Page 91 of The Carrie Diaries (The Carrie Diaries 1)

“Mng.” I gulp.

“Uh-oh,” Dorrit says as I throw back the covers.

“Get away.” I leap out of bed, run to the bathroom, and get sick.

When I look up, Missy and Dorrit are there. Dorrit’s lips are curled into an evil, triumphant smile, like the Grinch who thinks he’s stolen Christmas.

“Does Dad know?” I ask.

“That you got home at three a.m.? I don’t think so,” Missy whispers.

“Don’t tell him,” I say warningly, glaring at Dorrit.

“Sebastian’s downstairs,” she says sweetly.

Huh?

He’s seated at the dining room table across from my father. “If you assume that X equals minus-Y to the tenth degree,” my father says, scribbling an equation on the back of an envelope, “then it’s obvious that Z becomes a random integer.” He pushes the envelope toward Sebastian, who glances at it politely.

“Hello,” I say, with a little wave.

“Morning,” my father says. His manner indicates he’s considering questioning me about my ragged appearance, but apparently his equation is more interesting. “You see, Sebastian?” He continues tapping his pencil on the X. “The danger here is in the assumption of X—”

I skittle by and hurry into the kitchen, where I dig around for an old jar of instant coffee, dump half of it into a mug, and wait for the water to boil. The phrase “a watched pot never boils” comes into my head. But that isn’t true. With the application of proper heat, the water will boil eventually, whether someone is watching or not. Which somehow seems very relevant to this situation. Or maybe it’s just that my brain feels like its boiling.

I take my mug into the dining room and sit down. My father has moved on from calculus to grilling Sebastian about his future. “Where did you say you were going to college?” he asks in an uptight voice—a tip-off that Sebastian has failed to impress him with his knowledge of assumptive integers.

“I didn’t.” Sebastian smiles and pats my leg possessively, which is sure to make my father insane. I squeeze his hand to make him stop. “I thought I’d take a year off,” Sebastian says. “Travel the world. Check out the Himalayas—that kind of thing.”

My father looks skeptical as I take a sip of my coffee. It’s still too hot and has the consistency of sludge.

“I’m not ready to get boxed in,” Sebastian continues, as if this explains his lack of ambition.

“You must have some money, then.”

“Dad!” I exclaim.

“Actually, I do. My grandmother died and left me and my sister her estate.”

“Aha.” My father nods. “I get it. You’re a very lucky young man. I’ll bet if you’re ever in trouble, you always manage to get out of it.”

“I don’t know about that, sir,” Sebastian says politely. “But I am lucky.” He looks at me and puts his hand over mine. “I’ve been lucky enough to meet your daughter, anyway.”

I suppose this should thrill me, but it only makes me want to puke again. What new game is he playing now?

My father gives me a look, as if he can’t believe this guy, but I can only manage a sickly smile.

“So anyway,” Sebastian says, clapping his hands together. “I was wondering if you wanted to go ice skating.”

Ice skating?

“Hurry up and finish your coffee.” He stands and shakes my father’s hand. “Nice to see you, Mr. Bradshaw.”

“Nice to see you,” my father says. I can tell he doesn’t know what to make of him, because then he pats Sebastian on the shoulder.

Men are so weird.

Am I supposed to start this conversation or is he? Or are we going to pretend nothing happened last night?