I try to ignore it, but my face flames with heat and my voice cracks. I’m dying up here. In the back of the room, people are dancing. I’m reduced to a mumble, a murmur, an afterthought.

Will this ever end?

Miraculously, it does. Bernard jumps to his feet, clapping. Miranda and Samantha yell their approval. But that’s all. Not even Bobby is paying attention. He’s by the bar, fawning over Teensie.

That’s it? I think wildly. It’s over ? What was that? What just happened?

I thought there’d be cheering.

I thought there’d be applause.

I did all this work for nothing?

The truth begins to dawn on me, although “dawn” isn’t the most accurate word. “Dawn” implies something pleasant. Hope. A better day. A new beginning. This is no beginning. This is an end. A disgrace. An embarrassment.

I suck.

Capote and my father and everyone else were right: I have no talent. I’ve been chasing a dream I made up in my head. And now it’s over.

I’m shaking. What should I do? I look around the room, imagining the people turning to leaves, red and then brown and then crumbling to pieces onto the ground. How can I… what can I…?

“I thought it was really good.” Bernard moves toward me, his grin like the smile of the clown in a jack-in-the-box. “Quite refreshing.”

“It was great,” Miranda says, giving me a hug. “I don’t know how you stood up in front of all those people. I would have been so frightened.”

I look to Samantha, who nods. “It was fun, Sparrow.”

This is one of those situations where no one can help you. Your need is so great, it’s like a black hole sucking the life out of everyone around you. I stumble forward, blindly.

“Let’s get a drink,” Bernard says, taking my hand.

“Yes, let’s all have a drink,” Samantha agrees. This is too much. Even Samantha, who’s my biggest cheerleader, knows my play is a disaster.

I’m like Typhoid Mary. No one wants to be around me.

Bernard hurries to the bar, and, as if shedding a virus, deposits me next to Teensie, of all people, who is now talking to Capote.

I smile awkwardly.

“Well,” Teensie says, with a dramatic sigh.

“You must have worked on it,” Capote says. “Since class. I thought it was better than what you read in class.”

“I had to completely rewrite it. In three days.” And suddenly, I realize Capote was right. About what he said at the Jessens’ dinner. Bobby is a joke. And a reading in his space wasn’t the right way to get my work noticed. Why didn’t I listen? The summer’s over and the only thing I’ve managed to achieve is making a complete and utter fool of myself.

The blood drains from my face.

Capote must understand my distress, because he pats my shoulder and says, “It’s good to take chances, remember?”

And as he wanders away, Teensie moves in for the kill. “I thought it was amusing. Very, very amusing,” she purrs. “But look at you , dear. You’re a mess. You look exhausted. And you’re way too thin. I’m sure your parents must be very worried about you.”

She pauses, and with a glittering smile asks, “Don’t you think it’s time to go home ?”

Chapter Thirty-Six

I am trying to get drunk and not succeeding.

I’m a total failure. I can’t even win at inebriation.

“Carrie,” Bernard cautions.

“What?” I ask, lifting a purloined bottle of champagne to my lips. I snuck it out of the party in my carpenter’s bag. I knew that bag would come in handy someday.

“You could hurt yourself.” Bernard wrenches the bottle away from me. “The cab could stop short and you could knock out your teeth.”

I pull the bottle back, clinging to it tightly. “It’s my birthday.”

“I know.”

“Aren’t you going to say happy birthday?”

“I have. Several times. Maybe you didn’t hear me.”

“Did you get me a present?”

“Yes. Now look,” he says becoming stern. “Maybe I should drop you at your apartment. There’s no reason to do this tonight.”

“But I want my present,” I wail. “And it’s my birthday. It has to be done on the day or it doesn’t count.”

“Technically, it’s not your birthday anymore. It’s after two.”

“Technically my birthday didn’t start until after two last night. So it still counts.”

“It’s going to be okay, kiddo.” He pats my leg.

“You didn’t like it, did you?” I take another swig and look out the open window, feeling the stinky summer air whooshing across my face.

“Like what?” he asks.

Jeez. What does he think I’m talking about? Is he really that thick? Is everyone this thick and I just never noticed before? “My play . You said you liked it but you didn’t.”

“You said you rewrote it.”

“Only because I had to. If Miranda-”

“Come on, kiddo,” he says, reassuringly. “These things happen.”

“To me. Only to me. Not to you or anyone else.”

