Slowly, he lifts his head, as if he has a cement block on the back of his neck. His eyes are puffy, the lower lids turned out, defiantly exposing their red-rimmed interior. His mustache is ragged as if rent by despairing fingers. He props up his cheeks with his hands. His mouth falls open. “Yes?”
Normally, I would ask what’s wrong. But I don’t know Viktor well enough, and I’m not sure I want to know anyway. I take a step closer, holding the manila envelope aloft. “I finished my play.”
“Were you in class today?” he asks mournfully.
“No. I was writing. I wanted to get my play finished.” I slide the envelope across his desk. “I thought maybe you could read it tonight.”
“Sure.” He stares at me as if he barely remembers who I am.
“So, uh, thanks, Mr. Greene.” I turn to go, glancing back at him in concern. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Mmmm,” he replies.
What the hell’s the matter with him? I wonder, bounding down the stairs. I walk briskly for several blocks, buy a hot dog from a vendor, and ponder what to do next.
L’il. I haven’t seen her for ages. Not properly, anyway. She’s the one person who I can really talk to about my play. Who will actually understand. And if Peggy’s there-so what? She’s already kicked me out once. What can she do to me now?
I hike up Second Avenue, enjoying the noise, the sights, the people scurrying home like cockroaches. I could live here forever. Maybe even become a real New Yorker someday.
Seeing my old building on Forty-seventh Street brings back all kinds of memories-Peggy’s nude pictures, her collection of bears, and those tiny little rooms with the awful camp beds-and I wonder how I managed to last even three days. But I didn’t know better then. Didn’t know what to expect and was willing to take anything.
I’ve come a long way.
I press impudently on the buzzer like I mean business. Eventually, a small voice answers. “Yes?” It’s not L’il or Peggy, so I assume it’s my replacement.
“Is L’il there?” I ask.
“Why?”
“It’s Carrie Bradshaw,” I say loudly.
Apparently L’il is home, because the buzzer goes off and the locks click open.
Upstairs, the door to Peggy’s apartment widens a crack, just enough for someone to peek out while keeping the chain latched. “Is L’il here?” I ask into the crack.
“Why?” asks the voice again. Perhaps “why” is the only word she knows.
“I’m a friend of hers.”
“Oh.”
“Can I come in?”
“I guess so,” the voice says nervously. The door creaks open, just enough for me to push through.
On the other side is a plain young woman with unfortunate hair and the remnants of teenage acne. “We’re not supposed to have visitors,” she whispers in fear.
“I know,” I say dismissively. “I used to live here.”
“You did?” The girl’s eyes are as big as eggs.
I stride past her. “You can’t let Peggy run your life.” I yank open the door to the tiny bedrooms. “L’il?”
“What are you doing?” the girl bleats, right on my heels. “L’il isn’t here.”
“I’ll leave her a note then.” I fling open the door to L’il’s bedroom and halt in confusion.
The room is empty. The camp bed has been stripped of its linens. Gone is the photograph of Sylvia Plath that L’il used to keep on her desk, along with her typewriter, ream of paper, and all her other belongings.
“Did she move?” I ask, perplexed. Why wouldn’t she tell me?
The girl backs out of the room and sits on her own bed, pressing her lips together. “She went home.”
“What?” This can’t be true.
The girl nods. “On Sunday. Her father drove up and got her.”
“Why?”
“How should I know?” the girl says. “Peggy was really pissed off, though. L’il only told her that morning.”
My voice rises in alarm. “Is she coming back?”
The girl shrugs.
“Did she leave an address or anything?”
“Nope. Just said she had to go home is all.”
“Yeah, well, thanks,” I say, realizing I won’t get anything more out of her.
I leave the apartment and walk blindly downtown, trying to make sense of L’il’s departure. I rack my brain for everything she told me about herself and where she was from. Her real name is Elizabeth Reynolds Waters, so that’s a start. But what town is she from specifically? All I know is that she’s from North Carolina. And she and Capote knew each other before, because as L’il said once, “people from the South all know each other.” If L’il left on Sunday, she must have reached home by now, even if she was driving.
I narrow my eyes, determined to find her.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Without knowing exactly where I’m going, I realize I’m on Capote’s street. I recognize his building right away. His apartment is on the second floor, and the yellow old-lady curtains are clearly visible through the window.
I hesitate. If I ring his bell and he’s home, no doubt he’ll think I’ve come back for more. He might even presume that his kiss was so wonderful, I’ve fallen head over heels for him. Or maybe he’ll be annoyed, assuming I’ve come to yell at him for his inappropriate behavior.
What the hell? I can’t live my life worrying about what stupid Capote thinks. I press hard on his buzzer.
After a few seconds, the window flies open and Capote sticks his head out. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me.” I wave.
“Oh. Carrie.” He doesn’t look particularly happy to see me. “What do you want?”
I open my arms in a gesture of exasperation. “Can I come up?”
“I’ve only got a minute.”
“I’ve only got a minute too.” Jeez. What a jerk.
He disappears for a moment, and reappears, jangling some keys in his hand. “The buzzer isn’t working,” he says, tossing the set down to me.
The buzzer is probably worn out from all his female guests, I think, as I trudge upstairs.
He’s waiting in the entry in a ruffled white shirt and black tuxedo pants, fumbling with a shiny bow tie. “Where are you off to?” I ask, snickering at his getup.
“Where do you think?” He steps back so I can pass. If he has any memory of our kiss, he certainly isn’t acting like it.
“I wasn’t expecting to find you in a monkey suit. I never figured you for the type.”
“Why’s that?” he asks, somewhat offended.
“The right end goes under the left,” I say, indicating his bow tie. “Why don’t you use one of those clip-on things?”
As expected, my question rattles him. “It isn’t proper. A gentleman never wears a clip-on bow tie.”
“Right.” I insolently run my finger over the pile of books on his coffee table as I make myself comfortable on the squishy couch. “Where are you headed?”
“To a gala.” He frowns disapprovingly at my actions.
“For what?” I idly pick up one of the books and flip through it.
“Ethiopia. It’s a very important cause.”
“How big of you.”
“They don’t have any food, Carrie. They’re starving.”
“And you’re going to a fancy dinner. For starving people. Why don’t you just send them the food instead?”
