I know I should be peeved at her for making me come all the way to East Milton for nothing, but instead, I know exactly how she’s feeling. Wanting to cling to the past, wanting to be the way you always were, too scared to move forward into the future. I mean, who knows what’s in the future? On the other hand, it’s probably too late to go back.
“Look,” I say. “I’ll go inside and check it out. If it’s okay, I’ll come back and get you. If I’m not back in five minutes, call the police.”
Taped to the door is a piece of paper that says, KNOCK LOUDLY. I knock loudly. I knock so loudly, I nearly bruise my knuckles.
The door opens a crack, and a middle-aged woman wearing a nurse’s uniform sticks her head out. “Yes?”
“My friend is here for an appointment.”
“For what?” she says.
“Birth control pills?” I whisper.
“Are you the friend?” she demands.
“No,” I say, taken aback. “My friend is in the car.”
“She’d better come in quickly. Doctor has his hands full today.”
“Okay,” I say, and nod. My head is like one of those bobble things truckers put on their dashboards.
“Either get your ‘friend’ or come in,” the nurse says.
I turn around and wave to Maggie. And for once in her life, she actually gets out of the car.
We go in. We’re in a tiny waiting room that was maybe the breakfast room in the original house. The wallpaper is printed with tea kettles. There are six metal chairs and a fake wooden coffee table with copies of Highlights magazine for kids. A girl about our age is sitting on one of the chairs.
“Doctor will be with you soon,” the nurse says to Maggie, and leaves the room.
We sit down.
I look over at the girl, who is staring at us with hostility. Her hair is cut in a mullet, short in the front and really long in the back, and she’s wearing black eyeliner that swoops up into little wings, like her eyes might fly away from her face. She looks tough and miserable and kind of mean. Actually, she looks like she’d like to beat us up. I try to smile at her, but she glares at me instead and pointedly picks up Highlights magazine. Then she puts it down and says, “What are you looking at?”
I can’t handle another girl fight, so I reply as sweetly as possible, “Nothing.”
“Yeah?” she says. “You’d better be looking at nothing.”
“I’m looking at nothing. I swear.”
And at last, before this can go any further, the door opens and the nurse comes out, escorting another teenage girl by the shoulders. The girl looks quite a bit like her friend, except that she’s crying quietly and wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hands.
“You’re okay, dear,” the nurse says with surprising kindness. “Doctor says it all went fine. No aspirin for the next three days. And no sex for at least two weeks.” The girl nods, weeping. Her friend jumps up and puts her hands on the side of the crying girl’s face. “C’mon, Sal. It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.” And with one final scowl in our direction, she leads the girl away.
The nurse shakes her head and looks at Maggie. “Doctor will see you now.”
“Maggie,” I whisper. “You don’t have to do this. We can go someplace else...”
But Maggie stands, her face resolute. “I have to do it.”
“That’s right, dear,” the nurse says. “Much better to take precautions. I wish all you girls would take precautions.”
And for some reason, she looks directly at me.
Whoa, lady. Take it easy. I’m still a virgin.
But I may not be for much longer. Maybe I should get some pills too. Just in case.
Ten minutes pass and Maggie comes back out, smiling and looking like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She thanks the nurse profusely. In fact, she thanks her so much I have to remind her that we ought to get back to school. Outside, she says, “It was so easy. I didn’t even have to take off my clothes. He just asked me about the last time I got my period.”
“That’s great,” I say, getting in the car. I can’t get the image of the crying girl out of my head. Was she crying because she was sad or relieved? Or just scared? Either way, it was pretty awful. I open the window a crack and light up a cigarette. “Mags,” I say. “How did you hear about that place? Really?”
“Peter told me about it.”
“How did he know?”
“Donna LaDonna told him,” she whispers.
I nod, blowing smoke into the cold air. I am so not ready for all this.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hang in There
“Missy!” I say, knocking on the bathroom door. “Missy, I need to get in there.”
