Page 126 of Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

“No one’s going to believe that,” I protest, beginning to come to life. “I’ve never seen you read anything other than a self-help book.”

“Okay. Skip the part about my degree. It doesn’t matter anyway,” she says with a wave. “The tricky part is my parents. We’ll say my mother was a homemaker—that’s neutral—and my father was an international businessman. That way I can explain why he was never around.”

I take my hands off the keys and fold them in my lap. “I can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“I ca

n’t lie to The New York Times.”

“You’re not the one who’s lying. I am.”

“Why do you have to lie?”

“Carrie,” she says, becoming frustrated. “Everyone lies.”

“No, they don’t.”

“You lie. Didn’t you lie to Bernard about your age?”

“That’s different. I’m not marrying Bernard.”

She gives me a cold smile, as if she can’t believe I’m challenging her. “Fine. I’ll write it myself.”

“Be my guest.” I get up as she sits down in front of the typewriter.

She bangs away for several minutes while I watch. Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “Why can’t you tell the truth?”

“Because the truth isn’t good enough.”

“That’s like saying you’re not good enough.”

She stops typing. She sits back and folds her arms. “I am good enough. I’ve never had any doubt in my mind—”

“Why don’t you be yourself, then?”

“Why don’t you?” She jumps up. “You’re worried about me? Look at you. Sniveling around the apartment because you lost half your play. If you’re such a great writer, why don’t you write another one?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” I scream, my throat raw. “It took me a whole month to write that play. You don’t just sit down and write a whole play in three days. You have to think about it. You have to—”

“Fine. If you want to give up, that’s your problem.” She starts toward her room, pauses, and spins around. “But if you want to act like a loser, don’t you dare criticize me,” she shouts, banging the door behind her.

I put my head in my hands. She’s right. I’m sick of myself and my failure. I might as well pack my bags and go home.

Like L’il. And all the millions of other young people who came to New York to make it and failed.

And suddenly, I’m furious. I run to Samantha’s room and pound on the door.

“What?” she yells as I open it.

“Why don’t you start over?” I shout, for no rational reason.

“Why don’t you?”

“I will.”

“Good.”