She had already bought the material at John's in Westover. The heavy, crumpled velvet richness of it frightened her. The price had also frightened her, and she had been intimidated by the size of the place, the chic ladies wandering here and there in their light spring dresses, examining bolts of cloth. There was an echoing strangeness in the atmosphere and it was worlds from the Chamberlain Woolworth's, where she usually bought her material. She was intimidated but not stopped. Because, if she wanted to, she could send them all screaming into the streets. Mannequins toppling over, light fixtures falling, bolts of cloth shooting through the air in unwinding streamers. Like Samson in the temple, she could rain destruction on their heads if she so desired. (i am not afraid) The package was now hidden on a dry shelf down in the cellar, and she was going to bring it up. Tonight. She opened her eyes. Flex. The bureau rose into the air, trembled for a moment, and then rose until it nearly touched the ceiling. She lowered it. Lifted it. Lowered it. Now the bed, complete with her weight. Up. Down. Up. Down. Just like an elevator. She was hardly tired at all. Well, a little. Not much. The ability, almost lost two weeks ago, was in full flower. It had progressed at a speed that was Well, almost terrifying. And now, seemingly unbiddenlike the knowledge of menstruationa score of memories had come, as if some mental dam had been knocked down so that strange waters could gush forth. They were cloudy, distorted littlegirl memories, but very real for all that. Making the pictures dance on the walls; turning on the water faucets from across the room; Momma asking her (carrie shut the windows it's going to rain) to do something and windows suddenly banging down all over the house; giving Miss Macaferty four flat tires all at once by unscrewing the valves in the tires of her Volkswagen; the stones (!!!!!!! no no no no no !!!!!!!) but now there was no denying the memory, no more than there could be a denying of the monthly flow, and that memory was not cloudy, no, not that one; it was harsh and brilliant, like jagged strokes of lightning the little girl (momma stop momma don't i can't breathe o my throat o momma i'm sorry i looked momma o my tongue blood in my mouth) the poor little girl (screaming little slut o i know how it is with you i see what has to be done) the poor little girl lying half in the closet and half out of it, seeing black stars dancing in front of everything, a sweet, faraway buzzing, swollen tongue lolling between her lips, throat circled with a bracelet of puffed, abraded flesh where Momma had throttled her and then Momma coming back, coming for her, Momma holding Daddy Ralph's long butcher knife (cut it out i have to cut out the evil the nastiness sins of the flesh o i know about that the eyes cut out your eyes) in her right hand, Momma's face twisted and working, drool on her chin, holding Daddy Ralph's Bible in her other hand (you'll never look at that naked wickedness again) and something flexed, not flex but FLEX, something huge and unformed and titanic, a wellspring of power that was not hers now and never would be again and then something fell on the roof and Momma screamed and dropped Daddy Ralph's Bible and that was good, and then more bumps and thumps and then the house began to throw its furnishings around and Momma dropped the knife and got on her knees and began to pray, holding up her hands and swaying on her knees while chairs whistled down the hall and the beds upstairs fell over and the dining room table tried to jam itself through a window and then Momma's eyes growing huge and crazed, bulging, her finger pointing at the little girl (it's you it's you devilspawn witch imp of the devil it's you doing it) and then the stones and Momma had fainted as their roof cracked and thumped as if with the footfalls of God and then Then she had fainted herself. And after that there were no more memories. Momma did not speak of it. The butcher knife was back in its drawer. Momma dressed the huge black and blue bruises on her neck and Carrie thought she could remember asking Momma how she had gotten them and Momma tightening her lips and saying nothing. Little by little it was forgotten. The eye of memory opened only in dreams. The pictures no longer danced on the walls. The windows did not shut themselves. Carrie did not remember a time when things had been different. Not until now. She lay on her bed, looking at the ceiling, sweating. Carrie! Supper! Thank you, (i am not afraid) Momma. She got up and fixed her hair with a darkblue headband. Then she went downstairs. From The Shadow Exploded (p. 59) How apparent was Carrie's wild talent and what did Margaret White, with her extreme Christian ethic, think of it? We shall probably never know. But one is tempted to believe that Mrs. White's reaction must have been extreme . . .    