Summer and the City

Then I wonder if I’m going to be able to survive. What if Samantha doesn’t come home? What if she goes to Charlie’s apartment instead?

No. She has to come home. She just has to. I close my eyes and picture her leaning against her desk. You really are a sparrow, she says.

And then, as if I’ve willed it to happen, a cab stops on the corner and Samantha gets out. She’s clutching her briefcase across her chest, her head ducked against the rain, when suddenly, she stops, looking defeated. By the weather and, just possibly, by something else.

“Hey!” I yank open the door and race toward her, waving my arms. “It’s me!”

“Huh?” She’s startled, but quickly regains her composure. “You,” she says, wiping the rain from her face. “What are you doing here?”

I muster up my last ounce of confidence. I shrug, as if I’m used to standing on corners in the rain. “I was wondering—”

“You got kicked out of your apartment,” she says.

“How did you know?”

She laughs. “The suitcase and the fact that you’re soaked to the skin. Besides, that’s what always happens to sparrows. Jesus, Carrie. What am I going to do with you?”

Chapter Eight

“You’re alive!” L’il throws her arms around my neck.

“Of course I am,” I say, as if getting kicked out of an apartment happens to me all the time. We’re standing in front of The New School, waiting to go in.

“I was worried.” She steps back to give me a searching once-over. “You don’t look so good.”

“Hangover,” I explain. “Couldn’t be helped.”

“Did you finish your story?”

I laugh. My voice sounds like it’s been scraped over the sidewalk. “Hardly.”

“You’ll have to tell Viktor what happened.”

“Viktor? Since when did you start calling him by his first name?”

“It’s his name, isn’t it?” She starts into the building ahead of me.

I was beyond relieved when Samantha showed up and rescued me, explaining how she’d decided to give Charlie the night off to keep him guessing. And I was thrilled when I realized Charlie’s night off meant Samantha’s night out, and that she expected me to accompany her. It wasn’t until I discovered that Samantha’s night out literally meant all night that I began to get worried.

First we went to a place called One Fifth. The inside was a replica of a cruise ship, and even though it was technically a restaurant, no one was eating. Apparently, no one actually eats in trendy restaurants because you’re only supposed to be seen in them. The bartender bought us drinks, and then two guys started buying us drinks, and then someone decided we should all go to this club, Xenon, where everyone was purple under the black lights. It was pretty funny because no one was acting like they were purple, and just when I was getting used to it, Samantha found some other people who were going to a club called The Saint, so we all piled into taxis and went there. The ceiling was painted like the sky, illuminated by tiny lights over a revolving dance floor that spun like a record, and people kept falling down. Then I got caught up dancing with a bunch of guys who were wearing wigs and lost Samantha but found her again in the bathroom, where you could hear people having sex. I danced on top of a speaker and one of my shoes fell off and I couldn’t find it, and Samantha made me leave without it because she said she was hungry, and we were in a taxi again with more people, and Samantha made the driver stop at a twenty-four-hour drugstore in Chinatown to see if they had shoes. Mysteriously, they did but they were bamboo flip-flops. I tried them on along with a pointy hat, which was apparently so hilarious, everyone else had to have bamboo flip-flops and pointy hats as well. Finally, we managed to get back into the taxi, which took us to a metal diner where we ate scrambled eggs.

I think we got home around five a.m. I was too scared to look at my watch, but the birds were singing. Who knew there were so many damn birds in New York? I figured I’d never be able to sleep with the racket, so I got up and started typing. About fifteen minutes later Samantha came out of her room, pushing a velvet sleeping mask onto her forehead.

“Carrie,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“Writing?”

“Can you please save it for morning?” She groaned in pain. “Plus, I’ve got terrible cramps. They don’t call it ‘the curse’ for nothing.”

“Sure,” I said, flustered. The last thing I needed was to annoy her or her cramps.

Now, following L’il’s neat head up the stairs to class, I’m racked with guilt. I need to start writing. I have to get serious.

I only have fifty-six days left.

I run after L’il and tap her on the shoulder. “Did Bernard call?”

She shakes her head and gives me a pitying look.

Today we’re treated to the pleasure of Capote Duncan’s work. It’s the last thing I need, considering my condition. I rest my head in my hand, wondering how I’m going to get through this class.

“‘She held the razor between her fingers. A piece of glass. A piece of ice. A savior. The sun was a moon. The ice became snow as she slipped away, a pilgrim lost in a blizzard.’” Capote adjusts his glasses and smiles, pleased with himself.

“Thank you, Capote,” Viktor Greene says. He’s slumped in a chair in the back of the room.

“You’re welcome,” Capote says, as if he’s just done us an enormous favor. I study him closely in an attempt to discover what L’il and, supposedly, hundreds of other women in New York, including models, see in him. He does have surprisingly masculine hands, the kind of hands that look like they’d know how to sail a boat or hammer a nail or pull you up from the edge of a steep rock face. Too bad he doesn’t have the personality to match.

