The Carrie Diaries

by Candace Bushnell

  Our antics get the crowd’s attention, and as Lali and I do-si-do Danny across the floor, Donna LaDonna retreats to the edge, sporting a tight smile. Suddenly, Sebastian is behind me, his hands around my waist. I twirl around and with my lips close to his ear, hiss, “Fuck you.”

  “Huh?” He’s startled. Then amused, thinking I can’t be serious.

  “I mean it. Fuck you.”

  I can’t believe I just said that.

  For a moment, I’m high on my anger, the buzz in my head drowning out all other sound. Then the impact of what I’ve said penetrates like a sting, and I’m horrified and embarrassed. I don’t think I’ve ever said “fuck you” to anyone, except maybe once or twice in passing, muttered under my breath, but never in a face-to-face confrontation. Those words, gigantic and ugly, sit between us like two enormous boulders, and now I can’t see my way around them.

  It’s too late to say “I’m sorry.” And I don’t want to, because I’m not sorry. He was dancing with Donna LaDonna. In front of everyone.

  It’s inexcusable, isn’t it?

  His face is hard, his eyes narrowed, like a child who’s been caught out, whose first instinct is to deny any wrong-doing and blame his accuser.

  “How could you?” I say, more shrilly than I intended, and loud enough for the small group of people around us to overhear.

  “You’re crazy,” he says, and takes a step back.

  I’m suddenly aware of ripples of movement through the crowd—nudging and nodding, faces curling into curious smiles. I’m frozen with indecision. If I move toward him he might push me away. If I walk away, it will probably be the end of our relationship.

  “Sebastian—”

  “What?” He sneers.

  “Forget it.” And before he can say more, I storm off.

  I’m immediately surrounded by my friends.

  “What happened?”

  “What did he say?”

  “Why was he dancing with Donna LaDonna?”

  “I’m going to beat the crap out of him.” That’s Lali.

  “No. Don’t make it worse.”

  “Are you going to break up with him?” Maggie asks.

  “Does she have a choice?” Lali says.

  I’m numb. “Was I wrong?” I turn to The Mouse.

  “Not at all. He’s acting like a shit.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Don’t go up to him, no matter what you do,” Danny says, stepping in. “Ignore him. Let him come to you. Otherwise you look desperate.”

  This Danny—he’s very wise. Even so, I can’t help scanning the gym for Sebastian.

  He’s gone.

  My heart freezes. “Maybe I should go home,” I say, full of uncertainty.

  The Mouse and Danny exchange a look. “We’ll take you,” The Mouse says firmly.

  “Lali?” I ask.

  “Maybe you should go home, Bradley,” she agrees. “You’ve had a really rotten day.”

  Thanks. “If Sebastian—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him,” she says, and punches her fist into her hand.

  I allow The Mouse and Danny to lead me away.

  Sebastian’s car is still in the parking lot, exactly where we left it an hour ago, when we were somewhat happily in love.

  How is this possible? How can a three-month relationship end in less than fifteen minutes? But the world can change in seconds. There are sudden car accidents. And deaths. They say you’re lucky if you know someone is going to die, because that way you have time to say good-bye.

  My knees buckle. I stumble to the curb and collapse in a heap.

  “Carrie! Are you okay?”

  I nod miserably. “Maybe I shouldn’t go. Maybe I should stay and confront him.”

  The Mouse and Danny exchange another glance, as if they already have some kind of secret ESP couple thing between them.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Danny says soothingly. “He’s probably drunk. And you’re a little drunk yourself. You don’t want to have a confrontation with him when he’s drunk.”

  “Why not?” I ask, wondering where The Mouse found this guy.

  “Because when a guy’s drunk, all he can think about is winning. And not losing face.”

  “Walt,” I say. “I want to see Walt.”

  For once, Walt actually is working at the Hamburger Shack.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” The Mouse asks again.

  “I’m fine,” I say breezily, knowing she wants to be alone with Danny.