You haven't touched your pie, Carrie. Momma looked up from the tract she had been perusing while she drank her Constant Comment. It's homemade. It makes me have pimples, Momma. Your pimples are the Lord's way of chastising you. Now eat your pie. Momma? Yes? Carrie plunged. I've been invited to the Spring Ball next Friday by Tommy Ross The tract was forgotten. Momma was staring at her with wide myearsaredeceivingme eyes. Her nostrils flared like those of a horse that has heard the dry rattle of a snake. Carrie tried to swallow an obstruction and only (i am not afraid o yes i am) got rid of part of it. and he's a very nice boy. He's promised to stop in and meet you before and No. to have me in by eleven. I've No, no, no! accepted. Momma, please see that I have to start to . . . to try and get along with the world. I'm not like you. I'm funnyI mean, the kids think I'm funny. I don't want to be. I want to try and be a whole person before it's too late to Mrs. White threw her tea in Carrie's face. It was only lukewarm, but it could not have shut off Carrie's words more suddenly if it had been scalding. She sat numbly, the amber fluid dripping from her chin and cheeks onto her white blouse, spreading. It was sticky and smelled like cinnamon. Mrs. White sat trembling, her face frozen except for her nostrils, which continued to flare. Abruptly she threw back her head and screamed at the ceiling. God! God! God! Her jaw snapped brutally over each syllable. Carrie sat without moving. Mrs. White got up and came around the table. Her hands were hooked into shaking claws. Her face bore a halfmad expression of compassion mixed with hate. The closet, she said. Go to your closet and pray. No, Momma. Boys. Yes, boys come next. After the blood the boys come. Like sniffing dogs, grinning and slobbering, trying to find out where that smell is. That . . . smell! She swung her whole arm into the blow, and the sound of her palm against Carrie's face (o god i am so afraid now) was like that flat sound of a leather belt being snapped in air. Carrie remained seated, although her upper body swayed. The mark on her cheek was first white, then blood red. The mark, Mrs. White said. Her eyes were large but blank; she was breathing in rapid, snatching gulps of air. She seemed to be talking to herself as the claw hand descended onto Carrie's shoulder and pulled her out of her chair. I've seen it, all right. Oh yes. But. I. Never. Did. But for him. He. Took. Me . . . She paused, her eyes wandering vaguely toward the ceiling. Carrie was terrified. Momma seemed in the throes of some great revelation which might destroy her. Momma In cars. Oh, I know where they take you in their cars. City limits. Roadhouses. Whiskey. Smelling . . . oh they smell it on you! Her voice rose to a scream. Tendons stood out on her neck, and her head twisted in a questing upward rotation. Momma, you better stop. This seemed to snap her back to some kind of hazy reality. Her lips twitched in a kind of elementary surprise and she halted, as if groping for old bearings in a new world. The closet, she muttered. Go to your closet and pray. No. Momma raised her hand to strike. No! The hand stopped in the dead air. Momma stared up at it, as if to confirm that it was still there, and whole. The pie pan suddenly rose from the trivet on the table and hurled itself across the room to impact beside the livingroom door in a splash of blueberry drool. I'm going, Momma! Momma's overturned teacup rose and flew past her head to shatter above the stove. Momma shrieked and dropped to her knees with her hands over her head. Devil's child, she moaned. Devil's child, Satan spawn Momma, stand up. Lust and licentiousness, the cravings of the flesh Stand up! Momma's voice failed her but she did stand up, with her hands still on her head, like a prisoner of war. Her lips moved. To Carrie she seemed to be reciting the Lord's Prayer. I don't want to fight with you, Momma, Carrie said, and her voice almost broke from her and dissolved. She struggled to control it. I only want to be let to live my own life. I . . . I don't like yours. She stopped, horrified in spite of herself. The ultimate blasphemy had been spoken, and it was a thousand times worse than the Eff Word. Witch, Momma whispered. It says in the Lord's Book Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' Your father did the Lord's work I don't want to talk about that, Carrie said. It always disturbed her to hear Momma talk about her father. I just want you to understand that things are going to change around here, Momma. Her eyes gleamed. They better understand it, too. But Momma was whispering to herself again. Unsatisfied, with a feeling of anticlimax in her throat and the dismal roiling of emotional upset in her belly, she went to the cellar to get her dress material. It was better than the closet. There was that. Anything was better than the closet with its blue light and the overpowering stench of sweat and her own sin. Anything. Everything. She stood with the wrapped package hugged against her breast and closed her eyes, shutting out the weak glow of the cellar's bare, cobwebfestooned bulb. Tommy Ross didn't love her; she knew that. This was some strange kind of atonement, and she could understand that and respond to it. She had lain cheek and jowl with the concept of penance since she had been old enough to reason. He had said it would be goodthat they would see to it. Well, she would see to it. They better not start anything. They just better not. She did not know if her gift had come from the lord of light or of darkness, and now, finally finding that she did not care which, she was overcome with an almost indescribable relief, as if a huge weight, long carried, had slipped from her shoulders. Upstairs, Momma continued to whisper. It was not the Lord's Prayer. It was the Prayer of Exorcism from Deuteronomy. From My Name Is Susan Snell (p. 23) They finally even made a movie about it. I saw it last April. When I came out, I was sick. Whenever anything important happens in America, they have to goldplate it, like baby shoes. That way you can forget it. And forgetting Carrie