to look good tonight.
Despite myself, I have hopes.
I’m far from certain that he’s going to show up. This boy whose name I don’t even know.
I told Parker about it, of course. I’m sure one of the reasons I did was because I knew it would make him think I had the potential to be at least momentarily brave. After months of him telling me to talk to Subway Boy, of him threatening to go up to Subway Boy and say, “Hey, my friend here likes you,” I finally made the move.
And now, the waiting.
You’re good, Parker tells me. I need to borrow his voice sometimes, when I don’t trust my own.
Eight minutes. I button my buttons.
Six minutes. I tie my tie.
Five minutes. I –
I –
I can’t go out there. I can’t do this. I can’t. I really can’t. I’m going to tell Ilsa I’m feeling sick. I can’t let any of this happen. Whatever’s going to happen, I don’t want it to happen. This was such a mistake. I am such a fraud. I want to stay in the kitchen. I don’t want anyone else to come in. I don’t want to have to talk to anybody. My body knows this. My body is shutting down, saying, That’s enough for you, Sam. I tried to believe I could. I tried to trick myself. But the only thing I’m smart at is knowing when I’m going to fail. There’s no way to disguise that. I am going to fail.
Four minutes.
I can’t fool anybody.
Three minutes.
Ilsa is calling my name. I am trying to do all the things the doctors told me to do. Slow down. Deep breaths. Affirm. I can do this. Whether or not he comes. Whether or not this is the end of our dinner parties. Whether or not Ilsa appreciates it.
Two minutes. I consult my mirror.
I do look better than I usually do.
I remember that at some point in the night, I’ll be taking the jacket off. So I’m careful. Very careful.
I make sure my sleeves are rolled down and buttoned, covering any lingering trace of my damage.
One minute. The buzzer buzzes.
The first guest has arrived.
I open the door and immediately I know.
This must be Wild Card Boy.
I know because he has the shy, sweet look of so many of Sam’s city crushes. Starbucks Boy. AMC Theatre Boy. Pret a Manger Boy. Terminal 5 Boy. Trader Joe’s Boy.
Whoever this guy standing here is, he’s exactly why I’ve invited Freddie. Our dinner party absolutely needs a Smoking Hot, Seemed Uncomplicated on the B-ball Court but Could Be Deeply Disturbed Eastern European Guy to break Sam’s infatuation mold of Nice, Safe Boys.
Wild Card Boy is long and skinny, just like the others, and he’s wearing black jeans (not garish at all – did he even read the invitation?), just like the others. Wild Card’s major improvement is his white T-shirt picturing a hipster black cat standing on its hind legs, playing a fiddle with its front legs. The shirt says, I PAWS FOR BLUEGRASS. Wild Card Boy is pale-skinned like he’s a shut-in, with shaggy ginger hair and a scruffy ginger beard and deep-green eyes. With his red-orange hair and black skinny jeans, Wild Card Boy looks like an upside-down pumpkin. But Wild Card Boy is highly cute, and has a big, warm smile that I try not to find suspicious. He holds a violin case.
“Hi,” I say. “Welcome. I’m Ilsa. And you are . . . ?”
“Johan!” he says jovially. “Delighted to be here, but disappointed that Czarina won’t be here! With a name like that –”
I interrupt. “You have a funny accent. Are you Australian?”
“South African.”
“Isn’t that like the same?”
“In no way whatsoever.”
“You’re a long way from home, Johan. What brought you to New York?”
“Juilliard. I play the violin.”
“Classical?”
“At school, yes. But American bluegrass is where my heart is.”
I hear Sam’s voice behind me. “Stop with the interrogation, Ilsa! Let the poor guy in already. He’s not a vampire.” He stands behind me and loudly whispers in my ear, “Is he?”
I turn around and see Sam wearing his favorite suit, with his regrettably red-cheeked blush revealing his every feeling. Hope! Anticipation! The kid’s never going to be a poker champion.
“I think this one’s mortal,” I tell Sam. But just to be sure, I ask Johan, “You’re not a vampire are you?”
“No,” says Johan, “despite how tempting your neck is looking.” He winks at me, then at Sam. “His neck too.”
What. A. Pro. My favorite guest of the night, already.
“Come in, please,” I say, holding the door open for him to step through.
Johan carries in his violin case, but nothing else so far as I can see. You can tell a lot about a person by the type of gift they bring for their host (Pret a Manger Boy – leftover cookies; Terminal 5 Boy – flowers; Starbucks Boy – gingerbread syrup), or if they don’t (Trader Joe’s Boy – the worst). I suppose Johan is in the Don’t category. Maybe they don’t bring gifts in South Africa. Not like I throw a party just to get the gifts. (But please bring those amazing chocolates, Li Zhang.)
“This is your granny’s actual apartment?” Johan asks as we lead him through the foyer and into the living room, which is at the building’s corner and offers views of the Empire State Building and midtown Manhattan to the south and the Hudson River to the west. “Everyone I know lives in dirty dorms or crowded shares in Bushwick.”
“The apartment’s been in the family for three generations. Before everything got so crazy expensive around here,” says Sam, sounding like he’s apologizing for Czarina not living up to starving-artist, bohemian standards.
“Rent controlled,” I add, so Johan will know we’re only surrounded by lucky moneybags folk. We’re not them.
Sam hates hates hates when I bring up the rent-control subject – especially so soon – to total strangers, but I’ve found it’s a good way to appraise their character right away. Either they’re happy for you or they literally hate your guts for having such luck in your family. It’s better to know right away. What’s it matter, anyway? The luck’s all ending.
Johan says, “This is what rent controlled
