The Carrie Diaries and Summer in the City. Candace Bushnell

       CHAPTER NINE The Artful Dodger

      When Dorrit and I get home, my poor father takes one look at Dorrit’s hair and nearly passes out. Then he goes into her room to have a talk with her. That’s the worst, when my father comes into your room for a talk. He tries to make you feel better, but it never quite works that way. He usually goes into some long story about something that happened to him when he was a kid, or else makes references to nature, and sure enough, that’s what he does with Dorrit.

      Dorrit’s door is closed, but our house is a hundred and fifty years old, so you can hear every word of any conversation if you stand outside the door. Which is exactly what Missy and I do.

      “Now, Dorrit,” my dad says.“I suspect your actions concerning your, ah, hair are indirectly related to overpopulation, which is something that is increasingly becoming a problem on our planet. Which was not meant to sustain these vast clusters of people in limited spaces…and tends to result in these mutilations of the human body—piercings, dyeing the hair, tattoos…It’s human instinct to want to stand out, and it manifests itself in more and more extreme measures. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

      “No.”

      “What I mean,” he continues, “is that you must do all you can to resist these unwarranted instincts. The successful human being is able to conquer his unwanted and unwise desires. Am I making myself clear?”

      “Sure, Dad,” Dorrit says sarcastically.

      “In any event, I still love you,” my father says, which is the way he ends all his talks. And then he usually cries. And then you feel so horrible, you vow never to upset him again.

      This time, however, the crying bit is interrupted by the ringing of the phone. Please, let it be Sebastian, I pray, while Missy grabs it. She puts her hand slyly over the receiver. “Carrie? It’s for you. It’s a guy.”

      “Thanks,” I say coolly. I take the phone into my room and close the door.

      It has to be him. Who else could it be?

      “Hello?” I ask casually.

      “Carrie?”

      “Yes?”

      “It’s George.”

      “George,” I say, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

      “You got home okay?”

      “Sure.”

      “Well, I had a great time on Saturday night. And I was wondering if you’d like to get together again.”

      I don’t know. But he’s asked too politely to refuse. And I don’t want to hurt his feelings. “Okay.”

      “There’s a nice country inn between here and Castlebury. I thought maybe we could go next Saturday.”

      “Sounds great.”

      “I’ll pick you up around seven. We’ll have dinner at eight and I can get you home by eleven.”

      We hang up and I go into the bathroom to examine my face. I have a sudden desire to radically alter my appearance. Maybe I should dye my hair pink and blue like Dorrit’s. Or turn it into a pixie cut. Or bleach it white blond. I pick up a lip pencil and begin outlining my lips. I fill in the middle with red lipstick and turn the corners of my mouth down. I draw two black tears on my cheeks and step back to check the results.

      Not bad.

      I take my sad-clown face into Dorrit’s room. Now she’s on the phone. I can tell by her side of the conversation that she’s comparing notes with one of her friends. She bangs down the receiver when she spots me.

      “Well?” I ask.

      “Well what?”

      “What do you think about my makeup? I was thinking of wearing it to school.”

      “Is that supposed to be some kind of comment about my hair?”

      “How would you feel if I showed up at school tomorrow looking like this?”

      “I wouldn’t care.”

      “Bet you would.”

      “Why are you being so mean?” Dorrit shouts.

      “How am I being mean?” But she’s right. I am being mean. I’m in a mean, foul mood.

      And it’s all because of Sebastian. Sometimes I think all the trouble in the world is caused by men. If there were no men, women would always be happy.

      “C’mon, Dorrit. I was only kidding.”

      Dorrit puts her hands on top of her head. “Does it really look that bad?” she whispers.

      My sad-clown face no longer feels like a joke.

      When my mother first got sick, Dorrit would ask me what was going to happen. I’d put on a smiley face because I read somewhere that if you smile, even if you’re feeling bad, the action of the muscles will trick your brain into thinking you’re happy. “Whatever happens, we’re all going to be fine,” I’d tell Dorrit.

      “Promise?”

      “Of course, Dorrit. You’ll see.”

      “Someone’s here,” Missy calls out now. Dorrit and I look at each other, our little tiff forgotten.

      We clatter down the stairs. There, in the kitchen, is Sebastian. He looks from my sad-clown face to Dorrit’s pink and blue hair. And slowly, he shakes his head.

      “If you’re going to be around Bradshaws, you have to be prepared.There could be craziness. Anything might happen.”

      “No kidding,” Sebastian says. He’s wearing a black leather jacket, the same one he was wearing at Tommy Brewster’s party and on the night we painted the barn—the night we first kissed.

      “Do you always wear that jacket?” I ask as Sebastian downshifts on the curve leading to the highway.

      “Don’t you like it? I got it when I lived in Rome.”

      I suddenly feel like I’ve been swept under a wave. I’ve been to Florida and Texas and all around New England, but never to Europe. I don’t even have a passport. I sure wish I had one now, though, so I’d know how to deal with Sebastian. They should make passports for relationships.

      A guy who’s lived in Rome. It sounds so romantic.

      “What are you thinking?” Sebastian asks.

      I’m thinking that you probably won’t like me because I’ve never been to Europe and I’m not sophisticated enough. “Have you ever been to Paris?” I ask.

      “Sure,” he says. “Haven’t you?”

      “Not really.”

      “That sounds like being a little bit pregnant. You either have been or you haven’t.”