Carrie Diaries

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Pinky Takes Castlebury

“Maggie is making me go to this prom committee meeting with her,” Peter says under his breath. “Do you mind putting the paper to bed?”

“No problem. Have a good time. Gayle and I will take care of it.”

“Don’t tell Smidgens, okay?”

“I won’t,” I reassure him. “You can trust me completely.”

Peter doesn’t appear entirely convinced, but he has no choice. Maggie has come into the art department and is standing behind him. “Peter?” she asks.

“Coming.”

“Okay, Gayle,” I say, when they’re safely down the hall. “Time to get to work.”

“Aren’t you scared of getting in trouble?”

“Nope. A writer must be fearless. A writer has to be like a clawed animal.”

“Says who?”

“Mary Gordon Howard.”

“Who’s she?”

“Doesn’t matter. Aren’t you glad we’re getting revenge on Donna LaDonna?”

“Yes. But what if she doesn’t know it’s her?”

“Even if she doesn’t know, everyone else will, I promise.”

Working quickly, Gayle and I remove Peter’s story about doing away with the gym requirement for seniors, and replace it with my own story on the queen bee — aka Donna LaDonna. Then Gayle and I walk the mock-up of tomorrow’s edition of The Nutmeg to the AV room, where several happy nerds will turn it into a newspaper. Peter and Ms. Smidgens will be furious, of course. But what can they do — fire me? I don’t think so.

I wake up early the next morning. For the first time in a long time I’m actually excited about going to school. I run into the kitchen where my father is frying an egg.

“You’re awake,” he exclaims.

“Yup,” I say, making myself a piece of toast and smearing it with butter.

“You seem happy,” he says cautiously, carrying his egg to the table. “Are you happy?”

“Sure, Dad. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I didn’t want to bring this up,” he says, getting all squirrelly and uncomfortable, “but Missy told me a little bit about what happened with — er — Sebastian, and I don’t want to make anything worse but I’ve been wanting to tell you for weeks that, well, you can’t rely on anyone else for your own happiness.” He pricks the yolk of his egg, as he nods in agreement with his own wisdom. “I know you think I’m only your old man and I don’t know much about what’s going on, but I’m a great observer. And I’ve observed your sorrow over this incident. I’ve wanted to help you — believe me, nothing hurts a father more than seeing his own child hurt — but I also know that I can’t. When these kinds of things happen, you’re alone. I wish it weren’t true, but it is. And if you can get through these kinds of things on your own, it makes you stronger as a person. It has a vast impact on your development as a human being to know that you have strengths to fall back on, and...”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say, kissing him on top of his head. “I get it.”

I go back upstairs and rifle through my closet. I consider wearing something outrageous, like striped leggings and a plaid shirt, but think better of it. I don’t want to draw unnecessary attention to myself. I put on a cotton turtleneck, corduroy jeans, and a pair of penny loafers, instead.

Outside, it’s one of those unseasonably warm April days that makes you think spring is just around the corner. I decide to take advantage of the weather and walk to school.

By bus, the trip is about four miles. But I know all the shortcuts and by zigzagging through the little streets behind the school I can get there in about twenty-five minutes. My route takes me by Walt’s house, a pretty little saltbox with a long hedge in front. The outside of the house is perfectly kept due to Walt’s efforts, but I’m always amazed how his entire family fits in that tiny abode. There are five kids and four bedrooms, which means that Walt has always had to share a room with his younger brother, whom he hates.

When I get to Walt’s house, however, I spot something unusual. A green camping tent has been erected at the far end of the backyard and a bright orange outdoor electrical cord runs from the house into the tent. Walt, I know, would never allow a tent in the backyard — he’d consider it a blight. I move closer as the flap of the tent opens and Walt himself emerges, pale and unkempt in a rumpled T-shirt and jeans that look as though he’s slept in them. He rubs his eyes and glares at a robin that’s hopping around, looking for worms. “Go away. Beat it!” he says, walking toward the robin and waving his arms. “Damn birds,” he says as it flies away.

