Carrie Diaries

by Кэндес Бушнелл

  My father throws up his hands. “What’s the big deal about attraction? Love is what counts.”

  The Mouse and I look at each other and giggle. If only I were attracted to George, all my problems would be solved. I’d even have a date for the senior prom. I could still ask him, and I know he’d come, but I don’t want to give him the wrong idea again. It wouldn’t be fair.

  “Can we please talk about something else?” And suddenly, as if in answer to my prayers, there’s a frantic banging on the back door.

  “It’s Maggie,” Missy shouts.

  “Can you please tell Maggie to come in?” my father asks.

  “She says she won’t. She says she has to talk to Carrie alone. She says it’s an emergency.”

  The Mouse rolls her eyes. “Now what?” I put down my napkin and go to the door.

  Maggie’s face is puffy with tears, her hair wild as if she’s been trying to pull it out by the roots. She motions for me to step outside. I try to give her a hug, but she backs away, shaking with rage. “I knew this was going to happen. I knew it.”

  “Knew what?” I ask, my voice rising in alarm.

  “I can’t talk about it here. Not with your father around. Meet me at The Emerald in five minutes.”

  “But…” I look back at the house. “The Mouse is here, and...”

  “So bring The Mouse,” she snaps. “The Emerald. In five minutes. Be there.”

  “What the hell is her problem now?” The Mouse asks as we pull in next to Maggie’s car. It’s empty, meaning Maggie has gone inside alone, which is in itself cause for concern.

  “I don’t know,” I say, feeling defeated. “I think it has something to do with Peter. And that story in The Nutmeg. About the Nerd Prince.”

  The Mouse makes a face. “That wasn’t necessarily Peter.”

  “Maggie thinks it is.”

  “Typical. Maggie thinks everything is about her.”

  “I know, but…” I’m considering spilling the beans about the true identity of Pinky Weatherton when the door to The Emerald opens and Maggie sticks her head out.

  “There you are!” she exclaims grimly, and goes back inside.

  She’s seated at the bar, drinking what appears to be a vodka with no ice. She gulps back the entire contents of her glass and asks for another. The Mouse orders a Scotch, while I ask for my usual Singapore Sling. I have a feeling this is going to be unpleasant, and I need something tasty to drink.

  “Well,” Maggie declares. “She got him.”

  “Who’s ‘she’ and who did she get?” The Mouse asks. I know she doesn’t mean to sound sarcastic, but she does, a little.

  “Roberta,” Maggie scolds. “I promise you, this is not the time.”

  The Mouse holds up her hands and shrugs. “Just asking.”

  “But I guess it is kind of your fault as well.” Maggie takes another slug of vodka. “You’re the one who introduced us.”

  “Peter? Come on, Maggie. You’ve known him for years. You just never noticed him before. And I don’t exactly recall telling you to go after him.”

  “Yeah,” I chime in. “It’s not like anyone made you have sex with him.”

  “Just because you haven’t...”

  “I know, I know. I’m a virgin, okay? It’s not my fault. I probably would have slept with Sebastian if Lali hadn’t stolen him.”

  “Really?” The Mouse says.

  “Yeah. I mean, why not? Who else am I going to have sex with?” I look around the bar. “I guess I could pick some random guy and do it in the parking lot...”

  “Excuse me,” Maggie interrupts, banging her glass on the bar. “This is about me, okay? I’m the one in trouble here. I’m the one who’s freaking out. I’m the one who’s ready to kill myself...”

  “Don’t do it,” The Mouse says. “Too messy...”

  “Stop,” Maggie shouts.

  The Mouse and I look at each other and immediately shut our traps.

  “Okay.” Maggie takes a deep breath. “It happened. My worst fear. It came true.”

  The Mouse looks up at the ceiling. “Maggie,” she says patiently. “We can’t help you unless you tell us what ‘it’ is.”

  “Don’t you know?” Her voice rises to a wail. “Peter broke up with me. He broke up with me and now he’s seeing Jen P.”

  I nearly fall off my barstool.

