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“I’m not going to change my style for Wendy. Did you know she has a cousin who’s a Hells Angel?”
Walt and I are sitting on the porch, sipping cocktails while we wait for the notorious Wendy to arrive. I begged Walt to join us for dinner, but he declined, claiming a previous engagement with Randy. He did, however, agree to come by for a drink, so he could see the Wendy person in the flesh.
“Maybe that’s the point,” he says now. “She’s completely different.”
“But if he’s interested in someone like Wendy, it calls into question his whole marriage to my mother.”
“I think you’re taking the analogy too far,” Walt responds, acting as the voice of reason. “Maybe the guy’s just having fun.”
“He’s my father.” I scowl. “He shouldn’t be allowed to have fun.”
“That’s mean, Carrie.”
“I know.” I stare out the screen at the neglected garden. “Did you talk to Maggie?”
“Yup,” Walt says, enigmatically.
“What did she say? About New York?”
“She had a great time.”
“What did she say about me?”
“Nothing. All she talked about was some guy you introduced her to.”
“Ryan. Whom she immediately bonked.”
“That’s our Maggie,” Walt says with a shrug.
“She’s turned into a sex fiend.”
“Oh, let her,” he says. “She’s young. She’ll grow out of it. Anyway, why do
you care?”
“I care about my friends.” I swing my Fiorucci boots off the table for emphasis. “I just wish my friends cared about me.”
Walt stares at me blankly.
“I mean, even my family hasn’t asked me about my life in New York. And frankly, my life is so much more interesting than anything that’s happening to them. I’m going to have a play produced. And I went to a party last night at Barry Jessen’s loft in SoHo—”
“Who’s Barry Jessen?”
“Come on, Walt. He’s like the most important artist in America right now.”
“As I said, ‘Aren’t you special?’” Walt teases.
I fold my arms, knowing I sound like a jerk. “Doesn’t anyone care?”
“With your big head?” Walts jokes. “Careful, it might explode.”
“Walt!” I give him a hurt look. Then my frustration gets the better of me. “I’m going to be a famous writer someday. I’m going to live in a big, two-bedroom apartment on Sutton Place. And I’m going to write Broadway plays. And then everyone will have to come and visit me.”
“Ha-ha-ha,” Walt says.
I stare down at the ice cubes in my glass.
“Look, Carrie,” Walt says. “You’re spending one summer in New York. Which is great. But it’s hardly your life. And in September, you’re going to Brown.”
