Carrie Diaries

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Cliques Are Made to Be Broken

“What do you think?” I ask The Mouse, tapping my pen on the table.

“Attacking Donna LaDonna in your first piece for The Nutmeg? Risky, Bradley. Especially as you haven’t gotten her side yet.”

“Not for lack of trying,” I counter, which isn’t exactly true. I did follow her around for a bit, but I didn’t really try to confront her. What I actually did was drive by her house three times. The LaDonnas live on the top of a hill in a big new house, which is also strikingly ugly. It has two columns, one wall made of brick, one wall made of stucco, and the others of wood, as if the person designing the house couldn’t decide what they wanted and chose everything instead. Sort of the way Donna LaDonna is about boys, I figure.

On two occasions, the house was deserted, but the third time, I saw Tommy Brewster coming out, followed by Donna. Just before Tommy got into his car, he made a lunge for her, like he was trying to kiss her, but she pushed him away with her index finger and laughed. While Tommy was still in the driveway, fuming, another car pulled up — a blue Mercedes — and a tall, really good-looking guy got out, walked right past Tommy, and put his arm around Donna’s waist. Then they went inside without a backward glance.

When it comes to guys, Donna clearly leads a very interesting life.

“Why not start with something less controversial than Donna LaDonna?” The Mouse asks now. “Get people used to the idea that you’re writing for the paper.”

“But if I don’t write about Donna, I have nothing to write about,” I complain. I put my feet up on the table and tip my chair back. “The great thing about Donna is that everyone is scared of her. I mean, what else about high school inspires such universal distress?”

“Cliques.”

“Cliques? We’re not even in a clique.”

“In the sense that we’ve been hanging out with pretty much the same people for the last ten years, maybe we are.”

“I always thought of us as the anti-clique.”

“An anti-clique is a clique, isn’t it?” asks The Mouse.

“Maybe there’s a story here,” I muse, leaning all the way back in my chair. When I’m nearly perpendicular, the legs slide out and I fall over, knocking down several books in the process. I land with the chair on top of my head, and when I peek around the seat, little Gayle is bending over me.

Someone has got to tell this girl about Clearasil.

“Carrie?” she gasps. “Are you all right?” She glances around wildly as she picks several books up off the floor. “You’d better get up before the librarian finds you. If she does, she’ll kick you out.”

The Mouse bursts out laughing.

“I don’t get it,” Gayle says, her arms wrapped around a pile of books. Her eyes fill with tears.

“Sweetie,” I say. “We’re not making fun of you. It’s just that we’re seniors. We don’t care if the librarian kicks us out.”

“If she tried, we’d probably give her the finger,” The Mouse adds. We look at each other and snicker.

“Oh. Well.” Gayle nervously pinches her lip. I pull out the chair next to me. “Have a seat.”

“Really?”

“This is Roberta Castells,” I say as Gayle cautiously sits. “Also known as ‘Mighty Mouse.’ Or ‘The Mouse’ for short.”

“Hello,” Gayle says shyly. “I know all about you. You’re a legend. They say you’re the smartest girl in school. I wish I could do something like that. Be the smartest. I know I’m never going to be the prettiest.”

The two Jens come into the library, sniffing around like bloodhounds. They spot us and take a seat two tables away.

“See those girls?” I indicate the Jens with my head. “Do you think they’re pretty?”

“The two Jens? They’re beautiful.”

“Now,” I say. “They’re beautiful now. But in two years...”

“They’re going to look really, really old. They’re going to look like they’re forty,” The Mouse says.

Little Gayle covers her mouth. “Why? What happened to them?”

“They’re going to peak in high school,” I explain.

“What?”

“That’s right,” The Mouse agrees, nodding. “And after high school, it’s all downhill. Babies. Cheating husbands. Dead-end jobs. You don’t want to peak in high school. If you do, the rest of your life is a disaster.”

“I never thought of it that way.” And she looks over at the two Jens like they’re freaky aliens from another planet.

“Speaking of which,” I ask, “what do you hate most about high school?”

“Um, the food?”

“Not good enough. Cafeteria stories are boring. And you can’t say Donna LaDonna, either.”

“I guess I’d have to say cliques.”

“Cliques.” I nod and raise an eyebrow at The Mouse. “Why?”

“Because they make you insecure. Like you always know if you’re not in a clique because those people don’t talk to you. And sometimes if you are in a clique, it’s like being in Lord of the Flies. You always wonder if you’re the one who’s going to get killed.” She puts her hand over her mouth again. “Did I say too much?”

“No, no. Keep talking.” I turn over my notebook, open it to a blank page, and start scribbling.

“So this story I’m doing for The Nutmeg is coming out really well,” I say, taking a batch of chocolate chip cookies from the oven.

Sebastian turns another page of Time magazine. “What’s it about again?”

I’ve already told him at least a dozen times. “Cliques. I’ve interviewed about ten people so far, and I’ve gotten some really interesting stories.”

“Hmm,” Sebastian says, clearly not interested. I press on, nonetheless. “Walt said that while cliques provide protection, they can also stunt your growth as a person. What do you think?”

“What I think,” Sebastian says, not looking up from his magazine, “is that Walt has issues.”

“What kind of issues?”

“Do you really care?” He looks at me over the rim of his Ray-Ban-style reading glasses. Whenever Sebastian wears his reading glasses, my heart melts. He has a flaw. He doesn’t have perfect vision. It’s just so darn cute.

