Carrie Diaries

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Pretty Pictures

A week passes. But every time I see Lali, my heart races and I’m seized by a queer sense of dread, as if my life is in danger. I do my best to avoid her, which means I’m constantly watching out for her, scanning the halls for the top of her feathered hair, looking over my shoulder for her red truck, even bending down to check the shoes beneath the closed doors in the bathroom stalls.

I know Lali so well — her walk, the way she waves her hands next to her face when she’s making a point, the defiant incisor that sticks out just a tad too far — I could pick Lali out of a crowd a mile away.

Even so, on two occasions we’ve inadvertently ended up face-to-face. Each time I gasped and we both quickly looked away, sliding past each other like silent icebergs.

I watch Lali a lot when she’s not looking. I don’t want to, but I can’t help it.

She and Sebastian don’t sit with us at lunch anymore.

Half the time, they avoid the cafeteria, and sometimes, walking up the hill to the barn before a break, I’ll spot Sebastian’s yellow Corvette pulling away from the school grounds with Lali in the passenger seat. When they do eat in the cafeteria, they sit with the two Jens, Donna LaDonna, Cynthia Viande, and Tommy Brewster. Maybe it’s where Sebastian always thought he belonged, but couldn’t get there with me. Maybe it’s why he picked Lali instead.

Meanwhile, Jen P is behaving strangely. The other day, she actually joined us at lunch, giggling and acting like she and I were good friends. “What happened with you and Sebastian?” she asked, all girlish concern. “I thought you guys were so cute together.”

The insincerity — the hypocrisy — is spectacular.

Then she asked Maggie and Peter if they wanted to be on the Senior Prom Committee.

“Sure,” Peter said, looking to Maggie for approval.

“Why not?” Maggie exclaimed. This from the girl who hates parties, who cannot even get out of the car to go to one.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m beginning to hate everyone. The only two people I can stand are The Mouse and Walt.

Walt and I make fun of everyone. We spend all our spare time in the barn. We laugh about how dumb Tommy Brewster is, and how Jen P has a birthmark on her neck, and how stupid it is that Maggie and Peter are on the prom committee. We vow to skip the prom, considering it beneath us, and then decide we might go, but only if we go together and dress as punks.

On Wednesday afternoon, Peter stops by my locker. “Hey,” he says, in a voice that makes me suspect he’s doing his best to act like he doesn’t know what happened between me and Sebastian. “You coming to the newspaper meeting?”

“Why?” I ask, guessing Maggie must have put him up to this.

“Thought you might want to.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter to me either way.”

He strolls off as I stare into my locker. I slam the door and run after him. Why should he get off the hook so easily? “What do you think about Sebastian and Lali?” I demand.

“I think that it’s high school.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it doesn’t matter. It’s high school — a frequently unpleasant but relatively short percentage of your life. In five months we’ll be out of here. In five months, no one will care.”

Not “no one.” I’ll still care.

I follow him up the stairs to the newspaper meeting. No one seems particularly surprised to see me as I take a seat at the counter. Ms. Smidgens nods at me. Apparently, she’s abandoned her rigid rules about attendance. The year’s half over, and it’s probably not worth the effort.

Little Gayle walks in and slides onto the stool next to me. “I’m disappointed,” she says.

Jeez. Even freshmen know about me and Sebastian? This is worse than I thought.

“You said you were going to write that story about the cheerleaders. You said you were going to expose Donna LaDonna. You said...”

“I said a lot of things, okay?”

“Why did you say you were going to do it if you had no intention...”

I put my finger to my lips to shush her. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. I just said I haven’t gotten around to doing it.”

“But you are going to do it, right?”

“We’ll see.”

“But...”

I suddenly can’t take Gayle’s needling. Without thinking, I do something I’ve never done before but have always wanted to: I gather my books, get up, and leave. Just like that, without saying good-bye to anyone.

It feels good.