“Walt?”

“Huh?” He squints. Walt needs glasses but refuses to wear them, believing that glasses will only make his eyes worse. “Carrie? What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing in that tent?” I ask with equal astonishment.

“It’s my new home,” he says, with a mixture of irony and sarcasm. “Isn’t it fabulous?”

“I don’t get it.”

“Hold on,” he says. “I’ve got to pee. I’ll be right back.”

He goes into the house and comes out several minutes later with a mug of coffee. “I’d invite you in, but I promise, you won’t find it pleasant inside.”

“What’s going on?” I follow him into the tent. There’s a tarp on the ground, a sleeping bag, a rough army blanket, a pile of clothes, and a small plastic table on which stands an old lamp and an open box of Oreos. Walt paws through the pile of clothes, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, and holds it up. “One of the advantages of not living in the house. No one can tell you not to smoke.”

“Ha,” I say, sitting cross-legged on the sleeping bag.

I light a cigarette as I try to make sense of this situation. “So you’re not living in your house?” I ask.

“Nope,” he says. “Moved out a few days ago.”

“Isn’t it kind of cold for camping?”

“Not today.” He rolls over and ashes his cigarette in the corner of the tent. “Anyway, I’m used to it. I love hardship.”

“You do?”

He sighs. “What do you think?”

“So why are you out here?”

He inhales deeply. “My father. Richard found out I was gay. Oh yes,” he continues, taking in my shocked expression. “My brother read my journal...”

“You keep a journal?”

“Of course, Carrie,” he says impatiently. “I always have. It’s mostly ideas for architecture — clippings of buildings I like and drawings. But there is some personal stuff in there — a few Polaroids of me and Randy — and my dumb brother somehow managed to put two-and-two together and told my parents.”

“Crap.”

“Yeah.” Walt stubs out his cigarette and immediately lights another. “My mother couldn’t care less, of course — she has a brother who’s gay, although no one ever comes out and says it. They call him a ‘confirmed bachelor.’ But my father freaked out. He’s such an asshole you’d never believe he could be religious, but he is. He thinks being ‘homosexual’ is a mortal sin or something. Anyway, I’m no longer allowed to go to church, which is a relief, but my father decided he couldn’t trust me to sleep in the house. He’s afraid I might corrupt my brothers.”

“Walt, that’s ridiculous.”

He shrugs. “Could be worse. At least I’m allowed to use the kitchen and the bathroom.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.

“Like you aren’t all wrapped up in your own drama.”

“I am, but I always have time for other people’s dramas.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Oh, God. Have I been a shitty friend?”

“Not shitty,” Walt says. “Just caught up in your own problems.”

I hug my knees and stare bleakly at the rough canvas walls. “I’m sorry, Walt. I had no idea. You can come and live at my house until this blows over. Your father can’t stay mad at you forever.”

“Wanna bet?” Walt says. “According to him, I’m the devil’s spawn. He’s disowned me as his son.”

“Why don’t you leave? Run away?”

“And go where?” he scoffs. “Besides, what’s the point? Richard refuses to pay for college, as punishment for my being gay. He’s afraid that all I’ll do in college is dress up and go to discos or something — so I need to save every penny. I figure I’ll live in the tent until September, when I go to RISD.” He leans back against the damp pillow. “It’s not that bad. I kind of like it here.”

“Well, I don’t. You’re going to stay at my house. I’ll sleep in my sister’s room and you can have mine...”

“I don’t want charity, Carrie.”

“But surely, your mother...”

“She never gets in my father’s way when he’s like this. It only makes things worse.”

“I hate straight men,” I say.

“Yeah.” Walt sighs. “Me too.”

I’m so shocked by Walt’s situation that it takes me a few minutes to realize something is different about assembly this morning. The auditorium is a little quieter than usual, and when I take my seat next to Tommy Brewster, I notice he’s reading The Nutmeg. “Have you seen this?” he asks, shaking the paper.