Silence. “I’m busy,” she finally says.
“Doing what?”
“None of your business.”
“Missy, please. Sebastian’s going to be here in thirty minutes.”
“So? He can wait.”
No, he can’t, I think. Or rather, I can’t. I can’t wait to get out of the house. I can’t wait to get out of here.
I’ve been telling myself this all week. The “getting out of here” part is unspecified, though. Maybe I simply want to get away from my life.
For the past two weeks, ever since the library incident, the two Jens have been stalking me. They poke their heads into swim practice and make mooing noises when I dive. They’ve followed me to the mall, the supermarket, and even the drugstore, where they had the exciting experience of watching me buy tampons. And yesterday, I found a card in my locker. On the front was a cartoon drawing of a basset hound with a thermometer in his mouth and a hot-water bottle on his head. Inside, someone had written “Don’t” before “Get Well Soon,” followed by, “Wish you were dead.”
“Donna would never do something like that,” Peter protested.
Maggie, The Mouse, and I glared at him.
Peter held up his hands. “You wanted my opinion, that’s my opinion.”
“Who else would do it?” Maggie asked. “She’s the one who has the biggest reason.”
“Not necessarily,” Peter said. “Look, Carrie. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I can promise you, Donna LaDonna doesn’t even know who you are.”
“She does now,” The Mouse countered.
Maggie was aghast. “Why wouldn’t she know Carrie?”
“I’m not saying she doesn’t literally know who Carrie Bradshaw is. But Carrie Bradshaw is definitely not high on her list of concerns.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said to Peter. I was really beginning to hate him.
And then I was furious at Maggie for going out with him. And then I was furious at The Mouse for being friends with him. And now I’m furious at my sister Missy for hogging the bathroom.
“I’m coming in,” I say threateningly. I try the door. It’s unlocked. Inside, Missy is standing in the tub with Nair on her legs.
“Do you mind?” she says, yanking the shower curtain closed.
“Do you mind?” I ask, going to the mirror. “You’ve been in here for twenty minutes. I need to get ready.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” I snarl.
“You’d better get out of that mood or Sebastian isn’t going to want to be with you either.”
I storm out of the bathroom. Back in my room, I pick up The Consensus, open it to the title page, and glare at Mary Gordon Howard’s tiny signature. It’s like the writing of a witch. I kick the book under the bed. I lie down and put my hands over my face.
I wouldn’t have even remembered the damn book and that damn Mary Gordon Howard if I hadn’t spent the last hour searching for my special handbag — the one from France that my mother left me. She felt guilty buying it because it was so expensive. Even though she paid for it with her own money and she always said every woman ought to have one really good handbag and one really good pair of shoes.
The handbag is one of my most treasured possessions. I treat
it like a jewel, only taking it out on special occasions, and always returning it to its cloth pouch and then to its original box. I keep the box in the back of my closet. Except this time, when I went to get it out, it wasn’t there. Instead, I found The Consensus, which I’d also hidden in the back of my closet. The last time I used the bag was six months ago, when Lali and I took a trip to Boston. She kept eyeing the bag and asking if she could borrow it sometime, and I said “yes,” even though the thought of Lali with my mother’s bag gave me the creeps. You would think it would have given her the creeps too — enough for her to know better than to ask. After the trip, I specifically remember putting the bag away properly, because I decided I wouldn’t use it again until I went to New York. But then Sebastian suggested dinner at this fancy French restaurant in Hartford called The Brownstone, and if that isn’t a special occasion, I don’t know what is.
And now the bag is missing. My whole world is falling apart.
Dorrit, I think suddenly. She’s gone from pilfering earrings to stealing my handbag.
I tear into her room.
Dorrit’s been awfully quiet this week. She hasn’t been causing her usual amount of turmoil, which is in itself suspicious. Now she’s lying on her bed, talking on the phone. On the wall above her is a poster of a cat, swinging from a tree branch. Hang in there, reads the caption.
