Кэндес Бушнелл - Carrie Diaries

“Done much skiing?” asks the ski patrol guy as he tightens a strap across my chest.

“Not really.”

“You shouldn’t be on the intermediate slope,” he scolds. “We try to emphasize safety here. Skiers should never take runs that are above their abilities.”

“It’s the number one cause of accidents,” adds a second. “You were lucky this time. Try this again, and you’re not only a danger to yourself, but a danger to other skiers.”

Well, excuuuuuse me.

Now I feel like a complete crap heel.

George — good old, faithful George — is waiting at the bottom. “Are you really okay?” he asks, bending over the stretcher.

“I’m fine. My ego is bruised, but my body seems to be intact.” And, apparently, ready for more humiliation.

“Good,” he says, taking my arm. “I told Amelia we’d meet her in the lodge for an Irish coffee. She’s an old friend of mine from Brown. Don’t worry,” he adds, taking in my expression. “She’s not competition. She’s a couple of years older.”

We clomp into the lodge, which is steamy and loud, filled with happy people boasting about the great day they had on the slopes. Amelia is seated near the fireplace; having removed her jacket, she’s in a tight-fitting silver top and has managed to brush her hair and put on lipstick, which makes her now look like she’s in an ad for hair spray.

“Amelia, this is Carrie,” George says. “I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced.”

“No, we haven’t,” Amelia says warmly, shaking my hand. “In any case, it’s not your fault. George should never have taken you on that run. He’s a very dangerous man to be around.”

“He is?” I ask, settling into a chair.

“Remember that white-water-rafting trip?” she asks, then turns to me and adds, “Colorado,” as if I, too, should be familiar with the incident.

“You were not scared,” George insists.

“I was. I was terrified to death.”

“Now I know you’re joking.” George points his finger at her for emphasis and pats my hand. “Amelia isn’t afraid of anything.”

“That’s not true. I’m afraid of not getting into law school.”

Oh boy. So this Amelia is beautiful and smart. “Where are you from, Carrie?” she asks, in an attempt to include me in the conversation.

“Castlebury. But you’ve probably never heard of it. It’s this tiny farm town on the river...”

“Oh, I know all about it.” She smiles sympathetically. “I grew up there.”

I suddenly feel queasy.

“What’s your last name again?” she asks curiously.

“Bradshaw,” George says, signaling the waitress.

Amelia raises her brows in recognition. “I’m Amelia Kydd. I think you’re dating my brother.”

“Huh?” George says, looking from Amelia to me.

My face reddens. “Sebastian?” I croak. I recall Sebastian talking about an older sister and how fantastic she was, but she was supposed to be away at college in California.

“He talks about you all the time.”

“He does?” I murmur. I sneak a look at George. His face is intensely blank, save for a bright red patch on each cheek.

He determinedly ignores me. “I want to know everything you’ve been up to since I last saw you,” he says to Amelia.

I break out in a sweat, wishing I’d broken my leg after all.

We ride most of the way home in silence.

Yes, I should have told George I had a boyfriend. I should have told him the first night we had dinner. But then Dorrit was arrested and there was no time. I should have told him on the phone, but let’s face it, he was helping me with my writing and I didn’t want to screw that up. And I would have told him today, but we ran into Amelia. Who happens to be Sebastian’s sister. I suppose I could argue it’s not entirely my fault, because George never asked if I had a boyfriend. On the other hand, maybe you’re not supposed to ask if a person is seeing someone else if they agree to go out with you — and continue to see you. Maybe dating is like the honor system: If you’re otherwise engaged, it’s your moral duty to let the other person know right away.

Problem is, people don’t always play by the rules.

How am I going to explain this to George? And what about Sebastian? I spend half my time worrying that Sebastian is going to cheat on me, while the person I should be concerned about is myself.

I peek at George. He’s frowning, concentrating on the road as if his life depends on it.

“George,” I beseech him. “I’m so sorry. Honestly. I kept meaning to tell you...”

“As a matter of fact, I happen to be seeing other women as well,” he says coldly.

“Okay.”

“But what I don’t appreciate is being put into a situation that makes me look like an asshole.”

“You’re not an asshole. And I really, really like you...”

“But you like Sebastian Kydd better,” he snaps. “Don’t worry. I get it.”

We pull into my driveway. “Can we at least be friends?” I plead, making a last-ditch effort to rectify the situation.

