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“You shouldn’t be so rigid, you know?” Capote flips open a can of beer and pushes it toward me.
“I’m not. But someone needs to keep a level head.”
“You worry too much. You always act like you’re going to get into trouble.”
I’m flabbergasted. “Me?”
“You get this sour, disapproving look on your face.” He opens a can of beer for himself.
“And what about the arrogant, disapproving look on yours?”
“I’m not arrogant, Carrie.”
“And I’m Marilyn Monroe.”
“What do you have to worry about, anyway?” he asks. “Aren’t you going to Brown in the fall?”
Brown. I’m paralyzed. Despite the blackout and our paltry supplies and the presence of Capote Duncan, it’s the last place I think I’ll ever want to be. The whole idea of college suddenly feels irrelevant. “Why?” I ask, defensively. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
He shrugs and takes a sip of beer. “Nah. I’d probably miss you.”
He goes back to join the others while I stand there in shock, holding the plate of sandwiches in my hands.
7:00 p.m.
Strip poker.
9:00 p.m.
More strip poker.
10:30 p.m.
Wearing Samantha’s bra on my head.
2:00 a.m.
Have constructed tent from old blanket and chairs. Capote and I under tent.
Discussing Emma Bovary.
Discussing L’il and Viktor Greene.
Discussing Capote’s views on women: “I want a woman who has the same goals as I do. Who wants to do something with her life.”
I’m suddenly shy.
Capote and I lie down under the tent. It’s nice but tense. What would it be like to do it with him, I wonder. I shouldn’t even think about it though, not with Miranda and Samantha and Ryan out there, still playing cards.
I stare up at the blanket. “Why did you kiss me that night?” I whi
sper.
He reaches out, finds my hand, and curls his fingers around mine. We stay like that, silently holding hands for what feels like an eternity.
“I’m not a good boyfriend, Carrie,” he says finally.
“I know.” I untangle my hand from his. “We should try to get some sleep.”
