The Carrie Diaries (5 page)

He says, “Don’t I know you?”

And I say, “Yes, actually you do.”

Then he says, “That’s right. Our mothers are friends.”

“Were friends,” I say. “They both went to Smith.” And then the music ends and we go back to our respective tables.

“That was hilarious.” The Mouse nods approvingly. “You should have seen the look on Donna LaDonna’s face when he was dancing with you.”

“He was dancing with both of us,” Lali corrects her.

“But he was mostly dancing with Carrie.”

“That’s only because Carrie is shorter than I am,” Lali remarks.

“Whatever.”

“Exactly,” I say, and get up to go to the bathroom.

The restroom is at the end of a narrow hall on the other side of the bar. When I come out, Sebastian Kydd
is standing next to the door as if he’s waiting to go in. “Hello,” he says. He delivers this in a sort of fakey way, like he’s an actor in a movie, but he’s so good-looking, I decide I don’t mind.

“Hi,” I say cautiously.

He smiles. And then he says something astoundingly ridiculous. “Where have you been my whole life?”

I almost laugh, but he appears to be serious. Several responses run through my head, and finally I settle on: “Excuse me, but aren’t you on a date with someone else?”

“Who says it’s a date? She’s a girl I met at a party.”

“Sure looks like a date to me.”

“We’re having fun,” he says. “For the moment. You still live in the same house?”

“I guess so—”

“Good. I’ll come by and see you sometime.” And he walks away.

This is one of the oddest and most intriguing things that has ever happened to me. And despite the bad-movie-ish quality to the scene, I’m actually hoping he meant what he said.

I go back to the table, full of excitement, but the atmosphere has changed. The Mouse looks bored talking to Lali, and Walt appears glum, while Peter impatiently shakes the ice cubes in his glass. Maggie suddenly decides she wants to leave. “I guess that means I’m going,” Walt says with a sigh.

“I’ll drop you first,” Maggie says. “I’m going to drive Peter home, too. He lives near me.”

We get into our respective vehicles. I’m dying to tell Lali about my encounter with the notorious Sebastian Kydd, but before I can say a word, Lali announces that she’s “kind of mad at The Mouse.”

“Why?”

“Because of what she said. About that guy, Sebastian Kydd. Dancing with you and not me. Couldn’t she see he was dancing with both of us?”

Rule number five: Always agree with your friends, even if it’s at your own expense, so they won’t be upset. “I know,” I say, hating myself. “He
was
dancing with both of us.”

“And why would he dance with you, anyway?” Lali asks. “Especially when he was with Donna LaDonna?”

“I have no idea.” But then I remember what The Mouse said. Why
shouldn’t
Sebastian dance with me? Am I so bad? I don’t think so. Maybe he thinks I’m kind of smart and interesting and quirky. Like Elizabeth Bennet in
Pride and Prejudice
.

I dig around in my bag and find one of Maggie’s cigarettes. I light up, inhale briefly, and whoosh the smoke out the window.

“Ha,” I say aloud, for no particular reason.

I’ve had boyfriends before, and frankly, each one was a disappointment.

There was nothing horribly wrong with these boys. It was my fault. I’m kind of a snob when it comes to guys.

So far, the biggest problem with the boys I’ve dated is that they weren’t too smart. And eventually I ended up hating myself for being with them. It scared me, trying to pretend I was something I wasn’t. I could see how easily it could be done, and it made me realize that was what most of the other girls were doing as well—pretending. If you were a girl, you could start pretending in high school and go on pretending your whole life, until, I suppose, you imploded and had a nervous breakdown, which is something that’s happened to a few of the mothers around here. All of a sudden, one day something snaps and they don’t get out of bed for three years.

But I digress. Boyfriends. I’ve had two major ones: Sam, who was a stoner, and Doug, who was on the basketball team. Of the two I liked Sam better. I might have even loved him, but I knew it couldn’t last. Sam was beautiful but dumb. He took woodworking classes, which I had no idea existed until he gave me a wooden box he’d made for Valentine’s Day. Despite his lack of intelligence—or perhaps, more disturbingly, because of it—when I was around him I found him so attractive I thought my head would explode. I’d go by his house after school and we’d hang in the basement with his older brothers, listening to
Dark Side of the Moon
while they passed around a bong. Then Sam and I would go up to his room and make out for hours. Half the time, I worried I shouldn’t be there, that I was wasting precious time engaging in an activity that wouldn’t lead to anything (in other words, I wasn’t using my time “constructively,” as my father would say). But on the other hand, it felt so good I couldn’t leave. My mind would be telling me to get up, go home, study, write stories, advance my life, but my body was like a boneless sea creature incapable of movement on land. I can’t remember ever having a conversation with Sam. It was only endless kissing and touching in a bubble of time that seemed to have no connection with real life.

Then my father took me and my sisters away for two weeks on an educational cruise to Alaska and I met Ryan, who was tall and smooth like polished wood and was going to Duke, and I fell in love with him. When I got back to Castlebury, I could barely look at Sam. He kept asking
if I’d met someone else. I was a coward and said no, which was partly true because Ryan lived in Colorado and I knew I’d never see him again. Still, the Sam bubble had been punctured by Ryan, and then Sam was like a little smear of wet soap. That’s all bubbles are anyway—a bit of air and soap. So much for the wonders of good chemistry.

