The Carrie Diaries (The Carrie Diaries 1)
“Yeah.” I perk up.
“There’s a great Clint Eastwood retrospective at the Chesterfield Theatre.”
“Perfect.” I’m not sure I know exactly who Clint Eastwood is, but having agreed, I don’t know how to admit it. “What’s the movie about?”
He looks at me and grins. “Come on,” he says, as if he can’t believe I would ask such a question. “And it’s not a movie. It’s movies—plural. The Good, The Bad and The Ugly and The Outlaw Josey Wales.”
“Fantastic,” I say, with what I hope is enough enthusiasm to cover up my ignorance. Hey, it’s not my fault. I don’t have any brothers, so I’m completely ignorant about guy culture. I sit back in the seat and smile, determined to approach this date as an anthropological adventure.
“This is great,” Sebastian says, nodding his head as he becomes more and more excited about his plan. “Really great. And you know what?”
“What?”
“You’re great. I’ve been dying to check out this retrospective forever and I can’t think of any other girl who would go with me.”
“Oh,” I say, pleased.
“Normally girls don’t like Clint Eastwood. But you’re different, you know?” He takes his eyes off the road for a second and looks at me. His expression is so earnest, I can almost picture my heart melting into a little pool of sticky sweet syrup. “I mean, it’s kind of like you’re more than a girl.” He hesitates, searching for the perfect description. “It’s like—you’re a guy in a girl’s body.”
“What?”
“Take it easy. I didn’t say you looked like a guy. I meant you think like a guy. You know. You’re kind of practical but tough. And you’re not afraid to have adventures.”
“Listen, buster. Just because someone is a girl doesn’t mean she can’t be tough and practical and have adventures. That’s the way most girls are—until they get around guys. Then guys make them act all stupid.”
“You know what they say—all guys are assholes and all women are crazy.”
I take off my shoe and hit him.
Four hours later, we stumble out of the theater. My lips are raw from kissing, and I feel slightly woozy. My hair is matted and I’m sure I’ve got mascara smudged all over my face. As we step out from the darkness into the light, Sebastian grabs me, kisses me again, and pushes back my hair.
“So what’d you think?”
“Pretty good. I love the part where Clint Eastwood shoots Eli Wallach down from the noose.”
“Yeah,” he says, putting his arm around me. “That’s my favorite part too.”
I pat my hair, trying to make myself look slightly respectable and not like I’ve been making out with a guy in a movie theater for half the day. “How do I look?”
Sebastian steps back and grins appraisingly. “You look just like Tuco.”
I swat his butt. Tuco is the name of the Eli Wallach character, aka “the Ugly.”
“I think that’s what I’m going to call you from now on,” he says, laughing. “Tuco. Little Tuco. What do you think?”
“I’m gonna kill you,” I say, and chase him all the way across the parking lot to the car.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Creatures of Love
I lay low for the next couple of days, steering clear of Donna LaDonna by skipping assembly and avoiding the cafeteria during lunch. On the third day, Walt tracks me down in the library, where I’m hiding in the self-help section of the stacks, secretly reading Linda Goodman’s Love Signs in a futile attempt to discern if Sebastian and I have a future. Problem is, I don’t know his birthday. I can only hope he’s an Aries and not a Scorpio.
“Astrology? Oh no. Not you, Carrie,” Walt says.
I shut the book and put it back on the shelf. “What’s wrong with astrology?”
“It’s dumb,” Walt says snidely. “Thinking you can predict your life from your birth sign. Do you know how many people are born each day? Two million five hundred and ninety-nine. How can two million five hundred and ninety-nine people have anything in common?”