Кэндес Бушнелл - Carrie Diaries

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.

“Sometimes I just want to be a little girl again, you know?”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “I know just what you mean.” I wait a moment to make sure she’s asleep, and then I flip off the light and slip out of the house.

Dear Ms. Bradshaw, the letter begins. We are pleased to inform you that a place has become available for the summer writing seminar with National Book Award–winning novelist Viktor Greene. If you wish to attend, please inform us immediately as space is limited.

The New School.

I got in! IgotinIgotinIgotin. Or at least I think I did. Does it specifically say I got in? A place has become available…. At the last minute? Did someone drop out? Am I some kind of backup student? The course is limited…. Aha. So that means if I don’t take the spot someone else will. They’ve already got dozens of people lined up, maybe hundreds —

“Daaaaaaad!”

“What?” he asks, startled.

“I have to — I got this letter — New York...”

“Stop jumping up and down and tell me what this is about.”

I put my hand on my chest to quell my thumping heart. “I got into that writing program. In New York City. And if I don’t say yes right away, they’re going to give my space to someone else.”

“New York,” my father exclaims. “What about Brown?”

“Dad, you don’t understand. See? Right here: summer writing course. June twenty-second to August nineteenth. And Brown doesn’t start till Labor Day. So there’s plenty of time...”

“I don’t know, Carrie.”

“But, Dad...”

“I thought this writing thing was a hobby.”

I look at him, aghast.

“It isn’t. I mean, it’s just something I really want to do.” I can’t express how badly I want it. I don’t want to scare him.

“We’ll think about it, okay?”

“No!” I shout. He’ll think about it and think about it and by the time he’s thought about it, it will be too late. I shove the letter under his nose. “I have to decide now. Otherwise...”