The Carrie Diaries (10 page)

“Maggie, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says coldly.

“Are you angry at me?” I gasp.

She stops, turns, and glares. And there it is: The international girl face for “I’m mad at you, and you should know why, but I’m not going to explain it.”

“What did
I
do?”

“It’s what you didn’t do.”

“Okay, what
didn’t
I do?”

“You tell me,” she says, and starts walking.

I run through a variety of scenarios but can’t come up with a clue.

“Mags.” I chase after her down the hall. “I’m sorry I didn’t do something. But I honestly don’t know what that something is.”

“Sebastian,” she snaps.

“Huh?”

“You and Sebastian. I come to school this morning and everyone knows all about it. Everyone except
me
. And I’m
supposed
to be one of your best friends.”

We’re nearly at the door to assembly, where I will have to walk in knowing that I’m going to have to face the hostility of Donna LaDonna’s friends, as well as a small army of kids who aren’t her friends, but want to be.

“Maggie,” I plead. “It just happened. I didn’t exactly have time to call you. I was planning to tell you first thing this morning.”

“Lali knew,” she says, not buying my explanation.

“Lali was there. We were at the pool when he came by to pick me up.”

“So?”

“Come on, Magwitch. I don’t need you mad at me as well.”

“We’ll see.” She pulls open the door to the auditorium. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Okay.” I sigh as she heads off. I skittle along the back wall and hurry down the aisle to my assigned seat, trying to attract as little attention as possible. When I finally reach my row, I stop, startled by the realization that something is terribly wrong. I check the letter “B” to make sure I haven’t made a mistake.

I haven’t. But my seat is now occupied by Donna LaDonna.

I look around for Sebastian, but he’s not there. Coward.
I have no choice. I’m going to have to brazen it out.

“Excuse me,” I say, making my way past Susie Beck, who has worn purple every day of her life for the last two years; Ralph Bomenski, a frail, white-skinned boy whose father owns a gas station and makes Ralphie work there in all kinds of weather; and Ellen Brack, who is six feet tall and is giving off the impression that she’d prefer to disappear—a sentiment I understand completely.

Donna LaDonna is oblivious to my progress. Her hair is like a giant dandelion seed, obstructing her view. She’s talking with great animation to Tommy Brewster. It’s the longest conversation I’ve ever witnessed between them. Nonetheless, it makes sense, as Tommy is part of her clique. Her voice is so loud you can practically hear her from three rows away.

“Some people don’t know their place,” she says. “It’s all about pecking order. Do you know what happens to chickens that don’t stay in their place?”

“No,” Tommy says dumbly. He’s noticed me, but quickly returns his eyes to their proper spot—on Donna LaDonna’s face.

“They get pecked to death. By the other chickens,” Donna says ominously.

Okay. Enough. I can’t stand here forever. Poor Ellen Brack’s knees are up to her ears. There simply isn’t enough room for both of us.

“Excuse me,” I say politely.

No response. Donna LaDonna continues her tirade. “And on top of that, she’s trying to steal another girl’s boyfriend.”

Really?
Donna LaDonna has stolen just about every one of her friends’ boyfriends at one time or another, simply to remind them that she can.

“Notice I said
trying
. Because the most pathetic thing about it is that she hasn’t succeeded. He called me last night and told me what a”—Donna suddenly leans forward and whispers in Tommy’s ear so I can’t make out the word—“she is.”

Tommy laughs uproariously.

Sebastian called her?

No way. I can’t let her get to me.

“Excuse me,” I say again. But this time it’s much louder and with much more authority. If she doesn’t turn around, she’s going to look like a complete idiot.

She turns. Her eyes slide over me like slow-burning acid. “Carrie,” she says. “Since you seem to be a person who likes to change the rules, I thought we’d change our seats today.”

Clever, I think. Unfortunately, not allowed.

“Why don’t we switch seats another day?” I suggest.

“Oooooh,” she says mockingly. “Are you afraid of getting in trouble? A Goody Two-shoes like you? Don’t want to ruin your precious record, do you?”

Tommy throws back his head as if this, too, is hilariously funny. Jeez. He would laugh at a stick if someone told him to.

