The Carrie Diaries

by Candace Bushnell

  “I’d rather not,” I say, sneaking a glance at Sebastian.

  “I’d do it, but I’m scared of heights,” Lali explains. Heights, indeed, are the only thing she admits to being scared of, probably because she thinks it makes her more interesting. “Every time I cross the bridge to Hartford, I have to get down on the floor so I don’t get dizzy.”

  “What if you’re the one who’s driving?” asks The Mouse.

  “Then she has to stop in the middle of traffic and sit there shaking until the police come and tow her car,” I say, finding this vision hysterical.

  Lali gives me a dirty look. “That is so not true. If I’m driving, it’s different.”

  “Uh-huh,” Walt says.

  Maggie takes a gulp of whiskey. “Maybe we should go to The Emerald. I’m getting cold.”

  Oh no. Not after we’ve made all this effort. “You go to The Emerald, Magwitch. I’m going to do this,” I say, with what I hope sounds like gutsy determination.

  Peter rubs Maggie’s shoulders, a gesture not lost on Walt. “Let’s stay. We can go to The Emerald later.”

  “All right,” The Mouse says pointedly. “Anyone who doesn’t want to be here should go now. Anyone who wants to stay should just shut up.”

  “I’m staying,” Walt says, lighting up a cigarette. “And I’m not shutting up.”

  The plan is simple: Lali and Peter will hold the ladder while I go up. Once I’m at the top, Sebastian will climb up after me with the can of paint. I place my hand on a rung. The metal is cold and grooved. Look up, I remind myself. The future is ahead of you. Don’t look down. Never look back. Never let ’em see you sweat.

  “Go on, Carrie.”

  “You can do it.”

  “She’s at the top. Ohmigod. She’s on the roof!” That’s Maggie.

  “Carrie?” Sebastian says. “I’m right behind you.”

  The harvest moon has transformed into a bright white orb surrounded by a million stars. “It’s beautiful up here,” I shout. “You should all have a look.”

  I slowly rise, testing my balance, and take a few steps to get my footing. It’s not so hard. I remind myself of all the kids who have done this in the past. Sebastian’s at the top of the ladder with the paint. With the can in one hand and the brush in the other, I make my way to the side of the roof.

  I begin painting, as the group takes up a chant below. “One…Nine…Eight…”

  “NINETEEN. EIGHTY—” And just as I’m about to paint the last number, my foot slips.

  The can flies out of my hand, bounces once, and rolls off the roof, leaving a huge splotch of paint behind. Maggie screams. I drop down to my knees, scrambling to get a handhold on the wooden shingles. I hear a soft thud as the can hits the grass. Then…nothing.

  “Carrie?” The Mouse says tentatively. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Don’t move,” Peter shouts.

  “I’m not.”

  And it’s true. I’m not moving. But then, with excruciating slowness, I begin to slide. I try to jam my toe into the shingles to stop, but my sneaker glides right over the slick spill of red paint. I reassure myself that I will not die. It’s not my time. If I were going to die, I’d know it, right? Some part of my brain is aware of the scraping of skin, but I have yet to feel the pain. I’m picturing myself in a body cast, when suddenly a firm hand grabs my wrist and drags me up to the peak. Behind me I see the tips of the ladder fall away from the edge, followed by a whomp as it clatters into the bushes.

  Everyone is screaming.

  “We’re okay. We’re fine. No injuries,” Sebastian shouts as the wail of a police siren rips the air.

  “There goes Harvard,” Peter says.

  “Hide the ladder in the barn,” Lali commands. “If the cops ask we’re just up here smoking cigarettes.”

  “Maggie, give me the booze,” Walt says. There’s a crash as he throws the bottle into the barn.

  Sebastian tugs on my arm. “We need to get to the other side.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask questions. Just do it,” he orders as we scramble over the peak. “Lie flat on your back with your knees bent.”

  “But now I can’t see what’s happening,” I protest.

  “I’ve got a record. Don’t move and don’t say a word, and pray the cops don’t find us.”

