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“Thanks,” Ryan says eagerly as the guy hands us each a postcard and strolls away.
“Do you know him?” L’il asks.
“Never seen him before in my life. But that’s cool, isn’t it?” Ryan says. “Where else would some stranger walk up to you and invite you to a party?”
“Along with a thousand other strangers,” L’il adds.
“Only in New York, kids,” Ryan says.
We head inside as I examine the postcard. On the front is an image of a smiling stone cupid. Underneath are the words, LOVE. SEX. FASHION. I fold the postcard and stick it into my bag.
Chapter Four
Ryan wasn’t kidding. Viktor Greene is strange.
For one thing, he droops. It’s like someone dropped him out of the sky and he never quite got his sea legs here on earth. Then there’s his mustache. It’s thick and glossy across his upper lip, but curls forlornly around each side of his mouth like two sad smiles. He keeps stroking that mustache like it’s some kind of pet.
“Carrie Bradshaw?” he asks, consulting a list.
I raise my hand. “That’s me.”
“It is I,” he corrects. “One of the things you’ll learn in this seminar is proper grammar. You’ll find it improves your manner of speaking as well.”
I redden. Five minutes into my first real writing class and I’ve made a bad impression.
Ryan catches my eye and winks as if to say, “I told you so.”
“Ah, and here’s L’il.” Viktor Greene nods as he gives his mustache a few more comforting pats. “Does everyone know Ms. Elizabeth Waters? She’s one of our most promising writers. I’m sure we’ll be hearing a lot from her.”
If Viktor Greene had said something like that about me, I’d be worried everyone in the class was going to hate me. But not L’il. She takes Viktor’s praise in stride, as if she’s used to being regaled for her talent.
For a moment, I’m jealous. I try to reassure myself that everyone in the class is talented. Otherwise they wouldn’t be here, right? Including myself. Maybe Viktor Greene just doesn’t know how talented I am—yet?
“Here’s how this seminar works.” Viktor Greene shuffles around as if he’s lost something and can’t remember what it is. “The theme for the summer is home and family. In the next eight weeks, you’ll write four short stories or a novella or six poems exploring these themes. Each week, I’ll choose three or four works to be read aloud. Then we’ll discuss them. Any questions?”
A hand shoots up belonging to a slim guy with glasses and a mane of blond hair. Despite his resemblance to a pelican, he nevertheless manages to give off the impression that he thinks he’s better than everyone else. “How long are the short stories supposed to be?”
Viktor Greene taps his mustache. “As long as it takes to tell the story.”
“So that could mean two pages?” demands a girl with an angular face and tawny eyes. A baseball cap is perched backward over her luxurious crop of dark hair and she’s wearing a pile of beaded necklaces slung around her neck.
“If you can tell a whole story in five hundred words, be my guest,” Viktor Greene says mournfully.
The girl nods, a triumphant expression on her beautiful face. “It’s just that my father is an artist. And he says—”
Viktor sighs. “We all know who your father is, Rainbow.”
Wait a minute. Rainbow? What kind of name is that? And who is this artist father of hers?
I sit back and fold my arms. The guy with the long nose and blond hair catches Rainbow’s eye and nods, edging his chair a little closer to hers, as if they’re already friends.
“I have a question.” Ryan raises his hand. “Can you guarantee that after taking this course, we’ll all become writers?”
This causes Viktor Greene to droop even more. I actually wonder if he’s going to disappear into the floor.
He frantically pats down his mustache with both hands. “Good question. And the answer is no. Chances are ninety-nine point nine percent of you won’t make it as writers at all.”
The class groans.
