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I sit there twisting the phone cord in despair. Why L’il? She’s not the type of person I’d imagine this happening to, but on the other hand, who is? There’s a terrible finality about her actions that’s frightening.
I put my head in my hands. Maybe L’il is right about New York. She came here to win and the city beat her. I’m terrified. If this could happen to L’il, it could happen to anyone. Including myself.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I sit tapping my feet in annoyance.
Ryan is at the front of the class, reading his short story. It’s good. Really good—about one of his crazy late nights at a club where some girl with a shaved head tried to have sex with him. It’s so good, I wish I’d written it myself. Unfortunately I can’t give it my full attention. I’m still reeling from my conversation with L’il and the perfidy of Viktor Greene.
Although “perfidy” isn’t a strong enough word. Heinous? Egregious? Invidious?
Sometimes there are no words to describe the treachery of men in relationships.
What is wrong with them? Why can’t they be more like women? Someday I’m going to write a book called World Without Men. There would be no Viktor Greenes. Or Capote Duncans, either.
I try to focus on Ryan, but L’il’s absence fills the room. I keep glancing over my shoulder, thinking she’ll be there, but there’s only an empty desk. Viktor has taken up residence in the back of the room, so I can’t study him without boldly turning around in my seat. I did, however, do a little reconnaissance on my own before class.
I got to school twenty minutes early and headed straight for Viktor’s office. He was standing by the window, watering one of those stupid hanging plants that are all the rage, the idea being that they will somehow provide extra oxygen in this nutrient-starved city.
“Yop?” he said, turning around.
Whatever I thought I was going to say got caught in my throat. I gaped, then smiled awkwardly.
Viktor’s mustache was gone. Waldo had been thoroughly eradicated—much like, I couldn’t h
elp thinking, his unborn child.
I waited to see what he would do with his hands, now that Waldo was gone.
Sure enough, they went right to his upper lip, patting the skin in panic, like someone who’s lost a limb and doesn’t know it’s gone until they try to use it.
“Errrrr,” he said.
“I was wondering if you’d read my play,” I asked, regaining my equilibrium.
“Mmmm?” Having concluded Waldo was, indeed, no more, his hands dropped limply to his sides.
“I finished it,” I said, enjoying his discomfort. “I dropped it off yesterday, remember?”
“I haven’t gotten to it yet.”
“When will you get to it?” I demanded. “There’s this man who’s interested in doing a reading—”
“Sometime this weekend, I imagine.” He nodded his head briefly in confirmation.
“Thanks.” I skittled down the hallway, convinced, somehow, that he knew I was onto him. That he knew I knew what he’d done.
Capote’s laughter brings me back to the present. It’s like nails on a chalkboard, for all the wrong reasons. I actually like his laugh. It’s one of those laughs that makes you want to say something funny so you can hear it all over again.
Ryan’s story is apparently very amusing. Lucky him. Ryan is one of those guys whose talent will always outshine his flaws.
Viktor ambles to the front of the room. I stare at the bare patches of skin around his mouth and shudder.
Flowers. I need flowers for Samantha. And toilet paper. And maybe a banner. “Welcome Home.” I wander through the flower district on Seventh Avenue, dodging puddles of water on which float wanton petals. I remember reading somewhere about the society ladies on the Upper East Side who send their assistants each morning to buy fresh flowers. I wish, briefly, that I could be that kind of person, concerned with the details of fresh flowers, but the effort feels overwhelming. Will Samantha send someone for flowers when she marries Charlie? He seems like the type who would expect it. And suddenly, the whole idea of flowers is so depressingly dull I’m tempted to abort my quest.
But Samantha will appreciate them. She’s coming back tomorrow and they’ll make her feel good. Who doesn’t like flowers? But what kind? Roses? Doesn’t seem right. I duck into the smallest shop, where I try to buy a lily. It’s five dollars. “How much do you want to spend?” the salesgirl asks.
“Two dollars? Maybe three?”