White may be a bigger mistake than anyone realizes. . . . Monday morning; Principal Grayle and his understudy, Pete Morton, were having coffee in Grayle's office. No word from Hargensen yet? Morty asked. His lips curled into a John Wayne leer that was a little frightened around the edges. Not a peep. And Christine has stopped lipping off about how her father is going to send us down the road. Grayle blew on his coffee with a long face. You don't exactly seem to be turning cartwheels. I'm not. Did you know Carrie White is going to the prom? Morty blinked. With who? The Beak? The Beak was Freddy Holt, another of Ewen's misfits. He weighed perhaps one hundred pounds soaking wet, and the casual observer might be tempted to believe that sixty of it was nose. No, Grayle said. With Tommy Ross. Morty swallowed his coffee the wrong way and went into a coughing fit. That's the way I felt, Grayle said. What about his girl friend? The little Snell girl? I think she put him up to it, Grayle said. She certainly seemed guilty enough about what happened to Carrie when I talked to her. Now she's on the Decoration Committee, happy as a clam, just as if not going to her Senior prom was nothing at all. Oh, Morty said wisely. And HargensenI think he must have talked to some people and discovered we really could sue him on behalf of Carrie White if we wanted to. I think he's cut his losses. It's the daughter that's worrying me. Do you think there's going to be an incident Friday night? I don't know. I do know Chris has got a lot of friends who are going to be there. And she's going around with that Billy Nolan mess; he's got a zooful of friends, too. The kind that make a career out of scaring pregnant ladies. Chris Hargensen has him tied around her finger, from what I've heard. Are you afraid of anything specific? Grayle made a restless gesture. Specific? No. But I've been in the game long enough to know it's a bad situation. Do you remember the Stadler game in seventysix? Morty nodded. It would take more than the passage of three years to obscure the memory of the EwenStadler game. Bruce Trevor had been a marginal student but a fantastic basketball player. Coach Gaines didn't like him, but Trevor was going to put Ewen in the area tournament for the first time in ten years. He was cut from the team a week before Ewen's last mustwin game against the Stadler Bobcats. A regular announced locker inspection had uncovered a kilo of marijuana behind Trevor's civics book. Ewen lost the gameand their shot at the tourney10448. But no one remembered that; what they remembered was the riot that had interrupted the game in the fourth period. Led by Bruce Trevor, who righteously claimed he had been bum rapped, it resulted in four hospital admissions. One of them had been the Stadler coach, who had been hit over the head with a firstaid kit. I've got that kind of feeling, Grayle said. A hunch. Someone's going to come with rotten apples or something. Maybe you're psychic, Morty said. From The Shadow Exploded (pp. 9293) It is now generally agreed that the TK phenomenon is a geneticrecessive occurrencebut the opposite of a disease like hemophilia, which becomes overt only in males. In that disease, once called King's Evil, the gene is recessive in the female and is carried harmlessly. Male offspring, however, are bleeders. This disease is generated only if an afflicted male marries a woman carrying the recessive gene. If the offspring of such union is male, the result will be a hemophiliac son. If the offspring is female, the result will be a daughter who is a carrier. It should be emphasized that the hemophilia gene may be carried recessively in the male as a part of his genetic makeup. But if he marries a woman with the same outlaw gene, the result will be hemophilia if the offspring is male. In the case of royal families, where intermarriage was common, the chance of the gene reproducing once it entered the family tree were highthus the name King's Evil. Hemophilia also showed up in significant quantities in Appalachia during the earlier part of this century, and is commonly noticed in those cultures where incest and the marriage of first cousins is common. With the TK phenomenon, the male appears to be the carrier; the TK gene may be recessive in the female, but dominates only in the female. It appears that Ralph White carried the gene. Margaret Brigham, by purest chance, also carried the outlaw gene sign, but we may be fairly confident that it was recessive, as no information has ever been found to indicate that she had telekinetic powers resembling her daughter's. Investigations are now being conducted into the life of Margaret Brigham's grandmother, Sadie Cochranfor, if the dominant recessive pattern obtains with TK as it does with hemophilia, Mrs. Cochran may have been TK dominant. If the issue of the White marriage had been male, the result would have been another carrier. Chances that the mutation would have died with him would have been excellent, as neither side of the Ralph WhiteMargaret Brigham alliance had cousins of a comparable age for the theoretical male ottspring to marry. And the chances of meeting and marrying another woman with the TK gene at random would be small. None of the teams working on the problem have yet isolated the gene. Surely no one can doubt, in light of the Maine holocaust, that isolating this gene must become one of medicine's numberone priorities. The hemophiliac, or H gene, produces male issue with a lack of blood platelets. The telekinetic, or