KK, who snaps, “I thought you were the sushi, dummy.” Maddy giggles. She knows better than to be offended by KK.

  Maddy tells Sam, “Your lasagna looks amazing, as always.” My sweetest liar. My best protégé. “And cook made an extra batch of cookies for you to
bring home to your parents.” I look at Maddy proudly. My protégé learned these excellent cookie manners from me.

  “They’re in Vegas for the weekend. LiberaceCon,” Parker jokes. “Can I take them home to mine?”

  “Sure!” says Maddy.

  “Those cookies will make you fat, Maddy,” snipes Caspian, which is totally unfair. Maddy is a little bit pudgy but so much less since her parents put the Pilates instructor on retainer.

  “Don’t be a dick, Caspian,” Jason says to Caspian.

  Maddy looks at Jason, then at me. “He said ‘dick,’ ” she whispers. Then she glances at Caspian, and takes in the situation. There’s a sock puppet at our dinner table. “Who’s he?” she asks.

  “Your worst nightmare,” says Caspian, completely serious, and then, in a baby voice, he adds, “Widdle Maddy poo-poo.”

  Johan stands up. “I’ve had it with you.” Before Freddie can realize his intent, Johan grabs the sock off Freddie’s hand. “You’re excused for the evening, Caspian.”

  Johan heads to the back of the apartment. “Where are you going?” Freddie cries out, with all the anguish of his arm just having been amputated without anesthetic.

  Freddie rushes behind Johan, who takes off in a sprint, calling out, “This domkop is going down the privaat.”

  I don’t speak Afrikaans, but I’m pretty sure poor Caspian is about to meet his end in Czarina’s toilet.

  What a clog that will be.

  Poor Caspian.

  eight

  SAM

  As much as you obsess about all the things that can go wrong, it is inevitably something you can’t imagine that ends up going wrong. Which justifies worrying about everything, just to make sure it’s all covered.

  Johan’s disadvantaged because he has no idea where the bathroom is. That momentary pause—looking at the doors, trying to figure out which one holds the porcelain throne—gives Frederyk enough time to go for the tackle. I am about five steps behind as he lunges—Johan tries to dodge, but he’s not quick enough. They both go tumbling down.