The Carrie Diaries and Summer in the City

“Uh-huh,” I say, handing Missy the pipe. And then my hand closes around the soft nubby surface of my mother’s bag. “Aha!” I exclaim, yanking it out. I place it on the bed, where the three of us stare at it aghast.

It’s ruined. The entire front side with the chic little flap where my mother used to keep her checkbook and credit cards is speckled with what looks like pink paint. Which just happens to be exactly the same color as the nail polish on Dorrit’s hands.

I’m too shocked to speak.

“Dorrit, how could you?” Missy screams. “That was Mom’s bag. Why did you have to ruin Mom’s bag? Couldn’t you ruin your own bag for a change?”

“Why does Carrie have to have everything of Mom’s?” Dorrit screams back.

“I don’t,” I say, surprising myself with how calm and reasonable I sound.

“Mom left that bag to Carrie. Because she’s the oldest,” Missy says.

“No she didn’t,” Dorrit wails. “She left it to her because she liked her the best.”

“Dorrit, that isn’t true—”

“Yes it is. Mom wanted Carrie to be just like her. Except that now Mom is dead and Carrie is still alive.” It’s the kind of scream that makes your throat hurt.

Dorrit runs out of the room. And suddenly, I burst into tears.

I’m not a good crier. Some women can supposedly cry prettily, like the girls in Gone with the Wind. But I’ve never seen it in real life. When I cry, my face swells up and my nose runs and I can’t breathe.

“What would Mom say?” I ask Missy between sobs.

“Well, I guess she can’t say anything now,” Missy says.

Ha. Gallows humor. I don’t know what we’d do without it.

“I mean, yeah,” I giggle, between hiccups. “It’s only a handbag, right? It’s not like it’s a person or anything.”

“I think we should paint Mr. Panda pink,” Missy says. “Teach Dorrit a lesson. She left a bottle of pink polish open under the sink. I almost knocked it over when I went to get the Nair.”

I race into the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” Missy squeals as I start my handiwork. When I’m finished, I hold up the bag for inspection.

“It’s cool,” Missy says, nodding appreciatively.

I turn it over, pleased. It really is kind of cool. “If it’s deliberate,” I tell her, with a sudden realization, “it’s fashion.”

“Ohmigod. I love your bag,” the hostess gushes. She’s wearing a black Lycra dress and the top of her hair is teased into spiky meringue waves. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Is that your name on it? Carrie?”

I nod.

“My name’s Eileen,” she says. “I’d love to have a bag like that with my name on it.”

She picks up two menus and holds them aloft as she leads us to a table for two in front of the fireplace. “Most romantic table in the house,” she whispers as she hands over the menus. “Have fun, kids.”

“Oh, we will,” Sebastian says, unfolding his napkin with a snap.

I hold up the bag. “You like?”

“It’s a purse, Carrie,” he says.

“This, Sebastian, is no mere purse. And you shouldn’t call a handbag a purse. A purse was what people used to carry coins in the sixteen hundreds. They used to hide their purse inside their clothes to foil robbers. A bag, on the other hand, is meant to be seen. And this isn’t any old bag. It was my mother’s…” I trail off. He’s clearly not interested in the provenance of my bag. Hmph. Men, I think, opening my menu.

“I like who’s carrying it, though,” he says.

“Thank you.” I’m still a little annoyed with him.

“What would you like?”

I guess we’re supposed to be all formal, now that we’re at a fancy restaurant.

“Haven’t decided.”

“Waiter?” he says. “Can we have two martinis please? With olives instead of a twist.” He leans toward me. “They have the best martinis here.”

“I’d like a Singapore Sling.”

“Carrie,” he says. “You can’t have a Singapore Sling.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a martini place. And a Singapore Sling is juvenile.” He glances at me over the top of the menu. “And speaking of juvenile, what’s wrong with you tonight?”

“Nothing.”

“Good. Then try to act normal.”

I open my menu and frown.

“The lamb chops are excellent. And so is the French onion soup. It was my favorite thing to eat in France.” He looks up and smiles. “Just trying to be helpful.”

“Thanks,” I say, with slight sarcasm. I immediately apologize. “Sorry.” What is wrong with me? Why am I in such a bad mood? I’m never in a bad mood with Sebastian.

“So,” he says, taking my hand. “How was your week?”