TK gene, produces female Typhoid Marys capable of destroying almost at will. . . . Wednesday afternoon. Susan and fourteen other studentsThe Spring Ball Decoration Committee, no lesswere working on the huge mural that would hang behind the twin bandstands on Friday night. The theme was Springtime in Venice (who picked these hokey themes, Sue wondered. She had been a student at Ewen for four years, had attended two Balls, and she still didn't know. Why did the goddam thing need a theme, anyway? Why not just have a sock hop and be done with it?); George Chizmar, Ewen's most artistic student, had done a small chalk sketch of gondolas on a canal at sunset and a gondolier in a huge straw fedora leaning against the tiller as a gorgeous panoply of pinks and reds and oranges stained both sky and water. It was beautiful, no doubt about that. He had redrawn it in silhouette on a huge fourteenbytwentyfoot canvas flat, numbering the various sections to go with the various chalk hues. Now the Committee was patiently coloring it in, like children crawling over a huge page in a giant's coloring book. Still, Sue thought, looking at her hands and forearms, both heavily dusted with pink chalk, it was going to be the prettiest prom ever. Next to her, Helen Shyres sat up on her haunches, stretched, and groaned as her back popped. She brushed a hank of hair from her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a rosecolored smear. How in hell did you talk me into this? You want it to be nice, don't you? Sue mimicked Miss Geer, the spinster chairman (apt enough term for Miss Mustache) of the Decoration Committee. Yeah, but why not the Refreshment Committee or the Entertainment Committee? Less back, more mind. The mind, that's my area. Besides, you're not even She bit down on the words. Going? Susan shrugged and picked up her chalk again. She had a monstrous writer's cramp. No, but I still want it to be nice. She added shyly Tommy's going. They worked in silence for a bit, and then Helen stopped again. No one was near them; the closest was Holly Marshall, on the other end of the mural, coloring the gondola's keel. Can I ask you about it, Sue? Helen asked finally. God, everybody's talking. Sure. Sue stopped coloring and flexed her hand. Maybe I ought to tell someone, just so the story stays straight. I asked Tommy to take Carrie. I'm hoping it'll bring her out of herself a little . . . knock down some of the barriers. I think I owe her that much. Where does that put the rest of us? Helen asked without rancor. Sue shrugged. You have to make up your own mind about what we did, Helen. I'm in no position to throw stones. But I don't want people to think I'm, uh . . . Playing martyr? Something like that. And Tommy went along with it? This was the part that most fascinated her. Yes, Sue said, and did not elaborate. After a pause I suppose the other kids think I'm stuck up. Helen thought it over. Well . . . they're all talking about it. But most of them still think you're okay. Like you said, you make your own decisions. There is, however, a small dissenting faction. She snickered dolefully. The Chris Hargensen people? And the Billy Nolan people. God, he's scuzzy. She doesn't like me much? Sue said, making it a question. Susie, she hates your guts. Susan nodded, surprised to find the thought both distressed and excited her. I heard her father was going to sue the School Department and then he changed his mind, she said. Helen shrugged. She hasn't made any friends out of this, she said. I don't know what got into us, any of us. It makes me feel like I don't even know my own mind. They worked on in silence. Across the room, Don Barrett was putting up an extension ladder preparatory to gilding the overhead steel beams with crepe paper. Look, Helen said. There goes Chris now. Susan looked up just in time to see her walking into the cubbyhole office to the left of the gym entrance. She was wearing winecolored velvet hot pants and a silky white blouseno bra, from the way things were jiggling up fronta dirty old man's dream, Sue thought sourly, and then wondered what Chris could want in where the Prom Committee had set up shop. Of course Tina Blake was on the Committee and the two of them were thicker than thieves. Stop it, she scolded herself. Do you want her in sackcloth and ashes? Yes, she admitted. A part of her wanted just that. Helen? Hmmmm? Are they going to do something? Helen's face took on an unwilling masklike quality. I don't know. The voice was light, overinnocent. Oh, Sue said noncommittally. (you know you know something accept something goddammit if it's only yourself tell me) They continued to color, and neither spoke. She knew it wasn't as all right as Helen had said. It couldn't be; she would never be quite the same golden girl again in the eyes of her mates. She had done an ungovernable, dangerous thingshe had broken cover and shown her face. The late afternoon sunlight, warm as oil and sweet as childhood, slanted through the high, bright gymnasium windows. From My Name Is Susan Snell (p. 40) I can understand some of what must have led up to the prom. Awful as it was, I can understand how someone like Billy Nolan could go along, for instance. Chris Hargensen led him by the noseat least, most of the time. His friends were just as easily led by Billy himself. Kenny Garson, who dropped out of high school when he was eighteen, had a tested thirdgrade reading level. In the clinical sense, Steve Deighan was little more than an idiot. Some of the others had