“Of course I do.”

“Then trust me and leave it alone,” he says, and goes back to his magazine.

I remove the warm cookies from the pan and gently place them on a plate. I put the plate in front of Sebastian and sit down across from him. He absentmindedly takes a cookie and bites into it.

“What are you reading?” I ask.

“More about the recession,” he says, flipping the page. “No point in looking for a job now, that’s for sure. Hell, there’s probably no point in going to college. We’re all going to be stuck living in our parents’ basements for the rest of our lives.”

I suddenly grab his wrist. “What do you know about Walt?”

“I saw him.” He shrugs.

“Where?”

“At a place you don’t know and don’t want to know about.”

What is he talking about? “What kind of place?”

He removes his glasses. “Forget it. I’m bored. Let’s go to the Fox Run Mall.”

“I’m not bored. I want to hear more about Walt.”

“And I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, rising to his feet.

Hmph. I pick up a cookie and shove half of it into my mouth. “I can’t go to the mall. I want to work on my piece.” When he looks confused, I add, “For The Nutmeg.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. But I’m not going to sit here while you’re writing.”

“But I want it to be good.”

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll see you later.”

“Wait!” I grab my coat and run after him.

He puts his arm around my waist, and we do a funny walk we invented one night at The Emerald, and we walk like that all the way out to the car.

But when we pull out of the driveway, I look back at my house and feel enveloped in a fog of guilt. I shouldn’t be doing this. I ought to be working on my piece. How can I become a writer if I don’t have discipline?

But Lali has a new job at the mall, working at The Gap, and if left to his own devices, Sebastian is sure to stop by to see her, and the two of them will be alone again, without me. I feel lousy thinking I can’t trust Lali with Sebastian, but lately, the two of them have become increasingly buddy-buddy. Every time I see them joking or high-fiving each other, I have a bad premonition. It’s like the sound of a clock ticking, except the ticks get further and further apart, until there’s no ticking at all — only silence.

Cynthia Viande stands on the stage in front of assembly and holds up a copy of The Nutmeg. “And this week, we have a story from Carrie Bradshaw about cliques.”

There’s a tepid round of applause, and then everyone gets up.

“You got your piece in, Bradley. Good job,” The Mouse says, hurrying over.

“Can’t wait to read it,” a few kids murmur, rolling their eyes as they pass by.

“Glad that’s over, huh?” Sebastian interrupts, giving The Mouse a wink.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“The Nutmeg,” he says to The Mouse. “Was she bugging you with these endless ace reporter questions?”

The Mouse looks surprised. “No.”

I flush with embarrassment.

“Anyway, it’s done,” Sebastian says, and smiles.

The Mouse gives me a curious look, but I shrug it off as if to say “Guys — what can you do?”

“Well, I thought it was great,” The Mouse says.

“Here she comes,” Maggie cries out. “Here comes our star.”

“Oh, come on, Magwitch. It was only a stupid story in The Nutmeg.” But still, I’m pleased. I slide in next to her at the picnic table in the barn. The ground is frozen and there’s a damp chill in the air that will last, on and off now, for months. I’m sporting a knit cap with a long tail that ends in a pom-pom. Maggie, who deals with winter by pretending it doesn’t exist and refusing to wear a hat or gloves, except when she’s skiing, is rubbing her hands together in between taking drags off a cigarette that she and Peter are passing back and forth. Lali is wearing men’s construction boots, which seem to be all the rage.

“Give me a drag of that cigarette,” Lali says to Maggie, which is strange, because Lali rarely smokes.

“The piece was good,” Peter says grudgingly.

“Everything Carrie does is good,” Lali says. Smoke curls out of her nostrils. “Isn’t that right? Carrie always has to succeed.”

Is she being intentionally hostile? Or just Lali-ish? I can’t tell. She’s staring at me boldly, as if daring me to find out.

“I don’t always succeed,” I counter. I slip one of Maggie’s mother’s cigarettes from the pack. Apparently Maggie’s mom has given up on quitting. “In fact, I usually fail,” I say, trying to make a joke of it. I light up and take a drag, holding the smoke in my mouth and then exhaling several perfect smoke rings. “But every now and then I get lucky.”

“Come on,” Lali says, with an edgy skepticism. “You’re writing for The Nutmeg, you’ve got about four diving trophies, and you stole Sebastian away from Donna LaDonna. Sounds to me like you get everything you want.”

For a moment, there’s a painful silence. “I don’t know about that,” The Mouse says. “Do any of us ever get what we really want?”

“You do,” Maggie says. “You and Peter.”

“And Lali. And you, Maggie,” I insist. “Besides, I didn’t exactly steal Sebastian from Donna LaDonna. He said he wasn’t seeing her. And even if he were — well, it’s not exactly like she’s a friend of mine. It’s not like I owe her or anything.”

“Try telling her that,” Lali mutters as she grinds the cigarette butt under her boot.

“Who cares about Donna LaDonna?” Maggie says loudly. She looks at Peter. “I am so sick of her. I don’t want to hear anyone mention her name ever again.”

“Agreed,” Peter says reluctantly.

“Well,” I say.

Peter glances away as he lights a cigarette, then turns to me. “So you know Smidgens expects you to write another story for the newspaper now.”

“That’s fine.”

“What are you going to write about?” Lali asks. She takes another cigarette from the pack, looks at it, and puts it behind her ear.

“I guess I’ll have to think of something,” I say, wondering once again why she’s being so strange.