to grab the shaker from his other hand at the same time. I dash a dollop of sugar on top of his head as Parker wrestles me to grab the shaker back. We are laughing and fighting for supremacy of the shaker when we hear KK announce her arrival in the kitchen.
“Enough with the food fight!” KK bellows. “People are waiting on beers! Be a proper hostess, bitch!” Parker and I separate, giving KK and her French-maid’s outfit a long stare. It’s not so much garish as full-on slutty. Classic lame-o Halloween, not classic Liberace. KK points at me. “There’s a pudgy girl in the living room also wearing the same outfit. Fix it.” She walks between Parker and me, giving him a cursory nudge. “You again. Ugh.” She reaches the fridge, pulls out a light beer, pops it open, takes a swig, then asks, “Is something burning in here?”
As if he heard her from the other room, Sam comes rushing into the kitchen and opens the oven. “Shit! Some cheese exploded onto the bottom of the oven.”
“Is that lasagna?” KK asks him.
“Yes,” Sam says as he pulls the tray from the oven.
“Obviously you forgot that I’m gluten- and dairy-free,” says KK.
“I didn’t,” says Sam. He looks toward me. “Help!” he pleads.
He means, Get everyone out of the kitchen. Dinner parties have a peculiar habit in which all the guests congregate in the kitchen while Sam is trying to coordinate food preparation, blocking his way and commenting on his concoctions before he’s ready for judgment. “We should just call them kitchen parties,” he’s often lamented.
“Everyone to the living room!” I declare as a faint smell of smoke wafts out from the burnt cheese at the bottom of the oven.
“The sock puppet has arrived,” Sam tells me.
“Huh?” I remember no such Wild Card. Sam must mean Jason Goldstein-Chung has arrived. Jason always has some weird trick up his sleeve – or sock, as the case must be.
“Go see,” Sam says. He pulls some beers from the fridge – a sure sign that he’s starting to stress, if he’s taking direct responsibility for alcohol consumption – and hands them to me. “Go forth and entertain your guests, Ilsa. All of them.”
I start to lead Parker and KK out of the kitchen when I hear a weird sound that’s somewhere between a belch and a puke. I look to Parker, then KK, then Sam, but none of them looks squeamish. The sound grows louder, and we all look around, trying to identify the sound, and then it identifies itself.
A small volcano of bilge erupts from the kitchen sink.
I’m no cook, but I’m pretty sure if our sink is backed up, that will make further food preparation difficult, if not impossible.
“Fuck!” Sam exclaims.
KK says, “Hallelujah! Tell your chef dad to come over and bring a proper meal to replace the one you’ve ruined. Gluten-free, please. We’re not savages!”
Sam says, “Sorry, KK. The folks are at the annual Gluten-Glee Carb Fest in Wheatland, North Dakota, this weekend. Sbarro and Papa John’s are headlining this year. Cap’n Crunch is the opening act!”
KK throws her hands over her ears. “Stop it! I’m getting fatter just listening to the latest lie about your parents.” KK never quite believes our parents exist. They do. They just rarely come to the Stanwyck. Probably because it hurt too much knowing they’d never inherit it. And it would be a compliment to say that KK is their least favorite of my friends. You’d never find my parents trolling opportunities for more KK time.
Sam pops open a beer and takes a hearty swig. He never drinks at our parties. “Stress,” he sighs.
I counter-sigh in support. And triumph.
This is bad.
But could also be excellent.
Finally, my brother may be ready to let loose.
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