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.
“I hope you like picking up trash,” George says playfully, poking Dorrit in the ribs. She giggles. The two are sitting on the couch. My father told Dorrit she should go to bed, but she refused.
“Have you ever been arrested?” Dorrit asks George.
“Dorrit!”
“What?” she says, staring at me blankly.
“As a matter of fact I have. But my crime was much worse than yours. I jumped a subway turnstile and ran right into a cop.”
Dorrit gazes up at George, her eyes filled with admiration. “What happened then?”
“He called my father. And boy, was my dad pissed. I had to spend every afternoon in his office, rearranging his business books in alphabetical order and filing all his bank statements.”
“Really?” Dorrit’s eyes widen in awe.
“So the moral of the story is, always pay the fare.”
“You hear that, Dorrit?” my father says. He stands, but his shoulders are stooped and he suddenly looks exhausted. “I’m going to bed. You too, Dorrit.”
“But—”
“Now,” he says quietly.
Dorrit gives George one last, longing look and runs upstairs.
“Good night, kids,” my father says.
I absentmindedly smooth my skirt. “Sorry about that. My father, Dorrit—”
“It’s okay,” George says, taking my hand again. “I understand. No family is perfect. Including mine.”
“Really?” I try to maneuver my hand out from under his, but I can’t. I attempt to change the subject instead.
“Dorrit seemed to like you.”
“I’m good with kids,” he says, leaning in for a kiss. “Always have been.”
“George.” I twist my head away. “I’m—uh—really exhausted—”
He sighs. “I get it. Time to go home. But I’ll see you again soon, right?”
“Sure.”
He pulls me to my feet and wraps his arms around my waist. I bury my face in his chest in an attempt to avoid what’s inevitably coming next.
“Carrie?” He strokes my hair.
It feels nice, but I can’t let this go any further. “I’m so tired,” I moan.
“Okay.” He steps back, lifts my head, and brushes my lips with his. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN How Far Will You Go?
“What’s the holdup?” Sebastian asks.
“Have to fix my makeup,” I say.
He runs his hand up my arm and tries to kiss me. “You don’t need makeup.”
“Stop,” I hiss. “Not in the house.”
“You don’t have a problem doing this in my house.”
“You don’t have two younger sisters. One of whom—”
“I know. Was arrested for shoplifting gum,” he says with disdain. “Which ranks pretty low in the annals of criminal activity. It’s right down there with lighting firecrackers in neighbors’ mailboxes.”
“And thus began your own life of crime,” I say, gently closing the bathroom door in his face.
He knocks.
“Yeeeees?”
“Hurry up.”
“Hurrying,” I say. “Hurrying and scurrying.” Which is not true. I’m stalling.
I’m waiting for George to call. Two weeks have passed since Dorrit’s arrest, but true to form, George called me the next day and the day after that, and then I asked him if he really meant it when he said he would read one of my stories and he said yes. So I sent it to him and now I haven’t heard from him for five days, except for yesterday when he left a message with Dorrit saying he’d call me today between six and seven. Damn him. If he’d called at six, Sebastian wouldn’t be here, hovering. It’s nearly seven. Sebastian will be furious if I get a phone call just before we’re about to go.
I unscrew a tube of mascara and lean forward, applying the wand to my lashes. It’s the second coat, and my lashes twist into jagged little spikes. I’m about to apply a third, when the phone rings.
“Phone!” Missy shouts.
“Phone!” Dorrit yells.
“Phone!” I scream, bursting out of the bathroom like a lit firecracker.
“Huh?” Sebastian says, sticking his head out my bedroom door.
“Could be Dorrit’s probation officer.”
“Dorrit has a probation officer? For stealing gum?” Sebastian says, but I can’t stop to explain.
I grab the phone in my father’s room just before Dorrit reaches it. “Hello?”
“Carrie? George here.”
“Oh, hi,” I say breathlessly, closing the door. What did you think of my story? I need to know. Now.
“How are you?” George asks. “How’s Dorrit?”
“She’s fine.” Did you read it? Did you hate it? If you hated it I’m going to kill myself.
“Is she doing her community service?”
“Yes, George.” The agony is killing me.
“What did they assign her to?”
Who
