Sam and Ilsa's Last Hurrah. Rachel Cohn

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СКАЧАТЬ looking at me with such curiosity. I was Subway Boy to him too, and now I am not. I have yet to be determined.

      We have yet to be determined.

      The doorbell marks the arrival of another guest. I pause, trying to sense some movement from the kitchen. When I don’t notice any, I make an excuse to Johan and head for the door.

      I am sorry to leave him. Which seems prematurely foolish, but there it is.

      When I get to the door, I open it and find Ilsa’s friend Li, who is usually a model of sense and sensibility.

      But tonight she’s dressed in what can only be called a slutty French-maid outfit. By which I mean: one of those Halloween costumes that’s supposed to look like a French maid, only sluttier.

      She takes one look at my outfit and another at my face. Then she says, “It isn’t a costume party, is it?”

      I shake my head.

      “Why did I think it was a costume party?” she asks.

      I have no answer for this.

      “I live in Jackson Heights.”

      Meaning: there is no turning around and going back home. This is what she’s wearing tonight.

      “And I’ll never fit into your sister’s clothes.”

      Meaning: no, really, this is what she’s wearing tonight.

      “Well, it is garish,” I say. “I’m sure there were at least three guys at each of Liberace’s parties wearing the exact same thing.”

      I can see her compartmentalize her embarrassment. I envy that.

      She holds up a bag. “I brought the chocolate your sister loves.”

      I gesture behind me. “She’s in the kitchen. Just make sure she shares.”

      Li reaches behind her and pulls out a second bag.

      “This is for the rest of us.”

      Such a good guest.

      She is wearing heels that I sense are a little higher than her usual elevation. So there’s a certain teeter as she angles toward the kitchen, bags in hand. I close the apartment door behind her.

      “Parker’s here too,” I tell her. As if to confirm this, there is a crash of breaking glass in the kitchen, and my sister shouting something that sounds demonstrably like ASSHOLE.

      “Maybe I’ll hold off,” Li says. “This chocolate is too good to be thrown at someone’s face.”

      “This way,” I tell her.

      When I get back into the piano room, the sheet music is all stacked in a neat column alongside Johan’s violin case, like an office tower built over the Guggenheim.

      “Johan, Li. Li, Johan,” I say.

      As Li is shaking his hand, she asks, “And how do you two know each other?”

      “Mass transit,” Johan replies, offering no further explanation.

      The noise from the kitchen has reached the decibel level known by musicologists as hollering. The doorbell takes this as its cue to ring again.

      I assume Ilsa will use this as her excuse to leave the kitchen.

      She does not.

      “I’ll get it,” I say. As if either Li or Johan could be viable candidates for the task.

      I figure it’s going to be Jason, but when I open the door, I find someone who is not even remotely Jason. On the hotness scale, Jason may have been a firecracker . . . but this guy’s the sun. He is wearing clothes, but my body reacts like he isn’t. My gaze rises from his strong shoulders to focus on his face.

      “Hello,” I say. And it sounds like hell, because the oh comes out so low.

      I see he has one of our invitations in his hand. This has to be one of Ilsa’s guests.

      Then his other hand gets my attention.

      Because –

      It has a sock on it.

      A white tube sock with green button eyes.

      And a red stitched mouth.

      And brown yarn hair.

      “I hope we’re in the right place,” the sock says.

      It has a disturbingly attractive voice. English as a second language . . . with Sexy Beast being the first.

      “Excuse me?” I say. Because nine out of ten times, when you’re confronted with a sock puppet, that is the only valid response.

      “This is Ilsa’s party, isn’t it?” the sock continues. I look up at the godlike guy, and his lips aren’t moving.

      “It is Ilsa’s party,” I say. I am not talking to the hand. I am talking to the hot guy who is looking at me like his hand isn’t talking to me. “I’m her brother, Sam.”

      “Nice to meet you,” the sock says. It holds out its hand. Which is his pinkie. Under a sock.

      I look at the guy, as if to say, You can’t be serious.

      He looks back at me, as if to say, This is my life choice and you must respect it.

      I shake the sock’s hand-pinkie.

      “I’m Caspian,” it says. “This is Frederyk. He met Ilsa when he was playing basketball. I am not allowed to accompany him on the court, so I missed the chance to meet her. But I am happy to meet you now.”

      “Come in,” I say. “Please.”

      I am fairly certain that Ilsa’s wild card is a bit more wild than she imagined.

      Or she’s fucking with me.

      Which isn’t nice.

      She knows how I get.

      She knows.

      “What a lovely home,” Caspian tells me, looking around with his button eyes.

      “Thank you,” I say.

      Can she be fucking with me?

      No. Yes.

      If this is an act, he’s really good at it.

      “I must admit that I knew you were Ilsa’s brother. I have heard such lovely things about you.”

      No. No no no. That’s too much.

      “Did she put you СКАЧАТЬ