  “That’s right,” she snarls. “After we had that big fight on Wednesday afternoon, you know” — she looks at me — “that day when he was flirting with Jen P in the gym. We had a huge screaming match and then we had sex and I thought everything was okay. And then this afternoon, he calls me and says we have to talk.”

  “Uh-oh...”

  “So he comes over and…” Maggie’s shoulders collapse at the memory. “He — he said he couldn’t see me anymore. He said it was over.”

  “But why?”

  “Because he’s interested in Jen P. He wants to date her.”

  Crap. This is my fault. How could I be so stupid? But I never expected anyone to actually take those stories in The Nutmeg seriously.

  “No way,” The Mouse says finally.

  “Yes, way,” Maggie says. She orders another vodka, takes a sip, and puts it down. She’s beginning to slur her words. “He said he asked his mother — his mother, can you believe it? — what she thought, and she said he was too young to be seriously involved with one girl and should ‘explore his options.’ Have you ever heard anyone even talk like that? And it wasn’t his mother’s idea, that’s for sure. It was his. And he was using his mother as an excuse.”

  “That’s disgusting. What a wimp.” I suck hard on the straw in my glass.

  “Peter’s not really a wimp,” The Mouse says. “He might be a jerk, but...”

  “He’s a wimp with a good haircut.”

  “A haircut I made him get!” Maggie exclaims. “I was the one who told him to cut his hair. It’s like — I turned him into this cool guy, and now every girl wants him. I made him. And this is how he repays me?”

  “It’s nothing short of egregious.”

  “Come on, Maggie. It’s not your fault. Peter’s just a typical guy. The only way to look at men is like they’re electrons. They have all these charges sticking out, and they’re always looking for a hole where they can put those charges...”

  “You mean like a penis?” Maggie says, glaring at me.

  “Penis would be an exaggeration,” The Mouse says, going along with my theory. “We’re not talking about actual matter here. It’s more like a crude form of electricity...”

  Maggie grits her teeth. “He’s taking her to the prom.”

  I slump onto the bar, wracked with guilt. I should tell Maggie the truth. She’ll probably never speak to me again, but…

  A man sidles toward us and slides onto the barstool next to Maggie.

  “You seem kind of upset,” he says, lightly touching her arm. “Perhaps I could buy you a drink.”

  Huh? The Mouse and I look at each other and back at Maggie. “Why not?” She holds up her empty glass. “Fill ’er up.”

  “Maggie!” I say warningly.

  “What? I’m thirsty.”

  I try giving her a wide-eyed look, meant to convey the fact that we don’t know this guy and shouldn’t be allowing him to buy us drinks, but she doesn’t get the message. “Vodka,” she says, smiling flirtatiously. “I’m drinking vodka.”

  “Excuse me,” The Mouse says to the guy. “Do we know you?”

  “Don’t think so,” he says, all charm. He isn’t exactly old — maybe twenty-five or so — but he’s too old for us. And he’s wearing a blue and white striped button-down shirt and a navy blazer with gold buttons. “I’m Jackson,” he says, holding out his hand.

  Maggie shakes it. “I’m Maggie. And that’s Carrie. And The Mouse.” She hiccups. “I mean, Roberta.”

  “Cheers.” Jackson raises his glass. “Another round for my new friends,” he says to the bartender.

  The Mouse and I exchan
ge another look. “Maggie.” I tap her on the shoulder. “We should probably get going.”

  “Not until I finish my drink.” She kicks me in the ankle. “Besides, I want to talk to Jackson. So, Jackson,” she says, tilting her head, “what are you doing here?”

  “I just moved to Castlebury.” He seems like a fairly reasonable person — reasonable meaning he doesn’t appear to be completely drunk…yet. “I’m a banker,” he adds.

  “Oooooh. A banker,” Maggie slurs. “My mother always said I should marry a banker.”

  “That so?” Jackson slips his hand behind Maggie’s back to steady her.

  “Maggie,” I snap.

  “Shhhhh.” She puts her finger to her lips. “I’m having fun. Can’t a person have a little fun around here?”

  She stumbles off her barstool. “Bathroom,” she exclaims, and teeters away. After another minute, Jackson excuses himself and also disappears.