  Danny walks me to the entrance. As we say good-bye, he looks into my eyes with what appears to be a deep, sympathetic understanding, and suddenly, I envy The Mouse. A girl could be comfortable with a guy like Danny. She wouldn’t have to wonder if he was going to flirt with her best friend or dance with her worst enemy. I wonder if I’ll ever find a guy like that. And if I do, whether I’ll be smart enough to want him.

  “Hey,” Walt says as I saunter up to the counter. It’s nearly nine thirty, almost closing time, and he’s cleaning up, putting chopped onions and peppers into a Tupperware container. “I hope you’re not here for food.”

  “I came to see you,” I insist, then suddenly realize I’m starving. “A cheeseburger might be nice, though.”

  Walt looks at the clock. “I need to be out of here—”

  “Walt, please.”

  He looks at me strangely, but unwraps a hamburger patty and puts it on the grill. “Where’s your boyfriend?” he asks, as if “boyfriend” is barely a word worth saying.

  “We broke up.”

  “Nice,” Walt says. “Sounds like your week’s been about as good as mine.”

  “Why?” I pull a few napkins from the metal holder. “Did you break up with someone too?”

  He turns his head sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” I say, feigning innocence. “Come on, Walt. We used to be best friends. We used to tell each other everything.”

  “Not everything, Carrie.”

  “Well, lots of things, anyway.”

  “That was before you dumped me for Maggie,” he says sarcastically. Then he adds quickly, “Don’t be upset. I’m not. I expected that when Maggie and I divorced, everyone would take sides. Maggie got all our friends.”

  This makes me laugh. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Yeah. I guess I’ve sort of missed you too.” He flips the hamburger, puts a prewrapped piece of cheese on top, opens a bun, and places the two pieces on either side.

  “You want onions and peppers?”

  “Sure.” I fool around with the bottles of mustard and ketchup, until I can’t stand the guilt any longer. “Walt. I have something to tell you. It’s really horrible, and you’re probably going to want to kill me, but don’t, okay?”

  He lifts the hamburger onto the bottom of the bun. “Lemme guess. Maggie is pregnant.”

  “She is?” I ask in shock.

  “How would I know?” he asks, sliding the cheeseburger onto a plastic plate and pushing it toward me.

  I stare down at the burger. “Walt. I know.”

  “So she is pregnant,” he says, resigned, as if this was always going to be a foregone conclusion.

  “Not about Maggie.” I take a bite of the burger. “About you.”

  He wipes the counter with a cloth. “I can assure you I’m not pregnant.”

  “Come on, Walt.” I hesitate, holding the burger between my hands like a shield. If I’m going to tell him, I have to do it now. “Don’t be mad, please. But you’ve been acting so strangely. I thought you were in some kind of trouble. And then Sebastian—”

  “What about Sebastian?” he asks, his voice tightening.

  “He said he’d seen you—at that place. And then The Mouse and I—we spied on you.”

  There. I’ve said it. And I will not tell him Maggie was there. I mean, I will tell him, eventually. After he digests this information.

  Walt breaks out into a nervous laugh. “And what d
id you see?”

  I’m so relieved he’s not angry I take another bite of the cheeseburger. “You,” I say with my mouth full. “And Randy Sandler.”

  He freezes, and then yanks his apron over his head. “That’s just great,” he says bitterly. “How many other people know besides you now?”

  “No one,” I insist. “We didn’t tell anyone. We wouldn’t. I mean, it’s your business, not ours, right?”

  “Apparently it is your business.” He throws the apron into the sink and stalks out the swinging door in back.

  I sigh. Can this evening get any worse?

  I grab my coat and run after him. He’s standing behind the restaurant, trying to light up a cigarette. “Walt, I’m sorry.”

  He shakes his head as he inhales, holds the smoke in his lungs, and slowly releases it. “It was going to come out anyway.” He takes another drag. “Although I was hoping I could keep it a secret until I go to college and get away from my father.”

  “Why? What’s he going to do?”

