LITMIR.BIZ

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sighs. “You shouldn’t be hanging around people like that.”

      “Why not?”

      “You don’t know them.”

      “So what?” Now I’m annoyed. This is the problem with George. He always acts like he thinks he’s my father or something.

      “I need you to promise you’ll be more careful in the future.”

      I make a face.

      “Carrie, I’m serious. If you get into another jam, I’m not going to be around to help you out.”

      “Are you abandoning me?” I ask jokingly. George has had a crush on me for nearly a year. And he’s one of my dearest friends. If it weren’t for George, I might not be in New York at all.

      “Actually, I am,” he says, sliding three crisp twenty-dollar bills in my direction. “This should tide you over. You can pay me back when you get to Brown.”

      I look from the bills to his face. He’s not kidding.

      “The Times is sending me to DC for the summer. I’ll get to do some actual reporting, so I agreed.”

      I’m stunned. I don’t know whether to congratulate him or chastise him for deserting me.

      The impact of his defection hits me, and the floor drops out from below my feet. George is the only person I really know in New York. I was counting on him to show me the ropes. How am I going to get by without him?

      As if reading my thoughts, he says, “You’ll be fine. Just stick to the basics. Go to class and do your work. And try not to get mixed up with any crazy people, okay?”

      “Sure,” I say. This wouldn’t be a problem but for the fact I’m a little crazy myself.

      George picks up my suitcase and we stroll around the corner to a white brick apartment building. A tattered green awning with the words windsor arms shields the entrance. “This isn’t so bad,” George remarks. “Perfectly respectable.”

      Inside the glass door is a row of buttons. I press the one marked 15E.

      “Yes?” a shrill voice shrieks from the intercom.

      “It’s Carrie Bradshaw.”

      “Well,” says the voice, in a tone that could curdle cream. “It’s about time.”

      George kisses me on the cheek as a buzzer sounds and the second door clicks open. “Good luck,” he says, and pauses to give me one last piece of advice: “Will you please call your father? I’m sure he’s worried about you.”

      Chapter Three

      “Is this Carrie Bradshaw?” The voice is girlish but demanding, as if the caller is slightly annoyed.

      “Y-e-e-e-e-s,” I say cautiously, wondering who it could be. It’s my second morning in New York and we haven’t had our first class yet.

      “I have your bag,” the girl announces.

      “What!” I nearly drop the phone.

      “Well, don’t get too excited. I found it in the garbage. Someone dumped nail polish all over it. I was thinking about leaving it in the garbage, but then I thought: What would I want someone to do if I lost my purse? So I called.”

      “How’d you find me?”

      “Your address book. It was still in the bag. I’ll be in front of Saks from ten o’clock on if you want to pick it up,” she says. “You can’t miss me. I have red hair. I dyed it the same color red as the Campbell’s soup can. In honor of Valerie Solanas.” She pauses. “The SCUM Manifesto? Andy Warhol?”

      “Oh, sure.” I have absolutely no idea what’s she talking about. But I’m not about to admit my ignorance. Plus, this girl sounds kind of . . . bizarre.

      “Good. I’ll see you in front of Saks.” She hangs up before I can get her name.

      Yippee! I knew it. The whole time my Carrie bag was gone, I had a strange premonition I’d get it back. Like something out of one of those books on mind control: visualize what you want and it will come to you.

      “A-hem!”

      I look up from my cot and into the scrubbed pink face of my landlady, Peggy Meyers. She’s squeezed into a gray rubber suit that fits like sausage casing. The suit, combined with her shining round face, gives her an uncanny resemblance to the Michelin Man.

      “Was that an outgoing call?”

      “No,” I say, slightly offended. “They called me.”

      Her sigh is a precise combination of annoyance and disappointment. “Didn’t we go over the rules?”

      I nod, eyes wide, pantomiming fear.

      “All phone calls are to take place in the living room. And no calls are to last more than five minutes. No one needs longer than five minutes to communicate. And all outgoing calls must be duly listed in the notebook.”

      Duly, I think. That’s a good word.

      “Do you have any questions?” she asks.

      “Nope.” I shake my head.

      “I’m going for a run. Then I have auditions. If you decide to go out, make sure you have your keys.”

      “I will. I promise.”

      She stops, takes in my cotton pajamas, and frowns. “I hope you’re not planning to go back to sleep.”

      “I’m going to Saks.”

      Peggy purses her lips in disapproval, as if only the indolent go to Saks. “By the way, your father called.”

      “Thanks.”

      “And remember, all long-distance calls are collect.” She lumbers out like a mummy. If she can barely walk in that rubber suit, how can she possibly run in it?

      I’ve only known Peggy for twenty-four hours, but already, we don’t get along. You could call it hate at first sight.

      When I arrived yesterday morning, disheveled and slightly disoriented, her first comment was: “Glad you decided to show up. I was about to give your room to someone else.”

      I looked at Peggy, whom I suspected had once been attractive but was now like a flower gone to seed, and half wished she had given the room away.

      “I’ve got a waiting list a mile long,” she continued. “You kids from out of town have no idea—no idea—how impossible it is to find a decent place in New York.”

      Then she sat me down on the green love seat and apprised me of “the rules”:

      No visitors, especially males.

      No overnight guests, especially males, even if she is away for the weekend.

      No consumption of her food.

      No telephone calls over five minutes—she needs the phone line free in case she gets a call about an audition.

      No coming home past midnight—we might wake her up and she needs every minute of sleep.

      And most of all, no cooking. She doesn’t want to have to clean up our mess.

      Jeez. Even a gerbil has more freedom than I do.

      I wait until I hear the front door bang behind her, then knock hard on the plywood wall next to my bed. “Ding-dong, the witch is dead,” I call out.

      L’il Waters, a tiny butterfly of a girl, slips through the plywood door that connects our cells. “Someone found my bag!” I exclaim.

      “Oh, honey, that’s wonderful. Like one of those magical New York coincidences.” She hops onto the end of the cot, nearly tipping it over. Nothing in this apartment is real, including the partitions,

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