“I was going to read it when things got slow. Here it is,” she says in relief, holding up a few pages.
I quickly flip through them. “Where’s the rest? This is only the first third.”
“Has to be here,” she mutters as I join her in going through each piece of paper one by one. “Oh my God.” She sits back in her chair. “Carrie, I’m sorry. This guy got in my face yesterday. Grabbed a bunch of flyers and ran. The rest of your play must have been mixed up with them—”
I stop breathing. I have one of those terrible premonitions that my life is about to fall apart.
“You must have another copy,” Samantha says soothingly.
“My professor has one.”
“Well, then,” Miranda chirps, as if everything’s all right.
I grab my bag. “I’ve got to go,” I squeak, just before my mouth goes completely dry.
Damn. Crap! And every other expletive I can think of.
If I don’t have my play, I don’t have anything. No reading, no life.
But surely Viktor has a copy. I specifically remember the day I gave it to him. And what kind of teacher throws out their students’ work?
I run through the Village, barging through traffic and nearly knocking over several passersby on my route to The New School. I arrive heaving, take the stairs two at a time, and throw myself on Viktor’s door.
It’s locked.
I wheel around in a frenzy, trip down the stairs, and run all the way back to Samantha’s place.
She’s lying in bed with a pile of magazines. “Carrie? Can you believe what Miranda said to me? About Charlie? I thought it was very uncalled for—”
“Yeah,” I say as I search the kitchen for the white pages.
“Did you find your play?”
“No!” I scream, flipping through the phone book.
I pat my heart, trying to get a grip. There it is: Viktor Greene. With an address in the Mews.
“Carrie?” Samantha asks, on my way back out. “Could you pick me up something to eat? Maybe Chinese? Or pizza. With pepperoni. And not too much cheese. Be sure to tell them no extra cheese—”
Argh!!!!!!
I haul myself back to the Mews, every muscle in my body screaming with pain from the exertion. I walk up and down the cobblestoned street twice before I find Viktor’s place, tucked behind a portcullis and hidden by ivy. I bang on the door several times, and when I can’t rouse him, plop down on the stoop.
Where the hell is he? Viktor’s always around. He has no life, apart from the school and his occasional affair with one of his students. The bastard. I get up and kick the door, and when there’s still no answer, I peek in the window.
The tiny carriage house is dark. I sniff the air, convinced I can catch a whiff of decay.
It’s not surprising. Viktor is a pig.
Then I notice three days’ worth of newspapers strewn next to the door. What if he’s gone away? But where would he go? I snuffle around the window again, wondering if the smell is an indication that he’s dead. Maybe he had a heart attack and, since he doesn’t have any friends, no one’s thought to look for him.
I bang on the window, which is totally useless. I look around for something to break it with, loosening a brick from the edge of the cobblestones. I raise it above my head, ready to attack.
“Looking for Viktor?” comes a voice from behind me.
I lower the brick and turn around.
The speaker is an elderly lady with a cat on a leash. She walks cautiously forward and bends down painstakingly to scoop up the papers. “Viktor’s gone,” she informs me. “I told him I’d save his newspapers. Lots of crooks around here.”
I surreptitiously drop the brick. “When is he coming back?”
She squints. “Friday? His mother died, poor thing. He’s gone to the Midwest to bury her.”
“Friday?” I take a step and nearly trip on the brick. I grab a vine of ivy to steady myself.
“That’s what he said. Friday.” The old woman bobs her head.
The reality of my situation hits me like a truckload of cement. “That’s too late!” I cry, as I let go of the vine and collapse to the ground in despair.
“Sparrow?” Samantha asks, coming into the living room. “What are you doing?”
“Huh?”
“You’ve been sitting there for over an hour with your mouth hanging open. It’s not very attractive,” she scolds. When I don’t respond, she stands over me and knocks on my head. “Hello? Anyone home?”
