The Carrie Diaries (25 page)

“I see.” Smidgens holds up
The Nutmeg
. “This Pinky Weatherton happens to be a very good writer. I’d like to see more of his—or her—work in the paper.”

“Sure,” Peter says hesitantly.

Ms. Smidgens gives Peter an evil smile. She waves her cigarette, about to say more, when suddenly the long column of ash spirals into her cleavage. She jumps, shaking the ash out of her blouse, as Peter and I attempt a hasty exit. We’re at the door when she calls out, “Wait.”

Slowly, we turn.

“About Pinky,” she says, squinting through the smoke. Her lips curl into a nasty smile. “I want to meet him. Or her. And tell this Pinky person to decide on a gender.”

“Did you see this?” Maggie asks, plunking
The Nutmeg
onto the cafeteria table.

“Um, yeah,” The Mouse says, stirring hot water into her Cup-a-Soup. “The whole school’s talking about it.”

“How come I didn’t know about this until now?” Maggie says, looking at Peter accusingly.

“Because you’re really busy with the prom committee?” Peter asks. He slides in between Maggie and The Mouse. Maggie picks up the paper and points to the headline. “And what kind of name is Pinky Weatherton, anyway?”

“Maybe it’s a nickname. Like The Mouse,” I say.

“But The Mouse isn’t Roberta’s real name. I mean, she would never sign her papers ‘The Mouse.’”

Peter gives me a look, and pats Maggie on the head. “There’s no need to concern yourself with the inner workings of
The Nutmeg
. I have it all under control.”

“You do?” Maggie looks at him in surprise. “What are you going to do about Donna LaDonna, then? I bet she’s pissed as shit.”

“Actually,” The Mouse says, blowing on the top of her soup, “she seems to be enjoying it.”

“Really?” Maggie asks. She swivels around in her chair and looks toward the opposite end of the cafeteria.

The Mouse is right. Donna LaDonna does appear to be lapping up the attention. She’s smack in the middle of her usual table, surrounded by her henchmen and her bees-in-waiting who have gathered tightly around her, like she’s some kind of movie star who needs protection from her fans. Donna preens, smiling and lowering her chin, seductively raising her shoulders as if all her movements are being captured by an invisible camera. Meanwhile, Lali and Sebastian are mysteriously absent. It isn’t until I get up to empty my tray that I finally spot them, huddled together
at the end of an empty table in the corner of the cafeteria.

I’m about to walk away, when I’m summoned by Donna LaDonna herself.

“Carrie!” Her voice is as loud as a ringing bell. I turn and she waggles her fingers over Tommy Brewster’s head.

“Hi?” I ask, approaching cautiously.

“Did you see the story about me in
The Nutmeg
?” she asks, unabashedly pleased.

“How could I miss it?”

“It’s so crazy,” she says, as if she can hardly stand the attention. “But I said to Tommy, and to Jen P, that whoever wrote that story must know me really, really well.”

“I guess they do,” I say mildly.

She blinks her eyes at me, and suddenly, try as I might, I just can’t hate her anymore. I tried to take her down, but somehow she’s managed to twist it around to her advantage.

Good for her, I think as I walk away.

“Did you know Walt was living in a tent?” I ask Maggie. Our arms are full of bags of confetti.

“No,”
Maggie says, in a tone that sounds like she thinks I’m making it up. “Why would he do that?”

“His father found out he was gay and won’t let Walt sleep in the house.”

Maggie shakes her head. “That Richard. He’s such a silly man. But he’d never make Walt sleep outside.” She leans toward me and, in a loud whisper, says, “Walt is becoming a huge drama queen. Now that he’s…you know.”

“Gay?”

“Whatever,” she says as we enter the gym.

Hmph. So much for trying to be a better friend.

After I discovered Walt in the tent, I decided he was right—I’d been so wrapped up in Sebastian and the subsequent betrayal, I’d hardly noticed what was happening
with my friends. Hence my acceptance of Maggie’s invitation to help her decorate the gym for the senior prom. It’s only this once, I remind myself. And it’s a way to spend time with Maggie.

“Oh, good,” Jen P says, rushing over. “Confetti. Did you get all twelve bags?”

“Uh-huh.” Maggie nods.

Jen P looks critically at the bags in our arms. “I’m not sure it’s enough. Do you think we need more?”

