Кэндес Бушнелл - Carrie Diaries

“No!” she says fiercely.

“Come on, Mags. You don’t even like dolls.”

“I know,” she says, wiping her eyes.

“And Peter is crazy about you. He may be going to Harvard, but it doesn’t mean he’s going anywhere.”

“I didn’t get into Boston University,” she says suddenly. “That’s right. I got a rejection letter from them yesterday when Peter got his acceptance to Harvard.”

“Oh, Mags.”

“And pretty soon, everyone will be leaving. You, The Mouse, Walt...”

“You’ll get in someplace else,” I say encouragingly.

“What if I don’t?”

Good question. And one I haven’t faced squarely until now. What if nothing works out the way it’s supposed to? On the other hand, if it doesn’t, what are you supposed to do? You can’t just sit there.

“I miss Walt,” she says.

“I do too,” I say, hugging my knees to my chest. “Where is Walt anyway?”

“Don’t ask me. I’ve hardly seen him for three weeks. That’s not like Walt.”

“No, it isn’t,” I agree, thinking about how cynical Walt’s been lately. “Come on. Let’s call him.”

Back in the house, the party is in full swing. Sebastian is dancing with Lali, which annoys me slightly, but I have more important things to worry about than my best friend and my boyfriend. I pick up the phone and dial Walt’s number.

“Hello?” his mother answers.

“Is Walt there?” I ask, yelling over the noise of the party.

“Who is this?” she asks suspiciously.

“Carrie Bradshaw.”

“He’s out, Carrie.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He said he was meeting up with you,” she snaps, and hangs up the phone.

Weird, I think, shaking my head. Definitely weird.

Meanwhile, Maggie has commandeered the party by standing on the couch and doing a striptease. Everyone is hooting and clapping, save for Peter, who is trying to appear as if he’s enjoying it, but is actually mortified. I can’t let Mags go down alone, not in the state she’s in.

I kick off my shoes and jump onto the couch next to her.

Yes, I’m aware that nobody really wants to see me doing a striptease, but people are used to me making a fool of myself. I’m wearing white cotton tights under a cheap sequined skirt that I bought at a discount store, and I begin pulling them off at the toe. Within seconds, Lali has joined us on the couch, running her hands up and down her body while elbowing Maggie and me to the side. I’m standing on one foot, and I fall over the back of the couch, taking Maggie with me.

Maggie and I are lying on the ground, laughing hysterically. “Are you okay?” Peter asks, bending over Maggie.

“I’m fine,” she giggles. And she is. Now that Peter is paying attention to her, everything is great. For the moment, anyway.

“Carrie Bradshaw, you’re a bad influence,” Peter chides as he leads Maggie away.

“And you’re an uptight prig,” I mutter, fixing my tights as I get to my feet.

I look over at Peter, who is pouring Maggie a whiskey, a tender yet smug expression on his face.

How far would you go to get what you wanted?

And that’s when it hits me. I could write for the school newspaper. It would give me material to send into The New School. And it would be — ugh — real.

No, scolds a voice in my head. Not The Nutmeg. That really is going too far. Besides, if you write for The Nutmeg, you’re a hypocrite. You never hesitate to tell anyone who will listen that you hate The Nutmeg — including Peter, who’s the editor.

Yes, but what choice do you have? asks another voice. Do you really want to do nothing, letting life just happen to you like you’re some kind of loser? If you don’t at least try to write for The Nutmeg, you’ll probably never get into that writing program.

Hating myself, I head over to the bar, pour myself a vodka cranberry juice, and sidle up to Maggie and Peter. “Hi, guys,” I say casually, taking a sip of my drink. “So Petey-boy,” I begin. “I was thinking I might want to write for that newspaper of yours after all.”

He takes a sip of his drink and looks at me, irritated. “It’s not my newspaper.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. And it’s very difficult to communicate with a person who can’t be precise. That’s what writing is all about. Precision.”

And “authenticity.” And “writing what you know.” Two other things I apparently lack. I give Peter a look. If this is what getting into Harvard does to a person, maybe Harvard should be banned.

“I know it’s technically not your newspaper, Peter,” I say, matching his tone. “But you are the editor. I was merely deferring to what I assumed was your authority. But if you’re not in charge...”

He glances at Maggie who gives him a quizzical look. “I didn’t mean that,” he says. “I mean, if you want to write for the paper, it’s fine with me. But you have to check with our advisor, Ms. Smidgens.”

“No problem,” I say sweetly.

“Oh, good,” Maggie says. “I really want you guys to be friends.”

Peter and I eye each other. Never going to happen. But we’ll pretend, for Maggie’s sake.

“Walt!” I say, catching up to him in the hall. He stops and wipes a lock of hair off his forehead. Walt’s hair has gotten a little longer than usual, and he’s sweating slightly.

“Where were you on Saturday night? We were all expecting you at Lali’s party.”

“Couldn’t make it,” he says.

“Why? What else did you have to do in this town?” I try to make it sound like a joke, but Walt doesn’t take it as one.

“Believe it or not, I actually have other friends.”

“You do?”

“There is life outside of Castlebury High.”

“Come on,” I say, nudging him. “I was kidding. We miss you.”

“Yeah, I miss you guys too,” he says, shifting his books from one arm to another. “I had to take an extra shift at the Hamburger Shack. Which means I have to spend all my free time studying.”

“That’s a drag.” We’ve reached the teachers’ lounge, where I pause before going in. “Walt, is everything okay? Really?”

“Sure,” he says. “Why would you even ask?”

“Don’t know.”