police records; one of them, Jackie Talbot, was first busted at the age of nine for stealing hubcaps. If you've got a socialworker mentality, you can even regard these people as unfortunate victims. But what can you say for Chris Hargensen herself? It seems to me that from first to last, her one and only object in view was the complete and total destruction of Carrie White. . . . I'm not supposed to, Tina Blake said uneasily. She was a small, pretty girl with a billow of red hair. A pencil was pushed importantly in it. And if Norma comes back, she'll spill. She's in the crapper, Chris said. Come on. Tina, a little shocked, giggled in spite of herself. Still, she offered token resistance Why do you want to see, anyway? You can't go. Never mind, Chris said. As always, she seemed to bubble with dark humor. Here, Tina said, and pushed a sheet enclosed in limp plastic across the desk. I'm going out for a Coke. If that bitchy Norma Watson comes back and catches you, I never saw you. Okay, Chris murmured, already absorbed in the floor plan. She didn't hear the door close. George Chizmar had also done the floor plan, so it was perfect. The dance floor was clearly marked. Twin bandstands. The stage where the King and Queen would be crowned (i'd like to crown that fucking snell bitch carrie too) at the end of the evening. Ranged along the three sides of the floor were the promgoers' tables. Card tables, actually, but covered with a froth of crepe and ribbon, each holding party favors, prom programs, and ballots for King and Queen. She ran a lacquered, spadeshaped fingernail down the tables to the right of the dance floor, then the left. There Tommy R.  Carrie W. They were really going through with it. She could hardly believe it. Outrage made her tremble. Did they really think they would be allowed to get away with it? Her lips tautened grimly. She looked over her shoulder. Norma Watson was still nowhere in sight. Chris put the seating chart back and riffled quickly through the rest of the papers on the pitted and initialscarred desk. Invoices (mostly for crepe paper and ha'penny nails), a list of parents who had loaned card tables, pettycash vouchers, a bill from Star Printers, who had run off the prom tickets, a sample King and Queen ballot Ballot! She snatched it up. No one was supposed to see the actual King and Queen ballot until Friday, when the whole student body would hear the candidates announced over the school's intercom. The King and Queen would be voted in by those attending the prom, but blank nomination ballots had been circulated to home rooms almost a month earlier. The results were supposed to be top secret. There was a gaining student move afoot to do away with the King and Queen business all togethersome of the girls claimed it was sexist, the boys thought it was just plain stupid and a little embarrassing. Chances were good that this would be the last year the dance would be so formal or traditional. But for Chris, this was the only year that counted. She stared at the ballot with greedy intensity. George and Frieda. No way. Frieda Jason was a Jew. Peter and Myra. No way here, either. Myra was one of the female clique dedicated to erasing the whole horse race. She wouldn't serve even if elected. Besides, she was about as goodlooking as the assend of old drayhorse Ethel. Frank and Jessica. Quite possible. Frank Grier had made the All New England football team this year, but Jessica was another little sparrowfart with more pimples than brains. Don and Helen. Forget it. Helen Shyres couldn't get elected dog catcher. And the last pairing Tommy and Sue. Only Sue, of course, had been crossed out, and Carrie's name had been written in. There was a pairing to conjure with! A kind of strange, shuffling laughter came over her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to hold it in. Tina scurried back in. Jesus, Chris, you still here? She's coming! Don't sweat it, doll, Chris said, and put the papers back on the desk. She was still grinning as she walked out, pausing to raise a mocking hand to Sue Snell, who was slaving her skinny butt off on that stupid mural. In the outer hall, she fumbled a dime from her bag, dropped it into the pay phone, and called Billy Nolan. From The Shadow Exploded (pp. 1001) One wonders just how much planning went into the ruination of Carrie Whitewas it a carefully made plan, rehearsed and gone over many times, or just something that happened in a bumbling sort of way? . . . I favor the latter idea. I suspect that Christine Hargensen was the brains of the affair, but that she herself had only the most nebulous of ideas on how one might get a girl like Carrie. I rather suspect it was she who suggested that William Nolan and his friends make the trip to Irwin Henty's farm in North Chamberlain. The thought of that trip's imagined result would have appealed to a warped sense of poetic justice, I am sure. . .. The car screamed up the rutted Stack End Road in North Chamberlain at a sixtyfive that was dangerous to life and limb on the washboard unpaved hardpan. A lowhanging branch, lush with May leaves, occasionally scraped the roof of the '61 Biscayne, which was fenderdented, rusted out, jacked in the back, and equipped with dual glasspack mufflers. One headlight was out; the other flickered in the midnight dark when the car struck a particularly rough bump. Billy Nolan was at the pink fuzzcovered wheel. Jackie Talbot, Henry Blake, Steve Deighan, and the Garson brothers, Kenny and Lou, were also squeezed in. Three