Page 38 of Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

“Is that what happened to you?”

“Yeah. She stopped paying attention to me, too. It was all about her career.”

“That’s terrible,” I say, filing contentedly. I can’t imagine any woman ever losing interest in Bernard.

Chapter Eleven

I wake up the next morning with an idea.

Maybe it’s because of all the time I spent with Bernard, but I’m finally inspired. I know what I have to do: write a play.

This brilliant notion lasts for about three seconds before it’s crushed under a million and one reasons why it’s impossible. Like Bernard will think I’m copying him. Like I won’t be able to do it anyway. Like Viktor Greene won’t let me.

I sit on Samantha’s bed with my legs crossed, making faces. The fact is, I need to prove I can make it in New York. But how? Maybe I’ll get lucky and be discovered. Or maybe it will turn out I have hidden talents even I don’t know about. I clutch the silk bedcovers like a survivor clinging to a lifeboat. Despite my fears, it seems my life is starting to take off here—and Brown is less than seven weeks away.

I pluck at a thread. Not that there’s anything wrong with Brown, but I’ve already gotten in there. On the other hand, if New York were a college, I’d still be applying. And if all these other people can make it in New York, why can’t I?

I jump out of bed and run around the apartment just for the hell of it, throwing on my clothes while typing the following three sentences: “I will succeed. I must succeed. Damn everyone,” and then I grab my Carrie bag and practically slide down all five flights to the lobby.

I beetle up Fourteenth Street, expertly weaving through the crowd, picturing my feet flying a few inches off the ground. I turn right on Broadway and hurl myself into the Strand.

The Strand is a legendary secondhand bookstore where you can find any book for cheap. It’s musty and all the salespeople have a very big attitude, like they’re the keepers of the flame of high literature. Which wouldn’t matter, except the salespeople cannot be avoided. If you’re looking for a specific book, you can’t find it without help.

I buttonhole a weedy fellow wearing a sweater with elbow patches.

“Do you have Death of a Salesman?”

“I should hope so,” he says, crossing his arms.

“And The Importance of Being Earnest? And maybe The Little Foxes? The Women? Our Town?”

“Slow down. Do I look like a shoe salesman?”

“No,” I murmur, as I follow him into the stacks.

After fifteen minutes of searching, he finally finds The Women. At the end of the stacks I spot Ryan from class. He’s got his nose in Swann’s Way, scratching his head and jiggling his foot as if overcome by the text.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.” He closes the book. “What are you doing here?”

“Going to write a play.” I indicate my small pile of books. “Thought I should read a few first.”

He laughs. “Good idea. The best way to avoid writing is by reading. Then you can at least pretend you’re working.”

I like Ryan. He seems okay as a person, unlike his best friend, Capote Duncan.

I pay for my books, and when I turn around, Ryan is still there. He has the air of someone who doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “Want to get a coffee?” he asks.

“Sure.”

“I’ve got a couple of hours to kill before I have to meet my fiancée,” he says.

“You’re engaged?” Ryan can’t be more than twenty-one or two. He seems too young to get married.

“My fiancée’s a model.” He scratches his cheek, as if he’s both proud and ashamed of her profession. “I always find if a woman really, really, really wants you to do something, you should do it. It’s easier in the long run.”

“So you don’t want to marry her?”