sk.carrie-第3章

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'Hand　me　that　little　brush　there；　Miss　Desjardin。　Yes；　that's　it。'　She　handed　him　a　little　brush　with　the　legend　Chamberlain　Hardware　and　Lumber　pany　NEVER　Brushes　You　Off　written　up　the　handle。　He　began　to　brush　his　pile　of　ashes　on　to　the　paper。　'There's　still　going　to　be　some　for　the　vacuum　cleaner；　I　guess。　This　deep　pile　is　miserable。　I　thought　I　set　that　ashtray　back　on　the　desk　further。　Funny　how　things　fall　over。'　He　bumped　his　head　on　the　desk　and　sat　up　abruptly。　'It's　hard　for　me　to　believe　that　a　girl　in　this　or　any　other　high　school　could　get　through　three　years　and　still　be　alien　to　the　fact　of　menstruation；　Miss　Desjardin。'
'It's　even　more　difficult　for　me；　she　said。　'But　it's　all　I　can　think　of　to　explain　her　reaction。　And　she's　always　been　a　group　scapegoat。'
'Urn。'　He　funnelled　the　ashes　and　butts　into　the　wastebasket　and　dusted　his　hands。　'I've　placed　her；　I　think。　White。　Margaret　White's　daughter。　Must　be。　That　makes　it　a　little　easier　to　believe。'　He　sat　down　behind　his　desk　and　smiled　apologetically。　'There's　so　many　of　them。　After　five　years　or　so；　they　all　start　to　merge　into　one　group　face。　You　call　boys　by　their　brother's　names；　that　type　of　thing。　It's　hard。'
'Of　course　it　is。'
'Wait　'til　you've　been　in　the　game　twenty　years；　like　me；'　he　said　morosely；　looking　down　at　his　blood　blister。　'You　get　kids　that　look　familiar　and　find　out　you　had　their　daddy　the　year　you　started　teaching。　Margaret　White　was　before　my　time；　for　which　I　am　profoundly　grateful。　She　told　Mrs　Bicente；　God　rest　her；　that　the　Lord　was　reserving　a　special　burning　seat　in　hell　for　her　because　she　gave　the　kids　an　outline　of　Mr　Darwin's　beliefs　on　evolution。　She　was　suspended　twice　while　she　was　here　…　once　for　beating　a　classmate　with　her　purse。　Legend　has　it　that　Margaret　saw　the　classmate　smoking　a　cigarette。　Peculiar　religious　views。　Very　peculiar。'　His　John　Wayne　expression　suddenly　snapped　down。　'The　other　girls。　Did　they　really　laugh　at　her？'
'Worse。　They　were　yelling　and　throwing　sanitary　napkins　at　her　when　I　walked　in。　Throwing　them　like。。　like　peanuts。'
'Oh。　Oh；　dear。'　John　Wayne　disappeared。　Mr　Morton　went　scarlet。　'You　have　names？'
'Yes。　Not　all　of　them；　although　some　of　them　may　rat　on　the　rest。　Christine　Hargensen　appeared　to　be　the　ringleader　。。。　as　usual。'
'Chris　and　her　Mortimer　Snurds；'　Morton　murmured。
'Yes。　Tina　Blake；　Rachel　Spies；　Helen　Shyres；　Donna　Thibodeau　and　her　sister　Fern；　Lila　Grace；　Jessica　Upshaw。　And　Sue　Snell。'　She　frowned。　'You　wouldn't　expect　a　trick　like　that　from　Sue。　She's　never　seemed　the　type　for　this　kind　of　a　…　stunt。'
'Did　you　talk　to　the　girls　involved？'
Miss　Desjardin　chuckled　unhappily。　'I　got　them　the　hell　out　of　there。　I　was　too　flustered。　And　Carrie　was　having　hysterics。'
'Um。'　He　steepled　his　fingers。　'Do　you　plan　to　talk　to　them？'
'Yes。'　But　she　sounded　reluctant。
'Do　I　detect　a　note　of…'
'You　probably　do；'　she　said　glumly。　'I'm　living　in　a　glass　house；　see。　I　understand　how　those　girls　felt。　The　whole　thing　just　made　me　want　to　take　the　girl　and　shake　her。　Maybe…there's　some　kind　of　instinct　about　menstruation　that　makes　women　want　to　snarl。　I　don't　know。　I　keep　seeing　Sue　Snell　and　the　way　she　looked。'
'Um；'　Mr　Morton　repeated　wisely。　He　did　not　understand　women　and　had　no　urge　at　all　to　discuss　menstruation。
'I'll　talk　to　them　tomorrow；'　she　promised；　rising。　'Rip　them　down　one　side　and　up　the　other。'
'Good。　Make　the　punishment　suit　the　crime。　And　if　you　feel　you　have　to　send　any　of　them　to；　ah；　to　me；　feel　free…'
'I　will；'　she　said　kindly。　'By　the　way；　a　light　blew　out　while　I　was　trying　to　calm　her　down。　It　added　the　final　touch。'
