Page 122 of The Carrie Diaries (The Carrie Diaries 1)

“You did something,” he insists.

“Peter.” I sigh. “I honestly do not know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, you’d better figure it out. Smidgens wants to see me in her office. Now. And you’re coming with me.”

He grabs my arm, but I twist away. “Are you sure? Do you really want to tell her that you didn’t close the paper?”

“Damn,” he says, and glares at me. “You’d better think fast, is all I can say.”

“No problem.” The thought of a scene between Peter and Ms. Smidgens is too tempting to resist. I’m like an arsonist who can’t stay away from her own fires.

Ms. Smidgens is sitting behind her desk with The Nutmeg propped up in front of her. A good two inches of ash is balanced precariously at the end of her cigarette. “Hello, Peter,” she says, bringing the cigarette to her lips as I watch, fascinated, wondering when the ash is going to fall. She drops the cigarette into a pile of butts, the ash still intact. Threads of smoke from still-smoldering cigarettes drift up from a large ceramic bowl.

Peter takes a seat. Smidgens nods at me, clearly not interested in my presence. I sit down anyway.

“So,” she says, lighting another cigarette. “Who is Pinky Weatherton?”

Peter stares at her, then jerks his head around and glares at me.

“He’s new,” I say.

“He?”

“Or she,” Peter says. “He or she just moved here.”

Ms. Smidgens is not impressed. “Is that so? From where?”

“Um, Missouri?” Peter asks.

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“Why can’t I find him—or her—on my list of students?”

“He just moved here,” I say. “Like yesterday. Well, not exactly yesterday. Maybe last week or something.”

“He probably isn’t in the system yet,” Peter adds.

“I see.” Smidgens holds up The Nutmeg. “This Pinky Weatherton happens to be a very good writer. I’d like to see more of his—or her—work in the paper.”

“Sure,” Peter says hesitantly.

Ms. Smidgens gives Peter an evil smile. She waves her cigarette, about to say more, when suddenly the long column of ash spirals into her cleavage. She jumps, shaking the ash out of her blouse, as Peter and I attempt a hasty exit. We’re at the door when she calls out, “Wait.”

Slowly, we turn.

“About Pinky,” she says, squinting through the smoke. Her lips curl into a nasty smile. “I want to meet him. Or her. And tell this Pinky person to decide on a gender.”

“Did you see this?” Maggie asks, plunking The Nutmeg onto the cafeteria table.

“Um, yeah,” The Mouse says, stirring hot water into her Cup-a-Soup. “The whole school’s talking about it.”

“How come I didn’t know about this until now?” Maggie says, looking at Peter accusingly.

“Because you’re really busy with the prom committee?” Peter asks. He slides in between Maggie and The Mouse. Maggie picks up the paper and points to the headline. “And what kind of name is Pinky Weatherton, anyway?”

“Maybe it’s a nickname. Like The Mouse,” I say.

“But The Mouse isn’t Roberta’s real name. I mean, she would never sign her papers ‘The Mouse.’”