“Terrible,” I say as the waiter arrives with our martinis.

“Cheers,” he says. “To terrible weeks.”

I take a sip of my drink and carefully put it down. “Honestly, Sebastian. This week was pretty bad.”

“Because of me?”

“No. Not because of you. I mean, not directly. It’s just that Donna LaDonna hates me—”

“Carrie,” he says. “If you can’t handle the controversy, you shouldn’t see me.”

“I can handle it—”

“Well then.”

“Is there always controversy? When you’re seeing someone?”

He leans back and gives me a smug look. “Usually.”

Aha. Sebastian is a guy who loves drama. But I love drama too. So maybe we’re perfect for each other. Must discuss this aspect with The Mouse, I think, making a mental note.

“So are the French onion soup and lamb chops good for you?” he asks as he gives our order to the waiter.

“Perfect,” I say, smiling at him over the rim of my martini.

And there’s the problem: I don’t want French onion soup. I’ve had onions and cheese my whole life. I wanted to try something exotic and sophisticated, like escargot. And now it’s too late. Why do I always do what Sebastian wants?

As I lift my glass, a woman with coiffed red hair, a red dress, and bare legs knocks into me, spilling half of my drink. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says, slurring her words. She steps back, taking in what appears to be a romantic scene between me and Sebastian. “Young love,” she twitters, staggering away as I mop up the mess with my napkin.

“What was that about?”

“Some middle-aged drunk.” Sebastian shrugs.

“She can’t help being middle-aged, you know.”

“Yeah. But there’s nothing worse than a woman over a certain age who’s had too much to drink.”

“Where do you pick up these rules?”

“Come on, Carrie. Everyone knows that women are lousy drunks.”

“And men are better?”

“Why are we having this discussion?”

“I guess you think women are lousy drivers and scientists, too.”

“There are exceptions. Your friend, The Mouse.”

Excuse me?

Our onion soup arrives, the top bubbling with melted cheese. “Be careful,” he says. “It’s hot.”

I sigh, blowing on a spoonful of gooey cheese. “I still want to go to France someday.”

“I’ll take you there,” he says, just like that, cool as can be. “Maybe we could go this summer.”

He leans forward, suddenly aroused by the thought. “We’ll start in Paris. Then we’ll take the train to Bordeaux. That’s wine country. Then we’ll swing down to the South of France. Cannes, Saint-Tropez…”

I picture the Eiffel Tower. A stucco villa on a hill. Speedboats. Bikinis. Sebastian’s eyes, serious, soulful, staring into mine. “I love you, Carrie,” he whispers in my fantasy. “Will you marry me?”

I was still hoping to go to New York this summer, but if Sebastian wants to take me to France, I’m there.

“Hello?”

“Huh?” I look up and see a blond woman wearing a headband and a gummy smile.

“I had to ask. Where did you get that bag?”

“Do you mind?” Sebastian says pointedly, to the blonde. He plucks the bag off the table and puts it on the floor.

The woman walks away as Sebastian orders another round of drinks. But the mood is broken, and when our lamb chops come, we eat in silence.

“Hey,” I say. “We’re like an old married couple.”

“How so?” he asks in a flat voice.

“You know. Eating dinner and not talking. That’s my worst fear. It makes me sad every time I see one of those couples at a restaurant, barely looking at each other. I mean, why bother going out, right? If you have nothing to say, why not stay home?”

“Maybe the food’s better at a restaurant.”

“That’s funny.” I put down my fork, carefully wipe my mouth, and look around the room. “Sebastian, what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Well then,” he says.

“Something is wrong.”

“I’m eating, okay? Can’t I eat my lamb chops without you nagging me the whole time?”

I shrink with embarrassment. I’m two inches tall. I widen my eyes and force myself not to blink. I refuse to cry. But wow, that hurt. “Sure,” I say casually.

Are we having a fight? How on earth did this happen?

I pick at my lamb for a bit; then I put down my knife and fork. “I give up.”

“You don’t like the lamb.”

“No. I love the lamb. But you’re mad at me about something.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You sure seem mad to me.”

Now he puts down his utensils. “Why do girls always do that? They always ask ‘What’s wrong?’ Maybe nothing’s wrong. Maybe a guy is just trying to eat.”

“You’re right,” I say quietly, standing up.

For a second, he looks anxious. “Where are you going?”

