Кэндес Бушнелл - Carrie Diaries

We skittle behind the Dumpster. It’s freezing now, and I wrap my arms around my chest, jumping up and down to keep warm.

“Will you stop that?” Maggie hisses. “Someone’s coming.” I dive into a bush next to the Dumpster, scramble around for a bit, and sit back on my heels.

A souped-up Mustang screeches into the lot. Black Sabbath blares from the car as the door opens and the driver gets out. He’s a large muscular guy, and when he glances around surreptitiously, I recognize Randy Sandler, who was two years ahead of us and the quarterback on the football team.

“Ohmigod. Randy Sandler just went in.”

“Randy Sandler?” The Mouse asks. She and Maggie crawl over to join me.

“This is my fault,” Maggie says. “If I hadn’t stopped seeing Walt, he wouldn’t need to come here for sex. He must be suffering from a terrible case of blue balls.”

“Blue balls is a myth,” I whisper loudly. “It’s one of those lies men tell women to get them to have sex.”

“I don’t believe it. Poor Walt,” Maggie groans.

“Shhhh,” The Mouse commands as the door swings open.

Randy Sandler appears again, but this time he’s not alone. Walt comes out behind him, blinking in the light. He and Randy exchange a few words and laugh, then they both get into Randy’s car. The engine roars to life, but before they pull away, Randy leans over and kisses Walt on the mouth. After a minute or so, they separate; then Walt pulls down the vanity mirror and smoothes his hair.

For a moment, there’s silence, save for the thumping of the muffler. Then the car pulls away as we squat, motionless, listening to the sound of the engine until it fades into a low peep.

“Well.” Maggie stands up and brushes herself off. “That’s that, I guess.”

“Hey,” The Mouse says gently. “You know what? It’s all for the best. You’re with Peter, and now Walt is with Randy.”

“It’s like A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” I add hopefully, “where everyone ends up with the person they’re supposed to be with.”

“Uh-huh,” Maggie says blankly as she heads for the car.

“And you have to admit, Randy Sandler is pretty good-looking. He was one of the best-looking guys on the football team.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Think about how many girls would be jealous if they knew that Randy was...”

“Gay?” Maggie suddenly screams. “That Randy and Walt are gay? And they’re lying to everyone about it?” She yanks open the car door. “It’s great. Just great. Thinking for two years that some guy is in love with you and then finding out that he doesn’t even like girls? And all the time you were with him he’s been thinking about” — she pauses, takes a breath, and shrieks — “some other guy!”

“Maggie, take it easy,” The Mouse says.

“I will not take it easy. Why should I?” Maggie starts the engine, then shuts it off and buries her face in her hands. “We were going to move to Vermont. We were going to have an antique store. And a farm stand. And I believed him. And all that time he was lying.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t,” The Mouse says. “He probably had no idea. Then when you guys broke up...”

“He loved you, Mags. He really loved you. Everyone knows that,” I say.

“And now everyone is going to know how stupid I was. Do you have any idea how utterly dumb I feel right now? I mean, could I be any dumber?”

“Maggie.” I shake her arm a little. “How were you supposed to know? I mean, a person’s sexuality is…kind of their own business, right?”

“Not when they hurt other people.”

“Walt would never hurt you on purpose,” I say, trying to reason with her. “And besides, Mag. This is about Walt. It’s not really about you.”

Oops. There’s an expression of fury I’ve never seen on Maggie’s face before. “Oh yeah?” she snarls. “Then why don’t you trying being me for a change?” And she bursts into tears.

“These are supposed to be the best days of our lives,” I say mournfully.

“Oh, Carrie.” George stretches his lips into a smile. “Where do you get these overly sentimental ideas? If you took a survey, you’d find half the adult population hated their high school years and would never want to go back.”

“But I don’t want to be one of them.”

“No danger of that. You’ve got too much joie de vivre. And you seem to be a great forgiver of human nature.”

“I guess I figured out a while ago that most people can’t help what they do,” I say, encouraged by his interest. “And what they do doesn’t usually have anything to do with you. I mean, people kind of instinctually do what’s best for them at the time and think about the consequences later, right?”

George laughs, but this, I realize with a pang, is a nearly perfect description of my own behavior.

A gust of wind blows a fine dust of snow from the tops of the trees into our faces. I shiver. “You cold?” George slides his arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer.

I nod, inhaling the sharp air. I take in the snow and the pine trees and the cute log-hewn lodges and try to pretend I’m someplace far, far away, like Switzerland.

The Mouse and I forced Maggie to make a pact that we would never tell anyone what we saw that day in East Milton, because it’s Walt’s business and his to handle how he sees fit. Maggie agreed not to tell anyone — including Peter — but it didn’t prevent her from turning into an emotional wreck. She skipped two days of school and spent them in bed; on the third day, when she finally appeared in assembly, her face was puffy and she was wearing sunglasses. Then she wore nothing but black for the rest of the week. The Mouse and I did everything we could — making sure one of us was with her during breaks and even getting food for her at the cafeteria so she didn’t have to stand in line — but you’d think the love of her life had died. Which is slightly annoying, because if you look at it from a logical point of view, all that really happened was she dated a guy for two years, broke up with him, and then they both found someone else. Does it really matter if that “someone” is a guy or a girl? But Maggie refuses to see it that way. She insists it’s all her fault — she wasn’t “woman enough” for Walt.

So when George called and offered to take me skiing, I jumped at the chance to get away from my own life for a few hours.