It seems Bernard has had enough of my histrionics. He folds his arms.

His gesture scares some sense into me. I can’t lose him, too. Not tonight. “Please,” I say. “Let’s not fight.”

“I didn’t know we were fighting.”

“We’re not.” I put down the bottle and cling to him like a limpet.

“Awwww, kiddo.” He strokes my cheek. “I know you had a rough night. But that’s the way it is when you put something out there.”

“Really?” I sniff.

“It’s all about rewriting. You’ll rework the play, and it’ll be great. You’ll see.”

“I hate rewriting,” I grumble. “Why can’t the world come out right the first time?”

“What would be the fun in that?”

“Oh, Bernard.” I sigh. “I love you.”

“Yeah, I love you, too, kitten.”

“Honest? At two in the morning? On Madison Avenue? You love me?”

He smiles.

“What’s my present?” I coo.

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a present, now, would it?”

“I’m giving you a present,” I slur.

“You don’t have to give me a present.”

“Oh, but I do,” I say cryptically. Even if my play was a disaster, losing my virginity could salvage it.

“Here!” Bernard says, triumphantly, handing me a perfectly wrapped box in shiny black paper complete with a big black bow.

“Oh my God.” I sink to my knees on the carpet in his living room. “Is it really what I think it is?”

“I hope so,” he says nervously.

“I already love it.” I look at him with shining eyes.

“You don’t know what it is yet.”

“Oh, but I do,” I cry out in excitement, tearing away the paper and fingering the raised white lettering on the box. CHANEL.

Bernard looks slightly uncomfortable with my overwhelming demonstrance. “Teensie thought you’d like it.”

“Teensie? You asked Teensie what to get me? I thought she hated me.”

“She said you needed something nice.”

“Oh, Bernard.” I lift the cover from the box and gently open the tissue paper. And there it is: my first Chanel handbag.

I lift it out and cradle it in my arms.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“I love it,” I say solemnly. I hold it for a few seconds more, savoring the soft leather. With sweet reluctance, I slip it back into its cotton pouch and carefully replace it in the box.

“Don’t you want to use it?” Bernard asks, perplexed by my actions.

“I want to save it.”

“Why?” he says.

“Because I always want it to be… perfect .” Because nothing ever is. “Thank you, Bernard.” I wonder if I’m going to cry.

“Hey, puddy tat. It’s only a purse.”

“I know, but-” I get up and curl next to him on the couch, stroking the back of his neck.

“Eager little beaver, aren’t you?” He kisses me and I kiss him back and as we’re starting to get into it, he takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom.

This is it. And suddenly, I’m not so sure I’m ready.

I remind myself that this should not be a big deal. We’ve done everything but. We’ve spent the entire night together a dozen times. But knowing what’s to come makes it feel different. Even kissing is awkward. Like we barely know each other.

“I need a drink,” I say.

“Haven’t you had enough?” Bernard looks worried.

“No-I mean a drink of water,” I lie. I grab one of his shirts to cover myself and race into the kitchen. There’s a bottle of vodka on the counter. I close my eyes, brace myself, and take a gulp. I quickly rinse my mouth with water.

“Okay. I’m ready,” I announce, standing in the doorway.

I feel all jumbly again. I’m trying to be sexy, but I don’t know how. Everything feels so false and artificial, including myself. Maybe you have to learn how to be sexy in the bedroom. Or maybe it’s something you have to be born with. Like Samantha. Sexiness comes naturally to her. With me, it would be easier to be a plumber right now.

“Come here,” Bernard laughs, patting the bed. “And don’t get any ideas about stealing that shirt. Margie used to take my shirts.”

“Margie?”

“Let’s not talk about her, okay?”

We start making out again, but now it feels like Margie is in the room. I try to banish her, telling myself that Bernard is mine now. But it only makes me feel more diminished in comparison. Maybe after we get it over with, it’ll be better. “Let’s just do it, okay?” I say.

He raises his head. “Don’t you like this?”

“No. I love it. But I just want to do it.”

“I can’t just-”

“Bernard. Please .”

Miranda was right. This is terrible. Why didn’t I get this over with a long time ago? At least I’d know what to expect.

“Okay,” he murmurs. He lies on top of me. He wriggles around a bit. Then he wriggles some more.

“Has it happened?” I’m confused. Boy, Miranda wasn’t kidding. It really is nothing.

“No. I-” He breaks off. “Look. I’m going to need you to help me a little.”