“Ladies’ room.”

I use the toilet, wash my hands, and peer closely at my face in the mirror. Why am I being like this? Maybe there is something wrong with me.

And suddenly, I realize I’m scared.

If something happened and I lost Sebastian, I’d die. If he changed his mind and went back to Donna LaDonna, I’d double die.

On top of that, tomorrow night I have that date with George. I wanted to get out of it but my father wouldn’t let me. “It would be rude,” he said.

“But I don’t like him,” I replied, as sulky as a child.

“He’s a very nice guy, and there’s no reason to be unkind.”

“It would be unkind to lead him on.”

“Carrie,” my father said, and sighed. “I want you to be careful with Sebastian.”

“What’s wrong with Sebastian?”

“You’re spending a lot of time with him. And a father has instincts about these things. About other men.”

Then I was angry at my father too. But I didn’t have the guts to cancel on George, either.

What if Sebastian finds out about the date with George and breaks up with me?

I’ll kill my father. I really will.

Why don’t I have any control over my life?

I’m about to reach for my bag, when I remember I don’t have it. It’s under the table where Sebastian hid it. I take a deep breath. I order myself to buck up, put on a smiley face, get back out there, and act like everything is fine.

When I return, our plates have been cleared. “So,” I begin with false cheeriness.

“Do you want dessert?” Sebastian asks.

“Do you?”

“I asked you first. Can you please make a decision?”

“Sure. Let’s have dessert.” Why is this so excruciating? Chinese fingernail torture sounds more appealing.

“Two cheesecakes,” he says to the waitress, ordering for me again.

“Sebastian—”

“Yes?” He looks like thunder.

“Are you still angry?”

“Look, Carrie. I spend all this time planning a date and taking you out to a really nice restaurant and all you do is pick on me.”

“Huh?” I say, caught off guard.

“I feel like I can’t do anything right.”

For a second, I sit frozen in horror. What am I doing?

He’s right, of course. I’m the one who’s being a jerk, and for what? Am I so scared of losing him that I’m trying to push him away before he can break up with me?

He said he wanted to take me to France, for Christ’s sake. What more do I want?

“Sebastian?” I ask in a tiny voice.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He pats my hand. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

I nod, sinking further into my chair, but Sebastian’s mood is suddenly restored. He pulls my chair around next to his, and, in full view of the entire restaurant, kisses me.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” he whispers.

“Me too,” I murmur. Or at least, I thought I did. But after a few seconds, I break away. I’m still a bit angry and confused. But I take another sip of my martini and push the angry feelings down, right to the bottom of my soles, where hopefully, they won’t cause any more trouble.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Little Criminals

“Wow,” George says.

“Wow what?” I ask, coming into the kitchen. George and my father are comparing notes on Brown like they’re old pals.

“That bag,” George says. “I love it.”

“You do?” Hmph. After my roller-coaster date with Sebastian, which ended with us making out in his car in my driveway until my father switched the outdoor lights on and off, the last person I want to see is George.

“I was thinking,” I say to George now. “Instead of driving all the way to this inn, why don’t we go to The Brownstone? It’s closer, and the food’s really good.” I’m being cruel, taking George to the same restaurant as Sebastian. But love has made me evil.

George, of course, has no idea. He’s annoyingly agreeable. “Wherever you want to go is fine with me.”

“Have fun,” my father says hopefully.

We get into the car, and George leans over for a kiss. I turn my head and his kiss lands on the side of my mouth. “How have you been?” he asks.

“Crazy.” I’m about to tell him all about my wild two weeks with Sebastian and how I’m being stalked by Donna LaDonna and the two Jens, and the nasty card in my locker, but I stop myself. George doesn’t need to know about Sebastian yet. Instead I say, “I had to take a friend of mine to this doctor to get birth control pills, and there was a girl who’d obviously had an abortion and—”

He nods, keeping his eyes on the highway. “Growing up in the city, I always used to wonder what people did in small towns. But I guess people manage to get into trouble, no matter where they live.”

“Ha. Have you ever read Peyton Place?”

“I mostly read biographies. When I’m not reading for class.”

I nod. We’ve only been together for ten minutes, but already it’s so awkward I can’t imagine how I’ll get through the evening. “Is that what they call it?” I ask tentatively. “‘The city?’ Not ‘New York’ or ‘Manhattan’?”

