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I drop the first coin into the slot.
“Operator.”
“Do you have a number for George Carter?”
“I’ve got fifteen George Carters. What’s the address?”
“Fifth Avenue?”
“I have a William Carter on Fifth Avenue and Seventy-second Street. Would you like the number?”
“Yes.”
She gives me the number and I repeat it over and over in my head as I drop my second dime into the slot.
A woman picks up. “Hello?” she asks in a strong German accent.
“Does George Carter live there?”
“Mr. Carter? Yes, he does.”
Relief. “Can I talk to him?”
“He’s out.”
“What?”
“He’s out. I don’t know when he’ll be back. He never tells me.”
“But—”
“Do you want to leave a message?”
“Yes,” I say, defeated. “Can you tell him Carrie Bradshaw called?”
I hang up the phone and put my hand over my face. Now what? I’m suddenly overwhelmed—exhausted, frightened, and charged with adrenaline. I pick up my suitcase and start walking.
I manage one block; then I have to stop. I sit on top of my suitcase to rest. Crap. I now have thirty cents, some clothes, and my journal.
Suddenly, I get up, open my suitcase, and pull out my journal. Is it possible? I had my journal with me that day at Donna LaDonna’s house.
I paw through the pages, past my notes on the queen bee and the Nerd King and Lali and Sebastian—and, finally, there it is, all alone on its own page, written in Donna LaDonna’s loopy scrawl and circled three times.
A number. And underneath, a name.
I hau
l my suitcase to the corner, to another bank of phone booths. My hand shakes as I push my third dime into the slot. I dial the number. The phone rings and rings. Seven times. Nine. Ten. On the twelfth ring, someone picks up.
“You must be awfully desperate to see me.” The voice is languid, sexy. Like the owner of the voice has just gotten out of bed.
I gasp, uncertain of what to say.
“Hello? Is that you, Charlie?” Teasing. “If you’re not going to talk to me—”
“Wait!” I squeak.
“Yes?” The voice becomes suddenly suspicious.
