The Carrie Diaries (23 page)

A week passes. But every time I see Lali, my heart races and I’m seized by a queer sense of dread, as if my life is in danger. I do my best to avoid her, which means I’m constantly watching out for her, scanning the halls for the top of her feathered hair, looking over my shoulder for her red truck, even bending down to check the shoes beneath the closed doors in the bathroom stalls.

I know Lali so well—her walk, the way she waves her hands next to her face when she’s making a point, the defiant incisor that sticks out just a tad too far—I could pick Lali out of a crowd a mile away.

Even so, on two occasions we’ve inadvertently ended up face-to-face. Each time I gasped and we both quickly looked away, sliding past each other like silent icebergs.

I watch Lali a lot when she’s not looking. I don’t want to, but I can’t help it.

She and Sebastian don’t sit with us at lunch anymore.

Half the time, they avoid the cafeteria, and sometimes, walking up the hill to the barn before a break, I’ll spot Sebastian’s yellow Corvette pulling away from the school grounds with Lali in the passenger seat. When they do eat in the cafeteria, they sit with the two Jens, Donna LaDonna, Cynthia Viande, and Tommy Brewster. Maybe it’s where Sebastian always thought he belonged, but couldn’t get there with me. Maybe it’s why he picked Lali instead.

Meanwhile, Jen P is behaving strangely. The other day, she actually joined us at lunch, giggling and acting like she and I were good friends. “What happened with you and Sebastian?” she asked, all girlish concern. “I thought you guys were so cute together.”

The insincerity—the hypocrisy—is spectacular.

Then she asked Maggie and Peter if they wanted to be on the Senior Prom Committee.

“Sure,” Peter said, looking to Maggie for approval.

“Why not?” Maggie exclaimed. This from the girl who hates parties, who cannot even get out of the car to go to one.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m beginning to hate
everyone
. The only two people I can stand are The Mouse and Walt.

Walt and I make fun of everyone. We spend all our spare time in the barn. We laugh about how dumb Tommy Brewster is, and how Jen P has a birthmark on her neck, and how stupid it is that Maggie and Peter are on the prom committee. We vow to skip the prom, considering it
beneath us, and then decide we might go, but only if we go together and dress as punks.

On Wednesday afternoon, Peter stops by my locker. “Hey,” he says, in a voice that makes me suspect he’s doing his best to act like he doesn’t know what happened between me and Sebastian. “You coming to the newspaper meeting?”

“Why?” I ask, guessing Maggie must have put him up to this.

“Thought you might want to.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter to me either way.”

He strolls off as I stare into my locker. I slam the door and run after him. Why should he get off the hook so easily? “What do you think about Sebastian and Lali?” I demand.

“I think that it’s high school.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it doesn’t matter.
It’s high school
—a frequently unpleasant but relatively short percentage of your life. In five months we’ll be out of here. In five months, no one will
care.
”

Not “no one.” I’ll still care.

I follow him up the stairs to the newspaper meeting. No one seems particularly surprised to see me as I take a seat at the counter. Ms. Smidgens nods at me. Apparently, she’s abandoned her rigid rules about attendance. The year’s half over, and it’s probably not worth the effort.

Little Gayle walks in and slides onto the stool next to me. “I’m disappointed,” she says.

Jeez. Even freshmen know about me and Sebastian? This is worse than I thought.

“You said you were going to write that story about the cheerleaders. You said you were going to expose Donna LaDonna. You said—”

“I said a lot of things, okay?”

“Why did you say you were going to do it if you had no intention—”

I put my finger to my lips to shush her. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. I just said I haven’t gotten around to doing it.”

“But you are going to do it, right?”

“We’ll see.”

“But—”

I suddenly can’t take Gayle’s needling. Without thinking, I do something I’ve never done before but have always wanted to: I gather my books, get up, and leave. Just like that, without saying good-bye to anyone.

It feels good.

I clatter down the stairs and stroll out into the cold, wintry air.

Now what?

The library
. It’s one of the few places that haven’t been spoiled by Sebastian and Lali. Lali never liked going to the library. And on the one occasion I was there with Sebastian, I was
happy
.

