Читать книгу The Carrie Diaries and Summer in the City - Candace Bushnell, Кэндес Бушнелл - Страница 23

“Wow,” George says.

“Wow what?” I ask, coming into the kitchen. George and my father are comparing notes on Brown like they’re old pals.

“That bag,” George says. “I love it.”

“You do?” Hmph. After my roller-coaster date with Sebastian, which ended with us making out in his car in my driveway until my father switched the outdoor lights on and off, the last person I want to see is George.

“I was thinking,” I say to George now. “Instead of driving all the way to this inn, why don’t we go to The Brownstone? It’s closer, and the food’s really good.” I’m being cruel, taking George to the same restaurant as Sebastian. But love has made me evil.

George, of course, has no idea. He’s annoyingly agreeable. “Wherever you want to go is fine with me.”

“Have fun,” my father says hopefully.

We get into the car, and George leans over for a kiss. I turn my head and his kiss lands on the side of my mouth. “How have you been?” he asks.

“Crazy.” I’m about to tell him all about my wild two weeks with Sebastian and how I’m being stalked by Donna LaDonna and the two Jens, and the nasty card in my locker, but I stop myself. George doesn’t need to know about Sebastian yet. Instead I say, “I had to take a friend of mine to this doctor to get birth control pills, and there was a girl who’d obviously had an abortion and—”

He nods, keeping his eyes on the highway. “Growing up in the city, I always used to wonder what people did in small towns. But I guess people manage to get into trouble, no matter where they live.”

“Ha. Have you ever read Peyton Place?”

“I mostly read biographies. When I’m not reading for class.”

I nod. We’ve only been together for ten minutes, but already it’s so awkward I can’t imagine how I’ll get through the evening. “Is that what they call it?” I ask tentatively. “‘The city?’ Not ‘New York’ or ‘Manhattan’?”

“Yeah,” he says, with a little laugh. “I know it sounds arrogant. Like New York is the only city on earth. But New Yorkers are a little arrogant. And they do think Manhattan is the center of the universe. Most New Yorkers couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.” He glances over at me. “Does that sound terrible? Do I sound like an asshole?”

“Not at all. I wish I lived in Manhattan.” I want to say “the city,” but I’m afraid I’ll sound affected.

“Have you ever been?” he asks.

“Not really. Once or twice when I was little. We went on a school trip to the planetarium and looked at stars.”

“I practically grew up in the planetarium. And the Museum of Natural History. I used to know everything about dinosaurs. And I loved the Central Park Zoo. My family’s house is on Fifth Avenue, and when I was a kid, I’d hear the lions roaring at night. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Very cool,” I say, hugging myself. I’m strangely cold and jittery. I have a sudden premonition: I’m going to live in Manhattan. I’m going to hear the lions roaring in Central Park. I don’t know how I’m going to get there, but I will.

“Your family lives in a house?” I ask stupidly. “I thought everyone in New York lived in apartments.”

“It is an apartment,” George says. “A classic eight, as a matter of fact. And there are actual houses—townhouses and brownstones. But everyone in the city calls their apartment a house. Don’t ask me why. Another affectation, I suppose.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “You should visit me. My mother spends the entire summer at her house in Southampton, so the apartment is practically empty. It has four bedrooms,” he adds quickly so I don’t get the wrong idea.

“Sure. That would be great.” And if I could get into that damn writing program, it would be even better.

Unless I go to France with Sebastian instead.

“Hey,” he says. “I’ve missed you, you know?”

“You shouldn’t miss me, George,” I say with coy irritation.

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know you enough to miss you. To think about you, anyway. Is that all right?”

I should tell him I already have a boyfriend—but it’s too soon. I hardly even know him. I smile and say nothing.

“Carrie!” Eileen, the hostess at The Brownstone, greets me like I’m an old friend, looks George up and down, and nods approvingly.

George is amused. “They know you here?” he asks, taking my arm as Eileen leads us to a table.

I nod mysteriously.

“What’s good here?” he asks, picking up the menu.

“The martinis.” I smile. “And the French onion soup is pretty good. And the lamb chops.”

George grins. “Yes to the martini and no to the French onion soup. It’s one of those dishes Americans think is French, but no self-respecting French person would ever order.”

I frown, wondering once again how I’m going to make it through this dinner. George orders the escargot and the cassoulet, which is what I wanted to order last night but didn’t, because Sebastian wouldn’t let me.

“I want to know all about you,” George says, taking my hand from across the table.

I slip it away, hiding my resistance by acting like I simply have to have another sip of my martini. How does a person explain everything about themselves anyway? “What do you want to know?”

“For starters, can I expect to see you at Brown next fall?”

I lower my eyes. “My father wants me to go. But I’ve always wanted to live in Manhattan.” And before I know it, I’m telling him all about my dream of becoming a writer and how I tried to get into the summer writing program and was rejected.

