Carrie Diaries

by Кэндес Бушнелл

  The Mouse and Danny exchange another glance, as if they already have some kind of secret ESP couple thing between them.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Danny says soothingly. “He’s probably drunk. And you’re a little drunk yourself. You don’t want to have a confrontation with him when he’s drunk.”

  “Why not?” I ask, wondering where The Mouse found this guy.

  “Because when a guy’s drunk, all he can think about is winning. And not losing face.”

  “Walt,” I say. “I want to see Walt.”

  For once, Walt actually is working at the Hamburger Shack.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” The Mouse asks again.

  “I’m fine,” I say breezily, knowing she wants to be alone with Danny.

  Danny walks me to the entrance. As we say good-bye, he looks into my eyes with what appears to be a deep, sympathetic understanding, and suddenly, I envy The Mouse. A girl could be comfortable with a guy like Danny. She wouldn’t have to wonder if he was going to flirt with her best friend or dance with her worst enemy. I wonder if I’ll ever find a guy like that. And if I do, whether I’ll be smart enough to want him.

  “Hey,” Walt says as I saunter up to the counter. It’s nearly nine thirty, almost closing time, and he’s cleaning up, putting chopped onions and peppers into a Tupperware container. “I hope you’re not here for food.”

  “I came to see you,” I insist, then suddenly realize I’m starving. “A cheeseburger might be nice, though.”

  Walt looks at the clock. “I need to be out of here...”

  “Walt, please.”

  He looks at me strangely, but unwraps a hamburger patty and puts it on the grill. “Where’s your boyfriend?” he asks, as if “boyfriend” is barely a word worth saying.

  “We broke up.”

  “Nice,” Walt says. “Sounds like your week’s been about as good as mine.”

  “Why?” I pull a few napkins from the metal holder. “Did you break up with someone too?”

  He turns his head sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” I say, feigning innocence. “Come on, Walt. We used to be best friends. We used to tell each other everything.”

  “Not everything, Carrie.”

  “Well, lots of things, anyway.”

  “That was before you dumped me for Maggie,” he says sarcastically. Then he adds quickly, “Don’t be upset. I’m not. I expected that when Maggie and I divorced, everyone would take sides. Maggie got all our friends.”

  This makes me laugh. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Yeah. I guess I’ve sort of missed you too.” He flips the hamburger, puts a prewrapped piece of cheese on top, opens a bun, and places the two pieces on either side.

  “You want onions and peppers?”

  “Sure.” I fool around with the bottles of mustard and ketchup, until I can’t stand the guilt any longer. “Walt. I have something to tell you. It’s really horrible, and you’re probably going to want to kill me, but don’t, okay?”

  He lifts the hamburger onto the bottom of the bun. “Lemme guess. Maggie is pregnant.”

  “She is?” I ask in shock.

  “How would I know?” he asks, sliding the cheeseburger onto a plastic plate and pushing it toward me.

  I stare down at the burger. “Walt. I know.”

  “So she is pregnant,” he says, resigned, as if this was always going to be a foregone conclusion.

  “Not about Maggie.” I take a bite of the burger. “About you.”

  He wipes the counter with a cloth. “I can assure you I’m not pregnant.”

  “Come on, Walt.” I hesitate, holding the burger between my hands like a shield. If I’m going to tell him, I have to do it now. “Don’t be mad, please. But you’ve been acting so strangely. I thought you were in some kind of trouble. And then Sebastian...”

  “What about Sebastian?” he asks, his voice tightening.

  “He said he’d seen you — at that place. And then The Mouse and I — we spied on you.”

  There. I’ve said it. And I will not tell him Maggie was there. I mean, I will tell him, eventually. After he digests this information.

  Walt breaks out into a nervous laugh. “And what did you see?”

  I’m so relieved he’s not angry I take another bite of the cheeseburger. “You,” I say with my mouth full. “And Randy Sandler.”

  He freezes, and then yanks his apron over his head. “That’s just great,” he says bitterly. “How many other people know besides you now?”

