Isla and the Happily Ever After(52)
Author: Stephanie Perkins

Josh hands our tickets to an elderly woman in pearls and a black spangled top, and then we follow the crowd towards the party in the Medieval Sculpture Hall. He leads me in a gentlemanly manner, adultlike and formal. The surrounding couples move in a similar fashion. They look as if this stilted sort of behaviour is routine, but it’s a first for us. I want to walk against him, wrapped into him, arms and hands entangled in one mess of limbs. This careful entrance only heightens my self-consciousness.

He guides me like this towards the distant sound of a string quartet – aside the main staircase, through a narrow room of Byzantine artefacts, through another room with a masterfully marble-carved altar canopy, and straight into the bustling Sculpture Hall. The room is larger and taller, though still not as big as I’d remembered. Banners of heraldry in mixed patterns of red, blue, yellow and white hang down on each side. Below them, the walls are covered in tapestries of stags and ladies in medieval garb. And in the centre of the room – the clear star of the collection – is a massive iron gate. From previous visits, I know it’s a choir screen from a cathedral in Spain.

Centred before the screen is an equally massive blue spruce surrounded by hundreds of crèche figures from the eighteenth century. The tree itself is covered in angels and cherubs and lights that look like candles. It’s dramatic, to be sure, but it’s also…stiff.

“Merry Agnostic Christmas,” Josh says. “Welcome to the most Jewish Christmas party in America.”

I smile.

“There.” He smiles back. “More of that.”

We scan between the alabaster sculptures for his parents. Best to get this over with. We find them along the edge of the room beside a rough-looking statue of a clown. When we get closer, I realize that the statue’s pointy red hat is a pope hat. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t say any of this out loud. I still feel stupid.

Josh’s parents have their backs to us. They’re holding glasses of white wine and conversing with a short man in perfectly round spectacles. “Judge Lederman,” Josh whispers in my ear. “New York Supreme Court.”

Yeah. Sure. No big deal.

“Joshua.” The judge smiles and waves us over.

I try to act like it’s normal for a state supreme court judge to know my boyfriend on a first-name basis. Josh’s parents turn around. Their initial reaction is happiness, but it’s quickly masked by a demeanour better described as professionally pleased. With a layer of curiosity. And perhaps another layer of mistrust.

Josh guides me forward by the small of my back. I imagine that I look like a mouse, weak and easy to discard from the premises. “Judge Lederman,” Josh says. “It’s good to see you.” How bizarre to hear his interview voice being spoken live from his actual mouth. “This is my girlfriend, Isla Martin.”

The judge shakes my hand. “A pretty little thing you are.”

Gross. I smile. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

“Mom, you remember Isla,” Josh continues as if our last encounter wasn’t a shame-filled agonyfest. “Dad, I’d like to introduce you to my girlfriend. Isla, this is my father.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Senator.”

Wait. Was I supposed to call him Senator? Mr. Wasserstein? Senator Wasserstein? I should have said “sir”. Why didn’t I say “sir”? Oh no! I called the judge “sir”. Was I supposed to call him “your honour”, or is that only in court? But Josh’s dad smiles and reveals a comforting pair of familiar dimples. He pumps my hand. “Great to meet you. I’ve heard so many stories that I feel like I already know you.”

I’m taken aback. He sounds sincere, but…is he? It must be that practised politico charm. I hadn’t realized how lucky it is that our first meeting is in public. Josh’s father has to pretend like everything is cool, even if it’s not.

“Sam,” he says to Judge Lederman. “Isla studies abroad.”

“Ah, that’s right,” the judge says to Josh. “I forgot you lived overseas. England?”

“France. Though I’m finishing my schooling here in America.” Josh’s reply is smooth. Anticipated. His parents smile with ease, and it occurs to me that everyone playing this game is a pro. Everyone but me.

“Isla is the top student in her class,” the senator says.

My face pinkens as a surreal conversation occurs in which I am the subject, and Josh’s parents are bragging about my accomplishments. It’s uncomfortable to hear them praise me when they can’t possibly mean what they’re saying. There’s no reason for them to like me. I’m a nobody. A nobody who took their son to Spain for sex and then got him expelled from high school. This situation is so unexpected that I can’t even answer their questions, and Josh is forced to pick up my end of the dialogue. Before I know it, the whole thing is over, and Josh is pulling me away.

“We’re off to find something to eat,” he tells his parents. “It was good seeing you again,” he tells the judge, shaking his outstretched hand while steering me in the opposite direction.

“Nice to meet you,” I call out. Which is the only thing I’ve said to any of them this entire time. Josh’s parents probably think that he’s been lying about my intelligence, too.

“That went well,” Josh says.

“Did it?”

He glances at me. “We’ll talk to them again later – just the four of us – after they’ve had a few more glasses of wine.”

That’s not an answer.

Josh swiftly pushes us through a cluster of uptight partygoers. He heads straight towards the canapés, grabs an uncharacteristically small sampling, and parades us past his parents again. He lifts his plate to them in a toast. His mother raises her glass in return. And then he’s ducking and weaving us into the thickest crush in the room. His plate vanishes somewhere in the mix.

“Excuse me, pardon me,” he says.

I’m scrambling to keep up. “These heels. They weren’t built for this.”

Josh throws me a mischievous smile, and I recognize a plan behind it. He continues threading us through a neighbouring gallery – past stained-glass windows and a Pietà, glazed jugs and earthenware – until we come to an abrupt halt before a closed door.

A closed door and a museum guard.

But the middle-aged guard in the navy suit loses all rigidity the moment he recognizes Josh. He breaks into an unexpected grin. Josh jerks up his chin in the universal guy-nod. The guard returns the nod, whisks open the door, and lets us pass.