We sit down.
I look over at the girl, who is staring at us with hostility. Her hair is cut in a mullet, short in the front and really long in the back, and she’s wearing black eyeliner that swoops up into little wings, like her eyes might fly away from her face. She looks tough and miserable and kind of mean. Actually, she looks like she’d like to beat us up. I try to smile at her, but she glares at me instead and pointedly picks up Highlights magazine. Then she puts it down and says, “What are you looking at?”
I can’t handle another girl fight, so I reply as sweetly as possible, “Nothing.”
“Yeah?” she says. “You’d better be looking at nothing.”
“I’m looking at nothing. I swear.”
And at last, before this can go any further, the door opens and the nurse comes out, escorting another teenage girl by the shoulders. The girl looks quite a bit like her friend, except that she’s crying quietly and wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hands.
“You’re okay, dear,” the nurse says with surprising kindness. “Doctor says it all went fine. No aspirin for the next three days. And no sex for at least two weeks.” The girl nods, weeping. Her friend jumps up and puts her hands on the side of the crying girl’s face. “C’mon, Sal. It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.” And with one final scowl in our direction, she leads the girl away.
The nurse shakes her head and looks at Maggie. “Doctor will see you now.”
“Maggie,” I whisper. “You don’t have to do this. We can go someplace else—”
But Maggie stands, her face resolute. “I have to do it.”
“That’s right, dear,” the nurse says. “Much better to take precautions. I wish all you girls would take precautions.”
And for some reason, she looks directly at me.
Whoa, lady. Take it easy. I’m still a virgin.
But I may not be for much longer. Maybe I should get some pills too. Just in case.
Ten minutes pass and Maggie comes back out, smiling and looking like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She thanks the nurse profusely. In fact, she thanks her so much I have to remind her that we ought to get back to school. Outside, she says, “It was so easy. I didn’t even have to take off my clothes. He just asked me about the last time I got my period.”
“That’s great,” I say, getting in the car. I can’t get the image of the crying girl out of my head. Was she crying because she was sad or relieved? Or just scared? Either way, it was pretty awful. I open the window a crack and light up a cigarette. “Mags,” I say. “How did you hear about that place? Really?”
“Peter told me about it.”
“How did he know?”
“Donna LaDonna told him,” she whispers.
I nod, blowing smoke into the cold air. I am so not ready for all this.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Hang in There
“Missy!” I say, knocking on the bathroom door. “Missy, I need to get in there.”
Silence. “I’m busy,” she finally says.
“Doing what?”
“None of your business.”
“Missy, please. Sebastian’s going to be here in thirty minutes.”
“So? He can wait.”
No, he can’t, I think. Or rather, I can’t. I can’t wait to get out of the house. I can’t wait to get out of here.
I’ve been telling myself this all week. The “getting out of here” part is unspecified, though. Maybe I simply want to get away from my life.
For the past two weeks, ever since the library incident, the two Jens have been stalking me. They poke their heads into swim practice and make mooing noises when I dive. They’ve followed me to the mall, the supermarket, and even the drugstore, where they had the exciting experience of watching me buy tampons. And yesterday, I found a card in my locker. On the front was a cartoon drawing of a basset hound with a thermometer in his mouth and a hot-water bottle on his head. Inside, someone had written “Don’t” before “Get Well Soon,” followed by, “Wish you were dead.”
“Donna would never do something like that,” Peter protested.
Maggie, The Mouse, and I glared at him.
Peter held up his hands. “You wanted my opinion, that’s my opinion.”
“Who else would do it?” Maggie asked. “She’s the one who has the biggest reason.”
“Not necessarily,” Peter said. “Look, Carrie. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I can promise you, Donna LaDonna doesn’t even know who you are.”
“She does now,” The Mouse countered.
Maggie was aghast. “Why wouldn’t she know Carrie?”
“I’m not saying she doesn’t literally know who Carrie Bradshaw is. But Carrie Bradshaw is definitely not high on her list of concerns.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said to Peter. I was really beginning to hate him.
And then I was furious at Maggie for going out with him. And then I was furious at The Mouse for being friends with him. And now I’m furious at my sister Missy for hogging the bathroom.
“I’m coming in,” I say threateningly. I try the door. It’s unlocked. Inside, Missy is standing in the tub with Nair on her legs.
“Do you mind?” she says, yanking the shower curtain closed.
“Do you mind?” I ask, going to the mirror. “You’ve been in here for twenty minutes. I need to get ready.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” I snarl.
“You’d better get out of that mood or Sebastian isn’t going to want to be with you either.”
I storm out of the bathroom. Back in my room, I pick up The Consensus, open it to the title page, and glare at Mary Gordon Howard’s tiny signature. It’s like the writing of a witch. I kick the book under the bed. I lie down and put my hands over my face.
I wouldn’t have even remembered the damn book and that damn Mary Gordon Howard if I hadn’t spent the last hour searching for my special handbag—the one from France that my mother left me. She felt guilty buying it because it was so expensive. Even though she paid for it with her own money and she always said every woman ought to have one really good handbag and one really good pair of shoes.
The handbag is one of my most treasured possessions. I treat it like a jewel, only taking it out on special occasions, and always returning it to its cloth pouch and then to its original box. I keep the box in the back of my closet. Except this time, when I went to get it out, it wasn’t there. Instead, I found The Consensus, which I’d also hidden in the back of my closet. The last time I used the bag was six months ago, when Lali and I took a trip to Boston. She kept eyeing the bag and asking if she could borrow it sometime, and I said “yes,” even though the thought of Lali with my mother’s bag gave me the creeps. You would think it would have given her the creeps too—enough for her to know better than to ask. After the trip, I specifically remember putting the bag away properly, because I decided I wouldn’t use it again until I went to New York. But then Sebastian suggested dinner at this fancy French restaurant in Hartford called The Brownstone, and if that isn’t a special occasion, I don’t know what is.
And