I’ve been dreading this conversation. Unnecessarily, it seems.
“I’ve been really busy,” I say.
“I’m sure you have.”
“But everything’s great.”
“Glad to hear it,” he says. “Now that I know you’re still alive, I can rest easy.” And with a quick good-bye, he hangs up.
This really is odd. My father has always been distracted, but he’s never been this enthusiastic and removed. I tell myself it’s only because my father, like most men, hates talking on the phone.
“Are you ready?” L’il demands. “You’re the one who wanted to go to this party. And we can’t get home too late. I don’t want Peggy locking both of us out this time.”
“I’m ready,” I sigh. I grab my Carrie bag, and with one last, longing look at the phone, follow her out.
A few minutes later, we’re strolling down Second Avenue in a flurry of giggles as we do our best Peggy imitations.
“I’m so glad I got you as a roommate,” L’il says, taking my arm.
There’s a line in front of the entrance to the Puck Building, but by now we’ve realized that in New York, there’s a line for everything. We’ve already passed three lines on Second Avenue: two in front of movie theaters, and one for a cheese shop. Neither L’il nor I could understand why so many people felt they needed cheese at nine p.m., but chalked it up to yet another fascinating mystery about Manhattan.
We get through the line pretty quick, though, and find ourselves in an enormous room filled with what appears to be every variety of young person. There are rocker types in leather and punk kids with piercings and crazy-colored hair. Tracksuits and heavy gold chains and shiny gold watches. A glittering disco ball spins from the ceiling, but the music is something I’ve never heard, discordant and haunting and insistent, the kind of music that demands you dance. “Let’s get a drink,” I shout to L’il. We make our way to the side, where I’ve spotted a makeshift bar set up on a long plywood table.
“Hey!” a voice exclaims. It’s the arrogant blond guy from our class. Capote Duncan. He has his arm around a tall, painfully thin girl with cheekbones like icebergs. Who must be a model, I think, in annoyance, realizing that maybe L’il was right about Capote’s ability to get girls.
“I was just saying to Sandy here,” he says, in a slight Southern accent, indicating the startled girl next to him, “that this party is like something out of Swann’s Way.”
“Actually, I was thinking Henry James,” L’il shouts back.
“Who’s Henry James?” the girl named Sandy asks. “Is he here?”
Capote smiles as if the girl has said something charming and tightens his grip around her shoulders. “No, but he could be if you wanted.”
Now I know I was right. Capote is an asshole. And since no one is paying attention to me anyway, I figure I’ll get a drink on my own and catch up with L’il later.
I turn away, and that’s when I spot her. The red-haired girl from Saks. The girl who found my Carrie bag.
“Hi!” I say, frantically waving my arm as if I’ve discovered an old friend.
“Hi what?” she asks, put out, taking a sip of beer.
“It’s me, remember? Carrie Bradshaw. You found my bag.” I hold the bag up to her face to remind her.
“Oh, right,” she says, unimpressed.
She doesn’t seem inclined to continue the conversation, but for some reason, I do. I suddenly have a desire to placate her. To make her like me.
“Why do you do that, anyway?” I ask. “That protesting thing?”
She looks at me arrogantly, as if she can hardly be bothered to answer the question. “Because it’s important?”
“Oh.”
“And I work at the battered women’s center. You should volunteer sometime. It’ll shake you out of your secure little world,” she says loudly over the music.
“But . . . doesn’t it make you think all men are bad?”
“No. Because I know all men are bad.”
I have no idea why I’m even having this conversation. But I can’t seem to let it—or her—go. “What about being in love? I mean, how can you have a boyfriend or husband knowing this stuff?”
“Good question.” She takes another sip of her beer and looks around the room, glaring.
“I meant what I said,” I shout, trying to regain her attention. “About thanking you. Could I buy you a cup of coffee or something? I want to hear more about . . . what you do.”
“Really?” she asks, dubious.
I nod enthusiastically.
“Okay,” she says, giving in. “I guess you could call me.”
“What’s your name?”
She hesitates. “Miranda Hobbes. H-o-b-b-e-s. You can get my number from information.”
And as she walks away, I nod, making a dialing motion with my finger.
Chapter Seven
“It’s Chinese silk. From the 1930s.”
I finger the blue material lovingly and turn it over. There’s a gold dragon stitched on the back. The robe is probably way more than I can afford, but I try it on anyway. The sleeves hang at my sides like folded wings. I could really fly in this.
“That looks good on you,” the salesman adds. Although “salesman” is probably not the right word for a guy in a porkpie hat, plaid pants, and a black Ramones T-shirt. “Purveyor” might be more appropriate. Or “dealer.”
I’m in a vintage clothing store called My Old Lady. The name of which turns out to be startlingly appropriate.
“Where do you get this stuff?” I ask, reluctant to remove the robe but too scared to ask the price.
The owner shrugs. “People bring things in. Mostly from their old relatives who have died. One man’s trash is another one’s treasure.”
“Or one woman’s,” I correct him. I screw up my courage. “How much is this, anyway?”
“For you? Five dollars.”
“Oh.” I slide my arms out of the sleeves.
He wags his head back and forth, considering. “What can you pay?”
“Three dollars?”
“Three fifty,” he says. “That old thing’s been sitting around for months. I need to get rid of it.”
“Done!” I exclaim.
I exit the store still wearing the robe, and head back up to Peggy’s.
This morning, when I tried to face the typewriter, I once again drew a blank. Family. I thought I could write about my own, but they suddenly felt as foreign to me as French people. French people made me think of La Grenouille, and that made me think about Bernard. And how he still hasn’t called. I considered calling him, but told myself not to be weak. Another hour passed, in which I clipped my toenails, braided and unbraided my hair, and scanned my face for blackheads.
“What are you doing?” L’il demanded.
“I’ve got writer’s block.”
“There’s no such thing as writer’s block,” she proclaimed. “If you can’t write it’s because you don’t have anything to say. Or you’re avoiding something.”
“Hmph,” I said, squeezing my skin, wondering if maybe