Кэндес Бушнелл - Carrie Diaries

Maggie flushes. “I’d never want to be prom queen. I’d die if I had to get up in front of everyone.”

“Really? I’d love it. To each her own, right?” Jen P pats Maggie’s shoulder, gives me a sharp look, and walks off.

“Right,” I mutter under my breath. I sneak a look at Maggie, who appears perplexed.

Maybe I shouldn’t have written that piece after all.

A month has passed since Pinky Weatherton made “his” debut in The Nutmeg, and since then, Pinky’s been busy, publishing a story a week: “The Clique Climber,” about a girl who manages to climb her way to the top by becoming everyone’s gofer; “The Nerd Prince,” about how a nerdly guy can turn into a hunk in senior year; and “Castlebury Horse Race! Who Will Be Prom King and Queen?” Pinky has also completed another story, called “Boyfriend Stealers and the Guys Who Love Them” — a thinly veiled account of Lali and Sebastian’s relationship — which he hasn’t turned in yet and which he plans to publish the last week of school.

In the meantime, I made photocopies of all five stories and sent them in to The New School. George insisted I call to make sure they’d been received. Normally, I’d never do something like that, but George says the world is full of people who all want the same thing, and you have to do a little something extra to make them remember you. I said I could run through the halls naked but he didn’t get the joke. So I called. “Yes, Ms. Bradshaw,” said a man’s deep, sonorous voice on the other end of the line. “We received your stories and will get back to you.”

“But when?”

“We’ll get back to you,” he repeated, and hung up.

I’m never going to get into that program.

“She’s just so pushy!” Maggie exclaims now, frowning.

“Jen P? I thought you decided you kind of liked her.”

“I did — at first. But she’s too friendly, you know?” Maggie slides the bags of confetti into place with her toe. “She’s always hanging around. I swear, Carrie, ever since Pinky Weatherton wrote that story about Peter...”

Uh-oh. Not again. “The Nerd Prince?” I ask. “How do you know it was about Peter?”

“Who else could it have been about? What other guy in this school was a nerd and then I came along and turned him into a hot guy?”

“Hmmmm,” I say, running through the piece in my mind.

It usually starts in September. If you’re a girl, and a senior, you look around and wonder: Will I have a date for the prom? And if not, how can I find one? And this is where the Nerd Prince comes in.

He’s the guy you overlooked in freshman, sophomore, and junior year. First he was the short guy with the high voice. Then he was the taller guy with zits. And then, something happened. His voice deepened. He got contacts. And all of a sudden you find yourself sitting next to him in biology, and you think — hey, I could actually like this guy.

And the Nerd Prince has his pluses. Because he hasn’t been corrupted by being the hot guy his whole life, he’s grateful. And because he hasn’t been yelled at by coaches or trampled on by the football team, he’s actually kind of nice. You can trust him….

Maggie folds her arms, glares at Jen P’s back, and continues. “Ever since that story came out about Peter, Jen P has been after him. You should see the way she looks at him...”

“Come on, Magwitch. I’m sure that’s not true. Besides, Peter would never like Jen P anyway. He hates those kinds of girls.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know, Carrie. He’s changed.”

“How?”

“It’s like he thinks he deserves more.”

“It doesn’t get any better than you, Mags,” I say gently. “He knows that.”

“He might, but Jen P doesn’t.”

And then, as if in illustration of her point, Peter strolls into the gym. Maggie waves, but Peter doesn’t see her, possibly due to the fact that Jen P rushes over to him first, laughing and waving her arms. Peter nods and smiles.

“Maggie...” I turn to speak to her, but she’s gone.

I find her in the parking lot, sitting in the Cadillac. She’s in tears and has locked all the doors. “Maggie!” I tap on the windshield. She shakes her head, lights up a cigarette, and eventually rolls down the window. “Yes?”

“Maggie, come on. They were only talking.” Just like Sebastian and Lali were only talking — at first. I feel horrible. “Let me in.”

She unlocks the doors and I crawl into the backseat. “Sweetie, you’re being paranoid.” But I’m worried she’s not. Is this somehow my fault? If I hadn’t written that story about the Nerd Prince…

“I hate Pinky Weatherton,” she gripes. “If I ever meet him, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. Now Peter’s head is swollen, and he thinks he’s God’s gift.” Suddenly, she spins around. “You work for that Nutmeg. You must know Pinky Weatherton.”

“Maggie, I don’t. I swear.”

“Well then,” she says, narrowing her eyes in suspicion, “who does?”

“I don’t know,” I say helplessly. “This Pinky Weatherton person — he gives his stories to Gayle, and Gayle...”

“Who’s Gayle?” she demands. “Maybe Gayle is Pinky Weatherton.”

“I don’t think so, Mags.” I examine my cuticles. “Gayle is only a freshman.”

“I need to talk to Peter.”

“That’s a good idea,” I say soothingly. “I’m sure Peter can straighten everything out.”

“So you’re on his side now.”

“I’m on your side, Maggie. I’m only trying to help.”

“Then get him,” she commands. “Go into the gym and find him. Tell him I need to see him. Immediately.”

“Sure.” I hop out of the car and hurry back inside. Jen P is still holding Peter captive, yammering about the importance of helium balloons.

I interrupt and give him the message about Maggie. He looks irritated but follows me out of the gym, waving reluctantly to Jen P and telling her he’ll be right back. I watch as he crosses the parking lot, anger building into every step. By the time he reaches the car, he’s so pissed off he jerks open the door and slams it behind him.

Maybe it’s time for Pinky to move back to Missouri.

The Mouse comes over for dinner on Saturday night. I serve coq au vin, which takes me all day to prepare, but I’ve recently discovered that cooking is a great way to distract yourself from your problems while providing a sense of accomplishment. You feel like you’re doing something useful even though a few hours later you eat all the evidence. Plus, I’m trying to stay home more so I can spend time with Dorrit, who, the shrink says, needs to feel like she’s still part of a working family. Once a week now, I make something elaborate and time consuming from the Julia Child cookbook.

My dad, of course, loves The Mouse — she can talk theorems almost as well as he can — and after we talk about math for a while, the conversation turns to college and how excited The Mouse is about going to Yale and me to Brown, and then the conversation somehow turns to boys. The Mouse tells my father all about Danny, and eventually, George’s name comes up. “Carrie had a very nice fellow interested in her,” my father says pointedly. “But she rejected him.”

I sigh. “I haven’t rejected George, Dad. We talk all the time on the phone. We’re friends.”

“When I was a young man, boys and girls weren’t ‘friends.’ If you were ‘friends’ it meant...”

“I know what it meant, Dad,” I interrupt. “But it’s not like that now. Boys and girls really can be friends.”

“Who’s this George?” The Mouse asks. I groan. Every time George calls, which is about once a week, he asks me out on a date and I turn him down, saying I’m not ready. But really, when it comes to George, I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. Aloud I say, “He’s just some guy who goes to Brown.”

“He’s a very nice young man,” my father says. “Exactly the kind of guy a father wishes his daughter would be dating.”

“And exactly the kind of guy the daughter knows she should be dating but just can’t. Because she’s not attracted to him.”

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.”