of cranberry juice.
“Everything,” I say. “Mostly desserts though. I’m really good at Buche de Noel. It takes two days to make it.”
“I’d never want to dedicate that much time to cooking,” he says dismissively, raising his glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
The buzzer rings and Capote strides to the door, no doubt relieved at the interruption.
Ryan comes in with Rainbow and another girl, who’s the size of a twig. She has short dark hair, enormous brown eyes, acne, and is wearing a skirt that barely covers her bottom. For some reason, I’m immediately jealous. Despite the acne, she must be another one of Ryan’s model friends. I feel horribly out of place.
Rainbow’s eyes scour the room and land on me. She, too, looks as though she can’t imagine what I’m doing here.
“Hi.” I wave from the kitchen.
“Oh. Hi.” She comes over, while Ryan greets Maggie and plops next to her on the couch. “Are you serving drinks?” she asks.
“I guess so. What do you want? Capote says he has everything.”
“Tequila.”
I find the bottle and pour some into a glass. Why am I serving
“No.” Her nose wrinkles. “What makes you say that?”
“You seem so close, is all.”
“We’re friends.” She pauses, looks around again, and seeing that Ryan is still engaged with Maggie and Capote is talking to the strange skinny girl, decides I’m her only option for conversation. “I would never go out with him. I think any girl who dates him is insane.”
“Why?” I take a gulp of my drink.
“She’ll have her heart broken.”
Well. I take another gulp of my drink, and add a little more vodka and ice. I don’t feel particularly drunk. In fact, I feel disturbingly sober. And resentful. Of everyone else’s life.
I join Maggie and Ryan on the couch. “What are you guys talking about?”
“You,” Ryan says. This is a person who cannot lie.
Maggie blushes. “Ryan!” she scolds.
“What?” he asks, looking from Maggie to me. “I thought you guys were best friends. Don’t best friends tell each other everything?”
“You know nothing about women,” Maggie giggles.
“At least I try. Unlike most men.”
“What
“Maggie was telling me about you and Bernard.” There’s a note of admiration in Ryan’s voice. Bernard Singer is obviously some kind of hero to both him and Capote. He’s exactly what they’d like to be someday. And apparently my association with him elevates my status. But I knew that, didn’t I?
“Maggie doesn’t like him. She says he’s too old.”
“I didn’t say that. I said he wasn’t right for you.”
“No man is ever too old,” Ryan says, half jokingly. “If Carrie can go out with a guy fifteen years older, it means there’s hope for me when I’m in my thirties.”
Maggie’s face twists in distaste. “You really want to date someone who’s seventeen when you’re thirty?”
“Maybe not seventeen.” Ryan winks. “I’d prefer it if she were legal.”
Maggie titters. Ryan’s looks and charm seem to have overcome his stupidity about women.
“Anyway, who’s seventeen?” he asks.
“Carrie,” Maggie says accusingly.
“I’ll be eighteen in a month.” I glare at her. Why is she doing this to me?
“Does Bernard know you’re seventeen?” Ryan asks with too much interest.
“No,” Maggie says. “She told me to lie and say she was nineteen.”
“Aha. The old lying-up trick,” Ryan teases.
The apartment buzzer goes off again. “Reinforcements,” Ryan announces as Maggie laughs. Five more people arrive-three scruffy guys and two very serious young women.
“Let’s go,” I say to Maggie.
Ryan looks at me in surprise. “You can’t go,” he insists. “The party’s just getting started.”
“Yeah.” Maggie agrees. “I’m having fun.” She holds out her empty beer bottle. “Do you mind getting me another?”
“Fine.” I get up, annoyed, and go into the kitchen. The new arrivals wander over and ask for drinks. I comply, because I don’t have anything better to do and there’s really no one I want to talk to at this party.
I spot the phone on the wall next to the refrigerator. Maggie is completely occupied with Ryan, who is now sitting cross-legged on the couch, entertaining her with what appears to be a long and animated story. I tell myself Maggie won’t mind if I take off without her. I pick up the phone and dial Bernard’s number.
It rings and rings. Where is he? A dozen scenarios run through my head. He went out to a club, but if he did, why didn’t he invite Maggie and me? Or he met another girl at Peartree’s and he’s with her, having sex. Or worse, he’s decided he doesn’t want to see me anymore and isn’t answering his phone.
The suspense is killing me. I call again.
Still no answer. I hang up, rattled. Now I’m really convinced I’m never going to see him again. I can’t bear it. I don’t care what Maggie says. What if I am in love with Bernard and Maggie just ruined it?
I search the room for her, but she and Ryan have disappeared. Before I can look for them, one of the shaggy guys strikes up a conversation.
“How do you know Capote?”
“I don’t,” I snap. Then I feel bad and add, “He’s in my writing class.”
“Ah yes. The fabled New School writing course. Is Viktor Greene still teaching?” he asks in a Boston accent.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, wanting to get away from him, “I have to find my friend.”
“What’s she look like?”
“Blond. Pretty. All-American?”
“She’s with Ryan. In the bedroom.”
I scowl at him like it’s his fault. “I have to get her out.”
“Why?” he asks. “They’re two healthy young animals. What do you care?”
I feel even more lost than I did just a few minutes ago. Are all my values and ideals just plain wrong? “I need to use the phone.”
“You’ve got somewhere better to go?” He laughs. “This is where it’s all happening.”
“I certainly hope not,” I mutter, dialing Bernard’s number. No answer. I slap down the phone and head to the bedroom.
The music is blaring while one of the serious girls bangs on the door of the bathroom. It finally opens and Capote comes out with Rainbow and the model girl. They’re laughing loudly. Normally, I’d love to be at a party like this, but all I can think about is Bernard. And if I can’t see him, I want to go home.
I want to crawl into Samantha’s bed and pull her slippery sheets over my head and cry.
“Maggie?” I knock briskly on the door. “Maggie, are you in there?” Silence. “I know you’re in there, Maggie.” I try the handle, but it’s locked. “Maggie, I want to go home,” I wail.
Finally, the bedroom door opens. Maggie is flushed, twisting her hair. Behind her, Ryan stands grinning, tugging on his pants. “Jesus, Carrie,” Maggie says.
“I need to go home. We have class tomorrow,” I remind Ryan, sounding like an old schoolmarm.
“Let’s go to your house, then,” Ryan suggests.
“No.”
Maggie gives me a look. “That’s a great idea.”
I weigh my options and decide it’s the better choice. At least I can get out of here.