Will I ever be happy again?

I don’t think so.

A few minutes later, I’m wading through the dirty slush
on the front porch. Several people pass me going in. The library seems to be especially busy today. The nice librarian, Ms. Detooten, is standing by the steps. “Hello, Carrie,” she says. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been busy,” I murmur.

“Are you here for the photography class? It’s right upstairs.”

Photography class? Why not? I’ve always been slightly interested in photography.

I head upstairs to check it out.

The room is small and contains about twenty folding chairs. Most of them are already filled with people of various ages—this must be one of those free courses offered to the community to get people into the library. I take a seat in the back. A not-unattractive thirty-ish guy with dark hair and a thin mustache stands behind a table. He looks around the room and smiles.

“Okay, everyone,” he begins. “I’m Todd Upsky. I’m a professional photographer here in town. I work for
The Castlebury Citizen
. I consider myself an art photographer but I also do weddings. So if you know someone who’s getting married, send them my way.”

He grins easily, as if he’s made this joke several times before, and the crowd twitters in appreciation.

“This is a twelve-week course,” he continues. “We meet once a week. Each week you’ll take a photograph, develop it, and we’ll discuss what works and what doesn’t—”

Suddenly he breaks off and, with a pleasantly surprised expression, stares toward the back of the room.

I swivel my head around. Oh no. It can’t be. It’s Donna LaDonna, wearing one of those big puffy down coats and rabbit-fur earmuffs.

What the hell is she doing here?

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she says breathlessly.

“No problem,” Todd Upsky says. His smile is enormous. “Take a seat anywhere. There,” he says, pointing to the empty chair next to me.

Crap.

I don’t breathe once during the several minutes it takes for Donna LaDonna to remove her coat, pull off her earmuffs, pat her hair, and slide a camera bag under her seat.

This cannot be happening.

“Right, then,” Todd Upsky says, clapping his hands together to get everyone’s attention. “Who has a camera?”

Several people raise their hands, including Donna.

“Who doesn’t?”

I raise my hand, wondering how quickly I can escape.

“Great,” he says. “We’re going to work in teams. The people who have cameras will pair up with those who don’t. You there, miss.” He nods at Donna. “Why don’t you team up with the girl next to you?”

Girl?

“Our teams will head outside and take a photograph of nature—a tree or a root or anything else that you find interesting or strikes your fancy. You have fifteen minutes,” he says.

Donna turns to me, parts her lips, and smiles.

It’s like staring straight into the mouth of an alligator.

“Just for the record, I’m enjoying this about as much as you are,” I say.

Donna lifts the camera. “Why are you taking this course, anyway?”

“Why are
you
?” I counter. Besides, I think, I’m not sure I am taking this course. Especially now that Donna’s taking it.

“In case you haven’t realized, I’m going to become a model.”

“I thought models were in front of the camera.” I pick up a twig and heave it as hard as I can. It twists in the air and lands two feet away.

“The best models know everything about photography. I know you think you’re special, but you’re not the only one who’s going to get out of Castlebury. My cousin says I should be a model. She lives in New York. I sent her some photographs and she’s going to send them to Eileen Ford.”

“Yeah, right,” I say sarcastically. “And I hope all your dreams come true. I hope you become a model and I hope your face is on the cover of every magazine in the country.”

“Oh, I plan on it.”

“I’m sure you do,” I say, my voice sharp with disdain.

Donna takes a picture of a small bush, its limbs bare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” I hold out my hand for the camera. I’ve spotted a stump that looks interesting. It seems to sum up
my life right now: lifeless, cut off at the knees, and slightly rotten.

“Listen, Miss Priss,” she snaps. “If you’re trying to imply that I’m not pretty enough—”

“What?”
I scoff, flabbergasted that Donna LaDonna is insecure about her looks. Apparently she has a weakness after all.

“Let me just remind you that I’ve had to take all kinds of bullshit from assholes like you my whole life.”

“Oh, really?” I click the shutter and hand the camera back.
She’s
had to take bullshit? What about all the bullshit she’s dished out? What about all the kids whose lives have been made miserable by Donna LaDonna?

