Carrie Diaries

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO The Nerd Prince

“Did you know Walt was living in a tent?” I ask Maggie. Our arms are full of bags of confetti.

“No,” Maggie says, in a tone that sounds like she thinks I’m making it up. “Why would he do that?”

“His father found out he was gay and won’t let Walt sleep in the house.”

Maggie shakes her head. “That Richard. He’s such a silly man. But he’d never make Walt sleep outside.” She leans toward me and, in a loud whisper, says, “Walt is becoming a huge drama queen. Now that he’s…you know.”

“Gay?”

“Whatever,” she says as we enter the gym.

Hmph. So much for trying to be a better friend.

After I discovered Walt in the tent, I decided he was right — I’d been so wrapped up in Sebastian and the subsequent betrayal, I’d hardly noticed what was happening with my friends. Hence my acceptance of Maggie’s invitation to help her decorate the gym for the senior prom. It’s only this once, I remind myself. And it’s a way to spend time with Maggie.

“Oh, good,” Jen P says, rushing over. “Confetti. Did you get all twelve bags?”

“Uh-huh.” Maggie nods.

Jen P looks critically at the bags in our arms. “I’m not sure it’s enough. Do you think we need more?”

Maggie looks defeated — she’s never been good at organization — and I’m surprised she’s lasted this long in the planning.

“How much confetti do we really need?” I ask.

“Put it over there and we’ll figure it out later,” Jen P orders, pointing to an area piled with streamers and tissue paper. But as we start to walk away, she follows. “By the way,” she says to Maggie. “Did you see that story in The Nutmeg? The one about who will be prom king and queen? Pinky Weatherton is right. How can Donna LaDonna be prom queen if she’s bringing an outside date? Who wants to look back on their senior prom and not even know the prom king? And of course Cynthia thinks she and Tommy are the front-runners. But I liked the part about me — how if I could get a date, I’d be a contender.” She takes a breath, nudges Maggie, and continues. “But as Pinky says, you never know. You and Peter could be the dark horses — after all, you have been dating for six months.”

I have created a monster, I think, dumping my bags of confetti.

This week in The Nutmeg, Pinky Weatherton handicapped everyone’s chances for prom king and queen, and now no one can stop talking about it. Every time I turn around, someone is quoting the story. “We should consider every couple who has contributed to the school — and is an example of true love.” I don’t know why I threw in the “true love” part — but I might have done it so Lali and Sebastian wouldn’t dare think they were eligible.

Maggie flushes. “I’d never want to be prom queen. I’d die if I had to get up in front of everyone.”

“Really? I’d love it. To each her own, right?” Jen P pats Maggie’s shoulder, gives me a sharp look, and walks off.

“Right,” I mutter under my breath. I sneak a look at Maggie, who appears perplexed.

Maybe I shouldn’t have written that piece after all.

A month has passed since Pinky Weatherton made “his” debut in The Nutmeg, and since then, Pinky’s been busy, publishing a story a week: “The Clique Climber,” about a girl who manages to climb her way to the top by becoming everyone’s gofer; “The Nerd Prince,” about how a nerdly guy can turn into a hunk in senior year; and “Castlebury Horse Race! Who Will Be Prom King and Queen?” Pinky has also completed another story, called “Boyfriend Stealers and the Guys Who Love Them” — a thinly veiled account of Lali and Sebastian’s relationship — which he hasn’t turned in yet and which he plans to publish the last week of school.

In the meantime, I made photocopies of all five stories and sent them in to The New School. George insisted I call to make sure they’d been received. Normally, I’d never do something like that, but George says the world is full of people who all want the same thing, and you have to do a little something extra to make them remember you. I said I could run through the halls naked but he didn’t get the joke. So I called. “Yes, Ms. Bradshaw,” said a man’s deep, sonorous voice on the other end of the line. “We received your stories and will get back to you.”

“But when?”

“We’ll get back to you,” he repeated, and hung up.

I’m never going to get into that program.

“She’s just so pushy!” Maggie exclaims now, frowning.