“See ya,” he says. And as he walks away, I realize he’s lying — about the extra shift at the Hamburger Shack, anyway. I took Missy and Dorrit there two nights last week, and Walt wasn’t working either time.

Must find out what’s up with Walt, I think, making a mental note as I ease open the door to the lounge.

Inside are Ms. Smidgens, The Nutmeg advisor, along with Ms. Pizchiek, who teaches homemaking and typing. They’re both smoking and talking about how they might get their colors done at the G. Fox department store in Hartford. “Susie says it changed her life,” Ms. Pizchiek says. “All her life she was wearing blues, and it turned out she should have been wearing orange.”

“Orange is for pumpkins,” Ms. Smidgens says, which makes me kind of like her a little because I agree. “This whole color analysis craze is a crock. It’s only another way to part unsuspecting fools and their money.” And is probably useless if your skin is gray from smoking three packs of cigarettes a day.

“Oh, but it’s fun,” Ms. Pizchiek counters, with no dampening of enthusiasm. “We get a group of gals together on a Saturday morning and then have lunch afterward...” She suddenly looks up and sees me standing in the doorway. “Yes?” she asks curtly. The teachers’ lounge is strictly off-limits for students.

“I need to talk to Ms. Smidgens.”

Ms. Smidgens must be really bored with Ms. Pizchiek, because instead of turning me away, she says, “Carrie Bradshaw, right? Well, come in. And close the door behind you.”

I smile as I attempt to hold my breath. Even though I smoke sometimes, being in a closed environment with two women who are puffing away like chimneys makes me want to wave my hand in front of my face. But that would be rude, so I try breathing through my mouth instead.

“I was wondering...” I begin.

“I get it. You want to work on the newspaper,” Ms. Smidgens says. “Happens every year. Sometime after the first quarter some senior comes to me and suddenly wants in on The Nutmeg. I take it you need to build up your extracurricular activities, right?”

“No,” I say, hoping the smoke won’t make me sick.

“Then why?” Smidgens asks.

“I think I could bring some fresh perspective to the paper.”

This is obviously the wrong thing to say, because she says, “Oh, really?” like she’s heard it a million times before.

“I think I’m a pretty good writer,” I say cautiously, refusing to give up.

Ms. Smidgens is not impressed. “Everyone wants to write. We need people to do layout.” Now she’s really trying to get rid of me, but I don’t go. I just stand there, holding my breath with my eyes bugging out of my head. My face must scare her a little, because she relents. “I suppose if you did layout, we could let you try writing something. The editorial committee meets three times a week — Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at four. If you miss more than one meeting a week, you’re out.”

“Okay,” I mumble, nodding vigorously.

“So we’ll see you this afternoon at four.”

I give her a little wave and skittle out of there.

“I bet Peter’s going to dump Maggie,” Lali says, removing her clothes. She stretches, naked, before sliding into her Speedo. I’ve always admired Lali’s lack of modesty when it comes to her body. I’ve never been able to let go of my insecurity about being naked, and I have to contort my arms and legs to maintain a level of dignity when getting changed.

“No way.” I tuck my butt as I remove my underwear. “He’s in love with her.”

“He’s in lust with her,” Lali corrects. “Sebastian told me Peter was asking him all about the other women he’s been with. Specifically, Donna LaDonna. Does that sound like a guy who’s madly in love to you?”

Hearing the name Donna LaDonna still makes me cringe. It’s been weeks since she launched her smear campaign, and while it’s been reduced to dirty looks in the hall, I suspect it’s merely bubbling under the surface, ready to erupt at any moment. Perhaps it’s part of Donna’s plan to seduce Peter and wreak havoc.

“Sebastian told you?” I frown. “That’s funny. He didn’t tell me. If Peter told Sebastian he was interested in Donna, Sebastian would have definitely mentioned it.”

“Maybe he doesn’t tell you everything,” Lali says casually.

What’s that supposed to mean? I wonder, giving her a look. But she seems to be completely unaware of any breach of friendship etiquette, bending over and shaking out her arms.

“Do you think we should tell Maggie?”

“I’m not going to tell her,” Lali says.

“He hasn’t done anything, has he? So maybe it was just talk. Besides, Peter’s always boasting about how he’s friends with Donna.”

“Didn’t Sebastian date her?” Lali asks.

Another strange comment. Lali knows he did. It’s like she’s using every excuse to bring up Sebastian’s name.

Sure enough, the next thing she says is, “By the way, Aztec Two-Step is playing at the Shaboo Inn in a few weeks. I thought maybe you, me, and Sebastian could go together. I mean, we could go, just the two of us, but since you always seem to be with Sebastian, I thought you’d probably want him to come too. Plus, he’s a really good dancer.”

At one time, I would have loved the idea of going to see our favorite band with Sebastian, but it suddenly makes me uncomfortable. On the other hand, how can I refuse without making it sound like something’s wrong? “Sounds fun,” I say.

“It’ll be a blast,” Lali agrees quickly.

“I’ll ask him this afternoon.” I twist my hair and wedge it under my swim cap.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Lali says, as if it’s no big deal. “I’ll ask him when I see him.” She strides out of the locker room.

I have a disturbing vision of Lali dancing with Sebastian at her party.

I take my place on the block next to her. “You don’t have to worry about telling Sebastian. He’s picking me up at four. I’ll ask him then.”

She looks over at me and shrugs. “Whatever.”

As my feet leave the block, I remember I have the newspaper meeting at four. My body stiffens, and I hit the water like a board. I’m momentarily stunned by the impact, but then habit takes over and I start swimming.

Crap. I forgot to tell Sebastian about the meeting. What if I’m gone by the time he turns up? Then Lali will get her clutches on him for sure.