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“Is that what happened to you?”
“Yeah. She stopped paying attention to me, too. It was all about her career.”
“That’s terrible,” I say, filing contentedly. I can’t imagine any woman ever losing interest in Bernard.
Chapter Eleven
I wake up the next morning with an idea.
Maybe it’s because of all the time I spent with Bernard, but I’m finally inspired. I know what I have to do: write a play.
This brilliant notion lasts for about three seconds before it’s crushed under a million and one reasons why it’s impossible. Like Bernard will think I’m copying him. Like I won’t be able to do it anyway. Like Viktor Greene won’t let me.
I sit on Samantha’s bed with my legs crossed, making faces. The fact is, I need to prove I can make it in New York. But how? Maybe I’ll get lucky and be discovered. Or maybe it will turn out I have hidden talents even I don’t know about. I clutch the silk bedcovers like a survivor clinging to a lifeboat. Despite my fears, it seems my life is starting to take off here—and Brown is less than seven weeks away.
I pluck at a thread. Not that there’s anything wrong with Brown, but I’ve already gotten in there. On the other hand, if New York were a college, I’d still be applying. And if all these other people can make it in New York, why can’t I?
I jump out of bed and run around the apartment just for the hell of it, throwing on my clothes while typing the following three sentences: “I will succeed. I must succeed. Damn everyone,” and then I grab my Carrie bag and practically slide down all five flights to the lobby.
I beetle up Fourteenth Street, expertly weaving through the crowd, picturing my feet flying a few inches off the ground. I turn right on Broadway and hurl myself into the Strand.
The Strand is a legendary secondhand bookstore where you can find any book for cheap. It’s musty and all the salespeople have a very big attitude, like they’re the keepers of the flame of high literature. Which wouldn’t matter, except the salespeople cannot be avoided. If you’re looking for a specific book, you can’t find it without help.
I buttonhole a weedy fellow wearing a sweater with elbow patches.
“Do you have Death of a Salesman?”
“I should hope so,” he says, crossing his arms.
“And The Importance of Being Earnest? And maybe The Little Foxes? The Women? Our Town?”
“Slow down. Do I look like a shoe salesman?”
“No,” I murmur, as I follow him into the stacks.
After fifteen minutes of searching, he finally finds The Women. At the end of the stacks I spot Ryan from class. He’s got his nose in Swann’s Way, scratching his head and jiggling his foot as if overcome by the text.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” He closes the book. “What are you doing here?”
“Going to write a play.” I indicate my small pile of books. “Thought I should read a few first.”
He laughs. “Good idea. The best way to avoid writing is by reading. Then you can at least pretend you’re working.”
I like Ryan. He seems okay as a person, unlike his best friend, Capote Duncan.
I pay for my books, and when I turn around, Ryan is still there. He has the air of someone who doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “Want to get a coffee?” he asks.
“Sure.”
“I’ve got a couple of hours to kill before I have to meet my fiancée,” he says.
“You’re engaged?” Ryan can’t be more than twenty-one or two. He seems too young to get married.
“My fiancée’s a model.” He scratches his cheek, as if he’s both proud and ashamed of her profession. “I always find if a woman really, really, really wants you to do something, you should do it. It’s easier in the long run.”
“So you don’t want to marry her?”