“Excuse me, but I daresay most people believe the opposite is true.” When I’m nervous, I use words like “daresay.” I definitely read too much.

“Excuse
me
,” she responds. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Ramona Marquart?” I reply.

“Who?”

“The girl who wanted to be on the cheerleading team. The girl you rejected for being too ugly.”

“Her?”
she asks in surprise.

“Did you ever consider the fact that maybe you destroyed her life?”

She smirks. “You would look at it that way.”

“What other way is there?”

“Maybe I saved her from embarrassment. What do you think would have happened if I’d let her get out on the
field? People are cruel, in case you haven’t noticed. She’d have been a laughingstock. All the guys would have made fun of her. Guys don’t come to games to see ugly women.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I say, as if I don’t believe her. But I do. A little. It’s a horrible world.

I’m not ready to concede the point, though. “Is that how you plan to live your life? Based on what guys like and who they think is pretty? That’s pathetic.”

She smiles, sure of herself. “So what? It’s the truth. And if there’s anyone pathetic here, it’s you. Girls who can’t get guys always say there’s something wrong with girls who
can
. If
you
could get guys, I promise we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Is that so?”

“I only have two words for you: Sebastian Kydd.” She laughs.

I have to grit my teeth to prevent myself from jumping on top of her and punching her in her oh-so-pretty face.

And then
I
laugh. “He dumped you too, remember? He dumped you for me.” I grin wickedly. “And I seem to recall that you spent most of the fall making my life miserable because I was seeing Sebastian and you weren’t.”

“Sebastian Kydd?” She sneers. “You think I give a fuck about Sebastian Kydd? Sure, he’s cute. And kind of sexy. And I had him. Other than that, he’s completely useless. Sebastian Kydd has no relevance in my life.”

“Then why did you bother—”

She shrugs. “I wanted to make your life miserable because you’re a jerk.”

I’m
a jerk? “I guess we’re even. Because I think you’re a jerk too.”

“Actually, you’re worse than a jerk. You’re a snob.”

Huh?

“If you want to know the truth,” she says, “I’ve hated you since the first day of kindergarten. And I’m not the only one.”

“Kindergarten?” I ask in astonishment.

“You were wearing red patent leather Mary Janes. And you thought you were so special. You thought you were better than everyone else. Because you had red shoes and nobody else did.”

Okay. I do remember those shoes. My mother bought them as a special treat for me for starting kindergarten. I wore them all the time—I even tried to wear them to bed. But still, they were only shoes. Who would have thought shoes could cause so much jealousy?

“You hate me because of some shoes I wore when I was four?” I say in disbelief.

“It wasn’t just the shoes,” she counters. “It was your whole attitude. You and your perfect little family. The Bradshaw girls,” she says mockingly. “Aren’t they cute? And so well-behaved.”

If she only knew.

I’m suddenly exhausted. Why do girls carry these grudges for years and years? Do boys do that too?

I think about Lali and shiver.

She looks at me, gives a little exclamation of triumph, and goes inside.

And then I just stand there, wondering what to do. Go home? Call it a day? But if I leave, it means Donna LaDonna has won. She’ll have claimed this class as her territory and my absence will mean she’s driven me out.

I won’t let her win. Even if it requires being stuck with her for an hour once a week.

I mean, can my life really get any worse?

I pull open the heavy door, trudge up the stairs, and take my seat next to her.

For the next thirty minutes, while Todd Upsky talks about f-stops and shutter speeds, we sit next to each other in silence, each desperately pretending that the other one does not exist.

Just like me and Lali.

“Why don’t you write about it?” George asks.

“No,” I say, snapping off the delicate tip of a tree branch. I examine it, rubbing the soft dry wood between my fingers before tossing it back into the woods.

“Why not?”

“Because.” I push forward on the path that leads up a steep hill. Behind me, I hear George breathing heavily from the effort. I grab a sapling around the middle and use it to pull me to the top. “I don’t want to be a writer so I can write about my life. I want to be a writer to escape from it.”