“Any comments on Capote’s story?” Viktor asks. I turn around to give Capote a dirty look. Yes, I want to say. I have a response. It sucked. I actually feel like I might puke. There’s nothing I hate more than some cheesy romantic story about a perfect girl who every guy is in love with and then she kills herself. Because she’s so tragic. When in reality, she’s just crazy. But, of course, the guy can’t see that. All he can see is her beauty. And her sadness.

Guys can be so stupid.

“Who is this girl again?” Ryan asks, with a touch of skepticism that tells me I’m not alone in my thinking.

Capote stiffens. “My sister. I thought that was pretty apparent from the beginning.”

“I guess I missed it,” Ryan says. “I mean, the way you write about her—she doesn’t sound like your sister. She sounds like some girl you’re in love with.” Ryan’s being pretty hard on Capote, especially since they’re supposed to be friends. But that’s what it’s like in this class. When you enter the room, you’re a writer first.

“It does sound a little . . . incestuous,” I add.

Capote looks at me. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged my presence, but only because he has to. “That’s the point of the story. And if you didn’t get the point, I can’t help you.”

I press on. “But is it really you?”

“It’s fiction,” he snaps. “Of course it’s not really me.”

“So if it’s not really you or your sister, I guess we can criticize her after all,” Ryan says as the rest of the class titters. “I wouldn’t want to say something negative about a member of your family.”

“A writer has to be able to look at everything in their life with a critical eye,” L’il says. “Including their own family. They do say the artist must kill the father in order to succeed.”

“But Capote hasn’t killed anyone. Yet,” I say. The class snickers.

“This discussion is totally stupid,” Rainbow interjects. It’s the second time she’s deigned to speak in class, and her tone is world-weary, defiant and superior, designed to put us in our place. Which seems to be somewhere far below hers. “Anyway, the sister is dead. So what difference does it make what we say about her? I thought the story was great. I identified with the sister’s pain. It seemed very real to me.”

“Thank you,” Capote says, as if he and Rainbow are two aristocrats stranded in a crowd of peasants.

Now I’m sure Rainbow is sleeping with him. I wonder if she knows about the model.

Capote takes his seat, and once again I find myself staring at him with open curiosity. Studied in profile, his nose has character—a distinctive bump of the type passed from one generation to another—“the Duncan nose”—likely the bane of every female family member. Combined with closely spaced eyes, the nose would give the face a rodent-like demeanor, but Capote’s eyes are wide-set. And now that I’m really looking at him, a dark inky blue.

“Will L’il read her poem, please?” Viktor murmurs.

L’il’s poem is about a flower and its effect on three generations of women. When she’s finished, there’s silence.

“That was wonderful.” Viktor shuffles to the front of the room.

“Anyone can do it,” L’il says with cheerful modesty. She might be the only genuine person in this class, probably because she really does have talent.

Viktor Greene stoops over and picks up his knapsack. I can’t imagine what’s in it besides papers, but the weight tilts him perilously to one side, like a boat listing in the waves. “We reconvene on Wednesday. In the meantime, for those of you who haven’t handed in your first story, you need to do so by Monday.” He scans the room. “And I need to see Carrie Bradshaw in my office.”

Huh? I look to L’il, wondering if she might know the reason for this unexpected meeting, but she only shrugs.

Maybe Viktor Greene is going to tell me I don’t belong in this class.

Or maybe he’s going to tell me I’m the most talented, brilliant student he’s ever had.

Or maybe . . . I give up. Who knows what he wants. I smoke a cigarette and make my way to his office.

The door is closed. I knock.

It opens a crack, and the first thing I’m confronted by is Viktor’s enormous mustache, followed by his soft sloping face, as if skin and muscle have abandoned any attempt to attach to the skull. He silently swings open the door and I enter a small room filled with a mess of papers and books and magazines. He removes a pile from the chair in front of his desk and looks around helplessly.

“Over there,” I say, pointing to a relatively small mound of books perched on the sill.

“Right,” he says, plopping the papers on top, where they balance precariously.

I sit down in the chair as he clumsily drops into his seat.

“Well.” He touches his mustache.

It’s still there, I want to scream, but don’t. “How do you feel about this class?” he asks. “Good. Really good.” I’m pretty sure I suck, but there’s no reason to give him ammunition.

“How long have you wanted to become a writer?”

“Since I was a kid, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I know.” Why do conversations with teachers always go around in circles?

“Why?”

I sit on my hands and stare. There’s no good answer to this question. “I’m a genius and the world can’t live without my words,” is too pretentious and probably untrue. “I love books and want to write the great American novel” is true, but is also what every student wants, because why else would they be in this class? “It’s my calling,” sounds overly dramatic. On the other hand, why is he even asking me this question? Can’t he tell that I should be a writer?