I unhinge my eyes from a blank spot on the wall and swivel my head around to look at her.
She shakes a sheaf of newspaper pages in my face. “I thought we could have some fun. Work on my engagement announcement for The New York Times. You’re a writer. This should be a snap for you.”
“I’m not a writer. Not anymore,” I respond dully.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve had one small setback.” She settles in next to me with the pile of papers on her lap. “I’ve been collecting these since May. The wedding and engagement announcements in The New York Times. Also known as the ‘women’s sports pages.’”
“Who cares?” I lift my head.
“Everyone who’s anyone in New York, Sparrow,” she explains, as if talking to a child. “And it’s especially important because the Times won’t take just any old announcement. The man has to be Ivy League. And both parties need to come from the right sort of families. Old money is best, but new money will do. Or fame. If, for instance, the bride has a famous father, like an actor or a sculptor or a composer, she’ll definitely get in.”
“Why can’t you just get married?” I rub my cheeks. My skin is cold, as if I’ve lost all circulation.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Samantha asks. “Why get married in New York if you’re going to be a nobody? You might as well have stayed home. A wedding in New York is all about taking your proper place in society. It’s why we’re getting married at the Century Club. If you get married there, it’s a statement.”
“Meaning?”
She pats my leg. “You belong, Sparrow.”
“But what if you don’t? Belong.”
“For God’s sake, Sparrow. You act like you do. What is wrong with you? Have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you?”
And before I can protest, she goes to the typewriter, rolls a piece of paper into the carriage, and points at the chair. “You write. I’ll dictate.”
My shoulders slump, but I follow her order and place my hands on the keys, more out of rote than of conscious action.
Samantha plucks a page from her pile and scans the announcements. “Here’s a good one. ‘Miss Barbara Halters from Newport, Rhode Island, known to her friends as Horsie . . .’”
If she’s joking, it’s completely lost on me. “I thought you were from Weehawken.”
“Who wants to be from there? Put down ‘Short Hills.’ Short Hills is acceptable.”
“But what if someone checks—”
“They won’t. Can we please continue? Miss Samantha Jones—”
“What about ‘Ms.’?”
“Okay. Ms. Samantha Jones, of Short Hills, New Jersey, attended . . .” She pauses. “What college is near Short Hills?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just say ‘Princeton’ then. It’s close enough. Princeton,” she continues, satisfied with her choice. “And I graduated with a degree in . . . English literature.”
“No one’s going to believe that,” I protest, beginning to come to life. “I’ve never seen you read anything other than a self-help book.”
“Okay. Skip the part about my degree. It doesn’t matter anyway,” she says with a wave. “The tricky part is my parents. We’ll say my mother was a homemaker—that’s neutral—and my father was an international businessman. That way I can explain why he was never around.”
I take my hands off the keys and fold them in my lap. “I can’t do this.”
“Why not?”
“I ca
n’t lie to The New York Times.”
“You’re not the one who’s lying. I am.”
“Why do you have to lie?”
“Carrie,” she says, becoming frustrated. “Everyone lies.”
“No, they don’t.”
“You lie. Didn’t you lie to Bernard about your age?”
“That’s different. I’m not marrying Bernard.”
She gives me a cold smile, as if she can’t believe I’m challenging her. “Fine. I’ll write it myself.”
“Be my guest.” I get up as she sits down in front of the typewriter.
She bangs away for several minutes while I watch. Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “Why can’t you tell the truth?”
“Because the truth isn’t good enough.”
“That’s like saying you’re not good enough.”
She stops typing. She sits back and folds her arms. “I am good enough. I’ve never had any doubt in my mind—”
“Why don’t you be yourself, then?”
“Why don’t you?” She jumps up. “You’re worried about me? Look at you. Sniveling around the apartment because you lost half your play. If you’re such a great writer, why don’t you write another one?”
