Candace Bushnell - Summer and the City

If she’s joking, it’s completely lost on me. “I thought you were from Weehawken.”

“Who wants to be from there? Put down ‘Short Hills.’ Short Hills is acceptable.”

“But what if someone checks-”

“They won’t. Can we please continue? Miss Samantha Jones-”

“What about ‘Ms.’?”

“Okay. Ms. Samantha Jones, of Short Hills, New Jersey, attended…” She pauses. “What college is near Short Hills?”

“I don’t know.”

“Just say ‘Princeton’ then. It’s close enough. Princeton,” she continues, satisfied with her choice. “And I graduated with a degree in… English literature.”

“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 can’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 . ”

I slam the door.

As if in a trance, I go to my typewriter and sit down. I rip out Samantha’s phony announcement, crumple it into a ball, and throw it across the room. I roll a fresh piece of paper into the carriage. I look at my watch. I have seventy-four hours and twenty-three minutes until my reading on Thursday. And I’m going to make it. I’m going to write another play if it kills me.

My typewriter ribbon breaks on Thursday morning. I look around at the empty candy wrappers, the dried tea bags, and the greasy pizza crusts.

It’s my birthday. I’m finally eighteen.

My hands shake as I step into the shower.

The bottle of shampoo slips from my fingers, and I manage to catch it just before it breaks on the tiles. I take a deep breath, tilting my head back against the spray.

I did it. I actually did it.

But the water can’t erase how I really feel: red-eyed, weak, and rattled.

I’ll never know what would have happened if Miranda hadn’t lost my play and I hadn’t had to rewrite it. I don’t know if it’s good or bad. I don’t know if I’ll be celebrated or disdained. But I did it, I remind myself. I tried .

I get out of the shower and towel off. I peer into the mirror. My face looks drawn and hollow, as I’ve barely slept for three days. This is not how I was expecting to make my debut, but I’ll take it. I don’t have a choice.

I put on the red rubber pants, my Chinese robe, and Samantha’s old Fiorucci boots. Maybe someday I’ll be like Samantha, able to afford my own shoes.

Samantha. She went back to work on Tuesday morning and I haven’t heard from her since. Ditto for Miranda, who hasn’t called either. Probably too scared I’ll never forgive her.

But I will. And I hope Samantha can forgive me as well.

“Here you are,” Bobby says gaily. “And right on time.”

“If you only knew,” I mumble.

“Excited?” He bounces on his toes.

“Nervous.” I smile weakly. “Is it true you attacked David ?”

He frowns. “Who told you that?”

I shrug.

“It’s never a good idea to dwell on the past. Let’s have some champagne.”

I follow him to the kitchen, keeping my carpenter’s bag between us so he can’t try any of his funny business. If he does, I swear, I really will hit him this time.

I needn’t have worried though, because the guests start arriving and Bobby scurries to the door to greet them.

I remain in the kitchen, sipping my champagne. The hell with it, I think, and drain the whole glass. I pour myself another.

Tonight’s the night, I think grimly. My reading and Bernard.

I narrow my eyes. He’d better be prepared to do it this time. Tonight he’d better not have any excuses.

I shake my head. What kind of attitude is that to take about losing your virginity? Not good.

I’m about to pour myself more champagne when I hear, “Carrie?” I nearly drop the bottle as I turn around and find Miranda.

“Please don’t be mad,” she implores.

My body sags in relief. Now that Miranda’s here, maybe everything really will be okay.

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.