After Miranda’s arrival, I can’t exactly describe the party because I’m everywhere at once: greeting guests at the door, worrying about when to set up the chairs, fending off Bobby, and trying to come up with something impressive to say to Charlie, who has shown up, unexpectedly, with Samantha.
If Samantha is mad at me from the other night, she’s doing her best not to show it, complimenting me on my pants while holding on to Charlie’s arm as if she owns him. He’s a large man, almost handsome, and slightly gawky, as if he doesn’t know what to do with his limbs. He immediately starts talking about baseball, and when some other people chime in, I slip away to find Bernard.
He’s in the corner with Teensie. I can’t believe he brought her after that disastrous weekend, but apparently, either he doesn’t care or Teensie never bothered to give him an earful about me. Maybe because it’s my night, Teensie is all smiles, at least on the surface.
“When Bernard told me about this event, I couldn’t believe it,” she says, leaning forward to whisper loudly in my ear. “I said I simply had to see it for myself.”
“Well, thank you,” I reply modestly, smiling at Bernard. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
Capote and Ryan wander over with Rainbow in tow. We talk about class and how Viktor disappeared and how we can hardly believe the summer is nearly over. There’s more drinking and schmoozing, and I feel like a jewel, whirling in the center of all the attention, remembering my first night in New York with Samantha, and how far I’ve come since then.
“Hello, little one.” It’s Cholly Hammond in his usual seersucker uniform. “Have you met Winnie Dieke?” he asks, gesturing toward a young woman with a sharp face. “She’s from the New York Post. If you’re very nice to her, she might write about the event.”
“Then I’ll be very nice. Hello, Winnie,” I say smoothly, holding out my hand.
By ten thirty, the party is packed. Bobby’s space is a regular stop for revelers out on the town. It’s got free booze, shirtless bartenders, and a hodgepodge of crazy characters to shake things up. Like the old lady on roller skates, and the homeless man named Norman, who sometimes lives in Bobby’s closet. Or the Austrian count and the twins who claim to be du Ponts. The model who slept with everyone. The young socialite with the silver spoon around her neck. And in the middle of this great spinning carnival is little old me, standing on my tiptoes in an effort to be heard.
When another half hour passes, I remind Bobby that there is, indeed, entertainment, and Bobby tries to shuffle people into the seats. He stands on a chair, which collapses underneath him. Capote turns down the
music as Bobby manages to right himself, and straddling two chairs instead of one, Bobby calls for everyone’s attention.
“Tonight we have the world premiere of a play by this very charming young writer, Carrie Bradshaw. The name of the play is . . . uh . . . I don’t really know but it doesn’t matter—”
“Ungrateful Bastards,” Miranda calls out the title.
“Yes, ungrateful bastards—the world is full of them,” Bobby squawks. “And now, without further ado—”
I take a deep breath. My heart seems to have migrated to my stomach. There’s a grudging round of applause as I take my place at the front of the room.
I remind myself that this is really no different from reading in front of the class, and I begin.
They say that people in stressful situations can lose their perception of time, and that’s what happens to me. In fact, I seem to lose all my senses, because at first I have no awareness of sight or sound. Then I become conscious of a few chuckles from the front row, which consists of Bernard, Miranda, Samantha and Charlie, Rainbow, Capote, and Ryan. Then I notice people getting up and leaving their seats. Then I realize the laughter is not due to my play, but to something funny someone said in the back of the room. Then someone turns up the music.
I try to ignore it, but my face flames with heat and my voice cracks. I’m dying up here. In the back of the room, people are dancing. I’m reduced to a mumble, a murmur, an afterthought.
Will this ever end?
Miraculously, it does. Bernard jumps to his feet, clapping. Miranda and Samantha yell their approval. But that’s all. Not even Bobby is paying attention. He’s by the bar, fawning over Teensie.
That’s it? I think wildly. It’s over? What was that? What just happened?
I thought there’d be cheering.
I thought there’d be applause.
I did all this work for nothing?
The truth begins to dawn on me, although “dawn” isn’t the most accurate word. “Dawn” implies something pleasant. Hope. A better day. A new beginning. This is no beginning. This is an end. A disgrace. An embarrassment.
I suck.
Capote and my father and everyone else were right: I have no talent. I’ve been chasing a dream I made up in my head. And now it’s over.
I’m shaking. What should I do? I look around the room, imagining the people turning to leaves, red and then brown and then crumbling to pieces onto the ground. How can I . . . what can I . . . ?
“I thought it was really good.” Bernard moves toward me, his grin like the smile of the clown in a jack-in-the-box. “Quite refreshing.”
“It was great,” Miranda says, giving me a hug. “I don’t know how you stood up in front of all those people. I would have been so frightened.”