“Then you shouldn’t be a writer,” George says, puffing.

That’s it.

“I am so sick of everyone telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. Maybe I don’t want to be your idea of a writer. Did you ever think about that?”

“Hey,” he says. “Take it easy.”

“I will not take it easy. And I will not listen to you, or anybody else. Because you know what? Everyone thinks they know so goddamned much about everything and no one knows fuck all about anything.”

“Sorry,” he says, his mouth drawn into a prim line of disapproval. “I was only trying to help.”

I take a breath. Sebastian would have laughed at me. His laughter would have briefly pissed me off, but then I’d have found it funny too. George, on the other hand, is so damn serious.

He’s right, though. He is only trying to help. And Sebastian is gone. He dumped me, just like George said he would.

I should be grateful. George, at least, has had the decency not to say I told you so.

“Remember when I told you I’d introduce you to my great-aunt?” he asks now.

“The one who’s a writer?” I say, still slightly miffed.

“That’s right. Do you want to meet her?”

“Oh, George.” Now I feel guilty.

“I’m going to arrange it for next week. I think it will cheer you up.”

I could kick myself. George really is the best. If only I could fall in love with him.

We pass through Hartford and turn onto a wide street lined with maples. The houses are set back from the road—large, white, practically mansions—with columns and decorative
tiny paned windows. This is West Hartford, where the wealthy old families live, where, I imagine, they have gardeners to tend to their roses and swimming pools and red-clay tennis courts. It doesn’t surprise me that George is taking me here. George’s family is rich, after all—he never talks about it, but he must be, living in a four-bedroom apartment on Fifth Avenue with a father who works on Wall Street and a mother who spends her summers in Southampton, wherever that is. We pull into a gravel driveway edged with hedges and park in front of a carriage house with a cupola on top.

“Your great-aunt lives here?”

“I told you she was successful,” George says with a mysterious smile.

I experience a jab of panic. It’s one thing to imagine someone has money, but quite another to be confronted with the spoils of their loot. A flagstone path leads around the side of the house to a glassed-in conservatory, filled with plants and elaborately wrought garden furniture. George knocks on the door, and then opens it, releasing a cloud of warm, steamy air. “Bunny?” he calls out.

Bunny?

A red-haired middle-aged woman in a gray uniform crosses the room. “Mr. George,” she exclaims. “You startled me.”

“Hello, Gwyneth. This is my friend Carrie Bradshaw. Is Bunny home?”

“She’s expecting you.”

We follow Gwyneth down a long hall, past a dining room and a library, and into an enormous living room.
There’s a fireplace at one end with a marble mantelpiece, above which hangs a painting of a young woman in a pink tulle dress. Her eyes are wide, brown, and authoritative—eyes, I’m sure, I’ve seen before. But where?

George walks to a brass cart and holds up a bottle of sherry. “Drink?” he asks.

“Should we?” I whisper, still gazing up at the painting.

“Of course. Bunny always likes a bit of sherry. And she gets very angry when people won’t drink with her.”

“So this—er—Bunny. She’s not cute and fluffy?”

“Hardly.” George’s eyes widen in amusement as he hands me a crystal glass filled with amber fluid. “Some people say she’s a monster.”

“Who says that?” a booming voice declares. If I didn’t know Bunny was a woman, I might have guessed the voice belonged to a man.

“Hello, old thing,” George says, moving across the room to greet her.

“And what have we here?” she asks, indicating me. “Who have you dragged to meet me this time?”

The insult is lost on George. He must be used to her nasty sense of humor. “Carrie,” he says proudly, “this is my aunt Bunny.”

I nod weakly and hold out my hand. “Bu-bu-bu—” I falter, unable to speak.

Bunny is Mary Gordon Howard.

Mary Gordon Howard arranges herself on the couch like she’s a precious piece of china. Physically, she’s frailer than
I remember, although George did say she was eighty. But her persona is just as terrifying as it was four years ago when she attacked me at the library.

This cannot be happening.