Dorrit puts her hand over the receiver. “Yes?”
“Have you seen my bag?”
She looks away, which makes me guess she is, indeed, guilty. “What handbag? Your leather saddlebag? I think I saw it in the kitchen.”
“Mom’s bag.”
“I haven’t seen it,” she says, with exaggerated innocence. “Don’t you keep it locked up in your closet?”
“It’s not there.”
Dorrit shrugs and tries to go back to her conversation.
“Mind if I search your room?” I ask casually.
“Go ahead,” she says. She’s crafty. If she were guilty, she’d say, yes, she did mind.
I search her closets, her drawers, and under the bed. Nothing. “See?” Dorrit says in an I-told-you-so tone. But in her second of triumph, her eyes go to the giant stuffed panda bear seated on the rocking chair in the corner of her room. The panda bear that I supposedly gave her as a present when she was born.
“Oh no, Dorrit,” I say, shaking my head. “Not Mr. Panda.”
“Don’t touch him!” she screams, leaping off the bed and dropping the phone. I grab Mr. Panda and run out.
Dorrit follows me. Mr. Panda is suspiciously heavy, I note, as I bear him away to my room.
“Leave him alone,” Dorrit demands.
“Why?” I ask. “Has Mr. Panda been up to something naughty?”
“No!”
“I think he has.” I feel around the back of the stuffed bear and find a large opening that’s been carefully fastened closed with safety pins.
“What’s going on?” Missy comes running in, her legs dripping with foam.
“This,” I say, unfastening the safety pins.
“Carrie, don’t,” Dorrit cries as I slip my hand into the opening. The first thing I pull out is a silver bracelet I haven’t seen for months. The bracelet is followed by a small pipe, the type used to smoke marijuana. “It’s not mine. I swear. It’s my friend Cheryl’s,” Dorrit insists. “She asked me to hide it for her.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, handing Missy the pipe. And then my hand closes around the soft nubby surface of my mother’s bag. “Aha!” I exclaim, yanking it out. I place it on the bed, where the three of us stare at it aghast.
It’s ruined. The entire front side with the chic little flap where my mother used to keep her checkbook and credit cards is speckled with what looks like pink paint. Which just happens to be exactly the same color as the nail polish on Dorrit’s hands.
I’m too shocked to speak.
“Dorrit, how could you?” Missy screams. “That was Mom’s bag. Why did you have to ruin Mom’s bag? Couldn’t you ruin your own bag for a change?”
“Why does Carrie have to have everything of Mom’s?” Dorrit screams back.
“I don’t,” I say, surprising myself with how calm and reasonable I sound.
“Mom left that bag to Carrie. Because she’s the oldest,” Missy says.
“No she didn’t,” Dorrit wails. “She left it to her because she liked her the best.”
“Dorrit, that isn’t true...”
“Yes it is. Mom wanted Carrie to be just like her. Except that now Mom is dead and Carrie is still alive.” It’s the kind of scream that makes your throat hurt.
Dorrit runs out of the room. And suddenly, I burst into tears.
I’m not a good crier. Some women can supposedly cry prettily, like the girls in Gone with the Wind. But I’ve never seen it in real life. When I cry, my face swells up and my nose runs and I can’t breathe.
“What would Mom say?” I ask Missy between sobs.
“Well, I guess she can’t say anything now,” Missy says.
Ha. Gallows humor. I don’t know what we’d do without it.
“I mean, yeah,” I giggle, between hiccups. “It’s only a handbag, right? It’s not like it’s a person or anything.”
“I think we should paint Mr. Panda pink,” Missy says. “Teach Dorrit a lesson. She left a bottle of pink polish open under the sink. I almost knocked it over when I went to get the Nair.”
I race into the bathroom.
“What are you doing?” Missy squeals as I start my handiwork. When I’m finished, I hold up the bag for inspection.
“It’s cool,” Missy says, nodding appreciatively.
