Summer and the City

“It makes me want to sock someone,” Miranda agrees.

Maggie stands up. “All I can say is that you two deserve each other.” And while Miranda and I look at her in bewilderment, Maggie runs into the bathroom and slams the door.

“Was it something I said?” Miranda asks.

“It’s not you. It’s me. She’s mad at me. About something. Even though I should be mad at her.”

I knock on the bathroom door. “Mags? Are you okay? We were just having a conversation. We weren’t saying anything bad about you.”

“I’m taking a shower,” she shouts.

Miranda gathers her things. “I’d better go.”

“Okay,” I demur, dreading being left alone with Maggie. Once she gets angry, she can carry a grudge for days.

“Marty’s coming over anyway. After he finishes studying.” She waves and hurries down the stairs.

Lucky her.

The shower is still going full blast. I straighten up my desk, hoping the worst is not to come.

Eventually Maggie comes out of the bathroom toweling her hair. She begins picking up her things, stuffing clothing into her duffel bag.

“You’re not leaving, are you?”

“I think I should,” she grumbles.

“C’mon, sweetie. I’m sorry. Miranda is just very adamant about her views. She doesn’t have anything against you. She doesn’t even know you.”

“You can say that again.”

“Since you’re not seeing Ryan, maybe we could go to a movie?” I ask hopefully.

“There’s nothing I want to see.” She looks around. “Where’s the phone?”

It’s under the chair. I grab it and hand it over reluctantly. “Listen, Mags,” I say, trying not to be confrontational. “If you don’t mind, could you not call South Carolina? I have to pay for the long distance calls, and I don’t have that much money.”

“Is that all you’re about now? Money?”

“No-”

“As a matter of fact, I’m calling the bus.”

“You don’t have to go,” I say, desperate to make up. I don’t want her visit to end in a fight.

Maggie ignores me, looking at her watch as she nods into the receiver. “Thanks.” She hangs up. “There’s a bus that leaves for Philadelphia in forty-five minutes. Do you think I can make it?”

“Yes. But, Maggie-” I break off. I really don’t know what to say.

“You’ve changed, Carrie,” she says, zipping up her bag with a snap.

“I still don’t know why you’re so angry. Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry.”

“You’re a different person. I don’t know who you are anymore.” She punctuates this with a shake of her head.

I sigh. This confrontation has likely been brewing since the moment Maggie turned up at the apartment and declared it a slum. “The only thing that’s different about me is that I’m in New York.”

“I know. You haven’t stopped reminding me of the fact for two days.”

“I do live here-”

“You know what?” She picks up her bag. “Everyone here is crazy. Your roommate Samantha is crazy. Bernard is a creep, and your friend Miranda is a freak. And Ryan is an asshole.” She pauses while I cringe, imagining what’s coming next. “And now you’re just like them. You’re crazy too.”

I’m stunned. “Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome.” She starts for the door. “And don’t worry about taking me to the bus station. I can get there myself.”

“Fine.” I shrug.

She exits the apartment, banging the door behind her. For a moment, I’m too shaken to move. How dare she attack me? And why is it always about her? The whole time she was here, she barely had the decency to ask me how I was doing. She could have tried to understand my situation instead of criticizing everything about it.

I take a deep breath. I yank open the door and run after her. “Maggie!”

She’s already outside, standing on the curb, her arm raised to hail a taxi. I hurry toward her as a taxi pulls up and she opens the door.

“Maggie!”

She spins around, her hand on the handle. “What?”

“Come on. Don’t leave this way. I’m sorry .”

Her face has turned to stone. “Good.” She crawls into the backseat and shuts the door.

My body sags as I watch the taxi weave into traffic. I tilt my head back, letting the rain’s drizzle soothe my hurt feelings. “Why?” I ask aloud.

I stomp back into the building. Damn Ryan. He is an asshole. If he hadn’t stood Maggie up, we wouldn’t have had this fight. We’d still be friends. Sure, I’d be a little pissed off with her for sleeping with Ryan, but I would have ignored it. For the sake of our friendship.

Why can’t she extend the same courtesy to me?

I bang around in the apartment a while, all churned up about Maggie’s disastrous visit. I hesitate, then pick up the phone and call Walt.

While it rings, I remember how I’ve neglected Walt all summer and how he’s probably pissed at me too. I shudder, thinking about what a bad friend I’ve been. I’m not even sure Walt is still living at home. When his mother picks up, I say, “It’s Carrie,” in the sweetest voice possible. “Is Walt there?”

“Hello, Carrie,” Walt’s mother says. “Are you still in New York?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m sure Walt will be very happy to hear from you,” she adds, sticking another knife into the wound. “Walt!” she calls out. “It’s Carrie.”

I hear Walt coming into the kitchen. I picture the red Formica table crowded with chairs. The dog’s bowl slopped over with water. The toaster oven where Walt’s mother keeps the sugar so ants won’t get it. And, no doubt, the look of confusion on Walt’s face. Wondering why I’ve decided to call him now, when I’ve forgotten him for weeks.

“Hello?” he asks.

“Walt!” I exclaim.

“Is this the Carrie Bradshaw?”

“I guess so.”

“What a surprise. I thought you were dead.”

“Oh, Walt.” I giggle nervously, knowing I deserve a hard time.

Walt seems ready to forgive, because the next thing he asks is, “Well, que pasa ? How’s Nuevo?”

“ Bueno. Muy bueno ,” I reply. “How are you?” I lower my voice. “Are you still seeing Randy?”

“ Mais oui! ” he exclaims. “In fact, my father has decided to look the other way. Thanks to Randy’s interest in football.”

“That’s great. You’re having a real relationship.”

“It appears so, yes. Much to my surprise.”

“You’re lucky, Walt.”

“What about you? Anyone special?” he asks, putting a sarcastic spin on “special.”

“I don’t know. I’ve been seeing this guy. But he’s older. Maggie met him,” I say, getting to my underlying reason for the call. “She hated him.”