I clatter down the stairs and stroll out into the cold, wintry air.

Now what?

The library. It’s one of the few places that haven’t been spoiled by Sebastian and Lali. Lali never liked going to the library. And on the one occasion I was there with Sebastian, I was happy.

Will I ever be happy again?

I don’t think so.

A few minutes later, I’m wading through the dirty slush on the front porch. Several people pass me going in. The library seems to be especially busy today. The nice librarian, Ms. Detooten, is standing by the steps. “Hello, Carrie,” she says. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been busy,” I murmur.

“Are you here for the photography class? It’s right upstairs.”

Photography class? Why not? I’ve always been slightly interested in photography.

I head upstairs to check it out.

The room is small and contains about twenty folding chairs. Most of them are already filled with people of various ages — this must be one of those free courses offered to the community to get people into the library. I take a seat in the back. A not-unattractive thirty-ish guy with dark hair and a thin mustache stands behind a table. He looks around the room and smiles.

“Okay, everyone,” he begins. “I’m Todd Upsky. I’m a professional photographer here in town. I work for The Castlebury Citizen. I consider myself an art photographer but I also do weddings. So if you know someone who’s getting married, send them my way.”

He grins easily, as if he’s made this joke several times before, and the crowd twitters in appreciation.

“This is a twelve-week course,” he continues. “We meet once a week. Each week you’ll take a photograph, develop it, and we’ll discuss what works and what doesn’t...”

Suddenly he breaks off and, with a pleasantly surprised expression, stares toward the back of the room.

I swivel my head around. Oh no. It can’t be. It’s Donna LaDonna, wearing one of those big puffy down coats and rabbit-fur earmuffs.

What the hell is she doing here?

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she says breathlessly.

“No problem,” Todd Upsky says. His smile is enormous. “Take a seat anywhere. There,” he says, pointing to the empty chair next to me.

Crap.

I don’t breathe once during the several minutes it takes for Donna LaDonna to remove her coat, pull off her earmuffs, pat her hair, and slide a camera bag under her seat.

This cannot be happening.

“Right, then,” Todd Upsky says, clapping his hands together to get everyone’s attention. “Who has a camera?”

Several people raise their hands, including Donna.

“Who doesn’t?”

I raise my hand, wondering how quickly I can escape.

“Great,” he says. “We’re going to work in teams. The people who have cameras will pair up with those who don’t. You there, miss.” He nods at Donna. “Why don’t you team up with the girl next to you?”

Girl?

“Our teams will head outside and take a photograph of nature — a tree or a root or anything else that you find interesting or strikes your fancy. You have fifteen minutes,” he says.

Donna turns to me, parts her lips, and smiles.

It’s like staring straight into the mouth of an alligator.

“Just for the record, I’m enjoying this about as much as you are,” I say.

Donna lifts the camera. “Why are you taking this course, anyway?”

“Why are you?” I counter. Besides, I think, I’m not sure I am taking this course. Especially now that Donna’s taking it.

“In case you haven’t realized, I’m going to become a model.”

“I thought models were in front of the camera.” I pick up a twig and heave it as hard as I can. It twists in the air and lands two feet away.

“The best models know everything about photography. I know you think you’re special, but you’re not the only one who’s going to get out of Castlebury. My cousin says I should be a model. She lives in New York. I sent her some photographs and she’s going to send them to Eileen Ford.”

“Yeah, right,” I say sarcastically. “And I hope all your dreams come true. I hope you become a model and I hope your face is on the cover of every magazine in the country.”

“Oh, I plan on it.”

“I’m sure you do,” I say, my voice sharp with disdain.

Donna takes a picture of a small bush, its limbs bare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” I hold out my hand for the camera. I’ve spotted a stump that looks interesting. It seems to sum up my life right now: lifeless, cut off at the knees, and slightly rotten.

“Listen, Miss Priss,” she snaps. “If you’re trying to imply that I’m not pretty enough...”

