The Carrie Diaries

by Candace Bushnell

  “She’s right!” exclaims the nerdly guy, thumping his fist on the table.

  “Okay, Carrie,” Peter says, annoyed. “You take the story.”

  “Oh no. Can’t do that,” Ms. Smidgens says, stepping in. “I know Carrie’s a senior, but as a new member of the paper, she has to do layout.”

  I shrug pleasantly, as if I don’t mind at all.

  A few minutes later, Gayle and I are relegated to a corner of the room to move around sections of type on a large piece of lined paper. The job is unbearably tedious, and I look over at Gayle, who is frowning, either in concentration or anger. She’s at the apex of the worst stage of being a teenage girl, meaning she has blemishes, greasy hair, and a face that hasn’t yet caught up to her nose.

  “Typical, isn’t it?” I say. “They always make the girls do the most unimportant job.”

  “If they don’t make me a reporter next year, I’m going to start a petition,” she says fiercely.

  “Hmmmm. I’ve always thought there were two ways of getting what you wanted in life. Forcing people to give it to you, or making them want to give it to you. Seems the latter is usually the better choice. I bet if you talked to Ms. Smidgens, she’d help you out. She seems pretty reasonable.”

  “She’s not so bad. It’s Peter.”

  “That so?”

  “He refuses to give me a chance.”

  Suspecting, perhaps, that we’re talking about him, Peter strolls over. “Carrie, you don’t have to do this.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” I say airily. “I love arts and crafts.”

  “You do?” Gayle asks when Peter walks away.

  “Are you kidding? My worst nightmare was those relief maps. And I failed sewing when I was in the Girl Scouts.”

  Little Gayle giggles. “Me too. I mean, I want to be Barbara Walters when I grow up, even if everyone does make fun of her. I wonder if she ever had to do this?”

  “Probably. And probably a lot of other worse things as well.”

  “You think?” Gayle asks, encouraged.

  “I know,” I say, just for the hell of it. We work in silence for another minute, and then I ask, “What’s this thing with your sister and Donna LaDonna?”

  She looks at me suspiciously. “Do you know my sister?”

  “Sure.” It’s a bit of a lie. I don’t really know her, but I’m aware of who she is. Gayle’s sister has to be a senior named Ramona who looks just like Gayle, albeit a slightly less pimply and more refined version. I never paid that much attention to her because she moved here during our freshman year and immediately made other friends.

  “She’s a really good gymnast,” Gayle says. “I mean, she was, back in New Jersey. When she was thirteen, she was the all-around state champion.”

  I’m surprised. “Why isn’t she on the gymnastics team, then?”

  “She grew. She got hips. And boobs. Something happened with her center of gravity.”

  “I see.”

  “But she’s still really good at doing splits and cartwheels and all the things cheerleaders do. She tried out for the cheerleading squad and was sure she’d make it because she’s so much better than the other girls, like Donna LaDonna, who can’t even do a full split. But she wasn’t even picked for Junior Varsity. She tried out again, last year, and afterward, Donna LaDonna went up to her and told her right to her face that she wasn’t going to make it because she wasn’t pretty enough.”

  “She came right out and said it?” I gasp, astonished.

  Gayle nods. “She said, and I quote, ‘You’re not pretty enough to make the squad, so don’t waste your time and ours.’”

  “Wow. What did your sister do?”

  “She told the principal.”

  I nod, thinking maybe this is typical Ramona behavior, always tattling to an adult, and that’s why they didn’t want her on the team. But still. “What did the principal say?”

  “He said he couldn’t get involved in ‘girl stuff.’ And my sister said it was discrimination, pure and simple. Discrimination against girls who don’t have straight hair and tiny noses and perfect boobs. And he laughed.”

  “He’s a bastard. Everyone knows that.”

  “But it doesn’t make it right. So my sister has been trying to get this discrimination suit going.”

  “And you’re going to write about it.”

  “I would, except Peter won’t let me do it. And Donna LaDonna won’t talk to me. I mean, I’m a freshman. And then she put the word out that if anyone talks about it at all, they’ll have to deal with her.”