“All right,” I say. “If you won’t move, I guess I’ll have to sit on top of you.”

Childish, yes. But effective.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh really?” And I lift my handbag as if I’m about to place it on her head.

“I’m sorry, Tommy,” she says, getting to her feet. “But some people are simply too juvenile to bother with.” She brushes past me on her way out, deliberately stepping on my foot. I pretend not to notice. But even when she’s gone, there’s no relief. My heart is thumping like an entire brass band. My hands are shaking.

Did Sebastian
really
call her?

And where is Sebastian anyway?

I manage to get through assembly by berating myself for my behavior. What was I thinking? Why did I piss off the most powerful girl in the school over a guy? Because I got the opportunity, that’s why. And I took it. I couldn’t help myself. Which makes me a not-very-logical and perhaps not-very-nice person as well. I’m really going to get into trouble for this one. And I probably deserve it.

What if
everyone
is mad at me for the rest of the year?

If they are, I’ll write a book about them. I’ll send it into the summer writing program at The New School, and this time I’ll get in. Then I’ll move to New York and make new friends and show them all.

But right as we’re shuffling out of assembly, Lali finds me. “I’m proud of you,” she says. “I can’t believe you stood up to Donna LaDonna.”

“Eh, it was nothing.” I shrug.

“I was watching the whole time. I was afraid you were going to start crying or something. But you didn’t.”

I’m not exactly a crybaby. Never have been. But still.

The Mouse joins us. “I was thinking…. Maybe you and me and Danny and Sebastian could go on a double date when Danny comes up to visit.”

“Sure,” I say, wishing she hadn’t said this in front of Lali. With Maggie mad at me, the last thing I need is for Lali to feel left out as well. “Maybe we can all go out. In a group,” I say pointedly, adding, for Lali’s sake, “Since when did we start needing boyfriends to have fun?”

“You’re right,” The Mouse says, catching my drift. “You know what they say: A woman needs a man about as much as a fish needs a bicycle.”

We all nod in agreement. A fish may not need a bicycle, but it sure as hell needs friends.

“Ow!” Someone pokes me in the back. I turn, expecting to see one of Donna LaDonna’s lieutenants. Instead, it’s Sebastian, holding a pencil and laughing.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say, heavy on the sarcasm. “Donna LaDonna was sitting in my seat when I got to assembly.”

“Uh-huh,” he says noncommittally.

“I didn’t see
you
in assembly.”

“That’s because
I
wasn’t there.”

“Where were you?” I can’t believe I just said that. When did I turn into his mother?

“Does it matter?” he asks.

“There was a scene. With Donna LaDonna.”

“Nice.”

“It was ugly. Now she really hates me.”

“You know my motto,” he says, playfully tapping me on the nose with his pencil. “Avoid female trouble at all costs. What are you doing this afternoon? Skip swim practice and let’s go somewhere.”

“What about Donna LaDonna?” It’s the closest I can come to asking if he called her.

“What about her? You want her to come too?”

I glare at him.

“Then forget about her. She’s not important,” he says as we take our seats in calculus.

He’s right, I think, opening my book to the chapter on rogue integers. Donna LaDonna is not important. Calculus is, along with rogue integers. You never know when a rogue integer is going to show up and ruin your entire equation. Perhaps that’s how Donna LaDonna feels about me. I am a rogue integer and I must be stopped.

“Carrie?”

“Yes, Mr. Douglas?”

“Could you come up here and finish this equation?”

“Sure.” I pick up a piece of chalk and stare at the numbers on the blackboard. Who could ever imagine that calculus would be easier than dating?

“So the long knives are out,” Walt says, referring to the assembly incident with a certain degree of satisfaction. He lights a cigarette and tilts back his head, blowing smoke into the rafters of the dairy barn.

“I knew he liked you,” The Mouse says triumphantly.

“Mags?” I ask.

Maggie shrugs and looks away. She’s still not talking to me.

She grinds her cigarette under her shoe, picks up her books, and walks off.

“What’s eating her?” The Mouse asks.

“She’s mad at me because I didn’t tell her about Sebastian.”

“That’s stupid,” The Mouse says. She looks at Walt. “Are you sure she’s not mad at you?”

“I’ve done absolutely nothing. I am blame-free,” Walt insists.