With bad chemistry, though, you don’t even get a bubble. Me and Doug? Bad chemistry.

Doug was a year older, a senior when I was a junior. He was one of the jocks, a basketball player, friends with Tommy Brewster and Donna LaDonna and the rest of the Pod crowd. Doug wasn’t too bright, either. On the other hand, he wasn’t so good-looking that a lot of other girls wanted him, but he was good-looking
enough.
The only thing that was really bad about him was the zits. He didn’t have a lot of them, just one or two that always seemed to be in the middle of their life cycle. But I knew I wasn’t perfect either. If I wanted a boyfriend, I figured I would have to overlook a blemish or two.

Jen P introduced us. And sure enough, at the end of the week, he came shuffling around my locker and asked if I wanted to go to the dance.

That was all right. Doug picked me up in a small white car that belonged to his mother. I could picture his mother from the car: a nervous woman with pale skin and tight curls who was an embarrassment to her son. It made me kind of depressed, but I told myself I had to complete this experiment. At the dance, I hung around with the Jens and Donna LaDonna and some older girls, who all stood with
one leg out to the side, and I stood the same way and pretended I wasn’t intimidated.

“There’s a great view at the top of Mott Street,” Doug said, after the dance.

“Isn’t that the place next to the haunted house?”

“You believe in ghosts?”

“Sure. Don’t you?”

“Naw,” he said. “I don’t even believe in God. That’s girl stuff.”

I vowed to be less like a girl.

It was a good view at the top of Mott Street. You could see clear across the apple orchards to the lights of Hartford. Doug kept the radio on; then he put his hand under my chin, turned my head, and kissed me.

It wasn’t horrible, but there was no passion behind it. When he said, “You’re a good kisser,” I was surprised. “I guess you do this a lot,” he said.

“No. I hardly do it at all.”

“Really?” he said.

“Really,” I said.

“Because I don’t want to go out with a girl who every other guy has been with.”

“I haven’t been with anyone.” I thought he must be crazy. Didn’t he know a thing about me?

More cars pulled in around us, and we kept making out. The evening began to depress me. This was it, huh? This was dating, Pod-style. Sitting in a car surrounded by a bunch of other cars where everyone was making out, seeing how far they could go, like it was some kind of
requirement
. I started wondering if anyone else was enjoying it as little as I was.

Still, I went to Doug’s basketball games and I went by his house after school, even though there were other things I wanted to do more, like read romance novels. His house was as dreary as I’d imagined—a tiny house on a tiny street (Maple Lane) that could have been in Any Town, U.S.A. I guess if I were in love with Doug it wouldn’t have mattered. But if I had been in love with Doug it would have been worse, because I would have looked around and realized that this would be my life, and that would have been the end of my dream.

But instead of saying, “Doug, I don’t want to see you anymore,” I rebelled.

It happened after another dance. I’d barely let Doug get to third base, so maybe he figured it was time to straighten me out. The plan was to go parking with another couple: Donna LaDonna and a guy named Roy, who was the captain of the basketball team. They were in the front seat. We were in the back. We were going someplace we’d never get caught, a place where no one would find us: a cemetery.

“Hope you don’t still believe in ghosts,” Doug said, squeezing my leg. “If you do, you know they’ll be watching.”

I didn’t answer. I was studying Donna LaDonna’s profile. Her hair was a swirl of white cotton candy. I thought she looked like Marilyn Monroe. I wished I looked like Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn Monroe, I figured, would know what to do.

When Doug unzipped his pants and tried to push my head down, I’d had enough. I got out of the car. “Charade” was the word I was thinking over and over again. It was all a charade. It summed up everything that was wrong between the sexes.

Then I was too angry to be frightened. I started walking along the little road that wound through the headstones. I might have believed in ghosts, but I wasn’t scared of them per se. It was people who were troubling. Why couldn’t I just be like every other girl and give Doug what he wanted? I pictured myself as a Play-Doh figure; then a hand came down, squeezing and squeezing until the Play-Doh oozed through the fingers into ragged clumps.

To distract myself, I started looking at the headstones. The graves were pretty old, some more than a hundred years. I started looking for one type in particular. It was macabre but that’s the kind of mood I was in. Sure enough, I found one:
Jebediah Wilton. 4 mos. 1888.
I started thinking about Jebediah’s mother and the pain she would have felt putting that little baby into the ground. I bet it felt worse than childbirth. I got down on my knees and screamed into my hands.

I guess Doug figured I would come right back, because he didn’t bother looking for me for a while. Then the car pulled up and a door opened. “Get in,” Doug said.

“No.”

“Bitch,” Roy said.

“Get in the car,” Donna LaDonna ordered. “Stop making a scene. Do you want the cops to come?”

I got into the car.

“See?” Donna LaDonna said to Doug. “I told you it was useless.”

“I’m not going to have sex with some guy just to impress you,” I said.

“Whoa,” Roy said. “She really is a bitch.”