  My breath is as loud as the pounding of a drum.

  “Hello, Officers,” Walt says when the police arrive.

  “What are you kids up to?”

  “Nothing. Just smoking some cigarettes,” Peter says.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Nope.” A group answer.

  Silence, followed by the sound of feet squelching around in the wet grass. “What the hell’s this?” demands one of the cops. The beam from his flashlight slides up the roof and into the sky. “You kids painting the barn? That’s a misdemeanor. Violation of private property.”

  “Yo, Marone,” Lali says to one of the cops. “It’s me.”

  “Whoa,” Marone says. “Lali Kandesie. Hey, Jack. It’s Lali, Ed’s girl.”

  “You want to take a look around?” Jack asks cautiously, now that he’s being confronted by the boss’s daughter.

  “Nah. Looks okay to me,” says Marone.

  Jack snorts. “Okay, kids. Party’s over. We’re going to make sure you get to your cars and get home safely.”

  And they all leave.

  Sebastian and I lie frozen on the roof. I stare up at the stars, intensely aware of his body a few inches from mine. If this isn’t romance, I don’t know what is.

  Sebastian peers over the side. “I think they’re gone.”

  Suddenly, we look at each other and laugh. Sebastian’s laugh—I’ve never heard anything like it—is deep and throaty and slightly sweet, like ripe fruit. I imagine the taste of his mouth as being slightly fruity too, but also sharp, with a tang of nicotine. Boys’ mouths are never what you think they’re going to be anyway. Sometimes they’re stiff and sharp with teeth, or like soft little caves filled with down pillows.

  “Well, Carrie Bradshaw,” he says. “What’s your big plan now?”

  I hug my knees to my chest. “Don’t have one.”

  “You? Without a plan? That must be a first.”

  Really? Is that how he thinks of me? As some nerdly, uptight, efficient planner? I’ve always thought of myself as the spontaneous type. “I don’t always have a plan.”

  “But you always seem to know where you’re going.”

  “I do?”

  “Sure. I can barely keep up with you.”

  What does that mean? Is this a dream? Am I actually having this conversation with Sebastian Kydd?

  “You could always try calling—”

  “I did. But your phone’s perennially busy. So tonight I was going to stop by your house, but then I saw you getting in Lali’s truck and followed you. I figured you were up to something interesting.”

  Is he saying he likes me?

  “You’re definitely a character,” he adds.

  A character? Is that good or bad? I mean, what kind of guy falls in love with a character?

  “I guess I can be…sort of funny sometimes.”

  “You’re funny a lot. You’re very entertaining. It’s good. Most girls are boring.”

  “They are?”

  “Come on, Carrie. You’re a girl. You must know that.”

  “I think most girls are pretty interesting. I mean, they’re a lot more interesting than boys. Boys are the ones who are boring.”

  “Am I boring?”

  “You? You’re not boring at all. I just meant—”

  “I know.” He moves a little closer. “Are you cold?”

  “I’m okay.”

  He takes off his jacket. As I put it on, he notices my hands. “Christ,” he says. “That must hurt.”

  “It does—a little.” The palms of my hands are stinging like hell where I’ve scraped the skin. “It’s not the
worst thing that’s happened to me though. One time, I fell off the back of the Kandesies’ truck and broke my collarbone. I didn’t know it was broken until the next day. Lali made me go to the doctor.”

  “Lali’s your best friend, huh?”

  “Pretty much. I mean, she’s been my best friend since we were ten. Hey,” I ask. “Who’s your best friend?”

  “Don’t have one,” he says, staring out at the trees.

  “I guess that’s the way guys are,” I say musingly. I check my hands. “Do you think we’re ever going to get off this roof?”

  “Do you want to get off this roof?”

  “No.”

  “So don’t think about it. Someone will come and get us eventually. Maybe Lali, or your friend The Mouse. She’s cool.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “She’s got her life all figured out. She’s applying early admission to Yale. And she’ll definitely get in.”

