It’s not exactly what a girl wants to hear from a guy, but on the other hand, I have to give him points for being honest. “I know what you mean. I always say I’m never getting married. Too predictable.”
“You’ll change your mind. All women do.”
“I won’t. I’m going to be a writer.”
“You look like a writer,” he says.
“I do?”
“Yeah. You look like you’ve always got something going on in your head.”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Kind of.” He leans over and kisses me. And suddenly, my life splits in two: before and after.
CHAPTER EIGHT The Mysteries of Romance
“Tell me exactly what he said.”
“He said I was interesting. And a character.”
“Did he say he liked you?”
“I think it was more that he liked the idea of me.”
“Liking the idea of a girl is different from actually liking a girl,” Maggie says.
“I think if a guy says you’re interesting and a character, it means you’re special,” The Mouse counters.
“But it doesn’t mean he wants to be with you. Maybe he thinks you’re special—and weird,” Maggie says.
“So what happened after we left?” The Mouse asks, ignoring her.
“Lali came and rescued us. He went home. He said he’d had enough excitement for one evening.”
“Has he said anything since?” Maggie asks.
I scratch a nonexistent itch. “Nope. But it doesn’t matter.”
“He’ll call,”The Mouse says with confidence.
“Of course he’ll call. He has to call,” Maggie says, with too much enthusiasm.
Four days have passed since the barn-painting incident and we’re dissecting the event for about the twentieth time. After Lali rescued us, apparently The Mouse and Walt did come back, but we were gone along with the ladder, so they figured we got away okay. On Monday when we showed up at school, we couldn’t stop laughing. Every time one of us looked out the window and saw 198 and that big red splotch, we’d crack up. At assembly that morning, Cynthia Viande referred to the incident, saying the vandalism to private property had not gone unnoticed, and the perpetrators, if caught, would be prosecuted.
We all snickered like little cats.
All of us, that is, except for Peter. “Can the cops really be that dumb?” he kept asking. “I mean, they were right there. They saw us.”
“And what did they see? A few kids standing around an old dairy barn.”
“That Peter guy—geez,”Lali said.“He’s so paranoid. What the hell was he doing there anyway?”
“I think he likes Maggie.”
“But Maggie’s with Walt.”
“I know.”
“She has two boyfriends now? How can you have two boyfriends?”
“Listen,” Peter said the next day, sidling up to me in the hall. “I’m not sure we can trust Sebastian. What if he rats us out?”
“Don’t worry. He’s the last person who’s going to tell.”
Hearing Sebastian’s name was like a skewer to the gut.
Ever since the kiss, Sebastian’s presence has been like an invisible shadow sewn to my skin. I cannot go anywhere without him. In the shower, he hands me the shampoo. His face floats up behind the words in my textbooks. On Sunday, Maggie, Walt, and I went to a flea market, and while I pawed through piles of sixties T-shirts, all I could think about was what Sebastian would like.
Surely he’ll call.
But he hasn’t.
A week passes, and on Saturday morning, I reluctantly pack a little suitcase. I look at the clothes I’ve laid out on the bed, perplexed. They’re like the random, disjointed thoughts of a thousand strangers. What was I thinking when I bought that beaded fifties sweater? Or that pink bandanna? Or the green leggings with yellow stripes? I have nothing to wear for this interview. How can I be who I’m supposed to be with these clothes?
Who am I supposed to be again?
Just be yourself.
But who am I?
What if he calls while I’m gone? Why hasn’t he called already?
Maybe something happened to him.
Like what? You saw him every day at school and he was fine.
“Carrie?” my father calls out. “Are you ready?”
“Almost.” I fold a plaid skirt and the beaded sweater into the suitcase, add a wide belt, and throw in an old Hermès scarf that belonged to my mother. She bought it on the one trip to Paris she took with my father a few years ago.
“Carrie?”
“Coming.” I bang down the stairs.
My father is always nervous before a trip. He gathers maps and estimates time and distance. He’s only comfortable with the unknown or the unexpected if it’s a number in an equation. I keep reminding him that this is not a big deal. It’s his alma mater, and Brown is only forty-five minutes away.
But he fusses. He takes the car to the car wash. He withdraws cash. He inspects his travel comb. Dorrit rolls her eyes. “You’re going to be gone for less than twenty-four hours!”
It rains during the drive. As we head east, I notice the leaves are already beginning to flee their branches, like flocks of birds heading south for the winter.
“Carrie,” my father says. “Don’t sweat the small stuff. Don’t beat yourself up about things.” He can usually sense when something is wrong, although he’s rarely able to pinpoint the cause.
“I’m not, Dad.”
“Because when you do,” he continues, warming up to one of his favorite topics, “you lose twice. You’ve lost what you’ve lost, but then you also lose your perspective. Because life happens to people. Life is bigger than people. It’s all about nature. The life cycle…It’s out of our control.”
It shouldn’t be, though. There ought to