Maggie looks defeated—she’s never been good at organization—and I’m surprised she’s lasted this long in the planning.

“How much confetti do we really need?” I ask.

“Put it over there and we’ll figure it out later,” Jen P orders, pointing to an area piled with streamers and tissue paper. But as we start to walk away, she follows. “By the way,” she says to Maggie. “Did you see that story in
The Nutmeg
? The one about who will be prom king and queen? Pinky Weatherton is right. How can Donna LaDonna be prom queen if she’s bringing an outside date? Who wants to look back on their senior prom and not even know the prom king? And of course Cynthia thinks she and Tommy are the front-runners. But I liked the part about
me
—how if I could get a date, I’d be a contender.” She takes a breath, nudges Maggie, and continues. “But as Pinky says, you never know. You and Peter could be the dark horses—after all, you have been dating for six months.”

I have created a monster, I think, dumping my bags of confetti.

This week in
The Nutmeg
, Pinky Weatherton handicapped everyone’s chances for prom king and queen, and now no one can stop talking about it. Every time I turn around, someone is quoting the story. “We should consider every couple who has contributed to the school—and is an example of true love.” I don’t know why I threw in the “true love” part—but I might have done it so Lali and Sebastian wouldn’t dare think they were eligible.

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.

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.”

“Uh-oh—”

“So he comes over and…” Maggie’s shoulders collapse at the memory. “He—he said he couldn’t see me anymore. He said it was
over
.”

“But
why
?”

“Because he’s interested in Jen P. He wants to date her.”

Crap.
This
is
my fault. How could I be so stupid? But I never expected anyone to actually take those stories in
The Nutmeg
seriously.

“No way,” The Mouse says finally.

“Yes, way,” Maggie says. She orders another vodka, takes a sip, and puts it down. She’s beginning to slur her words. “He said he asked his mother—his mother, can you believe it?—what she thought, and she said he was too young to be seriously involved with one girl and should ‘explore his options.’ Have you ever heard anyone even talk like that? And it wasn’t his mother’s idea, that’s for sure. It was
his
. And he was using his mother as an
excuse
.”

“That’s disgusting. What a wimp.” I suck hard on the straw in my glass.

“Peter’s not really a wimp,” The Mouse says. “He might be a jerk, but—”

“He’s a wimp with a good haircut.”

“A haircut I made him get!” Maggie exclaims. “I was the one who told him to cut his hair. It’s like—I turned him into this cool guy, and now every girl wants him.
I
made him. And this is how he repays me?”

“It’s nothing short of egregious.”

“Come on, Maggie. It’s not your fault. Peter’s just a typical guy. The only way to look at men is like they’re electrons. They have all these charges sticking out, and they’re always looking for a hole where they can put those charges—”

“You mean like a penis?” Maggie says, glaring at me.

“Penis would be an exaggeration,” The Mouse says, going along with my theory. “We’re not talking about actual matter here. It’s more like a crude form of electricity—”

Maggie grits her teeth. “He’s taking her to the prom.”

I slump onto the bar, wracked with guilt. I should tell Maggie the truth. She’ll probably never speak to me again, but…

A man sidles toward us and slides onto the barstool next to Maggie.

“You seem kind of upset,” he says, lightly touching her arm. “Perhaps I could buy you a drink.”

Huh?
The Mouse and I look at each other and back at Maggie. “Why not?” She holds up her empty glass. “Fill ’er up.”

“Maggie!” I say warningly.

“What? I’m thirsty.”

I try giving her a wide-eyed look, meant to convey the fact
that we don’t know this guy and shouldn’t be allowing him to buy us drinks, but she doesn’t get the message. “Vodka,” she says, smiling flirtatiously. “I’m drinking
vodka
.”

“Excuse me,” The Mouse says to the guy. “Do we know you?”

“Don’t think so,” he says, all charm. He isn’t exactly old—maybe twenty-five or so—but he’s too old for us. And he’s wearing a blue and white striped button-down shirt and a navy blazer with gold buttons. “I’m Jackson,” he says, holding out his hand.

Maggie shakes it. “I’m Maggie. And that’s Carrie. And The Mouse.” She hiccups. “I mean, Roberta.”

“Cheers.” Jackson raises his glass. “Another round for my new friends,” he says to the bartender.

