The Carrie Diaries

  “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. r />
  “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.

  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 go
ing 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.”