Summer and the City

“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 can’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