The Mouse and I exchange another look. “Maggie.” I tap her on the shoulder. “We should probably get going.”

“Not until I finish my drink.” She kicks me in the ankle. “Besides, I want to talk to Jackson. So, Jackson,” she says, tilting her head, “what are you doing here?”

“I just moved to Castlebury.” He seems like a fairly reasonable person—reasonable meaning he doesn’t appear to be completely drunk…yet. “I’m a banker,” he adds.

“Oooooh. A banker,” Maggie slurs. “My mother always said I should marry a banker.”

“That so?” Jackson slips his hand behind Maggie’s back to steady her.

“Maggie,” I snap.

“Shhhhh.” She puts her finger to her lips. “I’m having fun. Can’t a person have a little fun around here?”

She stumbles off her barstool. “Bathroom,” she exclaims, and teeters away. After another minute, Jackson excuses himself and also disappears.

“What should we do now?” I ask The Mouse.

“I say we throw her into the back of her car and
you
drive her home.”

“Good plan.”

But when ten minutes have passed and Maggie still hasn’t returned, we start to panic. We check the bathroom, but Maggie isn’t there. Next to the restroom is a small hallway with a door that leads to the parking lot. We hurry outside.

“Her car’s still here,” I say, relieved. “She can’t have gone far.”

“Maybe she’s passed out in the back.”

Maggie may be sleeping, but her car, however, appears to be engaged in some kind of violent activity. It’s rocking back and forth, and the windows are fogged. “Maggie?” I scream, banging on the back window.
“Maggie?”

We try the doors. They’re all locked, except for one.

I yank it open. Maggie is lying on the backseat with Jackson on top of her. “Shit!” he exclaims.

The Mouse sticks her head in. “What are you doing? Get out! Get out of the car.”

Jackson fumbles for the door handle behind his head. He manages to unlock it, and as the door suddenly flies open Jackson falls out onto the pavement.

He is, I note with relief, still basically clothed. And so is Maggie.

The Mouse runs over and gets in his face. “What are you, some kind of pervert?”

“Take it easy,” he says, backing away. “It wasn’t my idea. She was the one who wanted to—”

“I don’t care,” The Mouse roars. She picks up his jacket and throws it at him. “Take your stupid blazer and get out of here before I call the police. And don’t you dare come back!” she adds as Jackson, shielding himself with his coat, skittles away.

“What’s going on?” Maggie asks dreamily.

“Maggie,” I say, patting her face. “Are you okay? Did he—he didn’t—”

“Attack me? Naw.” She giggles. “I attacked him. Or I tried to anyway. But I couldn’t get his pants off. And you know what?” She hiccups. “I liked it. I really, really liked it. A lot.”

“Carrie? Are you mad at me?”

“No,” I say reassuringly. “Why would I be mad at you, Magwitch?”

“Because I’ve had more guys than you,” she says, with another hiccup and a smile.

“Don’t worry. Someday I’ll catch up.”

“I hope so. Because it’s really fun, you know? And it’s also like…power. Like you have power over these guys.”

“Uh-huh,” I say cautiously.

“Don’t tell Peter, okay?”

“No, I won’t tell Peter. It will be our little secret.”

“And The Mouse too, right? Will it be her little secret, too?”

“Of course—”

“On second thought”—she holds up one finger—“maybe you should tell Peter. I want him to be jealous. I want him to think about what he’s missing.” She gasps and puts her hand over her mouth. I pull over to the side of the road. Maggie tumbles out and gets sick while I hold back her hair.

When she gets back in the car, she seems to have sobered up considerably but has also become morose. “I did a dumb thing, didn’t I?” she groans.

“Don’t worry about it, Mags. We all do dumb things sometimes.”

“Oh, God. I’m a slut.” She puts her hands over her face. “I almost had sex with two men.”

“Come on, Maggie, you’re not a slut,” I insist. “It doesn’t matter how many guys you’ve slept with. It’s about
how
you’ve slept with them.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I have no idea. But it sounds good, right?”

I pull carefully into her driveway. Maggie’s parents are fast asleep, and I manage to maneuver her up to her room and into her nightgown undetected. I even convince her to drink a glass of water and take a couple of aspirins. She crawls into bed and lies on her back, staring at the ceiling. Then she curls up into the fetal position.