He doesn’t find this shocking or embarrassing. “I’ve known a few writers in my life,” he says slyly. “Rejection is part of the process. At least at first. Plenty of writers don’t even get published until they’ve written two or three books.”

“Really?” I feel a soaring hope.

“Oh, sure,” he says with authority. “Publishing is full of stories about the manuscript that got rejected by twenty publishers before someone took a chance on it and turned it into a huge bestseller.”

Just like me, I think. I’m masquerading as a regular girl, but somewhere inside me there’s a star, waiting for someone to give me a chance.

“Hey,” he says. “If you want, I’d be happy to read some of your stuff. Maybe I can help you.”

“Would you?” I ask, astonished. No one’s ever offered to help me before. No one’s even encouraged me. I take in George’s gentle brown sloping eyes. He’s so nice. And damn it, I do want to get into that writing program. I want to live in “the city.” And I want to visit George and hear the lions roaring in Central Park.

I suddenly want my future to begin.

“Wouldn’t it be cool if you were a writer and I was an editor at The New York Times?”

Yes! I want to shout. There’s only one problem. I have a boyfriend. I can’t be a louse. I have to let George know now. Otherwise, it isn’t fair.

“George. I have to tell you something—”

I’m about to spill my secret, when Eileen approaches the table with a self-important look on her face. “Carrie?” she says. “You have a phone call.”

“I do?” I squeak, looking from George to Eileen. “Who would be calling me?”

“You’d better find out.” George stands as I get up from the table.

“Hello?” I say into the phone. I have a wild thought that it’s Sebastian. He’s tracked me down, discovered I’m on a date with another guy, and he’s furious. Instead, it’s Missy.

“Carrie?” she asks in a terrified voice that immediately makes me imagine my father or Dorrit has been killed in an accident. “You’d better come home right away.”

My knees nearly buckle beneath me. “What happened?” I ask in a hoarse whisper.

“It’s Dorrit. She’s at the police station.” Missy pauses before delivering the final blow. “She’s been arrested.”

“I don’t know about you,” says a strange woman clutching an old fur coat over what appears to be a pair of silk pajamas, “but I’m finished. Through. Ready to wash my hands of her.”

My father, who is sitting next to her on a molded plastic chair, nods bleakly.

“I’ve been doing this for too long,” the woman continues, blinking rapidly. “Four boys, and I had to keep trying for a girl. Then I got her. Now I have to say I wish I didn’t. No matter what anyone says, girls are more trouble than boys. Do you have any sons, Mr., er—”

“Bradshaw,” my father says sharply. “And no, I don’t have any sons, just three daughters.”

The woman nods and pats my father on the knee. “You poor man,” she says. This, apparently, is the mother of Dorrit’s notorious pot-smoking friend, Cheryl.

“Really,” my father says, shifting in his seat to get away from her. His glasses slide to the tip of his nose. “In general,” he says, launching into one of his theories on child rearing, “a preference for children of one sex over the other, especially when it’s so baldly expressed by the parent, often results in a lack in the child, an inherent lack—”

“Dad!” I say, skittering across the floor to rescue him.

He pushes his glasses up his nose, stands, and opens his arms. “Carrie!”

“Mr. Bradshaw,” George says.

“George.”

“George?” Cheryl’s mother stands, batting her eyes like butterfly wings. “I’m Connie.”

“Ah.” George nods, as if somehow this makes sense. Connie is now clinging to George’s arm. “I’m Cheryl’s mother. And really, she’s not a bad girl—”

“I’m sure she isn’t,” George says kindly.

Oh jeez. Is Cheryl’s mother flirting with George now?

I motion my father aside. I keep picturing the small marijuana pipe I found in Mr. Panda. “Was it—” I can’t bring myself to say the word “drugs” aloud.

“Gum,” my father says wearily.

“Gum? She was arrested for stealing gum?”

“Apparently it’s her third offense. She was caught shoplifting twice before, but the police let her go. This time, she wasn’t so lucky.”

“Mr. Bradshaw? I’m Chip Marone, the arresting officer,” says a shiny-faced young man in a uniform.

Marone—the cop from the barn.

“Can I see my daughter, please?”

“We have to fingerprint her. And take a mug shot.”

“For stealing gum?” I blurt out. I can’t help myself.

My father blanches. “She’s going to have a record? My thirteen-year-old daughter is going to have a record like a common criminal?”

“Those are the rules,” Marone says.

I nudge my father. “Excuse me. But we’re really good friends with the Kandesies—”

“It’s a small town,” Marone says, rubbing his cheeks. “A lot of people know the Kandesies—”

“But Lali is like one of the family. And we’ve known them forever. Right, Dad?”

“Now, look here, Carrie,” my father says. “You can’t go asking people to bend the rules. It isn’t right.”

“But—”

“Maybe we could call them. The Kandesies,” George says. “Just to make sure.”

“I can assure you. My little Cheryl has never been in trouble before,” Connie says, squeezing George’s arm for support 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.”