“Honey, it’s pretty clear you don’t have one,” the woman responds with a smirk.

“Is that so? Maybe I don’t have as much sex as you do, but you’re a victim of the system. You’ve been brainwashed by the patriarchy.”

“Sex sells,” the woman says.

“At the expense of women.”

“That’s ridiculous. Have you ever considered the fact that some women actually like sex?”

“And?” The girl glares as I take advantage of the momentary lull to quickly introduce myself.

“I’m Carrie Bradshaw. You called me. You have my bag?”

“ You’re Carrie Bradshaw?” She seems disappointed. “What are you doing with her?” She jerks her thumb in the woman’s direction.

“I don’t even know her. If I could just get my bag-”

“Take it,” the redheaded girl says, as if she’s had enough. She picks up her knapsack, removes my Carrie bag, and hands it to me.

“Thank you,” I say gratefully. “If there’s anything I can ever do-”

“Don’t worry about it,” she replies proudly. She picks up her placard and accosts an elderly woman in pearls. “Do you want to sign a petition against pornography?”

The old woman smiles. “No thank you, dear. After all, what’s the point?”

The red-haired girl looks momentarily crestfallen.

“Hey,” I say. “I’ll sign your petition.”

“Thanks,” she says, handing me a pen.

I scribble my name and skip off down Fifth Avenue. I dodge through the crowds, wondering what my mother would have thought about me being in New York. Maybe she’s watching over me, making sure the funny red-haired girl found my bag. My mother was a feminist, too. At the very least, she’d be proud I signed the petition.

“There you are!” L’il calls out. “I was afraid you were going to be late.”

“Nope,” I say, panting, as I join her on the sidewalk in front of The New School. The trek downtown was a lot farther than I expected, and my feet are killing me. But I saw all kinds of interesting things along the way: the skating rink at Rockefeller Center. The New York Public Library. Lord & Taylor. Something called the Toy Building. “I got my bag,” I say, holding it up.

“Carrie was robbed her very first hour in New York,” L’il crows to a cute guy with bright blue eyes and wavy black hair.

He shrugs. “That’s nothing. My car was broken into the second night I was here. They smashed the window and stole the radio.”

“You have a car?” I ask in surprise. Peggy told us no one had cars in New York. Everyone is supposed to walk or take the bus or ride the subway.

“Ryan’s from Massachusetts,” L’il says as if this explains it. “He’s in our class too.”

I hold out my hand. “Carrie Bradshaw.”

“Ryan McCann.” He’s got a goofy, sweet smile, but his eyes bore into me as if summing up the competition. “What do you think about our professor, Viktor Greene?”

“I think he’s extraordinary,” L’il jumps in. “He’s what I consider a serious artist.”

“He may be an artist, but he’s definitely a creep,” Ryan replies, goading her.

“You hardly know him,” L’il says, incensed.

“Wait a minute. You guys have met him?” I ask.

“Last week,” Ryan says casually. “We had our conferences. Didn’t you?”

“I didn’t know we were supposed to have a conference,” I falter. How did this happen? Am I already behind?

L’il gives Ryan a look. “Not everyone had a conference. It was only if you were going to be in New York early. It doesn’t matter.”

“Hey, you kids want to go to a party?”

We turn around. A guy with a Cheshire cat grin holds up some postcards. “It’s at The Puck Building. Wednesday night. Free admission if you get there before ten o’clock.”

“Thanks,” Ryan says eagerly as the guy hands us each a postcard and strolls away.

“Do you know him?” L’il asks.

“Never seen him before in my life. But that’s cool, isn’t it?” Ryan says. “Where else would some stranger walk up to you and invite you to a party?”

“Along with a thousand other strangers,” L’il adds.

“Only in New York, kids,” Ryan says.

We head inside as I examine the postcard. On the front is an image of a smiling stone cupid. Underneath are the words, LOVE. SEX. FASHION. I fold the postcard and stick it into my bag.

Chapter Four

Ryan wasn’t kidding. Viktor Greene is strange.

For one thing, he droops. It’s like someone dropped him out of the sky and he never quite got his sea legs here on earth. Then there’s his mustache. It’s thick and glossy across his upper lip, but curls forlornly around each side of his mouth like two sad smiles. He keeps stroking that mustache like it’s some kind of pet.

“Carrie Bradshaw?” he asks, consulting a list.

I raise my hand. “That’s me.”