  “What should we do now?” I ask The Mouse.

  “I say we throw her into the back of her car and you drive her home.”

  “Good plan.”

  But when ten minutes have passed and Maggie still hasn’t returned, we start to panic. We check the bathroom, but Maggie isn’t there. Next to the restroom is a small hallway with a door that leads to the parking lot. We hurry outside.

  “Her car’s still here,” I say, relieved. “She can’t have gone far.”

  “Maybe she’s passed out in the back.”

  Maggie may be sleeping, but her car, however, appears to be engaged in some kind of violent activity. It’s rocking back and forth, and the windows are fogged. “Maggie?” I scream, banging on the back window. “Maggie?”

  We try the doors. They’re all locked, except for one.

  I yank it open. Maggie is lying on the backseat with Jackson on top of her. “Shit!” he exclaims.

  The Mouse sticks her head in. “What are you doing? Get out! Get out of the car.”

  Jackson fumbles for the door handle behind his head. He manages to unlock it, and as the door suddenly flies open Jackson falls out onto the pavement.

  He is, I note with relief, still basically clothed. And so is Maggie.

  The Mouse runs over and gets in his face. “What are you, some kind of pervert?”

  “Take it easy,” he says, backing away. “It wasn’t my idea. She was the one who wanted to...”

  “I don’t care,” The Mouse roars. She picks up his jacket and throws it at him. “Take your stupid blazer and get out of here before I call the police. And don’t you dare come back!” she adds as Jackson, shielding himself with his coat, skittles away.

  “What’s going on?” Maggie asks dreamily.

  “Maggie,” I say, patting her face. “Are you okay? Did he — he didn’t...”

  “Attack me? Naw.” She giggles. “I attacked him. Or I tried to anyway. But I couldn’t get his pants off. And you know what?” She hiccups. “I liked it. I really, really liked it. A lot.”

  “Carrie? Are you mad at me?”

  “No,” I say reassuringly. “Why would I be mad at you, Magwitch?”

  “Because I’ve had more guys than you,” she says, with another hiccup and a smile.

  “Don’t worry. Someday I’ll catch up.”

  “I hope so. Because it’s really fun, you know? And it’s also like…power. Like you have power over these guys.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say cautiously.

  “Don’t tell Peter, okay?”

  “No, I won’t tell Peter. It will be our little secret.”

  “And The Mouse too, right? Will it be her little secret, too?”

  “Of course...”

  “On second thought” — she holds up one finger — “maybe you should tell Peter. I want him to be jealous. I want him to think about what he’s missing.” She gasps and puts her hand over her mouth. I pull over to the side of the road. Maggie tumbles out and gets sick while I hold back her hair.

  When she gets back in the car, she seems to have sobered up considerably but has also become morose. “I did a dumb thing, didn’t I?” she groans.

  “Don’t worry about it, Mags. We all do dumb things sometimes.”

  “Oh, God. I’m a slut.” She puts her hands over her face. “I almost had sex with two men.”

  “Come on, Maggie, you’re not a slut,” I insist. “It doesn’t matter how many guys you’ve slept with. It’s about how you’ve slept with them.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I have no idea. But it sounds good, right?”

  I pull carefully into her driveway. Maggie’s parents are fast asleep, and I manage to maneuver her up to her room and into her nightgown undetected. I even convince her to drink a glass of water and take a couple of aspirins. She crawls into bed and lies on her back, staring at the ceiling. Then she curls up into the fetal position.

  “Sometimes I just want to be a little girl again, you know?”

  “Yeah.” I sigh. “I know just what you mean.” I wait a moment to make sure she’s asleep, and then I flip off the light and slip out of the house.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Transformation

  Dear Ms. Bradshaw, the letter begins. We are pleased to inform you that a place has become available for the summer writing seminar with National Book Award–winning novelist Viktor Greene. If you wish to attend, please inform us immediately as space is limited.

  The New School.

