Кэндес Бушнелл - Carrie Diaries

“What?” she says, staring at me blankly.

“As a matter of fact I have. But my crime was much worse than yours. I jumped a subway turnstile and ran right into a cop.”

Dorrit gazes up at George, her eyes filled with admiration. “What happened then?”

“He called my father. And boy, was my dad pissed. I had to spend every afternoon in his office, rearranging his business books in alphabetical order and filing all his bank statements.”

“Really?” Dorrit’s eyes widen in awe.

“So the moral of the story is, always pay the fare.”

“You hear that, Dorrit?” my father says. He stands, but his shoulders are stooped and he suddenly looks exhausted. “I’m going to bed. You too, Dorrit.”

“But...”

“Now,” he says quietly.

Dorrit gives George one last, longing look and runs upstairs.

“Good night, kids,” my father says.

I absentmindedly smooth my skirt. “Sorry about that. My father, Dorrit...”

“It’s okay,” George says, taking my hand again. “I understand. No family is perfect. Including mine.”

“Really?” I try to maneuver my hand out from under his, but I can’t. I attempt to change the subject instead.

“Dorrit seemed to like you.”

“I’m good with kids,” he says, leaning in for a kiss. “Always have been.”

“George.” I twist my head away. “I’m — uh — really exhausted...”

He sighs. “I get it. Time to go home. But I’ll see you again soon, right?”

“Sure.”

He pulls me to my feet and wraps his arms around my waist. I bury my face in his chest in an attempt to avoid what’s inevitably coming next.

“Carrie?” He strokes my hair.

It feels nice, but I can’t let this go any further. “I’m so tired,” I moan.

“Okay.” He steps back, lifts my head, and brushes my lips with his. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“What’s the holdup?” Sebastian asks.

“Have to fix my makeup,” I say.

He runs his hand up my arm and tries to kiss me. “You don’t need makeup.”

“Stop,” I hiss. “Not in the house.”

“You don’t have a problem doing this in my house.”

“You don’t have two younger sisters. One of whom...”

“I know. Was arrested for shoplifting gum,” he says with disdain. “Which ranks pretty low in the annals of criminal activity. It’s right down there with lighting firecrackers in neighbors’ mailboxes.”

“And thus began your own life of crime,” I say, gently closing the bathroom door in his face.

He knocks.

“Yeeeees?”

“Hurry up.”

“Hurrying,” I say. “Hurrying and scurrying.” Which is not true. I’m stalling.

I’m waiting for George to call. Two weeks have passed since Dorrit’s arrest, but true to form, George called me the next day and the day after that, and then I asked him if he really meant it when he said he would read one of my stories and he said yes. So I sent it to him and now I haven’t heard from him for five days, except for yesterday when he left a message with Dorrit saying he’d call me today between six and seven. Damn him. If he’d called at six, Sebastian wouldn’t be here, hovering. It’s nearly seven. Sebastian will be furious if I get a phone call just before we’re about to go.

I unscrew a tube of mascara and lean forward, applying the wand to my lashes. It’s the second coat, and my lashes twist into jagged little spikes. I’m about to apply a third, when the phone rings.

“Phone!” Missy shouts.

“Phone!” Dorrit yells.

“Phone!” I scream, bursting out of the bathroom like a lit firecracker.

“Huh?” Sebastian says, sticking his head out my bedroom door.

“Could be Dorrit’s probation officer.”

“Dorrit has a probation officer? For stealing gum?” Sebastian says, but I can’t stop to explain.

I grab the phone in my father’s room just before Dorrit reaches it. “Hello?”

“Carrie? George here.”

“Oh, hi,” I say breathlessly, closing the door. What did you think of my story? I need to know. Now.

“How are you?” George asks. “How’s Dorrit?”

“She’s fine.” Did you read it? Did you hate it? If you hated it I’m going to kill myself.

“Is she doing her community service?”

“Yes, George.” The agony is killing me.

“What did they assign her to?”

Who cares? “Picking up litter on the side of the road.”

“Ah. The old litter routine. Works every time.”

“George.” I hesitate. “Did you read my story?”

“Yes, Carrie. As a matter of fact, I did.”

“And?”

A long silence during which I contemplate the practicalities of slitting my wrists with a safety razor.

“You’re definitely a writer.”

