Free Summer and the City by Candace Bushnell Page A

nose has character—a distinctive bump of the type passed from one generation to another—“the Duncan nose”—likely the bane of every female family member. Combined with closely spaced eyes, the nose would give the face a rodentlike demeanor, but Capote’s eyes are wide-set. And now that I’m really looking at him, a dark inky blue.
    “Will L’il read her poem, please?” Viktor murmurs.
    L’il’s poem is about a flower and its effect on three generations of women. When she’s finished, there’s silence.
    “That was wonderful.” Viktor shuffles to the front of the room.
    “Anyone can do it,” L’il says with cheerful modesty. She might be the only genuine person in this class, probably because she really does have talent.
    Viktor Greene stoops over and picks up his knapsack. I can’t imagine what’s in it besides papers, but the weight tilts him perilously to one side, like a boat listing in the waves. “We reconvene on Wednesday. In the meantime, for those of you who haven’t handed in your first story, you need to do so by Monday.” He scans the room. “And I need to see Carrie Bradshaw in my office.”
    Huh? I look to L’il, wondering if she might know the reason for this unexpected meeting, but she only shrugs.
    Maybe Viktor Greene is going to tell me I don’t belong in this class.
    Or maybe he’s going to tell me I’m the most talented, brilliant student he’s ever had.
    Or maybe . . . I give up. Who knows what he wants. I smoke a cigarette and make my way to his office.
    The door is closed. I knock.
    It opens a crack, and the first thing I’m confronted by is Viktor’s enormous mustache, followed by his soft sloping face, as if skin and muscle have abandoned any attempt to attach to the skull. He silently swings open the door and I enter a small room filled with a mess of papers and books and magazines. He removes a pile from the chair in front of his desk and looks around helplessly.
    “Over there,” I say, pointing to a relatively small mound of books perched on the sill.
    “Right,” he says, plopping the papers on top, where they balance precariously.
    I sit down in the chair as he clumsily drops into his seat.
    “Well.” He touches his mustache.
    It’s still there, I want to scream, but don’t.
    “How do you feel about this class?” he asks.
    “Good. Really good.” I’m pretty sure I suck, but there’s no reason to give him ammunition.
    “How long have you wanted to become a writer?”
    “Since I was a kid, I guess.”
    “You guess?”
    “I know .” Why do conversations with teachers always go around in circles?
    “Why?”
    I sit on my hands and stare. There’s no good answer to this question. “I’m a genius and the world can’t live without my words,” is too pretentious and probably untrue. “I love books and want to write the great American novel” is true, but is also what every student wants, because why else would they be in this class? “It’s my calling,” sounds overly dramatic. On the other hand, why is he even asking me this question? Can’t he tell that I should be a writer?
    In consequence, I end up saying nothing. Instead, I open my eyes as wide as possible.
    This has an interesting effect. Viktor Greene suddenly becomes uncomfortable, shifting in his chair and then opening and closing a drawer.
    “Why do you have that mustache?” I ask.
    “Mmph?” He covers his lips with his tapered, waxy fingers.
    “Is it because you think that mustache is a part of you?” I’ve never talked to a teacher this way, but I’m not exactly in school. I’m in a seminar. And who says Viktor Greene has to be the authority?
    “Don’t you like the mustache?” he asks.
    Hold on. Viktor Greene is vain ?
    “Sure,” I say, thinking about how vanity is a weakness. It’s a chink in the armor. If you’re vain, you should do everything possible to conceal it.
    I lean forward slightly to emphasize my admiration. “Your mustache is really, er,