Summer and the City Read Free

chest. I study Bernard’s phone number, the numerals neat and workmanlike. At the party, he made a great show of writing out his number and handing it to me with the statement, “Just in case.” He pointedly didn’t ask for my number, as if we both knew that seeing each other again would have to be my decision.
    I carefully place the paper in my suitcase, and that’s when I find the note, anchored under an empty bottle of champagne. It reads:
    Dear Carrie,
    Your friend George called. Tried to wake you but couldn’t. Left you a twenty. Pay me back when you can.
    Samantha
    And underneath that, an address. For the apartment I was supposed to go to yesterday but didn’t. Apparently I called George last night after all.
    I hold up the note, looking for clues. Samantha’s writing is strangely girlish, as if the penmanship part of her brain never progressed beyond seventh grade. I reluctantly put on my gabardine suit, pick up the phone, and call George.
    Ten minutes later, I’m bumping my suitcase down the stairs. I push open the door and step outside.
    My stomach growls as if ravenously hungry. Not just for food, but for everything: the noise, the excitement, the crazy buzz of energy that throbs beneath my feet.
    I hail a taxi, yank open the door and heave my suitcase onto the backseat.
    “Where to?” the driver asks.
    “East Forty-seventh Street,” I shout.
    “You got it!” the driver says, steering his taxi into the melee of traffic.
    We hit a pothole and I’m momentarily launched from my seat.
    “It’s those damn New Jersey drivers.” The cabbie shakes his fist out the window while I follow suit. And that’s when it hits me: It’s like I’ve always been here. Sprung from the head of Zeus—a person with no family, no background, no history .
    A person who is completely new.
    As the taxi weaves dangerously through traffic, I study the faces of the passersby. Here is humanity in every size, shape, and hue, and yet I’m convinced that on each face I divine a kinship that transcends all boundaries, as if linked by the secret knowledge that this is the center of the universe.
    Then I clutch my suitcase in fear.
    What I said to Samantha was true: I don’t ever want to leave. And now I have only sixty days to figure out how to stay.
    The sight of George Carter brings me back to earth with a thump. He’s sitting dutifully at the counter of the coffee shop on Forty-seventh Street and Second Avenue, where we agreed to meet before he trots off to his summer job at The New York Times . I can tell by the set of his mouth that he’s exasperated—I’ve been in New York for less than twenty-four hours and already I’m off course. I haven’t even managed to make it to the apartment where I’m supposed to be staying. I tap him on the shoulder, and he turns around, his expression both relieved and irritated.
    “What happened to you?” he demands.
    I set down my suitcase and take the stool next to him. “My purse got stolen. I didn’t have any money. So I called this girl, the cousin of someone I know from Castlebury. She took me to a party and—”
    George 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