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improvisational theater.”
“Wendy’s very creative.” My father beams.
“Isn’t that one of those things where you do mime, like Marcel Marceau?” I ask innocently, even though I know better. “Did you wear white greasepaint and gloves?”
Wendy chuckles, amused by my ignorance. “I studied mime. But mostly we did comedy.”
Now I’m completely baffled. Wendy was an actress—and a comedic one at that? She doesn’t seem the least bit funny.
“Wendy was in a potato chip commercial,” my father says.
“You shouldn’t tell people that,” Wendy gently scolds. “It was only a local commercial. For State Line potato chips. And it was seven years ago. My big break.” She rolls her eyes with appropriate irony.
Apparently Wendy doesn’t take herself too seriously after all. It’s another check in her “pluses” column. On the other hand, it might only be a show for my benefit. “It must be a drag to be in Castlebury. After Los Angeles.”
She shakes her head. “I’m a small-town girl. I grew up in Scarborough,” she says, naming the town next door. “And I love my new job.”
“But that’s not all.” My father nudges her. “Wendy’s going to be teaching drama, too.”
I wince as Wendy’s life story becomes clear to me: local girl tries to make it big, fails, and crawls home to teach. It’s my worst fear.
“Your father says you want to be a writer,” Wendy continues blithely. “Maybe you should write for the Castlebury Citizen.”
I freeze. The Castlebury Citizen is our small-town newspaper, consisting mostly of the minutes from zoning board meetings and photographs of Pee Wee baseball teams. Steam rises from behind my eyes. “You think I’m not good enough to make it in New York?”
Wendy frowns in confusion. “It’s just so difficult in New York, isn’t it? I mean, don’t you have to do your laundry in the basement? A friend of mine lived in New York and she said—”
“My building doesn’t have a laundry.” I look away, trying to contain my frustration. How dare Wendy or her friend presume anything about New York? “I take my dirty clothes to a Laundromat.” Which isn’t exactly true. Mostly I let them pile up in a corner of the bedroom.
“Now, Carrie. No one is making any assumptions about your abilities—” my father begins, but I’ve had enough.
“No, they’re not,” I say spitefully. “Because no one seems to be interested in me at all.” And with that, I get up, my face burning, and zigzag around the restaurant in search of the restroom.
I’m furious. At my father and Wendy for putting me in this position, but mostly at myself, for losing my temper. Now Wendy will come across as kind and reasonable, while I’ll appear jealous and immature. This only inflames my anger, causing me to recall everything I’ve always hated about my life and my family but refused to admit.
I go into the stall and sit on the toilet to think. What really galls me is the way my father has never taken my writing seriously. He’s never given me a word of encouragement, never said I was talented, has never even given me a compliment, for Christ’s sake. I might have lived my entire life without noticing, if it weren’t for the other kids at The New School. It’s pretty obvious that Ryan and Capote and L’il and even Rainbow have grown up praised and encouraged and applauded. Not that I want to be like them, but it wouldn’t hurt to have some belief from my own parent that I had something special.
I dab at my eyes with a piece of toilet paper, reminding myself that I have to go back out there and sit with them. I need to come up with a strategy, pronto, to explain my pathetic behavior.
There’s only one choice: I’m going to have to pretend my outburst never happened. It’s what Samantha would do.
I raise my chin and stride out.
Back at the table, Missy and Dorrit have arrived, along with a bottle of Chianti set in a woven straw basket. It’s the kind of wine I’d be embarrassed to drink in New York.
And with an ugly pang, I realize how average it all is. My father, the middle-aged widower, inappropriately dressed and going through a midlife crisis by taking up with a somewhat desperate younger woman, who, against the plain backdrop of Castlebury, probably appears interesting and different and exciting. And my two sisters, a punk and a nerd. It’s like some lousy sitcom.
If they’re so ordinary, does it mean I am too? Can I ever escape my past?
I wish I could change the channel.
“Carrie!” Missy cries out. “Are you okay?”
“Me?” I ask with feigned surprise. “Of course.” I take my place next to Wendy. “My father says you helped him find his Harley. I think it’s so interesting that you like motorcycles.”
“My father is a state trooper,” she responds, no doubt relieved that I’ve managed to get ahold of myself.
I turn to Dorrit. “You hear that, Dorrit? Wendy’s father is a state trooper. You’d better be careful—”