'I'll　send　a　janitor　right　down；'　he　promised。　'And　thanks　for　doing　your　best；　Miss　Desjardin。　Will　you　have　Miss　Fish　send　in　Billy　and　Henry？'
'Certainly。'　She　left。
He　leaned　back　and　let　the　whole　business　slide　out　of　his　mind。　When　Billy　deLois　and　Henry　Trennant；　classcutters　extraordinaire；　slunk　in；　he　glared　at　them　happily　and　prepared　to　talk　tough。
As　he　often　told　Hank　Grayle；　he　ate　class…cutters　for　lunch。
Graffiti　scratched　on　a　desk　in　Chamberlain　Junior　High　School：
Roses　are　red；　violets　are　blue；　sugar　is　sweet；　but　Carrie　While　eats　shit。
She　walked　down　Ewin　Avenue　and　crosssed　over　to　Carlin　at　the　stoplight　on　the　corner。　Her　head　was　down　and　she　was　trying　to　think　of　nothing。　Cramps　came　and　went　in　great；　gripping　waves；　making　her　slow　down　and　speed　up　like　a　car　with　carburettor　trouble。　She　stared　at　the　sidewalk。　Quartz　glittering　in　the　cement。　Hop…scotch　grids　scratched　in　ghostly；　rain…faded　chalk。　Wads　of　gum　stamped　flat。　Pieces　of　tinfoil　and　penny…candy　wrappers。　They　all　hate　and　they　never　stop。　They　never　get　tired　of　it。　A　penny　lodged　in　a　crack。　She　kicked　it。　Imagine　Chris　Hargensen　all　bloody　and　screaming　for　mercy。　With　rats　crawling　all　over　her　face。　Good。　Good。　That　would　be　good。　A　dog　turd　with　a　foot…track　in　the　middle　of　it。　A　roll　of　blackened　caps　that　some　kid　had　banged　with　a　stone。　Cigarette　butts。　Crash　in　her　head　with　a　rock；　with　a　boulder。　Crash　in　all　their　hearts。　Good。　Good。
（saviour　Jesus　meek　and　mild）
That　was　good　for　Momma；　all　right　for　her。　She　didn't　have　to　go　among　the　wolves　every　day　of　every　year；　out　into　a　carnival　of　laughers；　joke…tellers；　pointers；　snickerers。　And　didn't　Momma　say　there　would　be　a　Day　of　Judgment。
（the　name　of　that　star　shall　be　wormwood　and　they　shall　be　scourged　with　scorpions）
and　an　angel　with　a　sword？
If　only　it　would　be　today　and　Jesus　ing　not　with　a　lamb　and　a　shepherd's　crook；　but　with　a　boulder　on　each　hand　to　crush　the　laughters　and　the　snickerers；　to　root　out　the　evil　and　destroy　it　screaming　…　a　terrible　Jesus　of　blood　and　righteousness。
And　if　only　she　could　be　His　sword　and　His　arm。
She　had　tried　to　fit。　She　had　defied　Momma　in　a　hundred　little　ways；　had　tried　to　erase　the　red…plague　circle　that　had　been　drawn　around　her　from　the　first　day　she　had　left　the　controlled　environment　of　the　small　house　on　Carlin　Street　and　had　walked　up　to　the　Baker　Street　Grammar　School　with　her　Bible　under　her　arm。　She　could　still　remember　that　day；　the　stares；　and　the　sudden；　awful　silence　when　she　had　gotten　down　on　her　knees　before　lunch　in　the　school　cafeteria…the　laughter　had　begun　on　that　day　and　had　echoed　up　through　the　years。
The　red…plague　circle　was　like　blood　itself…you　could　scrub　and　scrub　and　scrub　and　still　it　would　be　there；　not　erased；　not　clean。　She　had　never　gotten　on　her　knees　in　a　public　place　again；　although　she　had　not　told　Momma　that。　Still；　the　original　memory　remained；　with　her　and　with　them。　She　had　fought　Momma　tooth　and　nail　over　the　Christian　Church　Camp；　and　had　earned　the　money　to　go　herself　by　taking　in　sewing。　Momma　told　her　darkly　that　it　was　Sin；　that　it　was　Methodists　and　Baptists　and　Congregationalists　and　that　it　was　Sin　and　Backsliding。　She　forbade　Carrie　to　swim　at　the　camp。　Yet　although　she　had　swum　and　had　laughed　when　they　ducked　her　（until　she　couldn't　get　her　breath　any　more　and　they　kept　doing　it　and　she　got　panicky　and　began　to　scream）　and　had　tried　to　take　part　in　the　camp's　activities；　a　thousand　practical　jokes　had　been　played　on　ol'　prayin'　Carrie　and　she　had　e　home　on　the　bus　a　week　early；　her　eyes　red　and　socketed　from　weeping；　to　be　picked　up　by　Momma　at　the　station；　and　Momma　had　told　her　grimly　that　she　should　treasure　the　memory　of　her　scourging　as　proof　that　Momma　knew；　that　Momma　was　right；　that　the　only　hope　of　safety　and　salvation　was　inside　the　red　circle。　'For　straight　is　the　gate；'　Momma　said　grimly　in　the　taxi；　and　at　home　she　had　sent　Carrie　to　the　closet　for　six　hours。