  I got in! IgotinIgotinIgotin. Or at least I think I did. Does it specifically say I got in? A place has become available…. At the last minute? Did someone drop out? Am I some kind of backup student? The course is limited…. Aha. So that means if I don’t take the spot someone else will. They’ve already got dozens of people lined up, maybe hundreds —

  “Daaaaaaad!”

  “What?” he asks, startled.

  “I have to — I got this letter — New York...”

  “Stop jumping up and down and tell me what this is about.”

  I put my hand on my chest to quell my thumping heart. “I got into that writing program. In New York City. And if I don’t say yes right away, they’re going to give my space to someone else.”

  “New York,” my father exclaims. “What about Brown?”

  “Dad, you don’t understand. See? Right here: summer writing course. June twenty-second to August nineteenth. And Brown doesn’t start till Labor Day. So there’s plenty of time...”

  “I don’t know, Carrie.”

  “But, Dad...”

  “I thought this writing thing was a hobby.”

  I look at him, aghast.

  “It isn’t. I mean, it’s just something I really want to do.” I can’t express how badly I want it. I don’t want to scare him.

  “We’ll think about it, okay?”

  “No!” I shout. He’ll think about it and think about it and by the time he’s thought about it, it will be too late. I shove the letter under his nose. “I have to decide now. Otherwise...”

  Finally, he sits down and actually reads it.

  “I’m not sure,” he says. “New York City in the summer? It could be dangerous.”

  “Millions of people live there. And they’re fine.”

  “Hmmmm,” he says, thinking. “Does George know about this?”

  “About my acceptance? Not yet. But he was the one who encouraged me to send in my stories. George is all for it.”

  “Well...”

  “Dad, please.”

  “If George is going to be there...”

  Why should George have anything to do with it? Who cares about George? This is about me, not George. “He’s going to be there all summer. He has an internship with The New York Times.”

  “Does he?” my father looks impressed.

  “So going to New York for the summer is a very big Brown thing to do.”

  My father takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s a long way away...”

  “Two hours.”

  “It�
��s another world — I hate to think I’m losing you already.”

  “Dad, you’re going to lose me anyway, sooner or later. Why not get it over with sooner? That way you have more time to get used to it.”

  My father laughs. Yes — I’m in.

  “I guess two months in New York couldn’t hurt,” he says, talking himself into it. “Freshman year at Brown is intense. And I know how difficult this year has been for you.” He rubs his nose, trying to delay the inevitable. “My daughters — they mean so much to me.”

  As if on cue, he starts crying.

  “You surprise me,” Donna LaDonna says a few days later. “You’re a lot tougher than I thought.”

  “Uh-huh.” I squint into the viewfinder. “Turn your head to the right. And try not to look so happy. You’re supposed to be bummed out about your life.”

  “I don’t want to look ugly.”

  I sigh and lift my head. “Just try not to look like a goddamned cheerleader, okay?”

  “Okay,” she reluctantly agrees. She pulls her knee up to her chin and looks at me from beneath her heavily mascaraed lashes.

  “Great.” I click the shutter, reminded of Donna LaDonna’s “big secret”: She hates her eyelashes. Without mascara, they’re pale stubby spikes, like the lashes on a dog. It’s Donna’s biggest fear. Someday, some guy will see her without mascara and run screaming from the room.

  Sad. I click off several more shots, then shout, “Got it.” I put down the camera as Donna swings her legs off the porch railing. “When are we going to do Marilyn?” she asks as I follow her into the house.

  “We can do Marilyn this afternoon. But it means we have to do punk tomorrow.”

  She heads up the stairs, leaning her head over the side. “I hate punk. It’s gross.”

  “We’re going to do you androgynous,” I say, trying to make the prospect as appealing as possible. “Like David Bowie. We’re going to paint your whole body red.”

  “You’re insane.” She shakes her head and storms away to change, but she isn’t angry. I’ve learned that much about her anyway. Having a hissy fit is Donna LaDonna’s way of teasing.

  I push aside an open box of cereal and hike myself onto the marble countertop to wait. Donna’s house is a smorgasbord of textures — marble, gold, heavy silk drapes — that somehow don’t go together and create the impression that one has entered a fun house of bad taste. But in the last few days, I’ve gotten used to it.