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I find her in the parking lot, sitting in the Cadillac. She’s in tears and has locked all the doors. “Maggie!” I tap on the windshield. She shakes her head, lights up a cigarette, and eventually rolls down the window. “Yes?”
“Maggie, come on. They were only talking.” Just like Sebastian and Lali were only talking—at first. I feel horrible. “Let me in.”
She unlocks the doors and I crawl into the backseat. “Sweetie, you’re being paranoid.” But I’m worried she’s not. Is this somehow my fault? If I hadn’t written that story about the Nerd Prince…
“I hate Pinky Weatherton,” she gripes. “If I ever meet him, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. Now Peter’s head is swollen, and he thinks he’s God’s gift.” Suddenly, she spins around. “You work for that Nutmeg. You must know Pinky Weatherton.”
“Maggie, I don’t. I swear.”
“Well then,” she says, narrowing her eyes in suspicion, “who does?”
“I don’t know,” I say helplessly. “This Pinky Weatherton person—he gives his stories to Gayle, and Gayle—”
“Who’s Gayle?” she demands. “Maybe Gayle is Pinky Weatherton.”
“I don’t think so, Mags.” I examine my cuticles. “Gayle is only a freshman.”
“I need to talk to Peter.”
“That’s a good idea,” I say soothingly. “I’m sure Peter can straighten everything out.”
“So you’re on his side now.”
“I’m on your side, Maggie. I’m only trying to help.”
“Then get him,” she commands. “Go into the gym and find him. Tell him I need to see him. Immediately.”
“Sure.” I hop out of the car and hurry back inside. Jen P is still holding Peter captive, yammering about the importance of helium balloons.
I interrupt and give him the message about Maggie. He looks irritated but follows me out of the gym, waving reluctantly to Jen P and telling her he’ll be right back. I watch as he crosses the parking lot, anger building into every step. By the time he reaches the car, he’s so pissed off he jerks open the door and slams it behind him.
Maybe it’s time for Pinky to move back to Missouri.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Hold On to Your Panties
The Mouse comes over for dinner on Saturday night. I serve coq au vin, which takes me all day to prepare, but I’ve recently discovered that cooking is a great way to distract yourself from your problems while providing a sense of accomplishment. You feel like you’re doing something useful even though a few hours later you eat all the evidence. Plus, I’m trying to stay home more so I can spend time with Dorrit, who, the shrink says, needs to feel like she’s still part of a working family. Once a week now, I make something elaborate and time consuming from the Julia Child cookbook.
My dad, of course, loves The Mouse—she can talk theorems almost as well as he can—and after we talk about math for a while, the conversation turns to college and how excited The Mouse is about going to Yale and me to Brown, and then the conversation somehow turns to boys. The Mouse tells my father all about Danny, and eventually, George’s name comes up. “Carrie had a very nice fellow interested in her,” my father says pointedly. “But she rejected him.”
I sigh. “I haven’t rejected George, Dad. We talk all the time on the phone. We’re friends.”
“When I was a young man, boys and girls weren’t ‘friends.’ If you were ‘friends’ it meant—”
“I know what it meant, Dad,” I interrupt. “But it’s not like that now. Boys and girls really can be friends.”
“Who’s this George?” The Mouse asks. I groan. Every time George calls, which is about once a week, he asks me out on a date and I turn him down, saying I’m not ready. But really, when it comes to George, I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. Aloud I say, “He’s just some guy who goes to Brown.”
“He’s a very nice young man,” my father says. “Exactly the kind of guy a father wishes his daughter would be dating.”
“And exactly the kind of guy the daughter knows she should be dating but just can’t. Because she’s not attracted to him.”
My father throws up his hands. “What’s the big deal about attraction? Love is what counts.”
The Mouse and I look at each other and giggle. If only I were attracted to George, all my problems would be solved. I’d even have a date for the senior prom. I could still ask him, and I know he’d come, but I don’t want to give him the wrong idea again. It wouldn’t be fair.
“Can we please talk about something else?” And suddenly, as if in answer to my prayers, there’s a frantic banging on the back door.