Her hair is white and thick, swept back off her forehead into a bosomy arrangement. But her eyes look weak, the irises a watery brown, as if time has leaked out their color. “So, dear,” she says as she takes a sip of sherry and slyly licks the excess from her lips, “George says you want to be a writer.”

Oh no. Not this again. My hand shakes as I pick up my glass.

“She doesn’t want to be a writer. She
is
a writer,” George interjects, beaming with pride. “I’ve read some of her stories. She has potential—”

“I see,” MGH says with a sigh. No doubt, she’s heard this too many times. As if by rote, she launches into a lecture: “There are only two kinds of people who make great writers—great
artists
: those from the upper classes, who have access to the finest education—
or
those who have suffered greatly. The middle classes”—she looks at me, disapprovingly—“can sometimes produce a simulacrum of art, but it tends to be middle-brow or slyly commercial and of no real value. It’s merely meretricious entertainment.”

I nod dazedly. I can see my mother’s face, the cheeks sunk right down to the jaw, head shrunken to the size of a baby’s.

“I—um—actually, I met you before.” My voice is barely
audible. “At the library. In Castlebury?”

“Goodness. I do so many of those little readings.”

“I asked you to sign a book for my mother. She was dying.”

“And did she? Die, that is,” she demands.

“Yes. She did.”

“Oh, Carrie.” George shifts from one foot to another. “What a nice thing to do. Having her book signed by Bunny.”

Suddenly, Bunny leans forward and, with a fearful intensity, says, “Ah, yes. I do recall meeting you now. You were wearing yellow ribbons.”

“Yes.”
How can she possibly remember? Did I make an impact after all?

“And I believe I told you not to become a writer. Clearly, you haven’t taken my advice.” Bunny pats her hair in triumph. “I never forget a face.”

“Auntie, you’re a genius,” George exclaims.

I look from one to the other in astonishment. And then I get it: They’re playing some kind of sick game.

“Why shouldn’t Carrie become a writer?” George laughs. He seems to find everything “Aunt Bunny” says extremely amusing.

Guess what? I can play too.

“She’s too pretty,” Aunt Bun-Bun responds.

“Excuse me?” I choke on my sherry, which tastes like cough medicine.

Irony of Ironies: too pretty to be a writer but not pretty enough to keep my boyfriend.

“Not pretty enough to be a movie star. Not that kind of pretty,” she continues. “But pretty enough to think you can get by in life by using your looks.”

“What would I use them
for
?”

“To get a husband,” she says, looking at George. Aha. She thinks I’m after her nephew.

This is all too Jane Austen-ish and weird.

“I think Carrie is very pretty,” George counters.

“And then, of course, you’ll want to have children,” MGH says poisonously.

“Aunt Bun,” George says, grinning from ear to ear, “how do you know?”

“Because every woman wants children. Unless you are a very great exception. I, myself, never wanted children.” She holds out her glass to George, indicating she needs a refill. “If you want to become a very great writer, you cannot have children. Your
books
must be your children!”

I wonder if the Bunny has had too much to drink and it’s beginning to show.

And suddenly, I can’t help it. The words just slip out of my mouth. “Do books need to be diapered as well?”

My voice drips with sarcasm.

Bunny’s jaw drops. Clearly, she isn’t used to having her authority challenged. She looks to George, who shrugs as if I’m the most delightful creature in the world.

And then Bunny laughs. She actually guffaws in mirth.

She pats the couch next to her. “What did you say your name was again, dear? Carrie Bradshaw?” She looks up at
George and winks. “Come, sit. George keeps telling me I’m turning into a bitter old woman, and I could use some amusement.”

The Writer’s Life
, by Mary Gordon Howard.

I open the cover and read the inscription:

To Carrie Bradshaw. Don’t forget to diaper your babies.

I turn the page. Chapter One: The Importance of Keeping a Journal.

Ugh. I put it down and pick up a heavy black book with a leather cover, a gift from George. “I told you she’d love you,” he exclaimed in the car on the way home. And then he was so excited by the success of the visit, he insisted on stopping at a stationery store and buying me my very own journal.

I balance Bunny’s book on top of the journal and randomly flip through it, landing on Chapter Four: How to Create Character.