Mary Gordon Howard frowned. On her ears were enormous blue stones. As she moved her hand to adjust her earring, I noticed a rectangular diamond watch on her wrist. Somehow, I hadn’t expected Mary Gordon Howard to be so bejeweled. Then she lowered her head like a bull and stared straight at Mrs. Agnosta as if she were about to charge. For a second, I was actually afraid for Mrs. Agnosta, who no doubt had no idea what she’d wandered into and was only looking for a little culture to enhance her afternoon.
“That, my dear, is because you are a classic narcissist,” Mary Gordon Howard declared. “You are so in love with yourself, you imagine that a woman can only be happy if she is ‘just like you.’ You are exactly what I’m talking about when I refer to women who are a hindrance to the progress of other women.”
Well, I thought. That was probably true. If it were up to Mrs. Agnosta, all women would spend their days baking cookies and scrubbing toilets.
Mary Gordon Howard looked around the room, her mouth drawn into a line of triumph. “And now, if there are no more questions, I will be happy to sign your books.”
There were no more questions. The audience, I figured, was too scared.
I got in line, clutching my mother’s copy of The Consensus to my chest. The head librarian, Ms. Detooten, who I’d known since I was a kid, stood next to Mary Gordon Howard, handing her books to sign. Mary Gordon Howard sighed several times in annoyance. Finally she turned to Ms. Detooten and muttered, “Unenlightened housewives, I’m afraid.” By then I was only two people away. “Oh no,” I wanted to protest. “That isn’t true at all.” And I wished I could tell her about my mother and how The Consensus had changed her life.
Ms. Detooten shrank and, flushed with embarrassment, turned away and spotted me. “Why, here’s Carrie Bradshaw,” she exclaimed in a too-happy, nudging voice, as if I were a person Mary Gordon Howard might like to meet.
My fingers curled tightly around the book. I couldn’t seem to move the muscles in my face, and I pictured how I must look with my lips frozen into a silly, timid smile.
The Gorgon, as I’d now begun to think of her, glanced my way, took in my appearance, and went back to her signing.
“Carrie’s going to be a writer,” Ms. Detooten gushed. “Isn’t that so, Carrie?”
I nodded.
Suddenly I had The Gorgon’s attention. She put down her pen. “And why is that?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” I whispered. My face prickled with heat.
“Why do you want to be a writer?”
I looked to Ms. Detooten for help. But Ms. Detooten only looked as terrified as I did. “I…I don’t know.”
“If you can’t think of a very good reason to do it, then don’t,” The Gorgon snapped. “Being a writer is all about having something to say. And it’d better be interesting. If you don’t have anything interesting to say, don’t become a writer. Become something useful. Like a doctor.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
The Gorgon held out her hand for my mother’s book. For a moment, I thought about snatching it away and running out of there, but I was too intimidated. The Gorgon scrawled her name in sharp, tiny handwriting.
“Thank you for coming, Carrie,” Ms. Detooten said as the book was handed back to me.
My mouth was dry. I nodded my head dumbly as I stumbled outside.
I was too weak to pick up my bike. I sat on the curb instead, trying to recover my ego. I waited as poisonous waves of shame crashed over me, and when they passed, I stood up, feeling as if I’d lost a dimension. I got on my bike and rode home.
“How’d it go?” my mother whispered later, when she was awake. I sat on the chair next to her bed, holding her hand. My mother always took good care of her hands. If you only looked at her hands, you would never know she was sick.
I shrugged. “They didn’t have the book I wanted.”
My mother nodded. “Maybe next time.”
I never told my mother how I’d gone to see her hero, Mary Gordon Howard. I never told her Mary Gordon Howard had signed her book. I certainly didn’t tell her that Mary Gordon Howard was no feminist. How can you be a feminist when you treat other women like dirt? Then you’re just a mean girl like Donna LaDonna. I never told anyone about the incident at all. But it stayed with me, like a terrible beating you can push out of your mind but never quite forget.
I still feel a flicker of shame when I think about it. I wanted Mary Gordon Howard to rescue me.
But that was a long time ago. I’m not that girl anymore. I don’t need to feel ashamed. I turn over and squish my pillow under my cheek, thinking about my date with Sebastian.
And I don’t need to be rescued anymore, either.
“I hear Donna LaDonna is seeing Sebastian Kydd,” Lali says, adjusting her goggles.
What? I dip my toe into the water as I tug on the straps of my Speedo, trying to compose myself. “Really,” I say casually. “How’d you hear that?”
“She told the two Jens and they’re telling everyone.”
“Maybe she’s making it up,” I say, stretching my legs.
“Why would she do that?”
I get up on the block next to her and shrug.
“On your mark. Get set. Go!” Coach Nipsie says.
As we’re both airborne, I suddenly shout, “I went on a date with Sebastian Kydd.”
I catch a glimpse of her shocked expression as she belly flops into the pool.
The water’s cold, barely seventy-five degrees. I swim one lap, turn, and when I see Lali coming up behind me, start pounding the water.
Lali’s a better swimmer than I am, but I’m the better diver. For almost eight years now, we’ve been competing with each other and against each other. We’ve gotten up at four a.m., swallowed weird concoctions of raw eggs to make us stronger, spent weeks at swimming camp, given each other wedgies, made up funny victory dances, and painted our faces with the school colors. We’ve been screamed at by coaches, berated by mothers, and made little kids cry. We’re considered a bad combination, but so far, no one’s been able to separate us.
We swim an exhausting eight-lap medley. Lali passes me on the sixth lap, and when I hit the wall, she’s standing above me, dripping water into my lane. “Nice way to freak out the competition,” she says as we high-five.
“Except it’s true,” I say, grabbing my towel and rubbing my head.
“What?”
“Last night. He came to my house. We went to a museum. Then we went to his house and made out.”
“Uh-huh.” She flexes her foot and pulls it up to her thigh.
“And he spent a summer living in Rome. And”—I look around to make sure no one is listening—“he bites his nails.”
“Right, Bradley.”
“Lali,” I whisper.“I’m serious.”
She stops stretching her leg and looks at me. For a second, I think she’s angry. Then she grins and blurts out,“Come on, Carrie. Why would Sebastian Kydd go out with you?”
For a moment, we’re