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“Why should you feel bad? You’re not gay.” He exhales a stream of smoke and looks up at the sky. “Anyway, I doubt this is going to come as much of a surprise. He already calls me a homo and a fag—oh, and he likes to refer to me as sissy pants behind my back.”
“Your own father?”
“Yeah, Carrie, my own father,” he says, grinding the cigarette butt under his shoe. “Fuck him,” he says suddenly. “He doesn’t deserve my respect. If he’s embarrassed, it’s his problem.” He looks at his watch. “I take it you’re not going back to the dance.”
“I can’t.”
“Randy’s picking me up. We’re going to go someplace. You want to come?”
Randy arrives about five minutes later in his souped-up Mustang. He and Walt have a hushed conversation, then Walt motions for me to get into the car.
Ten minutes later, I’m wedged into the tiny backseat as we head south on Route 91. The music is blaring and I can’t quite get over the fact that I’m out with macho Randy Sandler, the ex-quarterback of the Castlebury High football team, who is now Walt’s boyfriend. I guess I don’t know as much about people as I thought I did. I have a lot to learn, but it’s kind of exciting.
“Where are we going?” I yell over the music.
“P-Town,” Walt shouts.
“Provincetown?”
“We need to go to another state to have fun,” Randy says. “How fucked up is that?”
Yikes. Provincetown is on Cape Cod, at least an hour away. I probably shouldn’t be doing this. I’m going to get into trouble. But then I remember Donna LaDonna and Sebastian and all the rest of my lousy life, and I think—what the hell? I’m always trying to be good, and where has it gotten me?
Nowhere.
“You cool with that?” Randy shouts.
“I’m cool with anything.”
“So this guy, Sebastian Kydd, was dancing with your worst enemy?” Randy shouts over the music.
“Yes.” I strain to make myself heard.
“And he saw us. At Chuckie’s,” Walt yells to Randy.
“Maybe he’s gay,” I scream.
“I think I know this guy,” Randy shouts, nodding at Walt. “Tall, blond hair, looks like some asshole from a Ralph Lauren ad?”
“That’s him!” I cry.
“He’s hot,” Randy says. “But not gay. I’ve seen him renting porn tapes. Jugs—that kind of thing.”
Porn? Jugs? Who is Sebastian? “Great!” I scream.
“Forget about that asshole,” Randy yells. “You’re about to meet two hundred guys who are gonna love you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Assumption of X
“Carrie?” Missy asks.
“Wake up!” Dorrit shouts in my ear.
I moan as visions of twisting pelvises swirl through my head.
“Carrie? Are you alive?”
