Кэндес Бушнелл - Carrie Diaries

“The Mouse is dating someone,” I say gently. “Remember?”

“Right,” she says. “Some guy who doesn’t live around here.” She waves her arm in dismissal. She’s drunk, I realize.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“It’s cold outside,” she protests.

“It’s good for us.”

On our way out, we pass Sebastian and Lali in the kitchen. Lali has put Sebastian to work, placing mini hot dogs from the oven onto a plate. “We’ll be right back,” I call out.

“Sure.” Lali barely glances in our direction. She says something to Sebastian and he laughs.

For a second I feel uneasy. Then I try to look on the bright side. At least my boyfriend and my best friend are getting along.

When we get outside, Maggie grabs my arm and whispers, “How far would you go to get what you wanted?”

“Huh?” I say. It’s freezing. Our breath envelops us like summer clouds.

“What if you really, really, really wanted something and you didn’t know how to get it — or you did know how to get it but you weren’t sure you should do it. How far would you go?”

For a second, I wonder if she’s talking about Lali and Sebastian. Then I realize she’s talking about Peter.

“Let’s go into the barn,” I suggest. “It’s warmer.”

The Kandesies keep a few cows, mostly for show, in an old barn behind the house. Above the cows is a hayloft, where Lali and I have retreated hundreds of times to spill our most important secrets. The loft is fragrant and warm, due to the heat from the cows below. I perch on a hay bale. “Maggie, what’s wrong?” I say, wondering how many times I’ve asked her this question in the last three months. It’s becoming disturbingly repetitive.

She takes out a pack of cigarettes.

“Don’t.” I stop her. “You can’t smoke up here. You could start a fire.”

“Let’s go outside, then.”

“It’s cold. And you can’t grab a cigarette every time you feel uncomfortable, Mags. It’s becoming a crutch.”

“So?” Maggie looks evil.

“What did you mean before — about how far you would go?” I ask. “You’re not thinking about Peter, are you? You’re not thinking about…are you taking the birth control pills?”

“Of course.” She looks away. “When I remember.”

“Mags.” I leap toward her. “Are you insane?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

I slide in next to her and fall back on a bale of hay, gathering my arguments. I stare up at the ceiling, which nature has decorated with swags of cobwebs, like a Halloween extravaganza. Nature and instinct versus morality and logic. That’s how my father would put this dilemma.

“Mags,” I begin. “I know you’re worried about losing him. But what you’re thinking about doing is not the way to keep him.”

“Why not?” she asks stubbornly.

“Because it’s wrong. You don’t want to be the girl who forced a guy to be with her by getting pregnant.”

“Women do it all the time.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“My mother did it,” she says. “No one’s supposed to know. But I counted backward, and my oldest sister was born six months after my parents were married.”

“That was years ago. They didn’t even have the pill back then.”

“Maybe it would be better if they didn’t now.”

“Maggie, what are you saying? You don’t want to have a baby at eighteen. Babies are a huge pain. All they do is eat and poop. You want to be changing diapers while everyone you know is out having fun? And what about Peter? It could ruin his life. That doesn’t seem very nice, does it?”

“I don’t care,” she says. And then she starts crying.

I put my face close to hers. “You’re not pregnant now, are you?”

“No!” she says fiercely.

“Come on, Mags. You don’t even like dolls.”

“I know,” she says, wiping her eyes.

“And Peter is crazy about you. He may be going to Harvard, but it doesn’t mean he’s going anywhere.”

“I didn’t get into Boston University,” she says suddenly. “That’s right. I got a rejection letter from them yesterday when Peter got his acceptance to Harvard.”

“Oh, Mags.”

“And pretty soon, everyone will be leaving. You, The Mouse, Walt...”

“You’ll get in someplace else,” I say encouragingly.

“What if I don’t?”

Good question. And one I haven’t faced squarely until now. What if nothing works out the way it’s supposed to? On the other hand, if it doesn’t, what are you supposed to do? You can’t just sit there.

“I miss Walt,” she says.

“I do too,” I say, hugging my knees to my chest. “Where is Walt anyway?”

“Don’t ask me. I’ve hardly seen him for three weeks. That’s not like Walt.”

“No, it isn’t,” I agree, thinking about how cynical Walt’s been lately. “Come on. Let’s call him.”