“Yeah,” he says, with a little laugh. “I know it sounds arrogant. Like New York is the only city on earth. But New Yorkers are a little arrogant. And they do think Manhattan is the center of the universe. Most New Yorkers couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.” He glances over at me. “Does that sound terrible? Do I sound like an asshole?”

“Not at all. I wish I lived in Manhattan.” I want to say “the city,” but I’m afraid I’ll sound affected.

“Have you ever been?” he asks.

“Not really. Once or twice when I was little. We went on a school trip to the planetarium and looked at stars.”

“I practically grew up in the planetarium. And the Museum of Natural History. I used to know everything about dinosaurs. And I loved the Central Park Zoo. My family’s house is on Fifth Avenue, and when I was a kid, I’d hear the lions roaring at night. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Very cool,” I say, hugging myself. I’m strangely cold and jittery. I have a sudden premonition: I’m going to live in Manhattan. I’m going to hear the lions roaring in Central Park. I don’t know how I’m going to get there, but I will.

“Your family lives in a house?” I ask stupidly. “I thought everyone in New York lived in apartments.”

“It is an apartment,” George says. “A classic eight, as a matter of fact. And there are actual houses—townhouses and brownstones. But everyone in the city calls their apartment a house. Don’t ask me why. Another affectation, I suppose.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “You should visit me. My mother spends the entire summer at her house in Southampton, so the apartment is practically empty. It has four bedrooms,” he adds quickly so I don’t get the wrong idea.

“Sure. That would be great.” And if I could get into that damn writing program, it would be even better.

Unless I go to France with Sebastian instead.

“Hey,” he says. “I’ve missed you, you know?”

“You shouldn’t miss me, George,” I say with coy irritation.

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know you enough to miss you. To think about you, anyway. Is that all right?”

I should tell him I already have a boyfriend—but it’s too soon. I hardly even know him. I smile and say nothing.

“Carrie!” Eileen, the hostess at The Brownstone, greets me like I’m an old friend, looks George up and down, and nods approvingly.

George is amused. “They know you here?” he asks, taking my arm as Eileen leads us to a table.

I nod mysteriously.

“What’s good here?” he asks, picking up the menu.

“The martinis.” I smile. “And the French onion soup is pretty good. And the lamb chops.”

George grins. “Yes to the martini and no to the French onion soup. It’s one of those dishes Americans think is French, but no self-respecting French person would ever order.”

I frown, wondering once again how I’m going to make it through this dinner. George orders the escargot and the cassoulet, which is what I wanted to order last night but didn’t, because Sebastian wouldn’t let me.

“I want to know all about you,” George says, taking my hand from across the table.

I slip it away, hiding my resistance by acting like I simply have to have another sip of my martini. How does a person explain everything about themselves anyway? “What do you want to know?”

“For starters, can I expect to see you at Brown next fall?”

I lower my eyes. “My father wants me to go. But I’ve always wanted to live in Manhattan.” And before I know it, I’m telling him all about my dream of becoming a writer and how I tried to get into the summer writing program and was rejected.

He doesn’t find this shocking or embarrassing. “I’ve known a few writers in my life,” he says slyly. “Rejection is part of the process. At least at first. Plenty of writers don’t even get published until they’ve written two or three books.”

“Really?” I feel a soaring hope.

“Oh, sure,” he says with authority. “Publishing is full of stories about the manuscript that got rejected by twenty publishers before someone took a chance on it and turned it into a huge bestseller.”

Just like me, I think. I’m masquerading as a regular girl, but somewhere inside me there’s a star, waiting for someone to give me a chance.

“Hey,” he says. “If you want, I’d be happy to read some of your stuff. Maybe I can help you.”

“Would you?” I ask, astonished. No one’s ever offered to help me before. No one’s even encouraged me. I take in George’s gentle brown sloping eyes. He’s so nice. And damn it, I do want to get into that writing program. I want to live in “the city.” And I want to visit George and hear the lions roaring in Central Park.

I suddenly want my future to begin.

“Wouldn’t it be cool if you were a writer and I was an editor at The New York Times?”

Yes! I want to shout. There’s only one problem. I have a boyfriend. I can’t be a louse. I have to let George know now. Otherwise, it isn’t fair.