  “That must be nice,” he says with a hint of bitterness.

  “Are you worried about your future?”

  “Isn’t everyone?”

  “I guess…. But I thought…I don’t know. I thought you were going to Harvard or something. Weren’t you in private school?”

  “I was. But I realized I didn’t necessarily want to go to Harvard.”

  “How could anyone not want to go to Harvard?”

  “Because it’s a crock. Once I go to Harvard, that’s it. Then I’ll have to go to law school. Or business school. Then I’ll be a suit, working for a big corporation. Taking the commuter train to New York City every day. And then some girl will get me to marry her, and before you know it, I’ll have kids and a mortgage. Game over.”

  “Hmph.” It’s not exactly what a girl wants to hear from a guy, but on the other hand, I have to give him points for being honest. “I know what you mean. I always say I’m never getting married. Too predictable.”

  “You’ll change your mind. All women do.”

  “I won’t. I’m going to be a writer.”

  “You look like a writer,” he says.

  “I do?”

  “Yeah. You look like you’ve always got something going on in your head.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “Kind of.” He leans over and kisses me. And suddenly, my life splits in two: before and after.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Mysteries of Romance

  “Tell me exactly what he said.”

  “He said I was interesting. And a character.”

  “Did he say he liked you?”

  “I think it was more that he liked the idea of me.”

  “Liking the idea of a girl is different from actually liking a girl,” Maggie says.

  “I think if a guy says you’re interesting and a character, it means you’re special,” The Mouse counters.

  “But it doesn’t mean he wants to be with you. Maybe he thinks you’re special—and weird,” Maggie says.

  “So what happened after we left?” The Mouse asks, ignoring her.

  “Lali came and rescued us. He went home. He said he’d had enough excitement for one evening.”

  “Has he said anything since?” Maggie asks.

  I scratch a nonexistent itch. “Nope. But it doesn’t matter.”

  “He’ll call,” The Mouse says with confidence.

  “Of course he’ll call. He has to call,” Maggie says, with too much enthusiasm.

  Four days have passed since the barn-painting incident and we’re dissecting the event for about the twentieth time. After Lali rescued us, apparently The Mouse and Walt did come back, but we were gone along with the ladder, so they figured we got away okay. On Monday when we showed up at school, we couldn’t stop laughing. Every time one of us looked out the window and saw 198 and that big red splotch, we’d crack up. At assembly that morning, Cynthia Viande referred to the incident, saying the vandalism to private property had not gone unnoticed, and the perpetrators, if caught, would be prosecuted.

  We all snickered like little cats.

  All of us, that is, except for Peter. “Can the cops really be that dumb?” he kept asking. “I mean, they were right there. They saw us.”

  “And what did they see? A few kids standing around an old dairy barn.”

  “That Peter guy—geez,” Lali said. “He’s so paranoid. What the hell was he doing there anyway?”

  “I think he likes Maggie.”

  “But Maggie’s with Walt.”

  “I know.”

  “She has two boyfriends now? How can you have two boyfriends?”

  “Listen,” Peter said the next day, sidling up to me in the hall. “I’m not sure we can trust Sebastian. What if he rats us out?”

  “Don’t worry. He’s the last person who’s going to tell.”

  Hearing Sebastian’s name was like a skewer to the gut.

  Ever since the kiss, Sebastian’s presence has been like an invisible shadow sewn to my skin. I cannot go anywhere without him. In the shower, he hands me the shampoo. His face floats up behind the words in my textbooks. On Sunday, Maggie, Walt, and I went to a flea market, and while I pawed through piles of sixties T-shirts, all I could think about was what Sebastian would like.

  Surely he’ll call.

  But he hasn’t.

  A week passes, and on Saturday morning, I reluctantly pack a little suitcase. I look at the clothes I’ve laid out on the bed, perplexed. They’re like the random, disjointed thoughts of a thousand strangers. What was I thinking when I bought that beaded fifties sweater? Or that pink bandanna? Or the green leggings with yellow stripes? I have nothing to wear for this interview. How can I be who I’m supposed to be with these clothes?