“No,” I say casually. “Why?”

“I thought you wrote for this rag.”

“I did. Once. But that was months ago.”

“Well, you’d better read it now,” he says warningly.

“Okay.” I shrug. And to further emphasize my lack of involvement in the matter, I get up and walk to the front of the auditorium, where I pick up a copy of The Nutmeg from a pile on the corner of the stage. When I turn around, three sophomore girls are waiting behind me. “Can we have a copy?” one of them asks as they bump each other.

“I heard it’s all about Donna LaDonna,” says another. “Can you believe it? Can you believe anyone would do that?” I hand them three papers and head back to my seat, digging my fingernails into my palm to control my shaking. Crap. What if I get caught? But I won’t get caught if I act normal and Gayle keeps her mouth shut.

I have this theory: You can get away with anything as long as you act like you’re not doing anything wrong.

I open the paper and pretend to read it, while surreptitiously checking to see if Peter has arrived. He has, and he, too, is absorbed in The Nutmeg. His cheeks are beet red and a flush like a flame runs from his cheekbones down to his jaw.

I return to my seat, where Tommy, apparently, has finished reading the article and has worked himself into a froth. “Whoever did this should be kicked out of school.” He looks at the front page again, checking the name. “Who is Pinky Weatherton? I’ve never even heard of him.”

Him?

“Me neither.” I press my lips together as if I’m stumped as well. I can’t believe Tommy actually thinks Pinky Weatherton is a real student — and a guy. But now that Tommy has presented the possibility, I go along with it. “It must be someone new.”

“The only new person in this school is Sebastian Kydd. You think he could have done this?”

I fold my arms and look at the ceiling, as if the answer might be lurking there. “Well, he did go out with Donna LaDonna. And didn’t she dump him or something? Maybe he thought he’d get revenge.”

“That’s right,” Tommy says, pointing his finger. “I knew there was something creepy about that guy. Did you know he went to private school? I hear his family is rich. Probably looks down on us regular kids. Thinks he’s better than we are.”

“Uh-huh.” I nod enthusiastically.

Tommy pounds his fist into his hand. “We have to do something about this guy. Slash his tires. Or get him kicked out of school. Hey.” He suddenly stops and scratches his head. “Didn’t you go out with him? Didn’t I hear...”

“A couple of times,” I admit, before he can put the pieces together. “But he turned out to be just like you said. A real creep.”

All through calculus class, I feel Peter’s eyes boring into the side of my head. Sebastian is there as well, but ever since the incident in the parking lot, I have studiously avoided looking at him or catching his eye. Today, however, I can’t help smiling when he walks into class. He gives me a startled look, then smiles back, as if he’s relieved I’m not mad at him anymore.

Ha. If he only knew.

I rush out of class as soon as the bell rings, but Peter is right behind me. “How did it happen?” he demands.

“What?” I ask, like I’m kind of annoyed.

“‘What?’” He rolls his eyes as if he can’t believe I’m playing this game. “The piece in The Nutmeg, that’s what.”

“I have no idea,” I say, starting to walk away. “I did exactly what you said. I brought the mock-up to the AV room...”

“You did something,” he insists.

“Peter.” I sigh. “I honestly do not know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, you’d better figure it out. Smidgens wants to see me in her office. Now. And you’re coming with me.”

He grabs my arm, but I twist away. “Are you sure? Do you really want to tell her that you didn’t close the paper?”

“Damn,” he says, and glares at me. “You’d better think fast, is all I can say.”

“No problem.” The thought of a scene between Peter and Ms. Smidgens is too tempting to resist. I’m like an arsonist who can’t stay away from her own fires.

Ms. Smidgens is sitting behind her desk with The Nutmeg propped up in front of her. A good two inches of ash is balanced precariously at the end of her cigarette. “Hello, Peter,” she says, bringing the cigarette to her lips as I watch, fascinated, wondering when the ash is going to fall. She drops the cigarette into a pile of butts, the ash still intact. Threads of smoke from still-smoldering cigarettes drift up from a large ceramic bowl.

