Summer and the City

“I’m exhausted,” I sigh, sitting across from her.

“You look fine,” she says.

“I think I slept about two hours.”

She closes her journal and looks at me knowingly. “Bernard?”

“I wish. Bernard dumped me-”

“I’m sorry.” She gives me a sympathetic smile.

“Not officially,” I say quickly. “But after last night, I think he will.” I stir three packets of sugar into my coffee. “And my friend Maggie had sex with Ryan last night.”

“That’s why you’re so pissed off.”

“I’m not pissed off. I’m disappointed.” She looks unconvinced, so I add, “I’m not jealous, either. Why would I be attracted to Ryan when I have Bernard?”

“Then why are you angry?”

“I don’t know.” I pause. “Ryan’s engaged. And she has two boyfriends. It’s wrong.”

“The heart wants what the heart wants,” she says, somewhat cryptically.

I purse my lips in disapproval. “You’d think the heart would know better.”

I keep to myself in class. Ryan tries to engage me with talk about Maggie and how great she is, but I only nod coldly. Rainbow actually says hi, but Capote ignores me, as usual. At least he’s still behaving normally.

And then Viktor asks me to read the first ten pages of my play. I’m shocked. Viktor has never asked me to read anything before, and it takes me a minute to adjust. How am I going to read the play alone? There are two parts-a man and a woman. I can’t read the man’s part too. I’ll sound like an idiot.

Viktor has managed to divine this as well. “You’ll read the part of Harriet,” he says. “And Capote can read Moorehouse.”

Capote glances around the room, peeved at the request. “Harriet? Moorehouse? What kind of name is Moorehouse?”

“I suppose we’ll find out,” Viktor says, twirling his mustache.

This is the best thing that’s happened to me in at least two days. It might even make up for all the bad.

Clutching my script, I make my way to the front of the room, followed by a red-faced Capote. “What am I playing?” he asks.

“You’re a forty-year-old guy who’s going through a midlife crisis. And I’m your bitchy wife.”

“Figures,” he grumbles.

I smile. Is this the reason for his continuing animosity? He thinks I’m a bitch? If he actually thinks I’m a bitch, I’m glad.

We begin reading. By the second page, I’m into the part, focusing on what it must be like to be Harriet, an unhappy woman who wanted to be a success but whose success has been eclipsed by her childish husband.

By the third page, the class gets the idea it’s supposed to be funny, and begins snickering. By the fifth page, I hear spurts of actual laughter. When we finish, there’s a smattering of applause.

Wow.

I look at Capote, foolishly expecting his approval. But his expression is firm as he studiously avoids my glance. “Good job,” he murmurs out of obligation.

I don’t care. I go back to my seat floating on air.

“Comments?” Viktor asks.

“It’s like a junior version of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? ,” Ryan ventures. I look at him gratefully. Ryan has a loyalty about him that I suddenly appreciate. It’s too bad his loyalty ends when it comes to sex. If a guy is a jerk about infidelity, but decent about everything else, is it okay to like him as a person?

“What I found intriguing is the way Carrie was able to make the most banal domestic scene interesting,” Viktor says. “I liked that it takes place while the couple is brushing their teeth. It’s an everyday activity we all do, no matter who we are.”

“Like taking a crap,” Capote remarks.

I smile as though I’m far too superior to take offense at his comment. But now it’s official, I decide. I hate him.

Viktor pats his mustache with one hand and the top of his head with the other-a gesture that suggests he’s attempting to keep all of his hair from running away. “And now, perhaps L’il will grace us with her poem?”

“Sure.” L’il stands and goes to the front of the class. “‘The Glass Slipper,’” she begins.

“‘My love broke me. As if my body were glass, smashed against the rocks, something used and disposed of…’” The poem continues in this vein for several more lines, and when L’il is finished, she smiles uneasily.

“Thoughts?” Viktor says. There’s an unusual edge to his voice.

“I liked it,” I volunteer. “The broken glass is a great description of a broken heart.” Which reminds me of how I’m going to feel if Bernard ends our relationship.

“It’s pedantic and obvious,” Viktor says. “Schoolgirlish and lazy. This is what happens when you take your talent for granted.”

“Thank you,” L’il says evenly, as if she doesn’t care. She takes her seat, and when I glance over my shoulder, her head is down, her expression stricken. I know L’il is too strong to cry in class, but if she did, everyone would understand. Viktor can be unkind in his straightforward assessments, but he’s never been deliberately mean.

He must be feeling guilty, though, because he’s raking at poor Waldo like he’s trying to rip him off his face. “To summarize, I’m looking forward to hearing more from Carrie’s play. While L’il-” He breaks off and turns away.

This should make me ecstatic, but it doesn’t. L’il doesn’t deserve the criticism. Which could mean, conversely, that I don’t deserve the excessive approval either. Being great isn’t so fabulous when it comes at someone else’s expense.

I gather my papers, wondering what just happened. Perhaps, when it comes right down to it, Viktor is just another fickle guy. Only instead of being fickle about women, he’s fickle about his favorite students. He bestowed his honors on L’il at the beginning, but now he’s bored, and I’m the one who’s captured his attention.

L’il races out of class. I catch up with her at the elevator, pressing the “close” button before anyone else can get on. “I’m sorry. I thought your poem was wonderful. I truly did,” I say profusely, trying to make up for Viktor’s critique.

L’il clutches her book bag to her chest. “He was right. The poem sucked. And I do need to work harder.”

“You already work harder than anyone in the class, L’il. You work a hell of a lot harder than I do. I’m the one who’s lazy.”

She gives a little shake of her head. “You’re not lazy, Carrie. You’re unafraid.”

Now I’m confused, given our discussion about my fears as a writer. “I wouldn’t say that .”

“It’s true. You’re not afraid of this city. Not afraid to try new things.”

“You’re not either,” I say kindly.

We get out of the elevator and step outside. The sun is blazing and the heat is like a slap in the face. L’il squints and puts on a pair of cheap sunglasses, the kind the street vendors sell at every other corner. “Enjoy it, Carrie,” she insists. “And don’t worry about me. Are you going to tell Bernard?”

“About what?”

“Your play. You should show it to him. I’m sure he’ll love it.”

I peer at her closely, wondering if she’s being cynical, but I can’t see any trace of malice. Besides, L’il isn’t like that. She’s never been jealous of anyone. “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe I will.”

Bernard. I should show him my play. But after last night, is he even speaking to me anymore?

Nothing I can do about it, though. Because now I have to meet Samantha to help her with her crazy dinner party.