  “Ground me. Or send me to one of those shrinks who are supposed to convert you back to straightdom. Or maybe he’ll send me to a priest, who will tell me what a sinner I am. Wouldn’t that be ironic?”

  “I feel horrible.”

  “Why should you feel bad? You’re not gay.” He exhales a stream of smoke and looks up at the sky. “Anyway, I doubt this is going to come as much of a surprise. He already calls me a homo and a fag—oh, and he likes to refer to me as sissy pants behind my back.”

  “Your own father?”

  “Yeah, Carrie, my own father,” he says, grinding the cigarette butt under his shoe. “Fuck him,” he says suddenly. “He doesn’t deserve my respect. If he’s embarrassed, it’s his problem.” He looks at his watch. “I take it you’re not going back to the dance.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Randy’s picking me up. We’re going to go someplace. You want to come?”

  Randy arrives about five minutes later in his souped-up Mustang. He and Walt have a hushed conversation, then Walt motions for me to get into the car.

  Ten minutes later, I’m wedged into the tiny backseat as we head south on Route 91. The music is blaring and I can’t quite get over the fact that I’m out with macho Randy Sandler, the ex-quarterback of the Castlebury High football team, who is now Walt’s boyfriend. I guess I don’t know as much about people as I thought I did. I have a lot to learn, but it’s kind of exciting.

  “Where are we going?” I yell over the music.

  “P-Town,” Walt shouts.

  “Provincetown?”

  “We need to go to another state to have fun,” Randy says. “How fucked up is that?”

  Yikes. Provincetown is on Cape Cod, at least an hour away. I probably shouldn’t be doing this. I’m going to get into trouble. But then I remember Donna LaDonna and Sebastian and all the rest of my lousy life, and I think—what the hell? I’m always trying to be good, and where has it gotten me?

  Nowhere.

  “You cool with that?” Randy shouts.

  “I’m cool with anything.”

  “So this guy, Sebastian Kydd, was dancing with your worst enemy?” Randy shouts over the music.

  “Yes.” I strain to make myself heard.

  “And he saw us. At Chuckie’s,” Walt yells to Randy.

  “Maybe he’s gay,” I scream.

  “I think I know this guy,” Randy shouts, nodding at Walt. “Tall, blond hair, looks like some asshole from a Ralph Lauren ad?”

  “That’s him!” I cry.

  “He’s hot,” Randy says. “But not gay. I’ve seen him renting porn tapes. Jugs—that kind of thing.”

  Porn? Jugs? Who is Sebastian? “Great!” I scream.

  “Forget about that asshole,” Randy yells. “You’re about to meet two hundred guys who are gonna love you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Assumption of X

  “Carrie?” Missy asks.

  “Wake up!” Dorrit shouts in my ear.

  I moan as visions of twisting pelvises swirl through my head.

  “Carrie? Are you alive?”

  “Mng.” I gulp.

  “Uh-oh,” Dorrit says as I throw back the covers.

  “Get away.” I leap out of bed, run to the bathroom, and get sick.

  When I look up, Missy and Dorrit are there. Dorrit’s lips are curled into an evil, triumphant smile, like the Grinch who thinks he’s stolen Christmas.

  “Does Dad know?” I ask.

  “That you got home at three a.m.? I don’t think so,” Missy whispers.

  “Don’t tell him,” I say warningly, glaring at Dorrit.

  “Sebastian’s downstairs,” she says sweetly.

  Huh?

  He’s seated at the dining room table across from my father. “If you assume that X equals minus-Y to the tenth degree,” my father says, scribbling an equation on the back of an envelope, “then it’s obvious that Z becomes a random integer.” He pushes the envelope toward Sebastian, who glances at it politely.

  “Hello,” I say, with a little wave.

  “Morning,” my father says. His manner indicates he’s considering questioning me about my ragged appearance, but apparently his equation is more interesting. “You see, Sebastian?” He continues tapping his pencil on the X. “The danger here is in the assumption of X—”

  I skittle by and hurry into the kitchen, where I dig around for an old jar of instant coffee, dump half of it into a mug, and wait for the water to boil. The phrase “a watched pot never boils” comes into my head. But that isn’t true. With the application of proper heat, the water will boil eventually, whether someone is watching or not. Which somehow seems very relevant to this situation. Or maybe it’s just that my brain feels like its boiling.

