call and Peggy didn’t tell me. On purpose.”
L’il gives her hair a firm brush. “Why would Peggy do that?”
“Because she hates me?” I ask, rubbing my lips with gloss.
“You only saw him last night,” L’il says. “Guys never call the next day. They like to keep you guessing.”
“I don’t like to be kept guessing. And he said he would call—” I break off as the phone rings. “It’s him!” I yelp. “Can you get it?”
“Why?” L’il grumbles.
“Because I don’t want to seem too eager. I don’t want him to think I’ve been sitting by the phone all day.”
“Even though you have?” But she picks up the phone anyway. I wait in anticipation as she nods and holds out the receiver. “It’s your father.”
Of course. His timing couldn’t be worse. I called him yesterday and left a message with Missy, but he didn’t call back. What if Bernard tries to call while I’m talking to my father and it’s busy? “Hi, Dad,” I sigh.
“Hi, Dad? Is that how you greet your father? Whom you haven’t called once since you got to New York?”
“I did call you, Dad.” My father, I note, sounds slightly strange. Not only is he in a really good mood, he doesn’t seem to remember that I tried to reach him. Which is fine by me. So many things have happened since I’ve arrived in New York—not all of which my father would consider good—that I’ve been dreading this conversation. Unnecessarily, it seems.
“I’ve been really busy,” I say.
“I’m sure you have.”
“But everything’s great.”
“Glad to hear it,” he says. “Now that I know you’re still alive, I can rest easy.” And with a quick good-bye, he hangs up.
This really is odd. My father has always been distracted, but he’s never been this enthusiastic and removed. I tell myself it’s only because my father, like most men, hates talking on the phone.
“Are you ready?” L’il demands. “You’re the one who wanted to go to this party. And we can’t get home too late. I don’t want Peggy locking both of us out this time.”
“I’m ready,” I sigh. I grab my Carrie bag, and with one last, longing look at the phone, follow her out.
A few minutes later, we’re strolling down Second Avenue in a flurry of giggles as we do our best Peggy imitations.
“I’m so glad I got you as a roommate,” L’il says, taking my arm.
There’s a line in front of the entrance to the Puck Building, but by now we’ve realized that in New York, there’s a line for everything. We’ve already passed three lines on Second Avenue: two in front of movie theaters, and one for a cheese shop. Neither L’il nor I could understand why so many people felt they needed cheese at nine p.m., but chalked it up to yet another fascinating mystery about Manhattan.
We get through the line pretty quick, though, and find ourselves in an enormous room filled with what appears to be every variety of young person. There are rocker types in leather and punk kids with piercings and crazy-colored hair. Tracksuits and heavy gold chains and shiny gold watches. A glittering disco ball spins from the ceiling, but the music is something I’ve never heard, discordant and haunting and insistent, the kind of music that demands you dance. “Let’s get a drink,” I shout to L’il. We make our way to the side, where I’ve spotted a makeshift bar set up on a long plywood table.
“Hey!” a voice exclaims. It’s the arrogant blond guy from our class. Capote Duncan. He has his arm around a tall, painfully thin girl with cheekbones like icebergs. Who must be a model, I think, in annoyance, realizing that maybe L’il was right about Capote’s ability to get girls.
“I was just saying to Sandy here,” he says, in a slight Southern accent, indicating the startled girl next to him, “that this party is like something out of Swann’s Way .”
“Actually, I was thinking Henry James,” L’il shouts back.
“Who’s Henry James?” the girl named Sandy
L’il gives her hair a firm brush. “Why would Peggy do that?”
“Because she hates me?” I ask, rubbing my lips with gloss.
“You only saw him last night,” L’il says. “Guys never call the next day. They like to keep you guessing.”
“I don’t like to be kept guessing. And he said he would call—” I break off as the phone rings. “It’s him!” I yelp. “Can you get it?”
“Why?” L’il grumbles.
“Because I don’t want to seem too eager. I don’t want him to think I’ve been sitting by the phone all day.”
“Even though you have?” But she picks up the phone anyway. I wait in anticipation as she nods and holds out the receiver. “It’s your father.”
Of course. His timing couldn’t be worse. I called him yesterday and left a message with Missy, but he didn’t call back. What if Bernard tries to call while I’m talking to my father and it’s busy? “Hi, Dad,” I sigh.
“Hi, Dad? Is that how you greet your father? Whom you haven’t called once since you got to New York?”
“I did call you, Dad.” My father, I note, sounds slightly strange. Not only is he in a really good mood, he doesn’t seem to remember that I tried to reach him. Which is fine by me. So many things have happened since I’ve arrived in New York—not all of which my father would consider good—that I’ve been dreading this conversation. Unnecessarily, it seems.
“I’ve been really busy,” I say.
“I’m sure you have.”
“But everything’s great.”
“Glad to hear it,” he says. “Now that I know you’re still alive, I can rest easy.” And with a quick good-bye, he hangs up.
This really is odd. My father has always been distracted, but he’s never been this enthusiastic and removed. I tell myself it’s only because my father, like most men, hates talking on the phone.
“Are you ready?” L’il demands. “You’re the one who wanted to go to this party. And we can’t get home too late. I don’t want Peggy locking both of us out this time.”
“I’m ready,” I sigh. I grab my Carrie bag, and with one last, longing look at the phone, follow her out.
A few minutes later, we’re strolling down Second Avenue in a flurry of giggles as we do our best Peggy imitations.
“I’m so glad I got you as a roommate,” L’il says, taking my arm.
There’s a line in front of the entrance to the Puck Building, but by now we’ve realized that in New York, there’s a line for everything. We’ve already passed three lines on Second Avenue: two in front of movie theaters, and one for a cheese shop. Neither L’il nor I could understand why so many people felt they needed cheese at nine p.m., but chalked it up to yet another fascinating mystery about Manhattan.
We get through the line pretty quick, though, and find ourselves in an enormous room filled with what appears to be every variety of young person. There are rocker types in leather and punk kids with piercings and crazy-colored hair. Tracksuits and heavy gold chains and shiny gold watches. A glittering disco ball spins from the ceiling, but the music is something I’ve never heard, discordant and haunting and insistent, the kind of music that demands you dance. “Let’s get a drink,” I shout to L’il. We make our way to the side, where I’ve spotted a makeshift bar set up on a long plywood table.
“Hey!” a voice exclaims. It’s the arrogant blond guy from our class. Capote Duncan. He has his arm around a tall, painfully thin girl with cheekbones like icebergs. Who must be a model, I think, in annoyance, realizing that maybe L’il was right about Capote’s ability to get girls.
“I was just saying to Sandy here,” he says, in a slight Southern accent, indicating the startled girl next to him, “that this party is like something out of Swann’s Way .”
“Actually, I was thinking Henry James,” L’il shouts back.
“Who’s Henry James?” the girl named Sandy
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