Page 108 of Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

I close my eyes, knowing sleep is impossible. Not when every nerve ending is jumping with electricity, like my electrons are determined to communicate with Capote’s across the barren space between us.

Too bad we can’t use it to turn on the lights.

Then I must fall asleep, because the next thing I know, we’re being woken by a terrific jangling, which turns out to be the phone.

I climb out of the tent as Samantha runs out of her bedroom with a sleeping mask on her head.

“What the—” Ryan sits up and bangs his head on the coffee table.

“Could someone please answer that phone,” Miranda shrieks.

Samantha makes a frantic slicing motion across her neck.

“If no one’s going to answer it, I will,” Ryan says, crawling toward the offending instrument.

“No!” Samantha and I shout at once.

I rip the receiver from Ryan’s hand. “Hello?” I ask cautiously, expecting Charlie.

“Carrie?” asks a concerned male voice.

It’s Bernard. The blackout’s over.

Part Three

Departures and Arrivals

Chapter Thirty

My birthday’s coming!

It’s nearly here. I can’t stop reminding everyone. My birthday! In less than two weeks, I’ll be eighteen.

I’m one of those people who loves her birthday. I don’t know why, but I do. I love the date: August 13. I was actually born on Friday the thirteenth, so even though it’s bad luck for everyone else, it’s good luck for me.

And this year, it’s going to be huge. I’m turning eighteen, I’m going to lose my virginity, and I’m having my reading at Bobby’s that night. I keep reminding Miranda that it’s going to be a doubleheader: my first play and my first lay.

“Play and lay—get it?” I say, tickled by the rhyme. Miranda is, understandably, quite sick of my little joke, and every time I say it, she puts her hands over her ears and claims she wishes she’d never met me.

I’ve also become incredibly neurotic about my birth control pills. I keep looking into the little plastic container, checking to make sure I’ve taken the pill and haven’t accidentally lost any. When I went to the clinic, I considered getting a diaphragm, too, but after the doctor showed it to me, I decided it was too complicated. I kept thinking about cutting two holes in the top and making it into a hat for a cat. I wonder if anyone’s done that yet.

Naturally, the clinic reminded me of L’il. I still feel guilty about what happened to her. I sometimes wonder if I feel bad because it didn’t happen to me, and I’m still in New York and have a play reading and a smart, successful boyfriend who hasn’t ruined my life—yet. If it weren’t for Viktor Greene, L’il would still be here, strolling the gritty streets in her Laura Ashley dresses and finding flowers in the asphalt. But then I wonder if it’s all Viktor’s fault. Perhaps L’il was right: New York simply isn’t for her. And if Viktor hadn’t driven her out, maybe something else would have.

Which reminds me of what Capote said to me during the blackout. About not having to worry because I was going to Brown in the fall. That makes me nervous as well, because with each passing day, I want to go to Brown less and less. I’d miss all my friends here. Besides, I already know what I want to do with my life. Why can’t I just continue?

Plus, if I go to Brown, I won’t, for instance, get free clothes.

A couple of days ago a little voice in the back of my head told me to look up that designer, Jinx, at her shop on Eighth Street. The store was empty when I walked in, so I figured Jinx was in the back, polishing her brass knuckles. Sure enough, when she heard the sound of moving hangers, she emerged from behind a curtain, looked me up and down, and said, “Oh. You. From Bobby’s.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Have you seen him?”

“Bobby? I’m doing a play reading in his space.” I said it casually, like I was having play readings all the time.

“Bobby is weird,” she said, twisting her mouth. “He is really one effed up mother-effer.”

“Mmm,” I agreed. “He certainly does seem a little . . . randy.”