Los diarios de carrie

Peter," she says, bringing the cigarette to her lips as I watch, fascinated, wondering when the ash is going to fall. She drops the cigarette into a pile of butts, the ash still intact. Threads of smoke from still-smoldering cigarettes drift up from a large ceramic bowl.

Peter takes a seat. Smidgens nods at me, clearly not interested in my presence. I sit down anyway.

"So," she says, lighting another cigarette. "Who is Pinky Weatherton?"

Peter stares at her, then jerks his head around and glares at me.

"He's new," I say.

"He?" "Or she," Peter says. "He or she just moved here."

Ms. Smidgens is not impressed. "Is that so? From where?"

"Um, Missouri?" Peter asks.

"Why can't I find him--or her--on my list of students?"

"He just moved here," I say. "Like yesterday. Well, not exactly yesterday . Maybe last week or something."

"He probably isn't in the system yet," Peter adds.

"I see." Smidgens holds up The Nutmeg. "This Pinky Weatherton happens to be a very good writer. I'd like to see more of his--or her--work in the paper."

"Sure," Peter says hesitantly.

Ms. Smidgens gives Peter an evil smile. She waves her cigarette, about to say more, when suddenly the long column of ash spirals into her cleavage. She jumps, shaking the ash out of her blouse, as Peter and I attempt a hasty exit. We're at the door when she calls out, "Wait."