Carrie Diaries

CHAPTER SIXTEEN How Far Will You Go?

“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.

“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.