Summer and the City

I bang though the cars until I reach the head compartment, then I do the dangerous thing again and leap from the train onto the concrete. I run up the escalator, zoom through Bloomingdale’s, and race up to Sutton Place, sweating like a mad thing in the white vinyl.

I catch Bernard in front of his building, hailing a cab. I spring up behind him.

“You’re late,” he says, jangling his keys. “And now I’m late too.”

“I’ll ride with you to the theater. Then you can tell me how much you loved my play.”

“It’s not the best time, Carrie. My mind’s not focused.” He’s being all business. I hate it when he’s like this.

“I’ve been waiting all day,” I plead. “I’m going crazy. You have to tell me what you thought.”

I don’t know why I’m in such a frenzy. Maybe it’s because I just came from Kleinfeld. Maybe it’s because Samantha didn’t show up. Or maybe it’s because I don’t ever want to have to marry a man like Charlie and have a mother-in-law like Glenn. Which means I have to succeed at something else.

Bernard grimaces.

“Oh my God. You didn’t like it.” I can feel my knees buckling beneath me.

“Take it easy, kid,” he says, hustling me into the cab.

I perch on the seat next to him like a bird about to take flight. I swear I see a look of pity cross his face, but it’s immediately gone and I tell myself I must have imagined it.

He smiles and pats my leg. “It’s good, Carrie. Really.”

“Good? Or really good?”

He shifts in his seat. “Really good.”

“Honestly? Do you mean it? You’re not just humoring me?”

“I said it was really good, didn’t I?”

“Say it again. Please .”

“It’s really good.” He smiles.

“Yippee!” I shout.

“Can I go to my casting now?” he asks, extracting the manuscript from his briefcase and holding it out to me.

I suddenly realize I’ve been clutching his arm in fear. “Cast away,” I say gallantly. “Castaways. Ha-ha. Get it?”

“Sure, kiddo.” He leans over to give me a quick kiss.

But I hold on to him. I put my hands around his face and kiss him hard. “That’s for liking my play.”

“I guess I’ll have to like your plays more often,” he jokes, getting out of the cab.

“Oh, you will,” I say from the open window.

Bernard goes into the theater as I throw back my head in relief. I wonder what I was so worked up about. And then it hits me: If Bernard didn’t like my play, if he didn’t like my writing, would I still be able to like him ?

Luckily, that’s one question I don’t have to answer.

Chapter Thirty-One

“And she has the nerve to tell Samantha I’ve got a big head.”

“Well-” Miranda says cautiously.

“A big fat swollen head. Like a basketball,” I say, leaning into the mirror to apply more lipstick. “And meanwhile, she’s marrying this stupid jock-”

“Why do you care so much?” Miranda asks. “It’s not like you have to see them again.”

“I know. But couldn’t they have been a little impressed? I’m doing so much more with my life than they ever will.”

I’m talking, of course, about Donna LaDonna and her mother. After her no-show at Kleinfeld, Samantha took the LaDonnas to Benihana as a consolation prize. When I asked Samantha if Donna mentioned me, she said Donna told her I’d become completely full of myself and obnoxious. Which really pissed me off.

“Did Samantha find a dress?” Miranda asks, fluffing her hair.

“She never showed up. She had an important meeting she couldn’t get out of. But that’s not the point. What bugs me is that this girl, who thought she was such a big deal in high school-” I break off, wondering if I have become a monster. “You don’t think I have a big head, do you?”

“Oh, Carrie. I don’t know.”

Which means yes. “Even if I do, I don’t care,” I insist, trying to justify my attitude. “Maybe I do have a bit of an ego. So what? Do you know how long it’s taken me to even get an ego? And I’m still not sure it’s fully developed. It’s more of an ‘egg’ than an ‘ego.’”

“Uh-huh.” Miranda looks dubious.

“Besides, men have egos all the time and no one says they’re full of themselves. And now that I have this tiny little bit of self-esteem, I don’t intend to let it go.”

“Good,” she says. “Don’t.”

I march past her into the bedroom, where I snake my legs into a pair of fishnet stockings and slip the white plastic dress with the clear plastic cut-outs over my head. I pull on the bright blue Fiorucci boots and check my appearance in the full-length mirror.

“Who are these people again?” Miranda eyes me with a worried expression.

“Bernard’s agent-Teensie Dyer. And her husband.”

“Is that what you’re supposed to wear to the Hamptons?”

“It’s what I wear to the Hamptons.”

True to his word, Bernard has actually come through on his promise to introduce me to Teensie. In fact, he’s gone above and beyond his call to duty and invited me to the Hamptons to stay with Teensie and her husband. It’s only for Saturday night, but who cares? It’s the Hamptons! All summer, I’ve been dying to go. Not just to find out why they’re such a big deal, but to be able to say, “I went to the Hamptons,” to people like Capote.

“Do you really think you should be wearing plastic?” Miranda asks. “What if they think you’re wearing a garbage bag?”

“Then they’re stupid.”

Yep, I’m full of myself all right.

I toss a bathing suit, the Chinese robe, my new red rubber pants, and the hostess gown into my carpenter’s bag. The bag reminds me of how Bernard said I needed a valise. Which leads me to wonder if Bernard is finally going to demand I have sex with him. I’ve been taking the pill, so I suppose there’s no reason not to, but I’m pretty adamant about waiting for my eighteenth birthday. I want the event to be special and memorable, something I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

Of course, the thought of finally doing it also makes me queasy.

Miranda must pick up on my mood, because she looks at me curiously. “Have you slept with him yet?”

“No.”

“How can you go away with him and not sleep with him?”

“He respects me.”

“No offense, but it sounds weird. Are you sure he’s not gay?”

“Bernard is not gay!” I nearly shout.

I go out into the living room and pick up my play, wondering if I should bring it with me in case I have a chance