I am? I’m a writer? I imagine running around the room, jumping up and down and shouting, “I’m a writer, I’m a writer!”

“And you have talent.”

“Ah.” I fall back onto the bed in ecstasy.

“But...”

I sit right up again, clutching the phone in terror.

“Well, really, Carrie. This story about a girl who lives in a trailer park in Key West, Florida, and works in a Dairy Queen…Have you ever been to Key West?”

“For your information, I have. Several times,” I say primly.

“Did you live in a trailer? Did you work at the Dairy Queen?”

“No. But why can’t I pretend I did?”

“You’ve got plenty of imagination,” George says. “But I know a thing or two about these writing programs. They’re looking for something that smacks of personal experience and authenticity.”

“I don’t get it,” I mutter.

“Do you know how many stories they’re sent about a kid who dies? It doesn’t ring true. You need to write what you know.”

“But I don’t know anything!”

“Sure you do. And if you can’t think of something, find it.”

My joy dissipates like a morning mist.

“Carrie?” Sebastian knocks on the door.

“Can I call you tomorrow?” I ask quickly, cupping my hand around the receiver. “I have to go to this party for the swim team.”

“I’ll call you. We’ll make a plan to get together, okay?”

“Sure.” I put down the phone and hang my head in despair.

My career as a writer is over. Finished before it’s even begun.

“Carrie,” Sebastian’s voice, louder and more annoyed, comes from the other side of the door.

“Ready,” I say, opening it.

“Who was that?”

“Someone from Brown.”

“Are you going to go there?”

“I have to get in. Officially. But yeah. I guess I probably will.”

I feel like I’m being suffocated by thick green slime.

“What are you going to do about college?” I ask suddenly. Strange how I haven’t asked him about this before.

“I’m going to take a year off,” he says. “Last night, I was looking at the essay portion of my application to Amherst when it hit me. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be part of the system. That probably shocks you, doesn’t it?”

“No. It’s your life.”

“Yeah, but how are you going to feel about having a deadbeat boyfriend?”

“You’re not a deadbeat. You’re smart. Really smart.”

“I’m a regular genius,” he says. And after another second: “Do we have to go to this party?”

“Yes,” I insist. “Lali has it every year. If we don’t show up, she’ll be really hurt.”

“You’re the boss,” he says. I follow him out of the house, wishing we didn’t have to go to the party, either. Write what you know. That was the best George could come up with? A cliché? Damn him. Damn everything. Why is it all so goddamned hard?

“If it wasn’t difficult, everyone would do it,” Peter says, holding court to a small group of kids who are clustered around the couch. Peter has just been accepted to Harvard, early decision, and everyone is impressed. “Bioengineering is the hope of the future,” he continues as I drift away and find Maggie sitting in the corner with The Mouse.

The Mouse looks like she’s being held hostage. “Honestly, Maggie,” she says, “this is great for Peter. It makes us all look good if someone from Castlebury gets into Harvard.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with us,” Maggie counters.

“I can’t believe Peter got into Harvard,” Lali says, pausing on her way to the kitchen. “Isn’t it great?”

“No,” Maggie says firmly. Everyone is thrilled for Peter — everyone, it seems, but Maggie.

I understand her despair. Maggie is one of the millions of kids out there who have no idea what they want to do with their lives — like Sebastian, I suppose, and Lali. When someone close to you figures it out, it pulls you up short in front of your own wall of indecision.

“Harvard is only an hour and a half away,” I say soothingly, trying to distract Maggie from what’s really bothering her.

“It doesn’t matter how far it is,” she says glumly. “Harvard is not any old college. If you go to Harvard, you become someone who went to Harvard. For the rest of your life, it’s what people say about you: He went to Harvard...”

Maybe it’s because I’ll never go to Harvard and I’m jealous, but I hate all this elitist talk. Who you are shouldn’t be defined by where you go to college. It probably is, though.

“And if Peter is always going to be the guy who went to Harvard,” Maggie continues, “I’m always going to be the girl who didn’t.”

The Mouse and I exchange glances. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to get a beer,” The Mouse says.

“What does she care?” Maggie says, looking after her. “She’s going to Yale. She’ll be the girl who went to Yale. Sometimes I think Peter and The Mouse should date. They’d be perfect for each other.” There’s an unexpected bitterness in her voice.