“It doesn’t work that way,” I scream, my throat raw. “It took me a whole month to write that play. You don’t just sit down and write a whole play in three days. You have to think about it. You have to—”
“Fine. If you want to give up, that’s your problem.” She starts toward her room, pauses, and spins around. “But if you want to act like a loser, don’t you dare criticize me,” she shouts, banging the door behind her.
I put my head in my hands. She’s right. I’m sick of myself and my failure. I might as well pack my bags and go home.
Like L’il. And all the millions of other young people who came to New York to make it and failed.
And suddenly, I’m furious. I run to Samantha’s room and pound on the door.
“What?” she yells as I open it.
“Why don’t you start over?” I shout, for no rational reason.
“Why don’t you?”
“I will.”
“Good.”
I slam the door.
As if in a trance, I go to my typewriter and sit down. I rip out Samantha’s phony announcement, crumple it into a ball, and throw it across the room. I roll a fresh piece of paper into the carriage. I look at my watch. I have seventy-four hours and twenty-three minutes until my reading on Thursday. And I’m going to make it. I’m going to write another play if it kills me.
My typewriter ribbon breaks on Thursday morning. I look around at the empty candy wrappers, the dried tea bags, and the greasy pizza crusts.
It’s my birthday. I’m finally eighteen.
Chapter Thirty-Five
My hands shake as I step into the shower.
The bottle of shampoo slips from my fingers, and I manage to catch it just before it breaks on the tiles. I take a deep breath, tilting my head back against the spray.
I did it. I actually did it.
But the water can’t erase how I really feel: red-eyed, weak, and rattled.
I’ll never know what would have happened if Miranda hadn’t lost my play and I hadn’t had to rewrite it. I don’t know if it’s good or bad. I don’t know if I’ll be celebrated or disdained. But I did it, I remind myself. I tried.
I get out of the shower and towel off. I peer into the mirror. My face looks drawn and hollow, as I’ve barely slept for three days. This is not how I was expecting to make my debut, but I’ll take it. I don’t have a choice.
I put on the red rubber pants, my Chinese robe, and Samantha’s old Fiorucci boots. Maybe someday I’ll be like Samantha, able to afford my own shoes.
Samantha. She went back to work on Tuesday morning and I haven’t heard from her since. Ditto for Miranda, who hasn’t called either. Probably too scared I’ll never forgive her.
But I will. And I hope Samantha can forgive me as well.
“Here you are,” Bobby says gaily. “And right on time.”
“If you only knew,” I mumble.
“Excited?” He bounces on his toes.
“Nervous.” I smile weakly. “Is it true you attacked David?”
He frowns. “Who told you that?”
I shrug.
“It’s never a good idea to dwell on the past. Let’s have some champagne.”
I follow him to the kitchen, keeping my carpenter’s bag between us so he can’t try any of his funny business. If he does, I swear, I really will hit him this time.
I needn’t have worried though, because the guests start arriving and Bobby scurries to the door to greet them.
I remain in the kitchen, sipping my champagne. The hell with it, I think, and drain the whole glass. I pour myself another.
Tonight’s the night, I think grimly. My reading and Bernard.
I narrow my eyes. He’d better be prepared to do it this time. Tonight he’d better not have any excuses.
I shake my head. What kind of attitude is that to take about losing your virginity? Not good.
I’m about to pour myself more champagne when I hear, “Carrie?” I nearly drop the bottle as I turn around and find Miranda.
“Please don’t be mad,” she implores.
My body sags in relief. Now that Miranda’s here, maybe everything really will be okay.
After Miranda’s arrival, I can’t exactly describe the party because I’m everywhere at once: greeting guests at the door, worrying about when to set up the chairs, fending off Bobby, and trying to come up with something impressive to say to Charlie, who has shown up, unexpectedly, with Samantha.
If Samantha is mad at me from the other night, she’s doing her best not to show it, complimenting me on my pants while holding on to Charlie’s arm as if she owns him. He’s a large man, almost handsome, and slightly gawky, as if he doesn’t know what to do with his limbs. He immediately starts talking about baseball, and when some other people chime in, I slip away to find Bernard.