Peter takes a seat. Smidgens nods at me, clearly not interested in my presence. I sit down anyway.

“So,” she says, lighting another cigarette. “Who is Pinky Weatherton?”

Peter stares at her, then jerks his head around and glares at me.

“He’s new,” I say.

“He?”

“Or she,” Peter says. “He or she just moved here.”

Ms. Smidgens is not impressed. “Is that so? From where?”

“Um, Missouri?” Peter asks.

“Why can’t I find him — or her — on my list of students?”

“He just moved here,” I say. “Like yesterday. Well, not exactly yesterday. Maybe last week or something.”

“He probably isn’t in the system yet,” Peter adds.

“I see.” Smidgens holds up The Nutmeg. “This Pinky Weatherton happens to be a very good writer. I’d like to see more of his — or her — work in the paper.”

“Sure,” Peter says hesitantly.

Ms. Smidgens gives Peter an evil smile. She waves her cigarette, about to say more, when suddenly the long column of ash spirals into her cleavage. She jumps, shaking the ash out of her blouse, as Peter and I attempt a hasty exit. We’re at the door when she calls out, “Wait.”

Slowly, we turn.

“About Pinky,” she says, squinting through the smoke. Her lips curl into a nasty smile. “I want to meet him. Or her. And tell this Pinky person to decide on a gender.”

“Did you see this?” Maggie asks, plunking The Nutmeg onto the cafeteria table.

“Um, yeah,” The Mouse says, stirring hot water into her Cup-a-Soup. “The whole school’s talking about it.”

“How come I didn’t know about this until now?” Maggie says, looking at Peter accusingly.

“Because you’re really busy with the prom committee?” Peter asks. He slides in between Maggie and The Mouse. Maggie picks up the paper and points to the headline. “And what kind of name is Pinky Weatherton, anyway?”

“Maybe it’s a nickname. Like The Mouse,” I say.

“But The Mouse isn’t Roberta’s real name. I mean, she would never sign her papers ‘The Mouse.’”

Peter gives me a look, and pats Maggie on the head. “There’s no need to concern yourself with the inner workings of The Nutmeg. I have it all under control.”

“You do?” Maggie looks at him in surprise. “What are you going to do about Donna LaDonna, then? I bet she’s pissed as shit.”

“Actually,” The Mouse says, blowing on the top of her soup, “she seems to be enjoying it.”

“Really?” Maggie asks. She swivels around in her chair and looks toward the opposite end of the cafeteria.

The Mouse is right. Donna LaDonna does appear to be lapping up the attention. She’s smack in the middle of her usual table, surrounded by her henchmen and her bees-in-waiting who have gathered tightly around her, like she’s some kind of movie star who needs protection from her fans. Donna preens, smiling and lowering her chin, seductively raising her shoulders as if all her movements are being captured by an invisible camera. Meanwhile, Lali and Sebastian are mysteriously absent. It isn’t until I get up to empty my tray that I finally spot them, huddled together at the end of an empty table in the corner of the cafeteria.

I’m about to walk away, when I’m summoned by Donna LaDonna herself.

“Carrie!” Her voice is as loud as a ringing bell. I turn and she waggles her fingers over Tommy Brewster’s head.

“Hi?” I ask, approaching cautiously.

“Did you see the story about me in The Nutmeg?” she asks, unabashedly pleased.

“How could I miss it?”

“It’s so crazy,” she says, as if she can hardly stand the attention. “But I said to Tommy, and to Jen P, that whoever wrote that story must know me really, really well.”

“I guess they do,” I say mildly.

She blinks her eyes at me, and suddenly, try as I might, I just can’t hate her anymore. I tried to take her down, but somehow she’s managed to twist it around to her advantage.

Good for her, I think as I walk away.