Sam and Ilsa's Last Hurrah. Rachel Cohn

the style Parker always used to tease me that he’d finally get when I wasn’t telling the barber how to shave his head anymore. Wish = fulfilled.

      I grab the red rose from his mouth and throw it down the hallway. “Fetch this, Parker!” I say.

      Parker laughs. “Oh, Ilsa. Bygones already.”

      “You’re early,” I tell Parker.

      “What time was I supposed to arrive?”

      “Never.”

      “Right on time!” Parker says.

      He doesn’t wait for me to usher him, but boldly steps past me, walks through the foyer and into the living room with the ease of someone who’s been here a million times. I close the front door and follow him. He hands me a brown paper shopping bag. “Here. These are from Mom and Dad.” His ears take notice of the sound of the piano-playing coming from the study. “Ellington. Nice start, Sam.”

      I snatch the bag from Parker’s hand and don’t bother with “Thanks”. I’ll save that for an email, later, directly to his parents. The bag has two stacked boxes inside it, and I know exactly what’s inside them: a sweet potato pie and a lemon chess pie, my favorites from Parker’s parents’ vegan soul food café in Hell’s Kitchen.

      I guess if they’ve sent my favorite pies, they’ve forgiven me for the video I posted of Parker breaking up with me, which went viral (at least among everyone we know, and a good deal of Manhattan). According to Sam’s report, that video has caused Parker to be besieged by hordes of angry girls recognizing him on the street and repeating his line back to him: “It’s not you, it’s me . . .” Then the girls swat at him and shrill, “JERK!” (I’m pleased every time I get this report. Sisters who’ve been dumped, unite!)

      I guess if Parker’s here tonight, he’s forgiven me too.

      I don’t know how long it will take me to forgive Sam though. He knows I have a moratorium on seeing Parker again until the school year is officially over. I don’t want to be so blatantly reminded of Parker until after prom night, until after senior week, until after graduation and all the things Parker and I were supposed to share together.

      “No gifts to me from your parents?” Parker teases. I resist a laugh. No one was more relieved when we broke up than my parents. Relieved for Parker, not me.

      “They’re at Home Depot right now looking for just the right ax to bash your high-top down to baldy height.”

      “Tell them no interest on purchases over $250 if they use their HD credit card. They oughta splurge on that plasma welder your dad’s always dreamed of owning to finally shut your damn mouth.”

      My parents don’t even know where Home Depot is.

      Sam and Johan return from the study and Sam introduces Johan to Parker.

      “You look familiar,” Johan tells Parker. “Do I know you from somewhere? Like a commercial?”

      I try to telepathically message Johan the punch line of his recognition. It’s not you, it’s me . . . JERK! But Johan doesn’t receive it, and Sam quickly changes the subject. “Ilsa. Where have we decided to check the phones tonight?”

      After four dinner parties ago, when #Stantastic #livetweeted #Stanstunnedbyboredom all night, we banned cell phones from our parties, which improved our parties to an infinite degree. Now our guests savor their food instead of just Instagramming it. They enjoy the city view instead of getting lost on their phones trying to add “@theStanwyck” location to their Facebook posts. They talk to each other.

      Now I have a change of heart. “Let’s not put away the phones tonight.” I maybe can’t handle a whole evening of witty conversation with guests when suddenly I’d rather spend the night crying in my room because Parker is here, and he’s probably going to talk all night about what amazing (not reckless) girl he’s taking to prom, or about all the first- and second-tier colleges he got into because what Ivy League school wouldn’t want a half-Dominican, half-African American male valedictorian who’s also a star lacrosse player, a champion ballroom dancer (in his previous Ilsa life) and the son of vegan baking royalty.

      I’m going to be a hostess like Czarina tonight. I’m going to act like everything’s just grand even though I can’t believe Sam invited Parker. I feel so betrayed. Much as I think it would be healthy for Sam to have his heart broken, I would never then invite the cause of his pain to his own party after the breakup! This hurts.

      “Please, let’s put away the phones!” says Johan. “I’ve always been curious to go to a party without them. I know, we could lock the phones in my violin case.” He walks over to where his violin case rests on the floor by the foyer. As he’s about to open the case, Johan looks up at us and says, “I didn’t know what to bring as a host gift. So I brought the ‘garish’ inside here.”

4

       SAM

      Once upon a time, there was a marketing genius. And this marketing genius noticed that boys wouldn’t play with dolls, so dolls for boys needed a new name. He decided to call them action figures, and because of this, boys began to play with dolls. The marketing genius must have been proud.

      I wonder what this marketing genius would think of what’s inside Johan’s violin case. Because these are definitely action figures. Same height. Same plastic.

      Only, all of these action figures are Dolly Parton.

      It’s not just the chests, which would make a shrimp out of Barbie’s. It’s the whole package. Petite and big and bold all at the same time.

      There’s Dolly in her coat of many colors, a poor, sweet girl about to make millions.

      There’s Dolly singing ‘I Will Always Love You’ – which you know because an angel-winged Whitney is smiling behind her.

      There’s Dolly standing on a desk in a triumphant 9 to 5 pose. Her boss cowers, hog-tied below.

      And finally, there’s Dolly arm-wrestling . . . someone.

      “That’s Sylvester Stallone,” Johan explains in his charming woodwind voice. “From Rhinestone.”

      Rhinestone.

      I am nearly at a loss for words. “You’ve built Dollywood. In a violin case.”

      “I like to think of it as a fiddle case. But yes. When you specified garish, I assumed you meant awesome.”

      Parker gives me one of his oh, so this is what white people do in their free time looks, but I can tell he’s glad Subway Boy hasn’t proven to be the instant disappointment that most Subway Boys must be once you have them over for dinner. Ilsa looks annoyed – maybe because Parker’s within ejection range without a trapdoor in sight, or maybe because a stranger has just upped the garish ante, and she’s not sure how many chips she has left to place.

      “Let me get you that beer,” she says, off to the kitchen before Johan can tell her the hair in the Dollys’ wigs was spun from unicorn tears.

      “I’m going to go see if she needs help carrying that beer,” Parker says, following.

      Johan moves to close the violin case, and I cry out, way too loud, “No! Don’t!” Then, as if to compound this manic burst of uncoolness, I walk over to the piano and clear a place for the case . . . by sweeping off all the sheet music with my arm, as if I’m in some retirement home’s production of Amadeus. As a result, the Goldberg Variations scatter through the air, Debussy ducks for cover under the bench, and Muhly mulishly meanders toward Czarina’s beloved lime-green couch.

      If Johan is alarmed, he doesn’t show it. He gives the Dolly clones their pride of place. He casually plays a few notes on the piano in honor