Кэндес Бушнелл - Carrie Diaries

“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 did 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.”

“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.”