“Jen P? I thought you decided you kind of liked her.”

“I did — at first. But she’s too friendly, you know?” Maggie slides the bags of confetti into place with her toe. “She’s always hanging around. I swear, Carrie, ever since Pinky Weatherton wrote that story about Peter...”

Uh-oh. Not again. “The Nerd Prince?” I ask. “How do you know it was about Peter?”

“Who else could it have been about? What other guy in this school was a nerd and then I came along and turned him into a hot guy?”

“Hmmmm,” I say, running through the piece in my mind.

It usually starts in September. If you’re a girl, and a senior, you look around and wonder: Will I have a date for the prom? And if not, how can I find one? And this is where the Nerd Prince comes in.

He’s the guy you overlooked in freshman, sophomore, and junior year. First he was the short guy with the high voice. Then he was the taller guy with zits. And then, something happened. His voice deepened. He got contacts. And all of a sudden you find yourself sitting next to him in biology, and you think — hey, I could actually like this guy.

And the Nerd Prince has his pluses. Because he hasn’t been corrupted by being the hot guy his whole life, he’s grateful. And because he hasn’t been yelled at by coaches or trampled on by the football team, he’s actually kind of nice. You can trust him….

Maggie folds her arms, glares at Jen P’s back, and continues. “Ever since that story came out about Peter, Jen P has been after him. You should see the way she looks at him...”

“Come on, Magwitch. I’m sure that’s not true. Besides, Peter would never like Jen P anyway. He hates those kinds of girls.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know, Carrie. He’s changed.”

“How?”

“It’s like he thinks he deserves more.”

“It doesn’t get any better than you, Mags,” I say gently. “He knows that.”

“He might, but Jen P doesn’t.”

And then, as if in illustration of her point, Peter strolls into the gym. Maggie waves, but Peter doesn’t see her, possibly due to the fact that Jen P rushes over to him first, laughing and waving her arms. Peter nods and smiles.

“Maggie...” I turn to speak to her, but she’s gone.

I find her in the parking lot, sitting in the Cadillac. She’s in tears and has locked all the doors. “Maggie!” I tap on the windshield. She shakes her head, lights up a cigarette, and eventually rolls down the window. “Yes?”

“Maggie, come on. They were only talking.” Just like Sebastian and Lali were only talking — at first. I feel horrible. “Let me in.”

She unlocks the doors and I crawl into the backseat. “Sweetie, you’re being paranoid.” But I’m worried she’s not. Is this somehow my fault? If I hadn’t written that story about the Nerd Prince…

“I hate Pinky Weatherton,” she gripes. “If I ever meet him, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. Now Peter’s head is swollen, and he thinks he’s God’s gift.” Suddenly, she spins around. “You work for that Nutmeg. You must know Pinky Weatherton.”

“Maggie, I don’t. I swear.”

“Well then,” she says, narrowing her eyes in suspicion, “who does?”

“I don’t know,” I say helplessly. “This Pinky Weatherton person — he gives his stories to Gayle, and Gayle...”

“Who’s Gayle?” she demands. “Maybe Gayle is Pinky Weatherton.”

“I don’t think so, Mags.” I examine my cuticles. “Gayle is only a freshman.”

“I need to talk to Peter.”

“That’s a good idea,” I say soothingly. “I’m sure Peter can straighten everything out.”

“So you’re on his side now.”

“I’m on your side, Maggie. I’m only trying to help.”

“Then get him,” she commands. “Go into the gym and find him. Tell him I need to see him. Immediately.”

“Sure.” I hop out of the car and hurry back inside. Jen P is still holding Peter captive, yammering about the importance of helium balloons.

I interrupt and give him the message about Maggie. He looks irritated but follows me out of the gym, waving reluctantly to Jen P and telling her he’ll be right back. I watch as he crosses the parking lot, anger building into every step. By the time he reaches the car, he’s so pissed off he jerks open the door and slams it behind him.

Maybe it’s time for Pinky to move back to Missouri.