  “No one,” I insist. “We didn’t tell anyone. We wouldn’t. I mean, it’s your business, not ours, right?”

  “Apparently it is your business.” He throws the apron into the sink and stalks out the swinging door in back.

  I sigh. Can this evening get any worse?

  I grab my coat and run after him. He’s standing behind the restaurant, trying to light up a cigarette. “Walt, I’m sorry.”

  He shakes his head as he inhales, holds the smoke in his lungs, and slowly releases it. “It was going to come out anyway.” He takes another drag. “Although I was hoping I could keep it a secret until I go to college and get away from my father.”

  “Why? What’s he going to do?”

  “Ground me. Or send me to one of those shrinks who are supposed to convert you back to straightdom. Or maybe he’ll send me to a priest, who will tell me what a sinner I am. Wouldn’t that be ironic?”

  “I feel horrible.”

  “Why should you feel bad? You’re not gay.” He exhales a stream of smoke and looks up at the sky. “Anyway, I doubt this is going to come as much of a surprise. He already calls me a homo and a fag — oh, and he likes to refer to me as sissy pants behind my back.”

  “Your own father?”

  “Yeah, Carrie, my own father,” he says, grinding the cigarette butt under his shoe. “Fuck him,” he says suddenly. “He doesn’t deserve my respect. If he’s embarrassed, it’s his problem.” He looks at his watch. “I take it you’re not going back to the dance.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Randy’s picking me up. We’re going to go someplace. You want to come?”

  Randy arrives about five minutes later in his souped-up Mustang. He and Walt have a hushed conversation, then Walt motions for me to get into the car.

  Ten minutes later, I’m wedged into the tiny backseat as we head south on Route 91. The music is blaring and I can’t quite get over the fact that I’m out with macho Randy Sandler, the ex-quarterback of the Castlebury High football team, who is now Walt’s boyfriend. I guess I don’t know as much about people as I thought I did. I have a lot to learn, but it’s kind of exciting.

  “Where are we going?” I yell over the music.

  “P-Town,” Walt shouts.

  “Provincetown?”

  “We need to go to another state to have fun,” Randy says. “How fucked up is that?”

  Yikes. Provincetown is on Cape Cod, at least an hour away. I probably shouldn’t be doing this. I’m going to get into trouble. But then I remember Donna LaDonna and Sebastian and all the rest of my lousy life, and I think — what the hell? I’m always trying to be good, and where has it gotten me?

  Nowhere.

  “You cool with that?” Randy shouts.

  “I’m cool with anything.”

  “So this guy, Sebastian Kydd, was dancing with your worst enemy?” Randy shouts over the music.

  “Yes.” I strain to make myself heard.

  “And he saw us. At Chuckie’s,” Walt yells to Randy.

  “Maybe he’s gay,” I scream.

  “I think I know this guy,” Randy shouts, nodding at Walt. “Tall, blond hair, looks like some asshole from a Ralph Lauren ad?”

  “That’s him!” I cry.

  “He’s hot,” Randy says. “But not gay. I’ve seen him renting porn tapes. Jugs — that kind of thing.”

  Porn? Jugs? Who is Sebastian? “Great!” I scream.

  “Fo
rget about that asshole,” Randy yells. “You’re about to meet two hundred guys who are gonna love you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Assumption of X

  “Carrie?” Missy asks.

  “Wake up!” Dorrit shouts in my ear.

  I moan as visions of twisting pelvises swirl through my head.

  “Carrie? Are you alive?”

  “Mng.” I gulp.

  “Uh-oh,” Dorrit says as I throw back the covers.

  “Get away.” I leap out of bed, run to the bathroom, and get sick.

  When I look up, Missy and Dorrit are there. Dorrit’s lips are curled into an evil, triumphant smile, like the Grinch who thinks he’s stolen Christmas.

  “Does Dad know?” I ask.

  “That you got home at three a.m.? I don’t think so,” Missy whispers.

  “Don’t tell him,” I say warningly, glaring at Dorrit.