joints were going, passing through the inner dark like the lambent eyes of some rotating Cerberus. You sure Henty ain't around? Henry asked. I got no urge to go back up, ole Sweet William. They feed you shit. Kenny Garson, who was wrecked to the fifth power, found this unutterably funny and emitted a slipstream of highpitched giggles. He ain't around, Billy said. Even those few words seemed to slip out grudgingly, against his will. Funeral. Chris had found this out accidentally. Old man Henty ran one of the few successful independent farms in the Chamberlain area. Unlike the crotchety old farmer with a heart of gold that is one of the staples of pastoral literature, old man Henty was as mean as cat dirt. He did not load his shotgun with rock salt at greenapple time, but with birdshot. He had also prosecuted several fellows for pilferage. One of them had been a friend of these boys, a luckless bastard named Freddy Overlock. Freddy had been caught redhanded in old man Henty's henhouse, and had received a double dose of numbersix bird where the good Lord had split him. Good ole Fred had spent four raving, cursing hours on his belly in an Emergency Wing examining room while a jovial intern picked tiny pellets out of his butt and dropped them into a steel pan. To add insult to injury, he had been fined two hundred dollars for larceny and trespass. There was no love lost between Irwin Henty and the Chamberlain greaser squad. What about Red? Steve asked. He's trying to get into some new waitress at The Cavalier, Billy said, swinging the wheel and pulling the Biscayne through a juddering racing drift and onto the Henty Road. Red Trelawney was ole man Henty's hired hand. He was a heavy drinker and just as handy with the birdshot as his employer. He won't be back until they close up. Hell of a risk for a joke, Jackie Talbot grumbled. Billy stiffened. You want out? No, uhuh, Jackie said hastily. Billy had produced an ounce of good grass to split among the five of themand besides, it was nine miles back to town. It's a good joke, Billy. Kenny opened the glove compartment, took out an ornate scrolled roach clip (Chris's), and fixed the smoldering buttend of a joint in it. This operation struck him as highly amusing, and he let out his highpitched giggle again. Now they were flashing past No Trespassing signs on either side of the road, barbed wire, newly turned fields. The smell of fresh earth was heavy and gravid and sweet on the warm May air. Billy popped the headlights off as they breasted the next hill, dropped the gearshift into neutral and killed the ignition. They rolled, a silent hulk of metal, toward the Henty driveway. Billy negotiated the turn with no trouble, and most of their speed bled away as they breasted another small rise and passed the dark and empty house. Now they could see the huge bulk of barn and beyond it, moonlight glittering dreamily on the cow pond and the apple orchard. In the pigpen, two sows poked their flat snouts through the bars. In the barn, one cow lowed softly, perhaps in sleep. Billy stopped the car with the emergency brakenot really necessary since the ignition was off, but it was a nice Commando touchand they got out. Lou Garson reached past Kenny and got something out of the glove compartment. Billy and Henry went around to the trunk and opened it. The bastard is going to shit where he stands when he comes back and gets a look, Steve said with soft glee. For Freddy, Henry said, taking the hammer out of the trunk. Billy said nothing, but of course it was not for Freddy Overlock, who was an asshole. It was for Chris Hargensen, just as everything was for Chris, and had been since the day she swept down from her lofty collegecourse Olympus and made herself vulnerable to him. He would have done murder for her, and more. Henry was swinging the ninepound sledge experimentally in one hand. The heavy block of its business end made a portentous swishing noise in the night air, and the other boys gathered around as Billy opened the lid of the ice chest and took out the two galvanized steel pails. They were numbingly cold to the touch, lightly traced with frost. Okay, he said. The six of them walked quickly to the hogpen, their respiration shortening with excitement.


The two sows were both as tame as tabbies, and the old boar lay asleep on his side at the far end. Henry swung the sledge once more through the air, but this time with no conviction. He handed it to Billy. I can't, he said sickly. You. Billy took it and looked questioningly at Lou, who held the broad butcher knife he had taken from the glove compartment. Don't worry, he said, and touched the ball of his thumb to the honed edge. The throat, Billy reminded. I know. Kenny was crooning and grinning as he fed the remains of a crumpled bag of potato chips to the pigs. Doan worry, piggies, doan worry, big Bill's gonna bash your fuckin heads in and you woan have to worry about the bomb any more. He scratched their bristly chins, and the pigs grunted and munched contentedly. Here it comes, Billy remarked, and the sledge flashed down. There was a sound that reminded him of the time he and Henry had dropped a pumpkin off Claridge Road overpass which crossed 495 west of town. One of the sows dropped dead with its tongue protruding, eyes still open, potato chip crumbs around its snout. Kenny giggled. She didn't even have time to burp. Do it quick, Lou, Billy said. Kenny's brother slid between the slats, lifted the pig's head toward the moonthe glazing eyes regarded the crescent