“Not a bitch,” I said. “Just a woman who knows her own mind.”

“You’re a woman now?” Doug said, sneering. “That’s a laugh.”

I knew I should have been embarrassed, but I was so relieved it was over, I couldn’t be bothered. Surely, Doug wouldn’t dare ask me out again.

He did though. First thing Monday morning, I found him standing by my locker. “I need to talk to you,” he said.

“So talk.”

“Not now. Later.”

“I’m busy.”

“You’re a prude,” he hissed. “You’re frigid.” When I didn’t reply, he added, “It’s okay,” in a creepy tone. “
I
know what’s wrong with you. I
understand
.”

“Good,”
I said.

“I’m coming by your house after school.”

“Don’t.”

“You don’t need to tell me what to do,” he said, spinning an imaginary basketball on his finger. “You’re not my
mother
.” He shot the imaginary basketball into an imaginary hoop and walked away.

Doug did come by my house that afternoon. I looked up from my typewriter and saw the pathetic white car pull hesitantly into the driveway, like a mouse cautiously approaching a piece of cheese.

A discordant phrase of Stravinsky came from the piano followed by the soft taps of Missy running down the stairs. “Carrie,” Missy called from below. “Someone’s here.”

“Tell him I’m not.”

“It’s
Doug
.”

“Let’s go for a drive,” Doug said.

“I can’t,” I begged. “I’m busy.”

“Listen,” he said. “You can’t do this to me.” He was pleading, and I started to feel sorry for him. “You
owe
me,” he whispered. “It’s only a drive in the car.”

“Okay,” I relented. I figured maybe I did owe him for embarrassing him in front of his friends.

“Look,” I said when we were in the car and driving toward his house. “I’m sorry about the other night. It’s just that—”

“Oh, I know. You’re not ready,” Doug said. “I understand. With everything you’ve been through.”

“No. It isn’t that.” I knew it had nothing to do with my mother’s death. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell Doug the truth—that my reluctance was due to the fact that I didn’t find him the least bit attractive.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I forgive you. I’m going to give you a chance to make it up to me.”

“Ha,” I said, hoping he was making a joke.

Doug drove past his house and kept going, down the dirt track that led to the river. Between his sad little street and the river were miles and miles of mud-flat farmland, deserted in November. I began to get scared.

“Doug, stop.”

“Why?” he asked. “We have to talk.”

I knew then why boys hated that phrase, “We have to talk.” It gave me a tired, sick feeling. “Where are we going? There’s nothing out here.”

“There’s the Gun Tree,” he said.

The Gun Tree was all the way down by the river, so named because a lightning strike had split the branches into the shape of a pistol. I began calculating my chances for escape. If we got all the way to the river, I could jump out of the car and run along the narrow path that led through the trees. Doug couldn’t follow in his car, but he could certainly outrun me. And then what would he do? Rape me? He might rape me and kill me afterward. I didn’t want to lose my virginity to Doug Haskell, for Christ’s sake, and definitely not like that. I decided he’d have to kill me first.

But maybe he did only want to talk.

“Listen, Doug, I’m sorry about the other night.”

“You are?”

“Of course. I just didn’t want to have sex in a car with other people. It’s kind of gross.”

We were about half a mile from civilization.

“Yeah. Well, I guess I can understand that. But Roy is the captain of the basketball team and—”

“Roy is disgusting. Really, Doug. You’re much better than he is. He’s an asshole.”

“He’s one of my best buds.”

“You should be captain of the basketball team. I mean, you’re taller and better looking. And smarter. If you ask me, Roy’s taking advantage of you.”

“You think?” He took his eyes off the road and looked at me. The road was becoming increasingly bumpy, made for tractors not cars, and Doug had to slow down.

“Well, of course,” I said smoothly. “Everyone knows that. Everyone says you’re a better player than Roy—”

“I am.”

“And—” I took a quick peek at the speedometer. Twenty miles an hour. The car was bucking like an old bull. If I was going to make a break for it, I had to do it now. “And, Doug, I
need
to go home.” I rolled down the window. A cold blast of air hit my face like a slap. “The car’s covered with mud. Your mother’s going to kill you.”

“My mother won’t care.”

“Come on, Doug. Stop the car.”

“We’ll go to the Gun Tree. Then I’ll take you home.” But he didn’t sound so sure.

“I’m getting out.” I grabbed the door handle.

Doug tried to pull my hand away as the car veered off the track and slid into a pile of dried cornstalks.

“Christ, Carrie. Why the hell d’you do
that
?”

We got out of the car to inspect the damage. It wasn’t too bad. Mostly straw caught in the bumper. “If
you
hadn’t…” I said, relief and anger burning the back of my
throat. “Because you wanted to prove to your stupid friends that you aren’t a
loser
—”

He stared at me, his breath steaming the air around him like a mysterious dry ice.

Then he smacked his hand on the hood of the car. “I wouldn’t fuck you if you paid me,” he shouted, pausing for breath. “You’re lucky…lucky I even considered having sex with you. Lucky I even took you out in the first place. I only did it because I felt
sorry
for you.”

What else could he say?

“Good. Then you should be
happy
.”