I ask.
“Of what?” she says.
“Of not being good enough.”
“You mean at writing?” L’il asks.
I nod. “What if I’m the only one who thinks I can do it and no one else does? What if I’m completely fooling myself—”
“Oh, Carrie.” She smiles. “Don’t you know that every writer feels that way? Fear is part of the job.”
She picks up her towel to take a long bath, and while she’s in the bathroom, I manage to eke out one page, and then two. I type in a title, “Home.” I cross it out and write, “My New Home.” This somehow reminds me of Samantha Jones. I picture her in her four-poster bed, wearing fancy lingerie and eating chocolates, which, for some strange reason, is how I imagine she spends her weekends.
I push these thoughts out of my head and try to focus, but now the throbbing in my feet is overwhelming and I can’t concentrate for the pain.
“L’il?” I knock on the bathroom door. “Do you have any aspirin?”
“I don’t think so,” she calls out. “Damn.” Peggy must have aspirin somewhere. “Can I come in?” I ask. L’il is in the shallow tub, under a soft pile of bubbles. I check the medicine cabinet. Nothing. I look around, my gaze resting on the closed door to Peggy’s bedroom.
Don’t do it, I think, remembering Peggy’s one final rule. We’re not allowed into her room. Ever. Under any circumstances. Her bedroom is strictly verboten.
I carefully open the door.
“What are you doing?” L’il shrieks, jumping out of the tub and grabbing her towel. Remnants of bubbles cling to her shoulders.
I put my finger to my lips to shush her. “I’m only looking for aspirin. Peggy’s so cheap, she probably keeps the aspirin hidden in her room.”
“What if she realizes some of her aspirin is missing?”
“Even Peggy can’t be that crazy.” I push the door wider. “You’d have to be really wacky to count your aspirin. Besides,” I hiss, “aren’t you dying to know what her room’s like?”
The blinds are drawn, so it takes a second for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I squeal in horror.
Peggy’s bed is covered with bears. Not real bears, of course, but what appears to be every variation on the stuffed animal kind. There are big bears and small bears, bears holding tennis rackets and bears wearing aprons. Bears with pink fur and bears with earmuffs. There’s even a bear that appears to be constructed entirely of clothespins.
“That’s her big secret?” L’il asks, disappointed. “Bears?”
“She’s a middle-aged woman. What kind of middle-aged woman has stuffed animals all over her room?”
“Maybe she collects them,” L’il says. “People do, you know.”
“Not normal people.” I pick up the pink bear and hold it in front of L’il’s face. “Hello,” I say, in a funny voice. “My name is Peggy and I’d like to explain a few of my rules. But first I need to put on my rubber suit—”
“Carrie, stop,” L’il pleads, but it’s too late. We’re already in stitches.
“Aspirin,” I remind her. “If you were Peggy, where would you keep it?” My eye goes to the top drawer in Peggy’s bedside table. Like everything else in the apartment, it’s cheap, and when I tug on the knob, the whole drawer flies out, spilling the contents onto the floor.
“Now she’s going to kill us for sure,” L’il moans.
“We won’t tell her,” I say, scrambling to pick up the pieces. “Besides, it’s only a bunch of pictures.” I begin gathering the snapshots when I’m startled by what seems to be an image of a naked breast.
I take a closer look.
Then I scream and drop the picture like it’s on fire.
“What is it?” L’il shouts.
I sit down on the floor, shaking my head in disbelief. I pick up the photograph and examine it more closely, still not convinced. But it’s exactly what I thought it was. I shuffle through the other photographs, trying to suppress my laughter. They’re of Peggy, all right, but in each and every one of them she’s buck naked.
And not just any old naked. She’s arranged herself like a model in a porn magazine.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t exactly look like one. “L’il?” I ask, wanting to delve into this mystery of why Peggy would have posed for these photographs and who might have taken them, but L’il is gone. I hear a faint thud as the door to her room closes, followed by the louder bang of the front door. And before I have a chance to move, Peggy is standing over me.
We both freeze. Peggy’s eyes get bigger and bigger as her face turns from red to purple and I wonder if her head is going to explode. She opens her mouth and raises her arm.
The photograph falls from my fingers as I shrink back in fear.
“Get out! Get out!” she screams, swatting at my head. I drop to my hands and knees, and before she can figure out what’s happening, crawl between her legs to the hall. I stand up, run to my room, and shut the door.
She immediately yanks it open. “Listen, Peggy—” I begin, but really, what can I say? Besides, she’s shouting too much for me to get a word in.
“The minute I laid eyes on you, I knew you were trouble. Who do you think you are, coming into my home and going through my things? Where did you grow up? In a barn? What kind of animal are you?”
“A bear?” I want to say. But she’s right. I did violate her privacy. I knew it was wrong and I did it anyway. It was worth it to see those naked photos, though.
“I want you, and your stuff, out of here now!”
“But—”
“You should have thought about your ‘buts’ before you went into my room,” she snaps, which doesn’t help much, because after seeing those photographs, all I can think about is her butt. Indeed, I’m so absorbed by the image, I hardly notice her segue into how good it will be for me to spend a night or two on the streets.
The next thing I know, she’s pulling my suitcase out from under the bed and heaving it onto the mattress. “Start packing,” she orders. “I’m going out for twenty minutes and when I get back, you’d better be gone. If you’re not, I’m calling the police.”
She grabs her purse and storms out.
I stand there in shock. The plywood door opens and L’il comes in, white as a sheet.
“Oh, Lord, Carrie,” she whispers. “What are you going to do?”
“Leave,” I say, picking up a pile of my clothes and dumping them into the suitcase.
“But