  “Really?”

  “And who wants to go up against Donna LaDonna? Let’s face it.” Gayle sighs. “She runs the school.”

  “Or thinks she does, anyway.”

  At that moment, Peter returns. “I’m going to meet Maggie at the Fox Run Mall. You want to come?”

  “Sure,” I say, gathering my things. “I’m meeting Sebastian there anyway.”

  “Bye, Carrie,” Gayle says. “It was nice to meet you. And don’t worry. I won’t try to talk to you if I see you in the hall.”

  “Don’t be silly, Gayle. You come up and talk to me anytime you like.”

  “Gayle probably told you all about Donna LaDonna and her sister, Ramona,” Peter says as we cross the parking lot to a rusty yellow station wagon.

  “Mmmhmmm,” I murmur.

  “It’s all a bunch of BS. No one is interested in that boring girl talk.”

  “Is that how you think of it? As boring girl talk?”

  “Yeah. Isn’t that what it is?”

  I open the passenger door, knock a bunch of papers to the floor, and get in. “Funny. I always thought you were more evolved when it came to women.”

  “What do you mean?” Peter pumps the gas and turns the key. It takes a few tries to get the engine going.

  “I never figured you for a guy who can’t stand the sound of women’s voices. You know, those guys who tell their girlfriends to shut up when they’re trying to tell them something.”

  “Who told you I was that kind of guy? Maggie? I’m not that kind of guy, I promise you.”

  “Why won’t you let Gayle do her story, then? Or is this really about Donna LaDonna?”

  “It has nothing to do with her,” he says, clumsily changing gears.

  “How well do you know her? Honestly?”

  “Why?”

  I shrug. “I heard you were talking about her at Lali’s party.”

  “So?”

  “So Maggie is a really good friend of mine. And she’s a great girl. I don’t want to see her get hurt.”

  “Who says she’s going to get hurt?”

  “She’d better not get hurt. That’s all.”

  We drive a little farther, and then Peter says, “You don’t have to do it.”

  “What?”

  “Be nice to Gayle. She’s a pain in the ass. Once you talk to her, you can’t get rid of her.”

  “She seems okay to me.” I give him a dirty look, remembering how he wouldn’t even take Maggie to the clinic to get the birth control pills.

  And apparently, he’s feeling guilty. “If you want to write a story for the paper, you can,” he says. “I guess I sort of owe you anyway.”

  “For going with Maggie to the clinic? I guess you do.”

  “Isn’t it better for girls to do those things together anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, with a dark edge to my voice. “What if Maggie had been pregnant?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to avoid. I should get points for being a good boyfriend and making her take the pill,” he says, as if he deserves a pat on the back.

  Why is it always about the guy? “I think Maggie is smart enough to know she should be on the pill.”

  “Hey. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Forget about it,” I say, annoyed. I have a sudden image of that girl at the clinic, crying and crying because she’d just had an abortion. The guy who got her pregnant wasn’t with her, either. I sh
ould tell Peter about her, but I don’t know where to begin.

  “Anyway, it was really decent of you,” he concedes. “Maggie told me you were great.”

  “And this surprises you?”

  “I don’t know, Carrie,” he stammers. “I mean—I always thought you were kind of…silly.”

  “Silly?”

  “I mean, you’re always making jokes. I could never understand what you were doing in our AP classes.”

  “Why? Because I’m funny? A girl can’t be funny and smart?”

  “I wasn’t saying you’re not smart—”

  “Or is it because I’m not going to Harvard? Maggie keeps telling me you’re a great guy. But I don’t see it. Or maybe you’ve only become a major asshole in the last three days.”

  “Whoa. Take it easy. You don’t have to get so mad. Why do girls always take things so personally?” he asks.

  I sit there with my arms crossed, saying nothing. Peter starts to get uncomfortable, shifting his butt around on the driver’s seat. “So, um, really,” he says. “You should write a piece for the newspaper. Maybe a profile of a teacher or something. That’s always good.”