I turn it over, pleased. It really is kind of cool. “If it’s deliberate,” I tell her, with a sudden realization, “it’s fashion.”
“Ohmigod. I love your bag,” the hostess gushes. She’s wearing a black Lycra dress and the top of her hair is teased into spiky meringue waves. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Is that your name on it? Carrie?”
I nod.
“My name’s Eileen,” she says. “I’d love to have a bag like that with my name on it.”
She picks up two menus and holds them aloft as she leads us to a table for two in front of the fireplace. “Most romantic table in the house,” she whispers as she hands over the menus. “Have fun, kids.”
“Oh, we will,” Sebastian says, unfolding his napkin with a snap.
I hold up the bag. “You like?”
“It’s a purse, Carrie,” he says.
“This, Sebastian, is no mere purse. And you shouldn’t call a handbag a purse. A purse was what people used to carry coins in the sixteen hundreds. They used to hide their purse inside their clothes to foil robbers. A bag, on the other hand, is meant to be seen. And this isn’t any old bag. It was my mother’s….” I trail off. He’s clearly not interested in the provenance of my bag. Hmph. Men, I think, opening my menu.
“I like who’s carrying it, though,” he says.
“Thank you.” I’m still a little annoyed with him.
“What would you like?”
I guess we’re supposed to be all formal, now that we’re at a fancy restaurant.
“Haven’t decided.”
“Waiter?” he says. “Can we have two martinis please? With olives instead of a twist.” He leans toward me. “They have the best martinis here.”
“I’d like a Singapore Sling.”
“Carrie,” he says. “You can’t have a Singapore Sling.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a martini place. And a Singapore Sling is juvenile.” He glances at me over the top of the menu. “And speaking of juvenile, what’s wrong with you tonight?”
“Nothing.”
“Good. Then try to act normal.”
I open my menu and frown.
“The lamb chops are excellent. And so is the French onion soup. It was my favorite thing to eat in France.” He looks up and smiles. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“Thanks,” I s
ay, with slight sarcasm. I immediately apologize. “Sorry.” What is wrong with me? Why am I in such a bad mood? I’m never in a bad mood with Sebastian.
“So,” he says, taking my hand. “How was your week?”
“Terrible,” I say as the waiter arrives with our martinis.
“Cheers,” he says. “To terrible weeks.”
I take a sip of my drink and carefully put it down. “Honestly, Sebastian. This week was pretty bad.”
“Because of me?”
“No. Not because of you. I mean, not directly. It’s just that Donna LaDonna hates me...”
“Carrie,” he says. “If you can’t handle the controversy, you shouldn’t see me.”
“I can handle it...”
“Well then.”
“Is there always controversy? When you’re seeing someone?”
He leans back and gives me a smug look. “Usually.”
Aha. Sebastian is a guy who loves drama. But I love drama too. So maybe we’re perfect for each other. Must discuss this aspect with The Mouse, I think, making a mental note.
“So are the French onion soup and lamb chops good for you?” he asks as he gives our order to the waiter.
“Perfect,” I say, smiling at him over the rim of my martini.
And there’s the problem: I don’t want French onion soup. I’ve had onions and cheese my whole life. I wanted to try something exotic and sophisticated, like escargot. And now it’s too late. Why do I always do what Sebastian wants?
As I lift my glass, a woman with coiffed red hair, a red dress, and bare legs knocks into me, spilling half of my drink. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says, slurring her words. She steps back, taking in what appears to be a romantic scene between me and Sebastian. “Young love,” she twitters, staggering away as I mop up the mess with my napkin.
“What was that about?”
“Some middle-aged drunk.” Sebastian shrugs.
“She can’t help being middle-aged, you know.”
“Yeah. But there’s nothing worse than a woman over a certain age who’s had too much to drink.”
“Where do you pick up these rules?”
“Come on, Carrie. Everyone knows that women are lousy drunks.”
“And men are better?”
Carrie Diaries Page 11