“George. I have to tell you something—”

I’m about to spill my secret, when Eileen approaches the table with a self-important look on her face. “Carrie?” she says. “You have a phone call.”

“I do?” I squeak, looking from George to Eileen. “Who would be calling me?”

“You’d better find out.” George stands as I get up from the table.

“Hello?” I say into the phone. I have a wild thought that it’s Sebastian. He’s tracked me down, discovered I’m on a date with another guy, and he’s furious. Instead, it’s Missy.

“Carrie?” she asks in a terrified voice that immediately makes me imagine my father or Dorrit has been killed in an accident. “You’d better come home right away.”

My knees nearly buckle beneath me. “What happened?” I ask in a hoarse whisper.

“It’s Dorrit. She’s at the police station.” Missy pauses before delivering the final blow. “She’s been arrested.”

“I don’t know about you,” says a strange woman clutching an old fur coat over what appears to be a pair of silk pajamas, “but I’m finished. Through. Ready to wash my hands of her.”

My father, who is sitting next to her on a molded plastic chair, nods bleakly.

“I’ve been doing this for too long,” the woman continues, blinking rapidly. “Four boys, and I had to keep trying for a girl. Then I got her. Now I have to say I wish I didn’t. No matter what anyone says, girls are more trouble than boys. Do you have any sons, Mr., er—”

“Bradshaw,” my father says sharply. “And no, I don’t have any sons, just three daughters.”

The woman nods and pats my father on the knee. “You poor man,” she says. This, apparently, is the mother of Dorrit’s notorious pot-smoking friend, Cheryl.

“Really,” my father says, shifting in his seat to get away from her. His glasses slide to the tip of his nose. “In general,” he says, launching into one of his theories on child rearing, “a preference for children of one sex over the other, especially when it’s so baldly expressed by the parent, often results in a lack in the child, an inherent lack—”

“Dad!” I say, skittering across the floor to rescue him.

He pushes his glasses up his nose, stands, and opens his arms. “Carrie!”

“Mr. Bradshaw,” George says.

“George.”

“George?” Cheryl’s mother stands, batting her eyes like butterfly wings. “I’m Connie.”

“Ah.” George nods, as if somehow this makes sense. Connie is now clinging to George’s arm. “I’m Cheryl’s mother. And really, she’s not a bad girl—”

“I’m sure she isn’t,” George says kindly.

Oh jeez. Is Cheryl’s mother flirting with George now?

I motion my father aside. I keep picturing the small marijuana pipe I found in Mr. Panda. “Was it—” I can’t bring myself to say the word “drugs” aloud.

“Gum,” my father says wearily.

“Gum? She was arrested for stealing gum?”

“Apparently it’s her third offense. She was caught shoplifting twice before, but the police let her go. This time, she wasn’t so lucky.”

“Mr. Bradshaw? I’m Chip Marone, the arresting officer,” says a shiny-faced young man in a uniform.

Marone—the cop from the barn.

“Can I see my daughter, please?”

“We have to fingerprint her. And take a mug shot.”

“For stealing gum?” I blurt out. I can’t help myself.

My father blanches. “She’s going to have a record? My thirteen-year-old daughter is going to have a record like a common criminal?”

“Those are the rules,” Marone says.

I nudge my father. “Excuse me. But we’re really good friends with the Kandesies—”

“It’s a small town,” Marone says, rubbing his cheeks. “A lot of people know the Kandesies—”

“But Lali is like one of the family. And we’ve known them forever. Right, Dad?”

“Now, look here, Carrie,” my father says. “You can’t go asking people to bend the rules. It isn’t right.”

“But—”

“Maybe we could call them. The Kandesies,” George says. “Just to make sure.”

“I can assure you. My little Cheryl has never been in trouble before,” Connie says, squeezing George’s arm for support as she blinks at Marone.

Marone has clearly had enough. “I’ll see what I can do,” he mutters, and picks up the phone behind the desk. “Right,” he says into the receiver. “Okay. No problem.” He hangs up the phone and glowers.

“Community service.” Dorrit gasps.

“You’ll be lucky to get off that easily,” says my father.

George, my father, Dorrit, and I are gathered in the den, discussing the situation. Marone agreed to release Dorrit and Cheryl with the caveat that they have to see the judge on Wednesday, who will probably sentence them to community service to pay for their crimes.