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“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.”