  I put my feet up on his dashboard. “I’ll think about it,” I say.

  I’m still stewing when we pull into the parking lot of the Fox Run Mall. I’m so mad, I’m not sure I can even be friends with Maggie while she’s dating this jerk.

  I get out of the car and kind of slam the door, which is pretty rude, but I can’t help it. “I’ll meet you guys inside, okay?”

  “Okay,” he says, looking nervous. “We’ll be at Mrs. Fields.”

  I nod and then I walk around the parking lot and fish through my bag until I find a cigarette, which I light up. And just as I’m smoking and starting to feel normal again, the yellow Corvette peels into the parking lot and squeals into a space about ten feet away. It’s Sebastian. And Lali.

  They’re laughing and giggling as they get out of the car.

  My stomach drops. Where have they been for the past hour and a half?

  “Hey, babe,” Sebastian says, giving me a quick peck on the lips. “We were hungry, so we went to the Hamburger Shack.”

  “Did you see Walt?”

  “Uh-huh,” Lali says. Sebastian links his arm through mine, then holds out his other arm for Lali. Thus entwined, the three of us go into the mall.

  My only consolation is that I know Sebastian isn’t lying about the Hamburger Shack. When he kissed me, his breath smelled of onions and peppers, mixed with the sharp scent of cigarettes.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Cliques Are Made to Be Broken

  “What do you think?” I ask The Mouse, tapping my pen on the table.

  “Attacking Donna LaDonna in your first piece for The Nutmeg? Risky, Bradley. Especially as you haven’t gotten her side yet.”

  “Not for lack of trying,” I counter, which isn’t exactly true. I did follow her around for a bit, but I didn’t really try to confront her. What I actually did was drive by her house three times. The LaDonnas live on the top of a hill in a big new house, which is also strikingly ugly. It has two columns, one wall made of brick, one wall made of stucco, and the others of wood, as if the person designing the house couldn’t decide what they wanted and chose everything instead. Sort of the way Donna LaDonna is about boys, I figure.

  On two occasions, the house was deserted, but the third time, I saw Tommy Brewster coming out, followed by Donna. Just before Tommy got into his car, he made a lunge for her, like he was trying to kiss her, but she pushed him away with her index finger and laughed. While Tommy was still in the driveway, fuming, another car pulled up—a blue Mercedes—and a tall, really good-looking guy got out, walked right past Tommy, and put his arm around Donna’s waist. Then they went inside without a backward glance.

  When it comes to guys, Donna clearly leads a very interesting life.

  “Why not start with something less controversial than Donna LaDonna?” The Mouse asks now. “Get people used to the idea that you’re writing for the paper.”

  “But if I don’t write about Donna, I have nothing to write about,” I complain. I put my feet up on the table and tip my chair back. “The great thing about Donna is that everyone is scared of her. I mean, what else about high school inspires such universal distress?”

  “Cliques.”

  “Cliques? We’re not even in a clique.”

  “In the sense that we’ve been hanging out with pretty much the same people for the last ten years, maybe we are.”

  “I always thought of us as the anti-clique.”

  “An anti-clique is a clique, isn’t it?” asks The Mouse.

  “Maybe there’s a story here,” I muse, leaning all the way back in my chair. When I’m nearly perpendicular, the legs slide out and I fall over, knocking down several books in the process. I land with the chair on top of my head, and when I peek around the seat, little Gayle is bending over me.

  Someone has got to tell this girl about Clearasil.

  “Carrie?” she gasps. “Are you all right?” She glances around wildly as she picks several books up off the floor. “You’d better get up before the librarian finds you. If she does, she’ll kick you out.”

  The Mouse bursts out laughing.

  “I don’t get it,” Gayle says, her arms wrapped around a pile of books. Her eyes fill with tears.

  “Sweetie,” I say. “We’re not making fun of you. It’s just that we’re seniors. We don’t care if the librarian kicks us out.”

  “If she tried, we’d probably give her the finger,” The Mouse adds. We look at each other and snicker.

