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“I guess so,” I say grudgingly.
“Can you believe it? Me? Having nonstop sex? Especially after all those things I told you. And now that I’ve finally had good sex, I’m thinking it might give me a new perspective on life. Like all men aren’t necessarily horrible after all.”
“That’s great,” I say weakly, feeling sorry for myself.
And then it happens. My eyes well up with tears.
I quickly brush them away, but Miranda catches me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you crying?” Her face screws up with worry. “You’re not mad because I have a boyfriend now, are you?”
I shake my head.
“Carrie. I can’t help you unless you tell me what’s wrong,” she says gently.
I spill the whole story, starting with the disastrous dinner with Bernard and how Maggie insisted we go to a party and how she ended up with Ryan and how Bernard hasn’t called me and now it’s probably over. “How did this happen to me?” I wail. “I should have slept with Bernard when I had the chance. Now it will never happen. I’ll be a virgin for the rest of my life. Even L’il isn’t a virgin. And my friend Maggie is sleeping with three guys. At once! What’s wrong with me?”
Miranda puts her arms around my shoulders. “Poor baby,” she says soothingly. “You’re having a bad day.”
“Bad day? More like bad week,” I sniffle. But I’m grateful for her kindness. Miranda is usually so prickly. I can’t help but wonder if maybe she’s right and two days of great sex have awakened her maternal instinct.
“Not everyone is the same,” she says firmly. “People develop at different times.”
“But I don’t want to be the last.”
“Lots of famous people are late bloomers. My father says it’s an advantage to be a late bloomer. Because when good things start happening, you’re ready for it.”
“Like you were finally ready for Marty?”
“I guess so.” She nods. “I liked it, Carrie. Oh my God. I really liked it.” She covers her mouth in horror. “If I like sex, do you think it means I can’t be a feminist?”
“No.” I s
hake my head. “Because being a feminist—I think it means being in charge of your sexuality. You decide who you want to have sex with. It means not trading your sexuality for . . . other things.”
“Like marrying some gross guy who you’re not in love with just so you can have a nice house with a picket fence.”
“Or marrying a rich old geezer. Or a guy who expects you to cook him dinner every night and take care of the children,” I say, thinking of Samantha.
“Or a guy who makes you have sex with him whenever he wants, even if you don’t,” Miranda concludes.
We look at each other in triumph, as if we’ve finally solved one of the world’s great problems.
Chapter Nineteen
At about seven, when Miranda and I have taken a few swigs from the bottle of vodka and have proceeded to interpretive-dance our way through Blondie, the Ramones, The Police, and Elvis Costello, Maggie arrives.
“Magwitch!” I exclaim, throwing my arms around her, determined to forgive and forget.
She takes in Miranda, who has picked up a candle and is singing into it like it’s a microphone. “Who is that?”
“Miranda!” I shout. “This is my friend Maggie. My best friend from high school.”
“Hi.” Miranda waves the candle at her.
Maggie spots the vodka, storms toward it, and proceeds to pour half the bottle down her throat. “Don’t worry,” she snaps, catching my expression. “I can buy more. I’m eighteen, remember?”
