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I’ve come a long way.
I press impudently on the buzzer like I mean business. Eventually, a small voice answers. “Yes?” It’s not L’il or Peggy, so I assume it’s my replacement.
“Is L’il there?” I ask.
“Why?”
“It’s Carrie Bradshaw,” I say loudly.
Apparently L’il is home, because the buzzer goes off and the locks click open.
Upstairs, the door to Peggy’s apartment widens a crack, just enough for someone to peek out while keeping the chain latched. “Is L’il here?” I ask into the crack.
“Why?” asks the voice again. Perhaps “why” is the only word she knows.
“I’m a friend of hers.”
“Oh.”
“Can I come in?”
“I guess so,” the voice says nervously. The door creaks open, just enough for me to push through.
On the other side is a plain young woman with unfortunate hair and the remnants of teenage acne. “We’re not supposed to have visitors,” she whispers in fear.
“I know,” I say dismissively. “I used to live here.”
“You did?” The girl’s eyes are as big as eggs.
I stride past her. “You can’t let Peggy run your life.” I yank open the door to the tiny bedrooms. “L’il?”
“What are you doing?” the girl bleats, right on my heels. “L’il isn’t here.”
“I’ll leave her a note then.” I fling open the door to L’il’s bedroom and halt in confusion.
The room is empty. The camp bed has been stripped of its linens. Gone is the photograph of Sylvia Plath that L’il used to keep on her desk, along with her typewriter, ream of paper, and all her other belongings.
“Did she move?” I ask, perplexed. Why wouldn’t she tell me?
The girl backs out of the room and sits on her own bed, pressing her lips together. “She went home.”
“What?” This can’t be true.
The girl nods. “On Sunday. Her father drove up and got her.”
“Why?”
“How should I know?” the girl says. “Peggy was really pissed off, though. L’il only told her that morning.”
My voice rises in alarm. “Is she coming back?”
The girl shrugs.
“Did she leave an address or anything?”
“Nope. Just said she had to go home is all.”
“Yeah, well, thanks,” I say, realizing I won’t get anything more out of her.