  “Sebastian’s downstairs,” she says sweetly.

  Huh?

  He’s seated at the dining room table across from my father. “If you assume that X equals minus-Y to the tenth degree,” my father says, scribbling an equation on the back of an envelope, “then it’s obvious that Z becomes a random integer.” He pushes the envelope toward Sebastian, who glances at it politely.

  “Hello,” I say, with a little wave.

  “Morning,” my father says. His manner indicates he’s considering questioning me about my ragged appearance, but apparently his equation is more interesting. “You see, Sebastian?” He continues tapping his pencil on the X. “The danger here is in the assumption of X...”

  I skittle by and hurry into the kitchen, where I dig around for an old jar of instant coffee, dump half of it into a mug, and wait for the water to boil. The phrase “a watched pot never boils” comes into my head. But that isn’t true. With the application of proper heat, the water will boil eventually, whether someone is watching or not. Which somehow seems very relevant to this situation. Or maybe it’s just that my brain feels like its boiling.

  I take my mug into the dining room and sit down. My father has moved on from calculus to grilling Sebastian about his future. “Where did you say you were going to college?” he asks in an uptight voice — a tip-off that Sebastian has failed to impress him with his knowledge of assumptive integers.

  “I didn’t.” Sebastian smiles and pats my leg possessively, which is sure to make my father insane. I squeeze his hand to make him stop. “I thought I’d take a year off,” Sebastian says. “Travel the world. Check out the Himalayas — that kind of thing.”

  My father looks skeptical as I take a sip of my coffee. It’s still too hot and has the consistency of sludge.

  “I’m not ready to get boxed in,” Sebastian continues, as if this explains his lack of ambition.

  “You must have some money, then.”

  “Dad!” I exclaim.

  “Actually, I do. My grandmother died and left me and my sister her estate.”

  “Aha.” My father nods. “I get it. You’re a very lucky young man. I’ll bet if you’re ever in trouble, you always manage to get out of it.”

  “I don’t know about that, sir,” Sebastian says politely. “But I am lucky.” He looks at me and puts his hand over mine. “I’ve been lucky enough to meet your daughter, anyway.”

  I suppose this should thrill me, but it only makes me want to puke again. What new game is he playing now?

  My father gives me a look, as if he can’t believe this guy, but I can only manage a sickly smile.

  “So anyway,” Sebastian says, clapping his hands together. “I was wondering if you wanted to go ice skating.”

  Ice skating?

  “Hurry up and finish your coffee.” He stands and shakes my father’s hand. “Nice to see you, Mr. Bradshaw.”

  “Nice to see you,” my father says. I can tell he doesn’t know what to make of him, because then he pats Sebastian on the shoulder.

  Men are so weird.

  Am I supposed to start this conversation or is he? Or are we going to pretend nothing happened last night?

  “How’s Donna LaDonna? Do you think you can get her to give me my clothes back?”

  The suddenness of my attack startles him. His skate slides out beneath him and for a moment, he flails. “Ha. You’re one to talk.”

  He steadies himself and we glide along silently, while I mull this over.

  It’s my fault?

  What did I do? I pull my cap down over my ears as a boy on hockey skates hurtles toward us, laughing over his shoulder at his friends, completely unaware of the dozens of other people skating on the pond. Sebastian grabs the kid’s shoulders as we’re about to collide and pushes him off in the other direction. “Watch it!” he says.

  “You watch it!” the kid growls.

  I skate away to the side, where several sawhorses have been set up around a patch of dangerous ice. Black water laps at the edges of a ragged hole.

  “You were the one who disappeared last night,” Sebastian points out, a note of smug triumph in his voice.

  I give him a half-dirty, half-astonished look.

  “I was looking for you everywhere. And then Lali told me you’d left. Really, Carrie,” he says, shaking his head. “That was rude.”

  “And it wasn’t rude of you to dance with Donna LaDonna?”

  “It was a dance. That’s what people do at a dance. They dance.” He takes a pack of cigarettes from inside his leather jacket.

