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“I didn’t see you in assembly.”
“That’s because I wasn’t there.”
“Where were you?” I can’t believe I just said that. When did I turn into his mother?
“Does it matter?” he asks.
“There was a scene. With Donna LaDonna.”
“Nice.”
“It was ugly. Now she really hates me.”
“You know my motto,” he says, playfully tapping me on the nose with his pencil. “Avoid female trouble at all costs. What are you doing this afternoon? Skip swim practice and let’s go somewhere.”
“What about Donna LaDonna?” It’s the closest I can come to asking if he called her.
“What about her? You want her to come too?”
I glare at him.
“Then forget about her. She’s not important,” he says as we take our seats in calculus.
He’s right, I think, opening my book to the chapter on rogue integers. Donna LaDonna is not important. Calculus is, along with rogue integers. You never know when a rogue integer is going to show up and ruin your entire equation. Perhaps that’s how Donna LaDonna feels about me. I am a rogue integer and I must be stopped.
“Carrie?”
“Yes, Mr. Douglas?”
“Could you come up here and finish this equation?”
“Sure.” I pick up a piece of chalk and stare at the numbers on the blackboard. Who could ever imagine that calculus would be easier than dating?
“So the long knives are out,” Walt says, referring to the assembly incident with a certain degree of satisfaction. He lights a cigarette and tilts back his head, blowing smoke into the rafters of the dairy barn.
“I knew he liked you,”The Mouse says triumphantly.
“Mags?” I ask.
Maggie shrugs and looks away. She’s still not talking to me.
She grinds her cigarette under her shoe, picks up her books, and walks off.
“What’s eating her?”The Mouse asks.
“She’s mad at me because I didn’t tell her about Sebastian.”
“That’s stupid,”The Mouse says. She looks at Walt. “Are you sure she’s not mad at you?”
“I’ve done absolutely nothing. I am blame-free,”Walt insists.
Walt has taken the breakup awfully well. It’s been two days since Walt and Maggie had their “talk,” and their relationship seems to be nearly the same as it was before, save for the fact that Maggie is now officially dating Peter.
“Maybe Maggie’s mad at you because you’re not more upset,” I add.
“She said she thought we made better friends than lovers. I agreed,” Walt says.“You don’t get to make a decision and then be angry about it when the other person agrees with you.”
“No,” says The Mouse. “Because that would require a certain degree of logic. It’s not a criticism,” she says quickly, catching the warning expression on my face. “But it’s true. Maggie isn’t the most logical person.”
“But she is the nicest.” I’m thinking I’d better go after her, when Sebastian appears.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says. “I just got accosted by Tommy Brewster who kept asking me something about chickens.”
“You guys are too cute,”Walt says, shaking his head. “Just like Bonnie and Clyde.”
“What should we do?” Sebastian asks.
“I don’t know. What do you want to do?” Now that we’re in Sebastian’s car, I suddenly feel insecure. We’ve seen each other three days in a row. What does it mean? Are we dating?
“We could go to my house.”
“Or maybe we should do something.” If we go to his house, all we’ll do is make out. I don’t want to be the girl who only has sex with him. I want more. I want to be his girlfriend.
But how the hell do I do that?
“Okay,” he says, resting his hand on my leg and sliding it up my thigh, “Where do you want to go?”
“Don’t know,” I say glumly.
“The movies?”
“Yeah.” I perk up.
“There’s a great Clint Eastwood retrospective at the Chesterfield Theatre.”
“Perfect.” I’m not sure I know exactly who Clint Eastwood is, but having agreed, I don’t know how to admit it. “What’s the movie about?”
He looks at me and grins.“Come on,” he says, as if he can’t believe I would ask such a question. “And it’s not a movie. It’s movies—plural. The Good, The Bad and The Ugly and The Outlaw Josey Wales.”
“Fantastic,” I say, with what I hope is enough enthusiasm to cover up my ignorance. Hey, it’s not my fault. I don’t have any brothers, so I’m completely ignorant about guy culture. I sit back in the seat and smile, determined to approach this date as an anthropological adventure.
“This is great,” Sebastian says, nodding his head as he becomes more and more excited about his plan. “Really great. And you know what?”
“What?”
“You’re great. I’ve been dying to check out this retrospective forever and I can’t think of any other girl who would go with me.”
“Oh,” I say, pleased.
