Maybe it’s because of all the time I spent with Bernard, but I’m finally inspired. I know what I have to do: write a play. This brilliant notion lasts for about three seconds before it’s crushed under a million and one reasons why it’s impossible. Like Bernard will think I’m copying him. Like I won’t be able to do it anyway. Like Viktor Greene won’t let me. I sit on Samantha’s bed with my legs crossed, making faces. The fact is, I need to prove I can make it in New York. But how? Maybe I’ll get lucky and be discovered. Or maybe it will turn out I have hidden talents even I don’t know about. I clutch the silk bedcovers like a survivor clinging to a lifeboat. Despite my fears, it seems my life is starting to take off here—and Brown is less than seven weeks away. I pluck at a thread. Not that there’s anything wrong with Brown, but I’ve already gotten in there. On the other hand, if New York were a college, I’d still be applying. And if all these other people can make it in New York, why can’t I?
