Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

“Maybe I’m not,” I say suddenly.

Walt smiles, sure I can’t be serious. “Does your father know? About this change of plans?”

“I just decided. This minute.” Which is true. The thought has been fluttering around the edges of my consciousness for weeks now, but the reality of being back in Castlebury has made it clear that being at Brown will only be more of the same. The same kinds of people with exactly the same attitudes, just in a different location.

Walt smiles. “Don’t forget I’ll be there too. At RISD.”

“I know.” I sigh. I sound as arrogant as Capote. “It’ll be fun,” I add, hopefully.

“Walt!” my father says, joining us on the porch.

“Mr. Bradshaw.” Walt stands up, and my father embraces him in a hug, which makes me feel left out again.

“How you doin’, kid?” my father asks. “Your hair’s longer. I barely recognized you.”

“Walt’s always changing his hair, Dad.” I turn to Walt. “What my father means is that you probably didn’t recognize him. He’s trying to look younger,” I add, with enough bantering in my voice to prevent this statement from coming across as nasty.

“What’s wrong with looking younger?” my father declares in high spirits.

He goes into the kitchen to make cocktails, but takes his time about it, going to the window every second or so like a sixteen-year-old girl waiting for her crush to arrive. It’s ridiculous. When Wendy does turn up, a mere five minutes later, he runs out of the house to greet her.

“Can you believe this?” I ask Walt, horrified by my father’s silly behavior.

“He’s a man. What can I say?”

“He’s my father,” I protest.

“He’s still a man.”

I’m about to say, “Yeah, but my father isn’t supposed to act like other men,” when he and Wendy come strolling up the walk, holding hands.

I want to gack. This relationship is obviously more serious than I’d thought.

Wendy is kind of pretty, if you like women with dyed blond mall hair and blue eye shadow rimmed around their eyes like a raccoon.

“Be nice,” Walt says warningly.

“Oh, I’ll be perfectly nice. I’ll be nice if it kills me.” I smile.

“Shall I call the ambulance now or later?”

My father opens the screen door and urges Wendy onto the porch. Her smile is wide and patently fake. “You must be Carrie!” she says, enveloping me in a hug as if we’re already best friends.

“How could you tell?” I ask, gently extracting myself.

She glances at my father, her face full of delight. “Your dad has told me all about you. He talks about you constantly. He’s so proud of you.”

There’s something about this assumed intimacy that immediately rubs me the wrong way. “This is Walt,” I say, trying to get her off the topic of myself. What can she possibly know about me anyway?

“Hello, Walt,” Wendy says too eagerly. “Are you and Carrie—”

“Dating?” Walt interjects. “Hardly.” We both laugh.

She tilts her head to the side, as if unsure how to proceed. “It’s wonderful the way men and women can be friends these days. Don’t you think?”

“I guess it depends on what you call ‘friends,’” I murmur, reminding myself to be pleasant.

“Are we ready?” my father asks.