Tommy had called earlier with her corsage, and now she was pinning it to the shoulder of her gown herself. There was no momma, of course, to do it for her and make sure it was in the right place, Momma had locked herself in the chapel and had been in there for the last two hours, praying hysterically. Her voice rose and fen in frightening, incoherent cycles.
(I'm sorry momma but I can't be sorry)
When she had it fixed to her satisfaction, she dropped her hands and stood quietly for a moment with her eyes closed.
There was no full-length mirror in the house.
(vanity vanity all is vanity)
but she thought she was all. right. She had to be. She-
She opened her eyes again. The Black Forest cuckoo clock, bought with Green Stamps, said seven-ten.
(he'll be here in twenty minutes)
Would he?
Maybe it was all just an elaborate joke, the final crusher, the ultimate punch line. To leave her sitting here half the night in her crushed-velvet prom gown with its princess waistline, juliet sleeves and simple straight skirt - and her tea roses pinned to her left shoulder.
From the other room, on the rise now; '. . . in hallowed earth! We know thou bring'st the Eye That Watcheth, the hideous three-lobbed eye, and the sound of black trumpets. We most heartily repent-'
Carrie did not think anyone could understand the brute courage it had taken to reconcile herself to this, to leave herself open to whatever fearsome possibilities the night might realize. Being stood up could hardly be the worst of them. In fact, in a kind of sneaking, wishful way she thought it might be for the best if
(no stop that)
Of course it would be easier to stay here with Momma. Safer. She knew what They thought of Momma. Well, maybe Momma was a fanatic, a freak, but at least she was predictable, the house was predictable. She never came home to laughing, shrieking girls who threw things.
And if he didn't come, if she drew back and gave up? High school would be over in a month. Then what? A creeping. subterranean existence in this house, supported by Momma, watching game shows and soap operas all day on television at Mrs Garrison's house when she had Carrie In To Visit (Mrs Garrison was eighty-six), walking down to the Centre to get a malted after supper at the Kelly Fruit when it was deserted, getting fatter, losing hope, losing even the power to think?
No. Oh dear God, please no.
(please let it be a happy ending)
'-protect us from he with the split foot who waits in the alleys and in the parking lots of roadhouses, O Saviour-'
Seven twenty-five.
Restlessly, without thinking she began to lift objects with her mind and put them back down, the way a nervous woman awaiting someone in a restaurant will fold and unfold her napkin. She could dangle half a dozen objects in air at one time, and not a sign of tiredness or headache. She kept waiting for the power to abate, but it remained at high water with no sign of waning. The other night on her way home from school, she had rolled a parked car
(oh please god let it not be a joke)
twenty feet down the main street curb with no strain at all. The courthouse idlers had stared at it as if their eyes would pop out, and of course she stared too, but she was smiling inside.
The cuckoo popped out of the clock and spoke once. Seven-thirty.
She had grown a little wary of the terrific strain using the power seemed to put on her heart and lungs and internal thermostat. she suspected it would be all too possible for her heart to literally burst with the strain. It was like being in another's body and forcing her to run and run and run. You would not pay the cost yourself; the other body would. She was beginning to realize that her power was perhaps not so different from the powers of Indian fakirs, who stroll across hot coals, run needles into their eyes, or blithely bury themselves for periods up to six weeks. Mind over matter in any form is a terrific drain on the body's resources.
Seven thirty-two.
(he's not coming)
(don't think about it a watched pot doesn't boil hell Come)
(no he won't he's out laughing at you with his friends and after a little bit they'll drive by in one of their fast noisy cars laughing and hooting and yelling)
Miserably, she began lifting the sewing machine up and down, swinging it in widening arcs throught the air.
'-and protect us also from rebellious daughters imbued with the willfulness of the Wicked One-'
'Shut up!' Carrie screamed suddenly.
There was startled silence for a moment, and then the babbling chant began again.
Seven thirty-three.
Not coming
(then i'll wreck the house)
The thought came to her naturally and cleanly. First the sewing machine, driven through the living room wall. The couch through a window. Tables, chairs, books and tracts all flying, the plumbing ripped loose and still spurting, like arteries ripped free of flesh. The roof itself, if that were within her power, shingles exploding upward into the night like startled pigeons
Lights splashed gaudily across the window.
Other cars had gone by, making her heart leap a little, but this one was going much more slowly.
(O)
She ran to the window, unable to restrain herself, and it was him, Tommy, just climbing out of his car, and even under the street light he was handsome and alive and almost ... crackling. The odd word made her want to giggle.
Momma had stopped praying.
She grabbed her fight silken wrap from where it had lain across the back of her chair and put it around her bare shoulders. She bit her lip, touched her hair, and would have sold her soul for a mirror. The buzzer in the hall made its harsh cry.
She made herself wait, controlling the twitch in her hands, for the second buzz Then she went slowly, with silken swish.
She opened the door and he was there, nearly blinding in white dinner jacket and dark dress pants.