And the minute I saw his steady, happy face, I found myself telling him all about my problems with Walt and Maggie, and how my piece came out in The Nutmeg and my best friend was weird about it. I told him everything, save for the fact that I happen to have a boyfriend. I will tell him today, when the moment is right. But in the meantime, it’s such a relief to unburden myself that I don’t want to spoil the fun.

I know I’m being selfish. On the other hand, George does seem to find my stories highly entertaining. “You can use all of this in your writing,” he said during the drive to the mountain.

“I couldn’t,” I countered. “If I put any of this in The Nutmeg, I’d be run out of school.”

“You’re experiencing every writer’s dilemma. Art versus protecting those you know — and love.”

“Not me,” I said. “I’d never want to hurt someone for the sake of my writing. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself afterward.”

“You’ll warm up as soon as we get moving,” George says now.

“If we get moving,” I remind him. I peer over the railing of the chairlift to the trail below. It’s a wide path bordered by pine trees, where several skiers in candy-colored suits weave across the snow like sewing needles, leaving tracks of thread behind. From this vantage point, they don’t appear to be exceptional athletes. If they can do it, why not me?

“You scared?” George asks.

“Nah,” I say boldly, even though I’ve skied a total of three times in my life, and only in Lali’s backyard.

“Remember to keep the tips of your skis up. Let the back of the seat push you off.”

“Sure,” I say, clutching the side of the chairlift. We’re nearly at the top, and I’ve just admitted that I’ve never actually ridden in a chairlift before.

“All you have to do is get off,” George says in amusement. “If you don’t, they have to shut down the entire lift and the other skiers get angry.”

“Don’t want to piss off those snow bunnies,” I mutter, bracing for the worst. Within seconds, however, I’m gliding smoothly down a little hill and the chairlift is behind me. “Wow, that was easy,” I say, turning back to George. At which point I promptly fall over.

“Not bad for a beginner,” George says, helping me up. “You’ll see. You’ll pick it up in no time. I can tell you’re a natural.”

George is just so nice.

We tackle the bunny slope first, where I manage to master the snowplow and the turn. After a couple of runs, I’ve worked up my confidence and we move on to the intermediate slope.

“Like it?” George asks on our fourth trip up the chairlift.

“Love it,” I exclaim. “It’s so much fun.”

“You’re fun,” George says. He leans in for a kiss, and I allow him a quick peck, suddenly feeling like a sleazebag. What would Sebastian think if he saw me here with George?

“George...” I begin, deciding to tell him about Sebastian now, before this goes any further, but he cuts me off.

“Ever since I met you, I’ve been trying to figure out who you remind me of. And finally, I have.”

“Who?” I ask, full of curiosity.

“My great-aunt,” he says proudly.

“Your great-aunt?” I ask, with mock outrage. “Do I look that old?”

“It’s not how you look. It’s your spirit. She has the same fun-loving spirit you do. She’s the kind of person other people love to be around.” And then he drops the bomb: “She’s a writer.”

“A writer?” I gasp. “An actual writer?”

He nods. “She was very famous in her time. But she’s about eighty now...”

“What’s her name?”

“Not going to tell you,” he says cunningly. “Not yet. But I’ll take you to visit her sometime.”

“Tell me!” I demand, playfully swatting his arm.

“Nope. I want it to be a surprise.”

George is just full of surprises today. I’m actually having a good time.

“I can’t wait for you to meet her. You two are going to love each other.”

“I can’t wait to meet her, either,” I gush with enthusiasm. Wow. A real writer. I’ve never met one, with the exception of Mary Gordon Howard.

We slide off the chairlift and pause at the top of the run. And then I take a look down the mountain. It’s steep. Really steep. “I’d like to get down this hill, first, though,” I add, clutching my ski poles.

“You’ll be fine,” he says reassuringly. “Take it slow and do lots of turns.”

I do pretty well at the top of the hill. But when we get to the first drop-off, I’m suddenly terrified. I stop, dizzy with panic. “I can’t do this.” I grimace. “Can I take off my skis and walk down?”

“If you do, you’ll look like a total wimp,” George says. “Come on, kiddo. I’ll go ahead of you. Follow me and do everything I do and you’ll be fine.”

George pushes off. I bend my knees, picturing myself on crutches, when a young woman glides past. I only catch a glimpse of her profile, but she looks oddly familiar. Then I register the fact that she’s incredibly stunning, with long, straight blond hair, a rabbit-fur headband, and a white one-piece ski suit with silver stars up the side. I’m not the only one who’s noticed her though.

“Amelia!” George cries out.

This gorgeous Amelia girl, who looks like she belongs in an ad for some fresh outdoorsy toothpaste, slides smoothly to a stop, lifts her goggles, and beams. “George!” she exclaims.

“Hey!” George says, and skis after her.

So much for helping the skiing impaired.

He slides up next to her, kisses her on both cheeks, exchanges a few words, and then looks uphill. “Carrie!” he cries, waving. “Come on. I want you to meet a friend of mine.”

“Nice to meet you,” I yell from afar.

“Come down,” George shouts.

“We can’t come to you so you’ll have to come to us,” adds the Amelia person, who is beginning to irritate me with her easy perfection. She’s obviously one of those expert-types who learned to ski before she could walk.

Here goes nothing. Gripping my knees, I push off on my poles.

Fantastic. I’m heading straight for them. There’s only one problem: I can’t stop.

“Watch out!” I scream. By some miracle of nature, I don’t actually ram right into Amelia, only scraping the tops of her skis. I do, however, grab her arm to stop myself, at which point I fall over and pull her down on top of me.