Walt has taken the breakup awfully well. It’s been two days since Walt and Maggie had their “talk,” and their relationship seems to be nearly the same as it was before, save for the fact that Maggie is now officially dating Peter.

“Maybe Maggie’s mad at you because you’re not more upset,” I add.

“She said she thought we made better friends than lovers. I agreed,” Walt says. “You don’t get to make a decision and then be angry about it when the other person agrees with you.”

“No,” says The Mouse. “Because that would require a certain degree of logic. It’s not a criticism,” she says quickly, catching the warning expression on my face. “But it’s true. Maggie isn’t the most logical person.”

“But she is the nicest.” I’m thinking I’d better go after her, when Sebastian appears.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says. “I just got accosted by Tommy Brewster who kept asking me something about chickens.”

“You guys are too cute,” Walt says, shaking his head. “Just like Bonnie and Clyde.”

“What should we do?” Sebastian asks.

“I don’t know. What do you want to do?” Now that we’re in Sebastian’s car, I suddenly feel insecure. We’ve seen each other three days in a row. What does it mean? Are we dating?

“We could go to my house.”

“Or maybe we
should
do something.” If we go to his house, all we’ll do is make out. I don’t want to be the girl who only has sex with him. I want more. I want to be his
girlfriend.

But how the hell do I do that?

“Okay,” he says, resting his hand on my leg and sliding it up my thigh, “Where do
you
want to go?”

“Don’t know,” I say glumly.

“The movies?”

“Yeah.” I perk up.

“There’s a great Clint Eastwood retrospective at the Chesterfield Theatre.”

“Perfect.” I’m not sure I know exactly who Clint Eastwood is, but having agreed, I don’t know how to admit it. “What’s the movie about?”

He looks at me and grins. “Come on,” he says, as if he can’t believe I would ask such a question. “And it’s not
a
movie. It’s movies—plural.
The Good, The Bad and The Ugly
and
The Outlaw Josey Wales
.”

“Fantastic,” I say, with what I hope is enough enthusiasm to cover up my ignorance. Hey, it’s not my fault. I don’t have any brothers, so I’m completely ignorant about guy culture. I sit back in the seat and smile, determined to approach this date as an anthropological adventure.

“This is great,” Sebastian says, nodding his head as he becomes more and more excited about his plan. “Really great. And you know what?”

“What?”

“You’re great. I’ve been dying to check out this retrospective forever and I can’t think of any other girl who would go with me.”

“Oh,” I say, pleased.

“Normally girls don’t like Clint Eastwood. But you’re different, you know?” He takes his eyes off the road for a second and looks at me. His expression is so earnest, I can almost picture my heart melting into a little pool of sticky sweet syrup. “I mean, it’s kind of like you’re more than a girl.” He hesitates, searching for the perfect description. “It’s like—you’re a guy in a girl’s body.”

“What?”

“Take it easy. I didn’t say you looked like a guy. I meant you think like a guy. You know. You’re kind of practical but tough. And you’re not afraid to have adventures.”

“Listen, buster. Just because someone is a girl doesn’t mean she can’t be tough and practical and have adventures. That’s the way most girls
are
—until they get around
guys. Then guys make them act all stupid.”

“You know what they say—all guys are assholes and all women are crazy.”

I take off my shoe and hit him.

Four hours later, we stumble out of the theater. My lips are raw from kissing, and I feel slightly woozy. My hair is matted and I’m sure I’ve got mascara smudged all over my face. As we step out from the darkness into the light, Sebastian grabs me, kisses me again, and pushes back my hair.

“So what’d you think?”

“Pretty good. I love the part where Clint Eastwood shoots Eli Wallach down from the noose.”

“Yeah,” he says, putting his arm around me. “That’s my favorite part too.”

I pat my hair, trying to make myself look slightly respectable and not like I’ve been making out with a guy in a movie theater for half the day. “How do I look?”

Sebastian steps back and grins appraisingly. “You look just like Tuco.”

I swat his butt. Tuco is the name of the Eli Wallach character, aka “the Ugly.”

“I think that’s what I’m going to call you from now on,” he says, laughing. “Tuco. Little Tuco. What do you think?”