He’s in the corner with Teensie. I can’t believe he brought her after that disastrous weekend, but apparently, either he doesn’t care or Teensie never bothered to give him an earful about me. Maybe because it’s my night, Teensie is all smiles, at least on the surface.
“When Bernard told me about this event, I couldn’t believe it,” she says, leaning forward to whisper loudly in my ear. “I said I simply had to see it for myself.”
“Well, thank you,” I reply modestly, smiling at Bernard. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
Capote and Ryan wander over with Rainbow in tow. We talk about class and how Viktor disappeared and how we can hardly believe the summer is nearly over. There’s more drinking and schmoozing, and I feel like a jewel, whirling in the center of all the attention, remembering my first night in New York with Samantha, and how far I’ve come since then.
“Hello, little one.” It’s Cholly Hammond in his usual seersucker uniform. “Have you met Winnie Dieke?” he asks, gesturing toward a young woman with a sharp face. “She’s from the New York Post. If you’re very nice to her, she might write about the event.”
“Then I’ll be very nice. Hello, Winnie,” I say smoothly, holding out my hand.
By ten thirty, the party is packed. Bobby’s space is a regular stop for revelers out on the town. It’s got free booze, shirtless bartenders, and a hodgepodge of crazy characters to shake things up. Like the old lady on roller skates, and the homeless man named Norman, who sometimes lives in Bobby’s closet. Or the Austrian count and the twins who claim to be du Ponts. The model who slept with everyone. The young socialite with the silver spoon around her neck. And in the middle of this great spinning carnival is little old me, standing on my tiptoes in an effort to be heard.
When another half hour passes, I remind Bobby that there is, indeed, entertainment, and Bobby tries to shuffle people into the seats. He stands on a chair, which collapses underneath him. Capote turns down the
music as Bobby manages to right himself, and straddling two chairs instead of one, Bobby calls for everyone’s attention.
“Tonight we have the world premiere of a play by this very charming young writer, Carrie Bradshaw. The name of the play is . . . uh . . . I don’t really know but it doesn’t matter—”
“Ungrateful Bastards,” Miranda calls out the title.
“Yes, ungrateful bastards—the world is full of them,” Bobby squawks. “And now, without further ado—”
I take a deep breath. My heart seems to have migrated to my stomach. There’s a grudging round of applause as I take my place at the front of the room.
I remind myself that this is really no different from reading in front of the class, and I begin.
They say that people in stressful situations can lose their perception of time, and that’s what happens to me. In fact, I seem to lose all my senses, because at first I have no awareness of sight or sound. Then I become conscious of a few chuckles from the front row, which consists of Bernard, Miranda, Samantha and Charlie, Rainbow, Capote, and Ryan. Then I notice people getting up and leaving their seats. Then I realize the laughter is not due to my play, but to something funny someone said in the back of the room. Then someone turns up the music.
I try to ignore it, but my face flames with heat and my voice cracks. I’m dying up here. In the back of the room, people are dancing. I’m reduced to a mumble, a murmur, an afterthought.
Will this ever end?
Miraculously, it does. Bernard jumps to his feet, clapping. Miranda and Samantha yell their approval. But that’s all. Not even Bobby is paying attention. He’s by the bar, fawning over Teensie.
That’s it? I think wildly. It’s over? What was that? What just happened?
I thought there’d be cheering.
I thought there’d be applause.
I did all this work for nothing?
The truth begins to dawn on me, although “dawn” isn’t the most accurate word. “Dawn” implies something pleasant. Hope. A better day. A new beginning. This is no beginning. This is an end. A disgrace. An embarrassment.
I suck.
Capote and my father and everyone else were right: I have no talent. I’ve been chasing a dream I made up in my head. And now it’s over.