  Who am I supposed to be again?

  Just be yourself.

  But who am I?

  What if he calls while I’m gone? Why hasn’t he called already?

  Maybe something happened to him.

  Like what? You saw him every day at school and he was fine.

  “Carrie?” my father calls out. “Are you ready?”

  “Almost.” I fold a plaid skirt and the beaded sweater into the suitcase, add a wide belt, and throw in an old Hermès scarf that belonged to my mother. She bought it on the one trip to Paris she took with my father a few years ago.

  “Carrie?”

  “Coming.” I bang down the stairs.

  My father is always nervous before a trip. He gathers maps and estimates time and distance. He’s only comfortable with the unknown or the unexpected if it’s a number in an equation. I keep reminding him that this is not a big deal. It’s his alma mater, and Brown is only forty-five minutes away.

  But he fusses. He takes the car to the car wash. He withdraws cash. He inspects his travel comb. Dorrit rolls her eyes. “You’re going to be gone for less than twenty-four hours!”

  It rains during the drive. As we head east, I notice the leaves are already beginning to flee their branches, like flocks of birds heading south for the winter.

  “Carrie,” my father says. “Don’t sweat the small stuff. Don’t beat yourself up about things.” He can usually sense when something is wrong, although he’s rarely able to pinpoint the cause.

  “I’m not, Dad.”

  “Because when you do,” he continues, warming up to one of his favorite topics, “you lose twice. You’ve lost what you’ve lost, but then you also lose your perspective. Because life happens to people. Life is bigger than people. It’s all about nature. The life cycle…It’s out of our control.”

  It shouldn’t be, though. There ought to be a law that says every time a boy kisses a girl, he has to call within three days.

  “So in other words, old man, shit happens and then you die.”

  I say this in a way that makes my father laugh. Unfortunately, I can hear Sebastian in the backseat, laughing too.

  “Carrie Bradshaw, right?”

  The guy named George shifts my file from one arm to another and shakes my hand. “And you, sir, must be Mr. Bradshaw.”


  “That’s right,” my father says. “Class of 1958.”

  George looks at me appraisingly. “Are you nervous?”

  “A little.”

  “Don’t be.” He smiles reassuringly. “Professor Hawkins is one of the best. He has PhD’s in English literature and physics. I see on your application that you’re interested in science and writing. Here at Brown, you can do both.” He reddens a little, as if he realizes he’s being quite the salesman, and suddenly adds, “Besides, you look great.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur, feeling a bit like a lamb being led to slaughter.

  I immediately realize I’m being silly and overly dramatic. George is right: Everything about Brown is perfect, from the charming redbrick buildings of the Pembroke College campus, to College Green, dotted with voluptuous elms that still have their leaves, to the glorious columned John Carter Brown Library. I need only insert my mannequin self into this picture-postcard scene.

  But as the day progresses from the interview in the artfully messy professor’s office—“What are your goals, Ms. Bradshaw?” “I’d like to make an impact on society. I’d like to contribute something meaningful”—to the tour of the campus, chem labs, the computer room, a first-year dorm room, and finally to dinner with George on Thayer Street, I begin to feel more and more flimsy, like a doll constructed of tissue paper. Halfway through dinner, when George mentions there’s a rock ’n’ roll band playing at the Avon Theatre, I feel like I can’t refuse, even though I’d prefer to lie in my hotel room and think about Sebastian instead.

  “Go,” my father urges. He’s already informed me that George is the kind of young man—intelligent, well-mannered, thoughtful—that he’s always pictured me dating.

  “You’re going to love Brown,” George says in the car. He drives a Saab. Well engineered, slightly expensive, with European styling. Like George, I think. If I weren’t obsessed with Sebastian, I probably would find George attractive.

  “Why do you love Brown so much?” I ask.

  “I’m from the city, so this is a nice break. Of course, I’ll be in the city this summer. That’s the great thing about Brown. The internships. I’m going to be working for The New York Times.”