In consequence, I end up saying nothing. Instead, I open my eyes as wide as possible.

This has an interesting effect. Viktor Greene suddenly becomes uncomfortable, shifting in his chair and then opening and closing a drawer.

“Why do you have that mustache?” I ask.

“Mmph?” He covers his lips with his tapered, waxy fingers.

“Is it because you think that mustache is a part of you?” I’ve never talked to a teacher this way, but I’m not exactly in school. I’m in a seminar. And who says Viktor Greene has to be the authority?

“Don’t you like the mustache?” he asks.

Hold on. Viktor Greene is vain?

“Sure,” I say, thinking about how vanity is a weakness. It’s a chink in the armor. If you’re vain, you should do everything possible to conceal it.

I lean forward slightly to emphasize my admiration. “Your mustache is really, er, great.”

“You think so?” he repeats.

Jeez. What a Pandora’s box. If he only knew how Ryan and I make fun of that mustache. I’ve even given it a name: “Waldo.” Waldo is not any ordinary mustache, however. He’s able to go on adventures without Viktor. He goes to the zoo and Studio 54, and the other day, he even went to Benihana, where the chef mistook him for a piece of meat and accidently chopped him up.

Waldo recovered, though. He’s immortal and cannot be destroyed.

“Your mustache,” I continue. “It’s kind of like me wanting to be a writer. It’s a part of me. I don’t know who I’d be if I didn’t want to be a writer.” I deliver this line with great conviction, and Viktor nods.

“That’s fine, then,” he says.

I smile.

“I was worried you’d come to New York to become famous.”

What?

Now I’m confused. And kind of insulted. “What does my wanting to be a writer have to do with wanting to become famous?”

He wets his lips. “Some people think writing is glamorous. They make the mistake of thinking it’s a good vehicle for becoming famous. But it isn’t. It’s only hard work. Years and years and years of it, and even then, most people don’t get what they want out of it.”

Like you, I wonder? “I’m not worried, Mr. Greene.”

He sadly fingers his mustache.

“Is that it?” I stand up.

“Yes,” he says. “That’s it.”

“Thanks, Mr. Greene.” I glare at him, wondering what Waldo would say.

But when I get outside, I’m shaking.

Why shouldn’t I? I demand silently. Why shouldn’t I become a famous writer? Like Norman Mailer. Or Philip Roth. And F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway and all those other men. Why can’t I be like them? I mean, what is the point of becoming a writer if no one reads what you’ve written?

Damn Viktor Greene and The New School. Why do I have to keep proving myself all the time? Why can’t I be like L’il, with everyone praising and encouraging me? Or Rainbow, with her sense of entitlement. I bet Viktor Greene never asked Rainbow why she wanted to be a writer.

Or what if—I wince—Viktor Greene is right? I’m not a writer after all.

I light a cigarette and start walking.

Why did I come to New York? Why did I think I could make it here?

I walk as fast as I can, pausing only to light yet another cigarette. By the time I get to Sixteenth Street, I figure I’ve probably smoked nearly half a pack.

I feel sick.

It’s one thing to write for the school newspaper. But New York is on a whole different level. It’s a mountain, with a few successful people like Bernard at the top, and a mass of dreamers and strivers like me at the bottom.

And then there are people like Viktor, who aren’t afraid to tell you that you’re never going to reach that peak.

I flick my cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and grind it out in a fury. A fire truck roars down the avenue, horns blaring. “I am pissed off,” I scream, my frustration mingling with the wail of the siren.

A couple of people glance my way but don’t pause. I’m only another crazy person on the street in New York.

I stomp down the sidewalk to Samantha’s building, take the stairs two at a time, unlock the three bolts, and fling myself onto her bed. Which makes me feel, once again, like an interloper. It’s a four-poster with a black coverlet and what Samantha calls silk sheets, which, she claims, prevent wrinkles. Except they’re really made of some kind of super slippery polyester and I have to push my foot against one of the posts to keep from sliding onto the floor.

I grab a pillow and put it over my head. I think about Viktor Greene and Bernard. I think about how I’m all alone. How I’m constantly having to pull myself up from the depths of despair, trying to convince myself to try one more time. I bury my face deeper into the pillow.

Maybe I should give up. Go back home. And in two months, I’ll go to Brown.

My throat closes at the thought of leaving New York. Am I going to allow what Viktor Greene said to cause me to quit? I have to talk to someone. But who?

That girl. The one with the red hair. The one who found my Carrie bag. She seems like the kind of person who would have something to say about my situation. She hates life, and right now, I do too.

What was her name, again? Miranda. Miranda Hobbes. “H-o-b-b-e-s.” I hear her voice in my head.

I pick up the phone and dial information.