“What?” I scoff, flabbergasted that Donna LaDonna is insecure about her looks. Apparently she has a weakness after all.

“Let me just remind you that I’ve had to take all kinds of bullshit from assholes like you my whole life.”

“Oh, really?” I click the shutter and hand the camera back. She’s had to take bullshit? What about all the bullshit she’s dished out? What about all the kids whose lives have been made miserable by Donna LaDonna?

“Excuse me, but I daresay most people believe the opposite is true.” When I’m nervous, I use words like “daresay.” I definitely read too much.

“Excuse me,” she responds. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Ramona Marquart?” I reply.

“Who?”

“The girl who wanted to be on the cheerleading team. The girl you rejected for being too ugly.”

“Her?” she asks in surprise.

“Did you ever consider the fact that maybe you destroyed her life?”

She smirks. “You would look at it that way.”

“What other way is there?”

“Maybe I saved her from embarrassment. What do you think would have happened if I’d let her get out on the field? People are cruel, in case you haven’t noticed. She’d have been a laughingstock. All the guys would have made fun of her. Guys don’t come to games to see ugly women.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I say, as if I don’t believe her. But I do. A little. It’s a horrible world.

I’m not ready to concede the point, though. “Is that how you plan to live your life? Based on what guys like and who they think is pretty? That’s pathetic.”

She smiles, sure of herself. “So what? It’s the truth. And if there’s anyone pathetic here, it’s you. Girls who can’t get guys always say there’s something wrong with girls who can. If you could get guys, I promise we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Is that so?”

“I only have two words for you: Sebastian Kydd.” She laughs.

I have to grit my teeth to prevent myself from jumping on top of her and punching her in her oh-so-pretty face.

And then I laugh. “He dumped you too, remember? He dumped you for me.” I grin wickedly. “And I seem to recall that you spent most of the fall making my life miserable because I was seeing Sebastian and you weren’t.”

“Sebastian Kydd?” She sneers. “You think I give a fuck about Sebastian Kydd? Sure, he’s cute. And kind of sexy. And I had him. Other than that, he’s completely useless. Sebastian Kydd has no relevance in my life.”

“Then why did you bother...”

She shrugs. “I wanted to make your life miserable because you’re a jerk.”

I’m a jerk? “I guess we’re even. Because I think you’re a jerk too.”

“Actually, you’re worse than a jerk. You’re a snob.”

Huh?

“If you want to know the truth,” she says, “I’ve hated you since the first day of kindergarten. And I’m not the only one.”

“Kindergarten?” I ask in astonishment.

“You were wearing red patent leather Mary Janes. And you thought you were so special. You thought you were better than everyone else. Because you had red shoes and nobody else did.”

Okay. I do remember those shoes. My mother bought them as a special treat for me for starting kindergarten. I wore them all the time — I even tried to wear them to bed. But still, they were only shoes. Who would have thought shoes could cause so much jealousy?

“You hate me because of some shoes I wore when I was four?” I say in disbelief.

“It wasn’t just the shoes,” she counters. “It was your whole attitude. You and your perfect little family. The Bradshaw girls,” she says mockingly. “Aren’t they cute? And so well-behaved.”

If she only knew.

I’m suddenly exhausted. Why do girls carry these grudges for years and years? Do boys do that too?

I think about Lali and shiver.

She looks at me, gives a little exclamation of triumph, and goes inside.

And then I just stand there, wondering what to do. Go home? Call it a day? But if I leave, it means Donna LaDonna has won. She’ll have claimed this class as her territory and my absence will mean she’s driven me out.

I won’t let her win. Even if it requires being stuck with her for an hour once a week.

I mean, can my life really get any worse?

I pull open the heavy door, trudge up the stairs, and take my seat next to her.

For the next thirty minutes, while Todd Upsky talks about f-stops and shutter speeds, we sit next to each other in silence, each desperately pretending that the other one does not exist.

Just like me and Lali.