Back in the house, the party is in full swing. Sebastian is dancing with Lali, which annoys me slightly, but I have more important things to worry about than my best friend and my boyfriend. I pick up the phone and dial Walt’s number.

“Hello?” his mother answers.

“Is Walt there?” I ask, yelling over the noise of the party.

“Who is this?” she asks suspiciously.

“Carrie Bradshaw.”

“He’s out, Carrie.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He said he was meeting up with you,” she snaps, and hangs up the phone.

Weird, I think, shaking my head. Definitely weird.

Meanwhile, Maggie has commandeered the party by standing on the couch and doing a striptease. Everyone is hooting and clapping, save for Peter, who is trying to appear as if he’s enjoying it, but is actually mortified. I can’t let Mags go down alone, not in the state she’s in.

I kick off my shoes and jump onto the couch next to her.

Yes, I’m aware that nobody really wants to see me doing a striptease, but people are used to me making a fool of myself. I’m wearing white cotton tights under a cheap sequined skirt that I bought at a discount store, and I begin pulling them off at the toe. Within seconds, Lali has joined us on the couch, running her hands up and down her body while elbowing Maggie and me to the side. I’m standing on one foot, and I fall over the back of the couch, taking Maggie with me.

Maggie and I are lying on the ground, laughing hysterically. “Are you okay?” Peter asks, bending over Maggie.

“I’m fine,” she giggles. And she is. Now that Peter is paying attention to her, everything is great. For the moment, anyway.

“Carrie Bradshaw, you’re a bad influence,” Peter chides as he leads Maggie away.

“And you’re an uptight prig,” I mutter, fixing my tights as I get to my feet.

I look over at Peter, who is pouring Maggie a whiskey, a tender yet smug expression on his face.

How far would you go to get what you wanted?

And that’s when it hits me. I could write for the school newspaper. It would give me material to send into The New School. And it would be — ugh — real.

No, scolds a voice in my head. Not The Nutmeg. That really is going too far. Besides, if you write for The Nutmeg, you’re a hypocrite. You never hesitate to tell anyone who will listen that you hate The Nutmeg — including Peter, who’s the editor.

Yes, but what choice do you have? asks another voice. Do you really want to do nothing, letting life just happen to you like you’re some kind of loser? If you don’t at least try to write for The Nutmeg, you’ll probably never get into that writing program.

Hating myself, I head over to the bar, pour myself a vodka cranberry juice, and sidle up to Maggie and Peter. “Hi, guys,” I say casually, taking a sip of my drink. “So Petey-boy,” I begin. “I was thinking I might want to write for that newspaper of yours after all.”

He takes a sip of his drink and looks at me, irritated. “It’s not my newspaper.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. And it’s very difficult to communicate with a person who can’t be precise. That’s what writing is all about. Precision.”

And “authenticity.” And “writing what you know.” Two other things I apparently lack. I give Peter a look. If this is what getting into Harvard does to a person, maybe Harvard should be banned.

“I know it’s technically not your newspaper, Peter,” I say, matching his tone. “But you are the editor. I was merely deferring to what I assumed was your authority. But if you’re not in charge...”

He glances at Maggie who gives him a quizzical look. “I didn’t mean that,” he says. “I mean, if you want to write for the paper, it’s fine with me. But you have to check with our advisor, Ms. Smidgens.”

“No problem,” I say sweetly.

“Oh, good,” Maggie says. “I really want you guys to be friends.”

Peter and I eye each other. Never going to happen. But we’ll pretend, for Maggie’s sake.

“Walt!” I say, catching up to him in the hall. He stops and wipes a lock of hair off his forehead. Walt’s hair has gotten a little longer than usual, and he’s sweating slightly.

“Where were you on Saturday night? We were all expecting you at Lali’s party.”

“Couldn’t make it,” he says.

“Why? What else did you have to do in this town?” I try to make it sound like a joke, but Walt doesn’t take it as one.

“Believe it or not, I actually have other friends.”

“You do?”

“There is life outside of Castlebury High.”

“Come on,” I say, nudging him. “I was kidding. We miss you.”

“Yeah, I miss you guys too,” he says, shifting his books from one arm to another. “I had to take an extra shift at the Hamburger Shack. Which means I have to spend all my free time studying.”