with rapt blanknessand slashed. The flow of blood was immediate and startling. Several of the boys were splattered and jumped back with little cries of disgust. Billy leaned through and put one of the buckets under the main flow. The pail filled up rapidly, and he set it aside. The second was half full when the flow trickled and died. The other one, he said. Jesus, Billy, Jackie whined. Isn't that en The other one, Billy repeated. Sooee, pigpigpig, Kenny called, grinning and rattling the empty potatochip bag. After a pause, the sow returned to the fence. The sledge flashed. The second bucket was filled and the remainder of the blood allowed to flow into the ground. A rank, coppery smell hung on the air. Billy found he was slimed in pig blood to the forearms. Carrying the pails back to the trunk, his mind made a dim, symbolic connection. Pig blood. That was good. Chris was right. It was really good. It made everything solidify. Pig blood for a pig. He nestled the galvanized steel pails into the crushed ice, capped them, and slammed the lid of the chest. Let's go, he said. Billy got behind the wheel and released the emergency brake. The five boys got behind, put their shoulders into it, and the car turned in a tight, noiseless circle and trundled up past the barn to the crest of the hill across from Henty's house. When the car began to roll on its own, they trotted up beside the doors and climbed in, puffing and panting. The car gained speed enough to slew a little as Billy whipped it out of the long driveway and onto the Henty Road. At the bottom of the hill he dropped the transmission into third and popped the clutch. The engine hitched and grunted into life. Pig blood for a pig. Yes, that was good, all right. That was really good. He smiled, and Lou Garson felt a start of surprise and fear. He was not sure he could recall ever having seen Billy Nolan smile before. There had not even been rumors. Whose funeral did ole man Henty go to? Steve asked. His mother's, Billy said. His mother? Jackie Talbot said, stunned. Jesus Christ, she musta been older'n God. Kenny's highpitched cackle drifted back on the redolent darkness that trembled at the edge of summer. She put the dress on for the first time on the morning of May 27, in her room. She had bought a special brassiere to go with it, which gave her breasts the proper uplift (not that they actually needed it) but left their top halves uncovered. Wearing it gave her a weird, dreamy feeling that was half shame and half defiant excitement. The dress itself was nearly floor length. The skirt was loose, but the waist was snug, the material rich and unfamiliar against her skin, which was used to only cotton and wool. The hang of it seemed to be rightor would be, with the new shoes. She slipped them on, adjusted the neckline, and went to the window. She could see only a maddening ghost image of herself, but everything seemed to be right. Maybe later she could The door swung open behind her with only a soft snick of the latch, and Carrie turned to look at her mother. She was dressed for work, wearing her white sweater and holding her black pocketbook in one hand. In the other she was holding Daddy Ralph's Bible. They looked at each other. Hardly conscious of it, Carrie felt her back straighten until she stood straight in the patch of early spring sunshine that fell through the window. Red, Momma murmured. I might have known it would be red. Carrie said nothing. I can see your dirtypillows. Everyone will. They'll be looking at your body. The Book says Those are my breasts, Momma. Every woman has them. Take off that dress, Momma said. No. Take it off, Carrie. We'll go down and burn it in the incinerator together, and then pray for forgiveness. We'll do penance. Her eyes began to sparkle with the strange, disconnected zeal that came over her at events which she considered to be tests of faith. I'll stay home from work and you'll stay home from school. We'll pray. We'll ask for a Sign. We'll get us down on our knees and ask for the Pentecostal Fire. No, Momma. Her mother reached up and pinched her own face. It left a red mark. She looked to Carrie for reaction, saw none, hooked her right hand into claws and ripped it across her own cheek, bringing thin blood. She whined and rocked back on her heels. Her eyes glowed with exaltation. Stop hurting yourself, Momma. That's not going to make me stop either. Momma screamed. She made her right hand a fist and struck herself in the mouth, bringing blood. She dabbled her fingers in it, looked at it dreamily, and daubed a spot on the cover of the Bible. Washed in the Blood of the Lamb, she whispered. Many times. Many times he and I Go away, Momma. She looked up at Carrie, her eyes glowing. There was a terrifying expression of righteous anger graven on her face. The Lord is not mocked, she whispered. Be sure your sin will find you out. Burn it, Carrie! Cast that devil's red from you and burn it! Burn it! Burn it! Burn it! The door slammed open by itself. Go away, Momma. Momma smiled. Her bloody mouth made the smile grotesque, twisted. As Jezebel fell from the tower, let it be with you, she said. And the dogs came and licked up the blood. It's in the Bible! It's Her feet began to slip along the floor and she looked down at them, bewildered. The wood might have turned to ice. Stop that! she screamed. She was in the hall now. She caught the doorjamb and held on for a moment; then her fingers were torn loose, seemingly by nothing. I love you, Momma, Carrie said steadily. I'm