Momma　had；　of　course；　forbade　her　to　shower　with　the　other　girls；　Carrie　had　hidden　her　shower　things　in　her　school　locker　and　had　showered　anyway；　taking　part　in　a　naked　ritual　that　was　shameful　and　embarrassing　to　her　in　hopes　that　the　circle　around　her　might　fade　a　little；　just　a　little…
（but　today　o　today）
Tommy　Erbter；　age　five；　was　biking　up　the　other　side　of　the　street。　He　was　a　small；　intense…looking　boy　on　a　twenty…inch　Schwinn　with　bright…red　training　wheels。　He　was　humming　'Scoobie　Doo；　where　are　you？'　under　his　breath。　He　saw　Carrie；　brightened；　and　stuck　out　his　tongue。
'Hey；　ol'　fart…face！　Ol'　prayin'　Carrie！'
Carrie　glared　at　him　with　sudden　smoking　rage。　The　bike　wobbled　on　its　training　wheels　and　suddenly　fell　over。　Tommy　screamed。　The　bike　was　on　top　of　him。　Carrie　smiled　and　walked　on。　The　sound　of　Tommy's　wails　was　sweet；　jangling　music　in　her　ears。
If　only　she　could　make　something　like　that　happen　whenever　she　liked。
（just　did）
She　stopped　dead　seven　houses　up　from　her　own；　staring　blankly　at　nothing。　Behind　her；　Tommy　was　climbing　tearfully　back　on　to　his　bike；　nursing　a　scraped　knee。　He　yelled　something　at　her；　but　she　ignored　it。　She　had　been　yelled　at　by　experts。
She　had　been　thinking：
（fall　off　that　bike　kid　push　you　off　that　bike　and　split　your　rotten　head）
And　something　had　happened
Her　mind　had　。。。　had　。。。　she　groped　for　a　word。　Had　flexed。　That　was　not　just　right；　but　it　was　very　close。　There　had　been　a　curious　mental　bending；　almost　like　an　elbow　curling　a　dumbbell。　That　wasn't　exactly　right　either；　but　it　was　all　she　could　think　of。　An　elbow　with　no　strength。　A　weak　baby　muscle。
Flex。
She　suddenly　stared　fiercely　at　Mrs　Yorraty's　big　picture　window。　She　thought：
（stupid　frumpty　old　bitch　break　that　window）
Nothing。　Mrs　Yorraty's　picture　window　glittered　serenely　in　the　fresh　nine　o'clock　glow　of　morning。　Another　cramp　gripped　Carrie's　belly　and　she　walked　on。
But　。。。
The　light。　And　the　ashtray；　don't　forget　the　ashtray。
She　looked　back
（old　bitch　hates　my　momma）
over　her　shoulder。　Again　it　seemed　that　something　flexed　。。。　but　very　weakly。　The　flow　of　her　thoughts　shuddered　as　if　there　had　been　a　sudden　bubbling　from　a　wellspring　deeper　inside。
The　picture　window　seemed　to　ripple。　Nothing　more。　It　could　have　been　her　eyes。　Could　have　been。
Her　head　began　to　feel　tired　and　fuzzy；　and　it　throbbed　with　the　beginning　of　a　headache。　Her　eyes　were　hot；　as　if　she　had　just　sat　down　and　read　the　Book　of　Revelations　straight　through。
She　continued　to　walk　down　the　street　toward　the　small　white　house　with　the　blue　shutters。　The　familiar　hate…love…dread　feeling　was　churning　inside　her。　Ivy　had　crawled　up　the　west　side　of　the　bungalow　（they　always　called　it　the　bungalow　because　the　White　house　sounded　like　a　political　joke　and　Momma　said　all　politicians　were　crooks　and　sinners　and　would　eventually　give　the　country　over　to　the　Godless　Reds　who　would　put　all　the　believers　of　Jesus　…　even　the　Catholics　…　up　against　the　wall）；　and　the　ivy　was　picturesque；　she　knew　it　was；　but　sometimes　she　hated　it。　Sometimes；　like　now；　the　ivy　looked　like　a　grotesque　giant　hand　ridged　with　great　veins　which　had　sprung　up　out　of　the　ground　to　grip　the　building。　She　approached　it　with　dragging　feet。
Of　course；　there　had　been　the　stones。
She　stopped　again；　blinking　vapidly　at　the　day。　The　stones。　Momma　never　talked　about　that；　Carrie　didn't　even　know　if　her　momma　still　remembered　the　day　of　the　stones。　It　was　surprising　that　she　herself　still　remembered　it。　She　had　been　a　very　little　girl　then。　How　old？　Three？　Four？　There　had　been　the　girl　in　the　white　bathing　suit；　and　then　the　s