Chapter Nine

“All men are a disappointment. No matter what anyone says.” Miranda Hobbes glares at the cover of Cosmopolitan. “‘How to Get Him and Keep Him,’” she says, reading the cover line aloud in disgust.

She places the magazine back in the rack. “Even if you could get Him—and why do they always capitalize His name like He’s God—I can personally guarantee He wouldn’t be worth keeping.”

“What about Paul Newman?” I count out four dollars and hand the money to the cashier. “I’m sure he’s worth keeping. Joanne Woodward thinks so.”

“First of all, no one knows what goes on between two people in a marriage. And secondly, he’s an actor. Which means by definition he’s a narcissist.” She looks at the package of chicken thighs doubtfully. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

I put the chicken thighs, rice, and the tomato into a bag, feigning ignorance about her concerns. Truth is, I’m a little worried about the chicken myself. Besides being minuscule, the supermarket is none too clean. Maybe that’s why no one cooks in New York. “Don’t you think everyone’s a narcissist?” I ask. “I have this theory that all anyone ever really thinks about is themself. It’s human nature.”

“Is this human nature?” Miranda demands, still absorbed by the rack of magazines. “‘How to De-dimple Your Thighs in Thirty Days.’ ‘Kissable Lips.’ ‘How to Tell What He’s Really Thinking.’ I can tell you what he’s really thinking. Nothing.”

I laugh, partly because she’s probably right, and partly because I’m in the giddy throes of a new friendship.

It’s my second Saturday in New York, and what no one tells you is how the city empties out on the weekends. Samantha goes to the Hamptons with Charlie, and even L’il said she was going to the Adirondacks. I told myself I didn’t mind. I’d had enough excitement for the week, and besides, I had to write.

And I did work, for a few hours, anyway. Then I started to feel lonely. I decided there must be a particular kind of lonely in New York, because once you start thinking about all the millions of people out there eating or shopping or going to movies or museums with friends, it’s pretty depressing not to be one of them.

I tried calling Maggie, who’s spending the summer in South Carolina, but her sister said she was at the beach. Then I tried Walt. He was in Provincetown. I even called my father. But all he said was how much I must be looking forward to Brown in the fall and he’d talk more but he had an appointment.

I wished I could tell him what a hard time I was having with my writing class, but it would have been pointless. He’s never been interested in my writing anyway, convinced it’s a phase I’ll get over when I go to Brown.

Then I looked through Samantha’s closet. I found a pair of neon-blue Fiorucci boots that I particularly coveted, and even tried them on, but they were too big. I also discovered an old leather biker jacket that appeared to be from her former life—whatever that was.

I tried Miranda Hobbes again. I’d actually tried her three times since Thursday, but there was no answer.

But apparently she doesn’t protest on Saturdays, because she picked up the phone on the first ring.

“Hello?” she asked suspiciously.

“Miranda? It’s Carrie Bradshaw.”

“Oh.”

“I was wondering . . . what are you doing right now? Do you want to get a cup of coffee or something?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh,” I said again, disappointed.

I guess she felt sorry for me, because she asked, “Where do you live?”

“Chelsea?”

“I’m on Bank Street. There’s a coffee shop around the corner. As long as I don’t have to take the subway, I guess I could meet you.”

We spent two hours at the coffee shop, discovering all kinds of things we had in common. Like we both went to our local high schools. And we both loved the book The Consensus as kids. When I told her I knew the author, Mary Gordon Howard, she laughed. “Somehow, I knew you were the type who would.” And over yet another cup of coffee, we began to have that magical, unspoken realization that we were going to be friends.

Then we decided we were hungry, but also admitted we didn’t have any money. Hence my plan to cook us dinner.

“Why do magazines do this to women?” Miranda complains now, glaring at Vogue. “It’s all about creating insecurity. Trying to make women feel like they’re not good enough. And when women don’t feel like they’re good enough, guess what?”

“What?” I ask, picking up the grocery bag.

“Men win. That’s how they keep us down,” she concludes.

“Except the problem with women’s magazines is that they’re written by women,” I point out.

“That only shows you how deep this thing goes. Men have made women coconspirators in their own oppression. I mean, if you spend all your time worrying about leg hair, how can you possibly have time to take over the world?”

I want to point out that shaving your legs takes about five minutes, leaving plenty of time for world-taking-over, but I know she only means it as a rhetorical question.

“Are you sure your roommate won’t mind my coming over?” she asks.

“She’s not really my roommate. She’s engaged. She lives with her boyfriend. She’s in the Hamptons anyway.”

“Lucky you,” Miranda says as we start up the five flights of stairs to the apartment. By the third flight, she’s panting. “How do you do this every day?”

“It’s better than living with Peggy.”

“That Peggy sounds like a nightmare. People like that should be in therapy.”

“She probably is, and it’s not working.”

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