“It is I ,” he corrects. “One of the things you’ll learn in this seminar is proper grammar. You’ll find it improves your manner of speaking as well.”

I redden. Five minutes into my first real writing class and I’ve made a bad impression.

Ryan catches my eye and winks as if to say, “I told you so.”

“Ah, and here’s L’il.” Viktor Greene nods as he gives his mustache a few more comforting pats. “Does everyone know Ms. Elizabeth Waters? She’s one of our most promising writers. I’m sure we’ll be hearing a lot from her.”

If Viktor Greene had said something like that about me, I’d be worried everyone in the class was going to hate me. But not L’il. She takes Viktor’s praise in stride, as if she’s used to being regaled for her talent.

For a moment, I’m jealous. I try to reassure myself that everyone in the class is talented. Otherwise they wouldn’t be here, right? Including myself. Maybe Viktor Greene just doesn’t know how talented I am-yet?

“Here’s how this seminar works.” Viktor Greene shuffles around as if he’s lost something and can’t remember what it is. “The theme for the summer is home and family. In the next eight weeks, you’ll write four short stories or a novella or six poems exploring these themes. Each week, I’ll choose three or four works to be read aloud. Then we’ll discuss them. Any questions?”

A hand shoots up belonging to a slim guy with glasses and a mane of blond hair. Despite his resemblance to a pelican, he nevertheless manages to give off the impression that he thinks he’s better than everyone else. “How long are the short stories supposed to be?”

Viktor Greene taps his mustache. “As long as it takes to tell the story.”

“So that could mean two pages?” demands a girl with an angular face and tawny eyes. A baseball cap is perched backward over her luxurious crop of dark hair and she’s wearing a pile of beaded necklaces slung around her neck.

“If you can tell a whole story in five hundred words, be my guest,” Viktor Greene says mournfully.

The girl nods, a triumphant expression on her beautiful face. “It’s just that my father is an artist. And he says-”

Viktor sighs. “We all know who your father is, Rainbow.”

Wait a minute . Rainbow? What kind of name is that? And who is this artist father of hers?

I sit back and fold my arms. The guy with the long nose and blond hair catches Rainbow’s eye and nods, edging his chair a little closer to hers, as if they’re already friends.

“I have a question.” Ryan raises his hand. “Can you guarantee that after taking this course, we’ll all become writers?”

This causes Viktor Greene to droop even more. I actually wonder if he’s going to disappear into the floor.

He frantically pats down his mustache with both hands. “Good question. And the answer is no. Chances are ninety-nine point nine percent of you won’t make it as writers at all.”

The class groans.

“If I’m not going to make it as a writer, I’ll have to demand my money back,” Ryan says jokingly.

Everyone laughs, except Viktor Greene. “If that’s the way you feel, you should contact the bursar’s office.”

He twirls the ends of his mustache between his fingers.

That mustache is going to drive me insane. I wonder if Viktor Greene is married and what his wife thinks of all his mustache stroking. Living with that mustache must be like having an extra person in the house. Does it have its own name and eat its own food as well?

And suddenly, I’m burning with passion. I don’t care what Viktor Greene says: I’m going to make it. I’m going to become a real writer if it kills me.

I look around the room at my fellow students. Now I’m the one judging the competition.

“All right,” I say, plopping onto L’il’s bed. “Who is Rainbow’s father?”

“Barry Jessen,” she says with a sigh.

“Who the hell is Barry Jessen? I know he’s an artist and all, but-”

“He’s not just any artist. He’s one of the most important artists in New York right now. He’s the leader of some new art movement. They live in abandoned buildings in SoHo-”

“Rainbow lives in an abandoned building?” I ask, perplexed. “Do they have running water? Heat? She doesn’t look like she’s homeless.”

“She’s not,” L’il says in exasperation. “They only used to be abandoned buildings. Garment and print factories. But then all these artists moved in and started fixing them up. And now they have parties in their lofts and take drugs and people buy their art and write about them in The New York Times and New York Magazine .”

“And Rainbow?”

“Well, her father is Barry Jessen. And her mother is Pican-”

“The model ?”

“That’s why she’s so beautiful and will get anything she wants. Which includes becoming a writer. Does that answer your question?”

“So she’s a million times cooler than us.”

“Than ‘we are,’” L’il corrects. “And, yes, she is. Her parents know a ton of people, and if Rainbow wants to get a book published, all she has to do is snap her fingers and her father will find someone to publish it for her. And then he’ll get a bunch of journalists to write about it and critics to give her good reviews.”