Page 119 of The Carrie Diaries (The Carrie Diaries 1)

“No problem. Have a good time. Gayle and I will take care of it.”

“Don’t tell Smidgens, okay?”

“I won’t,” I reassure him. “You can trust me completely.”

Peter doesn’t appear entirely convinced, but he has no choice. Maggie has come into the art department and is standing behind him. “Peter?” she asks.

“Coming.”

“Okay, Gayle,” I say, when they’re safely down the hall. “Time to get to work.”

“Aren’t you scared of getting in trouble?”

“Nope. A writer must be fearless. A writer has to be like a clawed animal.”

“Says who?”

“Mary Gordon Howard.”

“Who’s she?”

“Doesn’t matter. Aren’t you glad we’re getting revenge on Donna LaDonna?”

“Yes. But what if she doesn’t know it’s her?”

“Even if she doesn’t know, everyone else will, I promise.”

Working quickly, Gayle and I remove Peter’s story about doing away with the gym requirement for seniors, and replace it with my own story on the queen bee—aka Donna LaDonna. Then Gayle and I walk the mock-up of tomorrow’s edition of The Nutmeg to the AV room, where several happy nerds will turn it into a newspaper. Peter and Ms. Smidgens will be furious, of course. But what can they do—fire me? I don’t think so.

I wake up early the next morning. For the first time in a long time I’m actually excited about going to school. I run into the kitchen where my father is frying an egg.

“You’re awake,” he exclaims.

“Yup,” I say, making myself a piece of toast and smearing it with butter.

“You seem happy,” he says cautiously, carrying his egg to the table. “Are you happy?”

“Sure, Dad. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I didn’t want to bring this up,” he says, getting all squirrelly and uncomfortable, “but Missy told me a little bit about what happened with—er—Sebastian, and I don’t want to make anything worse but I’ve been wanting to tell you for weeks that, well, you can’t rely on anyone else for your own happiness.” He pricks the yolk of his egg, as he nods in agreement with his own wisdom. “I know you think I’m only your old man and I don’t know much about what’s going on, but I’m a great observer. And I’ve observed your sorrow over this incident. I’ve wanted to help you—believe me, nothing hurts a father more than seeing his own child hurt—but I also know that I can’t. When these kinds of things happen, you’re alone. I wish it weren’t true, but it is. And if you can get through these kinds of things on your own, it makes you stronger as a person. It has a vast impact on your development as a human being to know that you have strengths to fall back on, and—”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say, kissing him on top of his head. “I get it.”

I go back upstairs and rifle through my closet. I consider wearing something outrageous, like striped leggings and a plaid shirt, but think better of it. I don’t want to draw unnecessary attention to myself. I put on a cotton turtleneck, corduroy jeans, and a pair of penny loafers, instead.

Outside, it’s one of those unseasonably warm April days that makes you think spring is just around the corner. I decide to take advantage of the weather and walk to school.

By bus, the trip is about four miles. But I know all the shortcuts and by zigzagging through the little streets behind the school I can get there in about twenty-five minutes. My route takes me by Walt’s house, a pretty little saltbox with a long hedge in front. The outside of the house is perfectly kept due to Walt’s efforts, but I’m always amazed how his entire family fits in that tiny abode. There are five kids and four bedrooms, which means that Walt has always had to share a room with his younger brother, whom he hates.

When I get to Walt’s house, however, I spot something unusual. A green camping tent has been erected at the far end of the backyard and a bright orange outdoor electrical cord runs from the house into the tent. Walt, I know, would never allow a tent in the backyard—

he’d consider it a blight. I move closer as the flap of the tent opens and Walt himself emerges, pale and unkempt in a rumpled T-shirt and jeans that look as though he’s slept in them. He rubs his eyes and glares at a robin that’s hopping around, looking for worms. “Go away. Beat it!” he says, walking toward the robin and waving his arms. “Damn birds,” he says as it flies away.

“Walt?”

“Huh?” He squints. Walt needs glasses but refuses to wear them, believing that glasses will only make his eyes worse. “Carrie? What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing in that tent?” I ask with equal astonishment.