The Carrie Diaries and Summer in the City

“I don’t care,” she says. And then she starts crying.

I put my face close to hers. “You’re not pregnant now, are you?”

“No!” she says fiercely.

“Come on, Mags. You don’t even like dolls.”

“I know,” she says, wiping her eyes.

“And Peter is crazy about you. He may be going to Harvard, but it doesn’t mean he’s going anywhere.”

“I didn’t get into Boston University,” she says suddenly. “That’s right. I got a rejection letter from them yesterday when Peter got his acceptance to Harvard.”

“Oh, Mags.”

“And pretty soon, everyone will be leaving. You, The Mouse, Walt—”

“You’ll get in someplace else,” I say encouragingly.

“What if I don’t?”

Good question. And one I haven’t faced squarely until now. What if nothing works out the way it’s supposed to? On the other hand, if it doesn’t, what are you supposed to do? You can’t just sit there.

“I miss Walt,” she says.

“I do too,” I say, hugging my knees to my chest. “Where is Walt anyway?”

“Don’t ask me. I’ve hardly seen him for three weeks. That’s not like Walt.”

“No, it isn’t,” I agree, thinking about how cynical Walt’s been lately. “Come on. Let’s call him.”

Back in the house, the party is in full swing. Sebastian is dancing with Lali, which annoys me slightly, but I have more important things to worry about than my best friend and my boyfriend. I pick up the phone and dial Walt’s number.

“Hello?” his mother answers.

“Is Walt there?” I ask, yelling over the noise of the party.

“Who is this?” she asks suspiciously.

“Carrie Bradshaw.”

“He’s out, Carrie.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He said he was meeting up with you,” she snaps, and hangs up the phone.

Weird, I think, shaking my head. Definitely weird.

Meanwhile, Maggie has commandeered the party by standing on the couch and doing a striptease. Everyone is hooting and clapping, save for Peter, who is trying to appear as if he’s enjoying it, but is actually mortified. I can’t let Mags go down alone, not in the state she’s in.

I kick off my shoes and jump onto the couch next to her.

Yes, I’m aware that nobody really wants to see me doing a striptease, but people are used to me making a fool of myself. I’m wearing white cotton tights under a cheap sequined skirt that I bought at a discount store, and I begin pulling them off at the toe. Within seconds, Lali has joined us on the couch, running her hands up and down her body while elbowing Maggie and me to the side. I’m standing on one foot, and I fall over the back of the couch, taking Maggie with me.

Maggie and I are lying on the ground, laughing hysterically. “Are you okay?” Peter asks, bending over Maggie.

“I’m fine,” she giggles. And she is. Now that Peter is paying attention to her, everything is great. For the moment, anyway.

“Carrie Bradshaw, you’re a bad influence,” Peter chides as he leads Maggie away.

“And you’re an uptight prig,” I mutter, fixing my tights as I get to my feet.

I look over at Peter, who is pouring Maggie a whiskey, a tender yet smug expression on his face.

How far would you go to get what you wanted?

And that’s when it hits me. I could write for the school newspaper. It would give me material to send into The New School. And it would be—ugh—real.

No, scolds a voice in my head. Not The Nutmeg. That really is going too far. Besides, if you write for The Nutmeg, you’re a hypocrite. You never hesitate to tell anyone who will listen that you hate The Nutmeg—including Peter, who’s the editor.

Yes, but what choice do you have? asks another voice. Do you really want to do nothing, letting life just happen to you like you’re some kind of loser? If you don’t at least try to write for The Nutmeg, you’ll probably never get into that writing program.

Hating myself, I head over to the bar, pour myself a vodka cranberry juice, and sidle up to Maggie and Peter. “Hi, guys,” I say casually, taking a sip of my drink. “So Petey-boy,” I begin. “I was thinking I might want to write for that newspaper of yours after all.”

He takes a sip of his drink and looks at me, irritated. “It’s not my newspaper.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. And it’s very difficult to communicate with a person who can’t be precise. That’s what writing is all about. Precision.”