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I collapse onto the love seat and gently ease off my sandals. “It was about fifty blocks away and my feet are killing me. But it was worth it,” I add, trying to convince myself.
“I finished my poem,” L’il says casually.
I smile, biting back envy. Am I the only one who has to struggle? L’il doesn’t seem to labor at all. But that’s probably because she’s way more talented.
“And I got some Chinese food, too,” she says. “Moo shu pork. There’s plenty left over if you want some.”
“Oh, L’il. I don’t want to eat your food.”
“No need to stand on ceremony.” She shrugs. “Besides, you’ve got to eat. How can you work if you’re hungry?”
She’s right. And it will give me a few more minutes to put off writing.
L’il sits on my bed as I polish off the moo shu pork straight from the carton.
“Don’t you ever get scared?” I ask.
“Of what?” she says.
“Of not being good enough.”
“You mean at writing?” L’il asks.
I nod. “What if I’m the only one who thinks I can do it and no one else does? What if I’m completely fooling myself—”
“Oh, Carrie.” She smiles. “Don’t you know that every writer feels that way? Fear is part of the job.”
She picks up her towel to take a long bath, and while she’s in the bathroom, I manage to eke out one page, and then two. I type in a title, “Home.” I cross it out and write, “My New Home.” This somehow reminds me of Samantha Jones. I picture her in her four-poster bed, wearing fancy lingerie and eating chocolates, which, for some strange reason, is how I imagine she spends her weekends.
I push these thoughts out of my head and try to focus, but now the throbbing in my feet is overwhelming and I can’t concentrate for the pain.
“L’il?” I knock on the bathroom door. “Do you have any aspirin?”
“I don’t think so,” she calls out.
“Damn.” Peggy must have aspirin somewhere. “Can I come in?” I ask. L’il is in the shallow tub, under a soft pile of bubbles. I check the medicine cabinet. Nothing. I look around, my gaze resting on the closed door to Peggy’s bedroom.
Don’t do it, I think, remembering Peggy’s one final rule. We’re not allowed into her room. Ever. Under any circumstances. Her bedroom is strictly verboten.
I carefully open the door.
“What are you doing?” L’il shrieks, jumping out of the tub and grabbing her towel. Remnants of bubbles cling to her shoulders.
I put my finger to my lips to shush her. “I’m only looking for aspirin. Peggy’s so cheap, she probably keeps the aspirin hidden in her room.”
“What if she realizes some of her aspirin is missing?”
“Even Peggy can’t be that crazy.” I push the door wider. “You’d have to be really wacky to count your aspirin. Besides,” I hiss, “aren’t you dying to know what her room’s like?”
The blinds are drawn, so it takes a second for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I squeal in horror.
Peggy’s bed is covered with bears. Not real bears, of course, but what appears to be every variation on the stuffed animal kind. There are big bears and small bears, bears holding tennis rackets and bears wearing aprons. Bears with pink fur and bears with earmuffs. There’s even a bear that appears to be constructed entirely of clothespins.
“That’s her big secret?” L’il asks, disappointed. “Bears?”
“She’s a middle-aged woman. What kind of middle-aged woman has stuffed animals all over her room?”
“Maybe she collects them,” L’il says. “People do, you know.”
