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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 to slip it to Teensie. But that might be too obvious. Instead, I have another idea.
“Hey,” I say, holding up the manuscript. “You should read my play.”
“Me?” Miranda asks, taken aback.
“Why not?”
“Didn’t Bernard read it? I thought he liked it. He’s the expert.”
“But you’re the audience. And you’re smart. If you like it, it means other people will too.”
“Oh, Carrie,” she says, pulling at her lip. “I don’t know anything about plays.”
“Don’t you want to read it?”
“I’m going to hear you read it on Thursday. At Bobby’s.”
“But I want you to read it, first.”
“Why?” She looks hard at me, but then relents. Perhaps she can see how, underneath the bravado, I’m a nervous wreck. She holds out her hand for the manuscript. “If you really want me to—”
“I do,” I say firmly. “You can read it this weekend and give it back to me on Monday. And sweetie? If you don’t like it, can you please pretend you do?”
Bernard went out to the Hamptons on Friday, so I take the Jitney by myself.
I don’t mind. From the sound of it, I kept picturing the Jitney as some kind of old-fashioned cable car, but it turns out to be a regular bus.
It chugs along a crowded highway until eventually we turn off and start going through little beach towns. At first they’re tacky, with bars and clam shacks and car dealerships, but then everything becomes more green and marshy, and when we cross a bridge and drive past a log cabin with totem poles on the front and a sign reading CIGARETTES $2 CARTON, the landscape changes completely. Old oaks and manicured hedges line the street, behind which I glimpse enormous shingled mansions.
The bus snakes into a picture-perfect town. Neatly painted white shops with green awnings populate the streets. There’s a bookstore, a tobacconist, Lilly Pulitzer, a jewelry store, and an old-fashioned movie theater where the bus pulls over.
“Southampton,” the driver announces. I pick up my carpenter’s bag and get out.
Bernard is waiting for me, leaning against the hood of a small bronze Mercedes, his smooth bare feet pushed into Gucci loafers. Miranda was right: the plastic dress and Fiorucci boots that were perfect for the city feel out of place in this quaint little town. But Bernard doesn’t care. He takes my bag, pausing for a kiss. His mouth is sublimely familiar. I love the way I can feel one of his incisors under his top lip.