He stares straight ahead. “Sure, Carrie Bradshaw. Tell you what. Why don’t you give me a ring when you and Sebastian break up? Your little fling with Sebastian won’t last long. Count on it.”

For a moment, I sit there, stung. “If you want to be that way, fine. But I didn’t mean to hurt you. And I said I was sorry.” I’m about to get out of the car, when he grabs my wrist.

“I’m sorry, Carrie,” he says, instantly contrite. “I didn’t mean to be harsh. But you do know why Sebastian got kicked out of school, right?”

“For selling drugs?” I ask stiffly.

“Oh, Carrie.” He sighs. “Sebastian doesn’t have the guts to be a drug dealer. He got kicked out for cheating.”

I say nothing. Then I’m suddenly angry. “Thanks, George,” I say, getting out of the car. “Thanks for a great day.”

I stand in the driveway, watching him go. I guess I won’t be visiting George in New York after all. And I certainly won’t be meeting his great-aunt, the writer. Whoever she is.

Dorrit comes out of the house and joins me. “Where’s George going?” she asks plaintively. “Why didn’t he come in?”

“I don’t think we’re going to be seeing any more of George Carter,” I say with a mixture of finality and relief.

I leave Dorrit standing in the driveway looking extremely disappointed.

The judges hold up their scores: Four-point-three. Four-point-one. Three-point-nine. There’s a collective groan from the stands.

That puts me in second-to-last place.

I grab a towel and drop it over my head, rubbing my hair. Coach Nipsie is standing to the side, arms crossed, staring at the scoreboard. “Concentration, Bradshaw,” he mutters.

I take my place in the bleachers, next to Lali. “Bad luck,” she says. Lali is doing great in this meet. She won her heat, making her the favorite to win the two-hundred-meter freestyle. “You’ve still got one more dive,” she says encouragingly.

I nod, scanning the bleachers on the other side of the pool for Sebastian. He’s on the third riser, next to Walt and Maggie.

“Do you have your period?” Lali asks.

Maybe because we spend so much time together, Lali and I are usually on the same cycle. I wish I could blame my performance on hormones, but I can’t. I’ve been spending too much time with Sebastian, and it shows. “Nope,” I say glumly. “Do you?”

“Got it last week,” Lali says. She looks across the pool, spots Sebastian, and waves. He waves back. “Sebastian’s watching,” Lali says as I get up to do my final dive. “Don’t screw up.”

I sigh, trying to focus as I climb the ladder. I stand at the ready, arms by my side, palms facing backward, when I have an unsettling but startlingly clear revelation: I don’t want to do this anymore.

I take four steps and hop, launching my body straight into the air, but instead of flying, I’m suddenly falling. For a split-second I see myself hurtling off a cliff, wondering what will happen when I hit bottom. Will I wake up, or will I be dead?

I enter the water with my knees bent, followed by an ugly splash.

I’m finished. I head to the locker room, peel off my suit, and step into the shower.

I always knew someday I’d leave diving behind. It was never going to be my future — I knew I’d never be good enough to dive on a college team. But it wasn’t just the actual sport that made it fun. It was the raucous bus trips to other schools, the ongoing backgammon games we’d play in between heats, the excitement of knowing you’re going to win and then pulling it off. There were bad days too, when I knew I was off. I’d chastise myself, vow to try harder, and move on. But today, my lousy diving feels like more than a lousy day. It feels unavoidable, like I’ve reached the limits of my abilities.

I’m done.

I get out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel. I wipe a patch of steam off the mirror and stare at my face. I don’t look any different. But I feel different.

This isn’t me. I shake out my hair and flip the ends under, wondering how I’d look with a shorter haircut. Lali just cut her hair, feathering the top and spritzing it with a can of hair spray she keeps in her locker. Lali never worried much about her hair before, and when I commented on it, she said, “We’re at the age when we need to start thinking about how we look to guys,” which I thought was probably a joke.

“What guys?” I asked, and she responded, “All guys,” and then she looked me up and down and smiled.

Was she referring to Sebastian?

If I quit swim team, I could spend more time with him.

It’s been two weeks since the skiing incident with George. For days I was petrified Sebastian’s sister, Amelia, would tell him she met me with George, but so far, Sebastian hasn’t mentioned it. Which means she either hasn’t told him, or she has, and he doesn’t care. I even tried to get to the bottom of it by asking him about his sister, but all he said was, “She’s really cool,” and “Maybe you’ll meet her someday.”