As soon as they’re gone, I groan.
“What?” Maggie asks, slightly defensive, knowing she’s done something wrong.
“I can’t bring them to drinks with Bernard.”
“Why not? Ryan is
“He’s engaged.”
“And?” Maggie picks up the menu. “You heard him. She’s not around.”
“He’s a big flirt. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I’m a flirt too. So it’s perfect.”
I was wrong. Maggie has changed. She’s become a sex addict. And how can I explain about Bernard? “Bernard won’t want to meet them-”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s older. He’s thirty.”
She looks at me in horror. “Oh my God, Carrie.
Chapter Fourteen
Given Maggie’s attitude, I decide not to introduce her to Miranda after all. They’d probably get into a big fight about sex and I’d be stuck in the middle. Instead, we walk around the Village, where Maggie has her tarot cards read by a psychic-“I see a man with dark hair and blue eyes.” “Ryan!” Maggie exclaims-and then I take her to Washington Square Park. There’s the usual assortment of freaks, musicians, drug dealers, Hare Krishnas, and even two men walking on stilts, but all she can talk about is how there isn’t any grass. “How can they call it a park if it’s all dirt?”
“There probably was grass, once. And there
“But look at the leaves. They’re black. Even the squirrels are dirty.”
“Nobody notices the squirrels.”
“They should,” she says. “Did I tell you I’m going to become a marine biologist?”
“No-”
“Hank’s a biology major. He says if you’re a marine biologist, you can live in California or Florida.”
“But you don’t like science.”
“What are you talking about?” Maggie asks. “I didn’t like chemistry, but I loved biology.”
This is news to me. When we had to take biology in junior year, Maggie refused to memorize the names of the species and phyla, saying it was the kind of stupid thing that no one would ever use in their real life, so why bother?
We walk around a bit more, with Maggie becoming increasingly distressed about the heat and the odd people and how she thinks she’s getting another blister. When I take her back to the apartment, she complains about the lack of effective air-conditioning. By the time we’re supposed to leave to meet Bernard, I’m nearly at the end of my rope. Once more, Maggie balks at taking the subway. “I’m not going down there again,” she declares. “It stinks. I don’t know how you do it.”
“It’s the best way to get around,” I say, trying to urge her down the stairs.
“Why can’t we take a taxi? My sister and brother-in-law told me to take taxis because they’re safe.”
“They’re also expensive. And I don’t have the money.”
“I have fifty dollars.”
What? I wish she’d told me she had money earlier. She could have paid for our hamburgers.
When we’re safely in a cab, Maggie reveals her conclusion about why New Yorkers wear black. “It’s because it’s so dirty here. And black doesn’t show dirt. Could you imagine what their clothes would look like if they wore white? I mean, who wears black in the summer?”
“I do,” I say, nonplussed, especially as I’m in black. I’m wearing a black T-shirt, black leather pants that are two sizes too big-which I bought for 90 percent off at one of those cheap stores on Eighth Street-and pointy-toed black high heels from the 1950s that I found at the vintage shop.
“Black is for funerals,” Maggie says. “But maybe New Yorkers like black because they feel like they’ve died.”
“Or maybe for the first time in their lives they feel like they’re
We get stuck in traffic by Macy’s, and Maggie rolls down her window, fanning herself with her hand. “Look at all those people. This isn’t living. It’s surviving.”
I have to admit, she’s right about that. New York is about survival.
“Who are we meeting again?” she asks.
I sigh. “Bernard. The guy I’m seeing. The playwright.”
“Plays are boring.”
“Bernard doesn’t agree. So please don’t say ‘plays are boring’ when you meet him.”
“Does he smoke a pipe?”
I glare at her.
“You said he was over thirty. I picture him smoking a pipe and wearing slippers.”
“Thirty is not
“It’s not good when you have to lie to a guy,” Maggie says.
I take a deep breath. I want to ask her if Hank knows about Tom, but I don’t.
When we finally push through the revolving door at Peartree’s, I’m relieved to see Bernard’s dark head bent over a newspaper, a glass of scotch in front of him. I still get the jitters when I know I’m going to see him. I count down the hours, reliving the sensation of his soft mouth on mine. As our rendezvous approaches, I get nervous, worried he’s going to call and cancel, or not show up at all. I wish I didn’t care so much, but I’m glad to have a guy who makes me feel this way.
I’m not sure Bernard feels the same, though. This morning, when I told him I had a friend coming to town unexpectedly, he said, “See your friend, then. We’ll get together another time.”
I emitted a gasp of disappointment. “But I thought we were going to see each other.
“I’m not going anywhere. We can see each other when she leaves.”
“I told her all about you. I want her to meet you.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s my best friend. And-” I broke off. I didn’t know how to tell him that I wanted to show him off, wanted Maggie to be impressed by him and my astonishing new life. Wanted her to see how far I’d come in such a short time.
I thought he should be able to tell from my voice.
“I don’t want to babysit, Carrie,” he said.
“You’re not! Maggie’s nineteen, maybe twenty-” I must have sounded very insistent, because he relented and agreed to meet for a drink.
“But only one drink,” he cautioned. “You should spend time with your friend. She came to see you, not me.”
I hate it when Bernard acts all serious.
Then I decided his comment was vaguely insulting. Of course I wanted to spend time with Maggie. But I wanted to see him, too. I thought about calling him back and canceling, just to show him I didn’t care, but the reality of not seeing him was too depressing. And I suspected I’d secretly resent Maggie if I couldn’t see Bernard
