Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

I look to Samantha, who nods. “It was fun, Sparrow.”

This is one of those situations where no one can help you. Your need is so great, it’s like a black hole sucking the life out of everyone around you. I stumble forward, blindly.

“Let’s get a drink,” Bernard says, taking my hand.

“Yes, let’s all have a drink,” Samantha agrees. This is too much. Even Samantha, who’s my biggest cheerleader, knows my play is a disaster.

I’m like Typhoid Mary. No one wants to be around me.

Bernard hurries to the bar, and, as if shedding a virus, deposits me next to Teensie, of all people, who is now talking to Capote.

I smile awkwardly.

“Well,” Teensie says, with a dramatic sigh.

“You must have worked on it,” Capote says. “Since class. I thought it was better than what you read in class.”

“I had to completely rewrite it. In three days.” And suddenly, I realize Capote was right. About what he said at the Jessens’ dinner. Bobby is a joke. And a reading in his space wasn’t the right way to get my work noticed. Why didn’t I listen? The summer’s over and the only thing I’ve managed to achieve is making a complete and utter fool of myself.

The blood drains from my face.

Capote must understand my distress, because he pats my shoulder and says, “It’s good to take chances, remember?”

And as he wanders away, Teensie moves in for the kill. “I thought it was amusing. Very, very amusing,” she purrs. “But look at you, dear. You’re a mess. You look exhausted. And you’re way too thin. I’m sure your parents must be very worried about you.”

She pauses, and with a glittering smile asks, “Don’t you think it’s time to go home?”

Chapter Thirty-Six

I am trying to get drunk and not succeeding.

I’m a total failure. I can’t even win at inebriation.

“Carrie,” Bernard cautions.

“What?” I ask, lifting a purloined bottle of champagne to my lips. I snuck it out of the party in my carpenter’s bag. I knew that bag would come in handy someday.

“You could hurt yourself.” Bernard wrenches the bottle away from me. “The cab could stop short and you could knock out your teeth.”

I pull the bottle back, clinging to it tightly. “It’s my birthday.”

“I know.”

“Aren’t you going to say happy birthday?”

“I have. Several times. Maybe you didn’t hear me.”

“Did you get me a present?”

“Yes. Now look,” he says becoming stern. “Maybe I should drop you at your apartment. There’s no reason to do this tonight.”

“But I want my present,” I wail. “And it’s my birthday. It has to be done on the day or it doesn’t count.”

“Technically, it’s not your birthday anymore. It’s after two.”

“Technically my birthday didn’t start until after two last night. So it still counts.”

“It’s going to be okay, kiddo.” He pats my leg.