“Normally girls don’t like Clint Eastwood. But you’re different, you know?” He takes his eyes off the road for a second and looks at me. His expression is so earnest, I can almost picture my heart melting into a little pool of sticky sweet syrup. “I mean, it’s kind of like you’re more than a girl.” He hesitates, searching for the perfect description. “It’s like—you’re a guy in a girl’s body.”
“What?”
“Take it easy. I didn’t say you looked like a guy. I meant you think like a guy. You know. You’re kind of practical but tough. And you’re not afraid to have adventures.”
“Listen, buster. Just because someone is a girl doesn’t mean she can’t be tough and practical and have adventures. That’s the way most girls are—until they get around guys. Then guys make them act all stupid.”
“You know what they say—all guys are assholes and all women are crazy.”
I take off my shoe and hit him.
Four hours later, we stumble out of the theater. My lips are raw from kissing, and I feel slightly woozy. My hair is matted and I’m sure I’ve got mascara smudged all over my face. As we step out from the darkness into the light, Sebastian grabs me, kisses me again, and pushes back my hair.
“So what’d you think?”
“Pretty good. I love the part where Clint Eastwood shoots Eli Wallach down from the noose.”
“Yeah,” he says, putting his arm around me. “That’s my favorite part too.”
I pat my hair, trying to make myself look slightly respectable and not like I’ve been making out with a guy in a movie theater for half the day. “How do I look?”
Sebastian steps back and grins appraisingly. “You look just like Tuco.”
I swat his butt. Tuco is the name of the Eli Wallach character, aka “the Ugly.”
“I think that’s what I’m going to call you from now on,” he says, laughing. “Tuco. Little Tuco. What do you think?”
“I’m gonna kill you,” I say, and chase him all the way across the parking lot to the car.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN Creatures of Love (#ulink_350c0a5e-0aab-5b32-b22c-34fe4d79887e)
I lay low for the next couple of days, steering clear of Donna LaDonna by skipping assembly and avoiding the cafeteria during lunch. On the third day, Walt tracks me down in the library, where I’m hiding in the self-help section of the stacks, secretly reading Linda Goodman’s Love Signs in a futile attempt to discern if Sebastian and I have a future. Problem is, I don’t know his birthday. I can only hope he’s an Aries and not a Scorpio.
“Astrology? Oh no. Not you, Carrie,” Walt says.
I shut the book and put it back on the shelf. “What’s wrong with astrology?”
“It’s dumb,” Walt says snidely. “Thinking you can predict your life from your birth sign. Do you know how many people are born each day? Two million five hundred and ninety-nine. How can two million five hundred and ninety-nine people have anything in common?”
“Has anyone mentioned that you’ve been in a really bad mood lately?”
“What are you talking about? I’m always like this.”
“It’s the breakup, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Then what is it?”
“Maggie’s in tears,” he says suddenly.
I sigh. “Is it about me?”
“Not everything’s about you, Bradley. Apparently she had some kind of fight with Peter. She sent me to find yo.Se’s in the girls’ room by the chemistry lab.”
“You don’t have to run errands for her.”
“I don’t care,” Walt says, as if the whole situation is pointless. “It’s easier than not doing it.”
Something is definitely wrong with Walt, I think, as I hurry away to meet Maggie. He’s always been slightly sarcastic and cynical, which is what I love about him. But he’s never been this world weary, as if everyday life has drained him of the strength to continue.
I open the door to the small lav in the old part of the school that hardly anyone uses because the mirror is mangy and all the fixtures are from about sixty years ago. The writing scratched into the stalls appears to be about sixty years old as well. My favorite is, For a good time, call Myrtle. I mean, when was the last time someone named their kid Myrtle?
“Who’s there?” Maggie calls out.
“It’s me.”
“Is anyone with you?”
“No.”
“Okay,” she says, and comes out of the stall, her face swollen and blotchy from crying.
“Jesus, Maggie,” I say as I hand her a paper towel.
She blows her nose and looks at me over the tissue. “I know you’re all caught up in Sebastian now, but I need your help.”
“Okay,” I say cautiously.
“Because I have to go to this doctor. And I can’t go alone.”
“Of course.” I smile, grateful that we seem to have made up. “When?”
“Now.”
“Now?”
“Unless you have something better to do.”
“I don’t. But why now, Maggie?” I ask with growing suspicion. “What kind of doctor?”
“You know,” she says, lowering her voice. “A doctor for…women’s stuff.”
“Like abortion?” I can’t help it. The word comes out in a loud gasp.
Maggie looks panicked. “Don’t even say it.”
“Are you—?”
