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No luck. The door moves precisely one-sixteenth of an inch, and then refuses to budge, as if someone has shoved a heavy piece of furniture in front of it.
The dead bolt, I think, with rising panic. It’s a metal bar that runs across the door and can only be opened and closed from inside the apartment. We’re supposed to use it strictly in an emergency, like a nuclear war or a blackout or a zombie attack. But apparently Peggy has decided to break her own stupid rule and has locked it to teach me a lesson.
Crap. I have to either wake her up or sleep in the hallway.
I scratch on the door. “L’il?” I hiss, hoping L’il is awake and will hear me. “L’il?”
Nothing.
I slump to the floor, resting my back against the wall. Does Peggy really hate me that much? And why? What have I ever done to her?
Another half hour passes, and I give up. I curl into a ball with my Carrie bag nestled between my arms, and try to get some sleep.
And then I guess I do fall asleep, because the next thing I hear is L’il whispering, “Carrie? Are you okay?”
I open my eyes, wondering where the hell I am, and what the hell I’m doing in the hallway.
And then I remember: Peggy and her damn dead bolt.
L’il puts her finger to her l
ips and motions for me to come inside.
“Thanks,” I mouth. She nods as we quietly shut the door. I pause, listening for sounds of Peggy, but there’s only silence.
I turn the knob on the bolt and lock us inside.
Chapter Six
The next morning, triumphant, perhaps, in her perceived victory, Peggy sleeps until nine. This allows the Prisoners of Second Avenue a much-needed extra hour of shut-eye.
But once Peggy’s up, she’s up. And while early-morning silence has never been her forte, this morning she appears to be in an especially good mood.
She’s singing show tunes.
I turn over on my cot, and rap quietly on the plywood. L’il raps back, indicating she’s awake and has heard the singing as well.
I slide under the sheet and pull the covers up to my nose. Maybe if I lie flat on my bed and put the pillow over my head, Peggy won’t notice me. It was a trick my sisters and I perfected when we were kids. But I’m quite a bit bigger now, and Peggy, with her beady crow eyes, is sure to notice the lumps. Perhaps I could hide under my cot?
This, I decide, is beyond ridiculous.
I won’t have it. I’m going to confront Peggy. And full of brio, I hop out of bed and put my ear to the door.
The shower is running, and above that, I can hear Peggy’s particularly grating rendition of “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story.
I wait, my hand on the doorknob.
Finally, the water stops. I imagine Peggy toweling herself off and applying creams to her body. She carries her toiletries to and from the bathroom in a plastic shower basket she keeps in her room. It’s yet another deliberate reminder that no one is to use her precious possessions on the sly.
When I hear the bathroom door open, I step out into the living room. “Good morning, Peggy.”
Her hair is wrapped in a pink towel, and she’s wearing a worn chenille robe and fluffy slippers in the shape of bears. At the sound of my voice, she throws up her arms, nearly dropping her basket of toiletries. “You almost scared me to death.”
“Sorry,” I say. “If you’re finished in the bathroom—”
Perhaps Peggy’s not such a bad actress after all, because she immediately recovers. “I need it back in a minute. I have to dry my hair.”
“No problem.” We stand there, wondering who’s going to bring up the locking-out issue first. I say nothing and neither does Peggy. Then she gives me a shrewd, vicious smile and goes into her room.