  “No kidding. But they don’t dance with their girlfriend’s worst enemy. Who also stole her clothes!”

  “Carrie,” he says patiently. “Donna LaDonna did not steal your clothes.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Lali.”

  “What?”

  “I had a long talk with Lali after you left.” He holds a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger as he lights up. “She meant it as a joke.”

  I suddenly feel queasy. Or queasier, as the cold air has done little to alleviate my hangover.

  “Don’t be mad. She was afraid to tell you because you made such a big deal out of it. I told her I would tell you and she asked me not to because she didn’t want you to be angry.” He pauses, smokes some more, and flicks the cigarette butt into the patch of dark water, where it sizzles like a defective firecracker before floating gently under the ice. “We both know how sensitive you are.”

  “So now I’m sensitive?”

  “Come on. I mean, with what happened to your mother...”

  “Has Lali been talking to you about my mother, too?”

  “No,” he says defensively. “I mean, maybe she mentioned it a couple of times. But what’s the big deal? Everybody knows...”

  I think I’m going to be sick again.

  Don’t bring my mother into this. Not today. I can’t handle it. Without speaking, I pick up a splinter of wood and toss it into the watery hole.

  “Are you crying?” he asks, half smirking and half sympathetic.

  “Of course not.”

  “You are.” He sounds almost gleeful. “You act all cool on the outside, like nothing bothers you, but inside you really care. You’re a romantic. You want someone to love you.”

  Doesn’t everyone? I’m about to speak, but something about his expression stops me. There’s a flicker of hostility mixed with a searching compassion. Is he offering me love, or throwing it back in my face?

  I falter, thinking I’ll always remember how he looked at that moment because I can’t fathom his intent. “Why?” I ask. “Why would Lali take my clothes?”

  “Because she thought you were being a pain in the ass.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. She said you two are always playing practical jokes on each other. She said you gave her Ex-Lax gum before a meet.”

  “We were twelve.”

  “So?”

  “So...”

  “Are you going to break up with me now?” he asks suddenly.

  “Oh, God.” I pull my knit
cap over my face. That’s why he was at my house this morning. That’s why he took me ice skating. He wants to break up with me but he’s afraid to do it, so he wants me to break up with him. It’s why he was dancing with Donna LaDonna last night, too. He’s going to behave as badly as possible until I have no other choice.

  Not that I haven’t been considering it for the past twelve hours.

  While I was dancing with Walt and Randy at the club in Provincetown, the idea of “dumping the bastard” was like rocket fuel, shooting me into a stratosphere of uncaring bliss. I danced harder and harder, pounding out my aggressions, wondering why I needed Sebastian when I could have this — this carnival of sweaty bodies that flicker and flash like fireflies — this is fun.

  “Fuck Sebastian,” I’d screamed, waving my arms over my head like a crazed worshiper at a revival meeting.

  Randy, strutting beside me, replied, “Honey, it all happens for a reason.”

  But now I’m not so sure. Do I really want to break up with him? I’ll miss him. And surely I’ll be bored without him. How can you change your feelings in a day?

  And maybe — just maybe — Sebastian is the one who’s terrified. Maybe he’s scared of disappointing a girl, of not being good enough, so he pushes her away before she can find out that he’s not this incredible, special guy that he pretends to be. When he said I was cool on the outside but wanted love on the inside — maybe that wasn’t about me. Maybe he was secretly referring to himself.

  “I don’t know. Do I have to decide right now?” I peel my hat back, looking up at him.

  And this, apparently, is the right thing to say, because he looks at me and laughs. “You’re crazy.”

  “So are you.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to break up with me?”

  “Only because you’re so sure I want to. I’m not that easy, you know?”

  “Oh, I know.” He takes my hand as we skate across the pond.

  “I want to do it, but I can’t,” I whisper.

  “Why not?”

  We’re in his room. “Are you scared?” he asks.

  “A little.” I roll onto my elbow. “I don’t know.”

  “It doesn’t always hurt. Some girls really love it the first time they do it.”

  “Yeah. Like Maggie.”