  “Oh. Well.” Gayle nervously pinches her lip. I pull out the chair next to me. “Have a seat.”

  “Really?”

  “This is Roberta Castells,” I say as Gayle cautiously sits. “Also known as ‘Mighty Mouse.’ Or ‘The Mouse’ for short.”

  “Hello,” Gayle says shyly. “I know all about you. You’re a legend. They say you’re the smartest girl in school. I wish I could do something like that. Be the smartest. I know I’m never going to be the prettiest.”

  The two Jens come into the library, sniffing around like bloodhounds. They spot us and take a seat two tables away.

  “See those girls?” I indicate the Jens with my head. “Do you think they’re pretty?”

  “The two Jens? They’re beautiful.”

  “Now,” I say. “They’re beautiful now. But in two years—”

  “They’re going to look really, really old. They’re going to look like they’re forty,” The Mouse says.

  Little Gayle covers her mouth. “Why? What happened to them?”

  “They’re going to peak in high school,” I explain.

  “What?”

  “That’s right,” The Mouse agrees, nodding. “And after high school, it’s all downhill. Babies. Cheating husbands. Dead-end jobs. You don’t want to peak in high school. If you do, the rest of your life is a disaster.”

  “I never thought of it that way.” And she looks over at the two Jens like they’re freaky aliens from another planet.

  “Speaking of which,” I ask, “what do you hate most about high school?”

  “Um, the food?”

  “Not good enough. Cafeteria stories are boring. And you can’t say Donna LaDonna, either.”

  “I guess I’d have to say cliques.”

  “Cliques.” I nod and raise an eyebrow at The Mouse. “Why?”

  “Because they make you insecure. Like you always know if you’re not in a clique because those people don’t talk to you. And sometimes if you are in a clique, it’s like being in Lord of the Flies. You always wonder if you’re the one who’s going to get killed.” She puts her hand over her mouth again. “Did I say too much?”

  “No, no. Keep talking.” I turn over my notebook, open it to a blank page, and start scribbling.

  “So this story I’m doing for The Nutmeg is coming out really well,” I say, taking a batch of chocolate chip cookies fr
om the oven.

  Sebastian turns another page of Time magazine. “What’s it about again?”

  I’ve already told him at least a dozen times. “Cliques. I’ve interviewed about ten people so far, and I’ve gotten some really interesting stories.”

  “Hmm,” Sebastian says, clearly not interested. I press on, nonetheless. “Walt said that while cliques provide protection, they can also stunt your growth as a person. What do you think?”

  “What I think,” Sebastian says, not looking up from his magazine, “is that Walt has issues.”

  “What kind of issues?”

  “Do you really care?” He looks at me over the rim of his Ray-Ban-style reading glasses. Whenever Sebastian wears his reading glasses, my heart melts. He has a flaw. He doesn’t have perfect vision. It’s just so darn cute.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then trust me and leave it alone,” he says, and goes back to his magazine.

  I remove the warm cookies from the pan and gently place them on a plate. I put the plate in front of Sebastian and sit down across from him. He absentmindedly takes a cookie and bites into it.

  “What are you reading?” I ask.

  “More about the recession,” he says, flipping the page. “No point in looking for a job now, that’s for sure. Hell, there’s probably no point in going to college. We’re all going to be stuck living in our parents’ basements for the rest of our lives.”

  I suddenly grab his wrist. “What do you know about Walt?”

  “I saw him.” He shrugs.

  “Where?”

  “At a place you don’t know and don’t want to know about.”

  What is he talking about? “What kind of place?”

  He removes his glasses. “Forget it. I’m bored. Let’s go to the Fox Run Mall.”

  “I’m not bored. I want to hear more about Walt.”

  “And I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, rising to his feet.

  Hmph. I pick up a cookie and shove half of it into my mouth. “I can’t go to the mall. I want to work on my piece.” When he looks confused, I add, “For The Nutmeg.”

  He shrugs. “Suit yourself. But I’m not going to sit here while you’re writing.”