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“And?” The girl glares as I take advantage of the momentary lull to quickly introduce myself.
“I’m Carrie Bradshaw. You called me. You have my bag?”
“You’re Carrie Bradshaw?” She seems disappointed. “What are you doing with her?” She jerks her thumb in the woman’s direction.
“I don’t even know her. If I could just get my bag—”
“Take it,” the redheaded girl says, as if she’s had enough. She picks up her knapsack, removes my Carrie bag, and hands it to me.
“Thank you,” I say gratefully. “If there’s anything I can ever do—”
“Don’t worry about it,” she replies proudly. She picks up her placard and accosts an elderly woman in pearls. “Do you want to sign a petition against pornography?”
The old woman smiles. “No thank you, dear. After all, what’s the point?”
The red-haired girl looks momentarily crestfallen.
“Hey,” I say. “I’ll sign your petition.”
“Thanks,” she says, handing me a pen.
I scribble my name and skip off down Fifth Avenue. I dodge through the crowds, wondering what my mother would have thought about me being in New York. Maybe she’s watching over me, making sure the funny red-haired girl found my bag. My mother was a feminist, too. At the very least, she’d be proud I signed the petition.
“There you are!” L’il calls out. “I was afraid you were going to be late.”
“Nope,” I say, panting, as I join her on the sidewalk in front of The New School. The trek downtown was a lot farther than I expected, and my feet are killing me. But I saw all kinds of interesting things along the way: the skating rink at Rockefeller Center. The New York Public Library. Lord & Taylor. Something
called the Toy Building. “I got my bag,” I say, holding it up.
“Carrie was robbed her very first hour in New York,” L’il crows to a cute guy with bright blue eyes and wavy black hair.
He shrugs. “That’s nothing. My car was broken into the second night I was here. They smashed the window and stole the radio.”
“You have a car?” I ask in surprise. Peggy told us no one had cars in New York. Everyone is supposed to walk or take the bus or ride the subway.
“Ryan’s from Massachusetts,” L’il says as if this explains it. “He’s in our class too.”
I hold out my hand. “Carrie Bradshaw.”
“Ryan McCann.” He’s got a goofy, sweet smile, but his eyes bore into me as if summing up the competition. “What do you think about our professor, Viktor Greene?”
“I think he’s extraordinary,” L’il jumps in. “He’s what I consider a serious artist.”
“He may be an artist, but he’s definitely a creep,” Ryan replies, goading her.
“You hardly know him,” L’il says, incensed.
“Wait a minute. You guys have met him?” I ask.
“Last week,” Ryan says casually. “We had our conferences. Didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know we were supposed to have a conference,” I falter. How did this happen? Am I already behind?
L’il gives Ryan a look. “Not everyone had a conference. It was only if you were going to be in New York early. It doesn’t matter.”
“Hey, you kids want to go to a party?”
We turn around. A guy with a Cheshire cat grin holds up some postcards. “It’s at The Puck Building. Wednesday night. Free admission if you get there before ten o’clock.”