  I take my mug into the dining room and sit down. My father has moved on from calculus to grilling Sebastian about his future. “Where did you say you were going to college?” he asks in an uptight voice—a tip-off that Sebastian has failed to impress him with his knowledge of assumptive integers.

  “I didn’t.” Sebastian smiles and pats my leg possessively, which is sure to make my father insane. I squeeze his hand to make him stop. “I thought I’d take a year off,” Sebastian says. “Travel the world. Check out the Himalayas—that kind of thing.”

  My father looks skeptical as I take a sip of my coffee. It’s still too hot and has the consistency of sludge.

  “I’m not ready to get boxed in,” Sebastian continues, as if this explains his lack of ambition.

  “You must have some money, then.”

  “Dad!” I exclaim.

  “Actually, I do. My grandmother died and left me and my sister her estate.”

  “Aha.” My father nods. “I get it. You’re a very lucky young man. I’ll bet if you’re ever in trouble, you always manage to get out of it.”

  “I don’t know about that, sir,” Sebastian says politely. “But I am lucky.” He looks at me and puts his hand over mine. “I’ve been lucky enough to meet your daughter, anyway.”

  I suppose this should thrill me, but it only makes me want to puke again. What new game is he playing now?

  My father gives me a look, as if he can’t believe this guy, but I can only manage a sickly smile.

  “So anyway,” Sebastian says, clapping his hands together. “I was wondering if you wanted to go ice skating.”

  Ice skating?

  “Hurry up and finish your coffee.” He stands and shakes my father’s hand. “Nice to see you, Mr. Bradshaw.”

  “Nice to see you,” my father says. I can tell he doesn’t know what to make of him, because then he pats Sebastian on the shoulder.

  Men are so weird.

  Am I supposed to start this conversation or is he? Or are we going to pretend nothing happened last night?

  “How’s Donna LaDonna? Do you think you can get her to give me my clothes back?”

  The suddenness of my attack startles him. His skate slides out beneath him
and for a moment, he flails. “Ha. You’re one to talk.”

  He steadies himself and we glide along silently, while I mull this over.

  It’s my fault?

  What did I do? I pull my cap down over my ears as a boy on hockey skates hurtles toward us, laughing over his shoulder at his friends, completely unaware of the dozens of other people skating on the pond. Sebastian grabs the kid’s shoulders as we’re about to collide and pushes him off in the other direction. “Watch it!” he says.

  “You watch it!” the kid growls.

  I skate away to the side, where several sawhorses have been set up around a patch of dangerous ice. Black water laps at the edges of a ragged hole.

  “You were the one who disappeared last night,” Sebastian points out, a note of smug triumph in his voice.

  I give him a half-dirty, half-astonished look.

  “I was looking for you everywhere. And then Lali told me you’d left. Really, Carrie,” he says, shaking his head. “That was rude.”

  “And it wasn’t rude of you to dance with Donna LaDonna?”

  “It was a dance. That’s what people do at a dance. They dance.” He takes a pack of cigarettes from inside his leather jacket.

  “No kidding. But they don’t dance with their girlfriend’s worst enemy. Who also stole her clothes!”

  “Carrie,” he says patiently. “Donna LaDonna did not steal your clothes.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Lali.”

  “What?”

  “I had a long talk with Lali after you left.” He holds a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger as he lights up. “She meant it as a joke.”

  I suddenly feel queasy. Or queasier, as the cold air has done little to alleviate my hangover.

  “Don’t be mad. She was afraid to tell you because you made such a big deal out of it. I told her I would tell you and she asked me not to because she didn’t want you to be angry.” He pauses, smokes some more, and flicks the cigarette butt into the patch of dark water, where it sizzles like a defective firecracker before floating gently under the ice. “We both know how sensitive you are.”