sorry. She envisioned the door swinging shut, and the door did just that, as if moved by a light breeze. Carefully, so as not to hurt her, she disengaged the mental hands she had pushed her mother with. A moment later, Margaret was pounding on the door. Carrie held it shut, her lips trembling. There's going to be a judgment! Margaret White raved. I wash my hands of it! I tried! Pilate said that, Carrie said. Her mother went away. A minute later Carrie saw her go down the walk and cross the street on her way to work. Momma, she said softly, and put her forehead on the glass. From The Shadow Exploded (p. 129) Before turning to a more detailed analysis of Prom Night itself, it might be well to sum up what we know of Carrie White the person. We know that Carrie was the victim of her mother's religious mania. We know that she possessed a latent telekinetic talent, commonly referred to as TK. We know that this socalled wild talent is really a hereditary trait, produced by a gene that is usually recessive, if present at all. We suspect that the TK ability may be glandular in nature. We know that Carrie produced at least one demonstration of her ability as a small girl when she was put into an extreme situation of guilt and stress. We know that a second extreme situation of guilt and stress arose from a showerroom hazing incident. It has been theorized (especially by William G. Throneberry and Julia Givens, Berkeley) that resurgence of the TK ability at this point was caused by both psychological factors (i.e., the reaction of the other girls and Carrie herself to their first menstrual period) and physiological factors (i.e., the advent of puberty). And finally, we know that on Prom Night, a third stress situation arose, causing the terrible events which we now must begin to discuss. We will begin with . . . (i am not nervous not a bit nervous) 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 fell 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 fulllength 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 seventen. (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 crushedvelvet prom gown with its princess waistline, juliet sleeves and simple straight skirtand 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 threelobed 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 eightysix), walking down to the Center 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 twentyfive. 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. Seventhirty. 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 thirtytwo. (he's not coming) (don't think about it a watched pot doesn't boil he'll 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 through 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 thirtythree. Not coming. (then i'll wreck the house) The thought came to her naturally and cleanly. First the sewing machine, driven through the livingroom 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. Others 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 light 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. They looked at each other, and neither said a word. She felt that her heart would break if he uttered so much as the wrong sound, and if he laughed she would die. She feltactually, physicallyher whole miserable life narrow to a point that might be an end or the beginning of a widening beam. Finally, helpless, she said Do you like me? He said You're beautiful. She was. From The Shadow Exploded (p. 131) While those going to the Ewen Spring Ball were gathering at the high school or just leaving preProm buffets, Christine Hargensen and William Nolan had met in a room above a local townlimits tavern called The Cavalier. We know that they had been meeting there for some time; that is in the records of the White Commission. What we don't know is whether their plans were complete and irrevocable or if they went ahead almost on whim . . . Is it time yet? she asked in the darkness. He looked at his watch. No. Faintly, through the board floor, came the thump of the juke playing She's Got To Be a Saint, by Ray Price. The Cavalier, Chris reflected, hadn't changed their records since the first time she'd been here with a forged ID two years ago. Of course then she'd been down in the taprooms, not in one of Sam Deveaux's specials. Billy's cigarette winked fitfully in the dark, like the eye of an uneasy demon. She watched it introspectively. She hadn't let him sleep with her until last Monday, when he had promised that he and his greaser friends would help her pull the string on Carrie White if she actually dared to go to the prom with Tommy Ross. But they had been here before, and had had some pretty hot necking sessionswhat she thought of as Scotch love and what he would call, in his unfailing ability to pinpoint the vulgar, the dry humps. She had meant to make him wait until he had actually done something (but of course he did he got the blood) but it had all begun to slip out of her hands, and it made her uneasy. If she had not given in willingly on Monday, he would have taken her by force. Billy had not been her first lover, but he was the first she could not dance and dandle at her whim. Before him her boys had been clever marionettes with clear, pimplefree faces and parents with connections and countryclub memberships. They drove their own VWs or Javelins or Dodge Chargers. They went to UMass or Boston College. They wore fraternity windbreakers in the fall and muscleshirts with bright stripes in the summer. They smoked marijuana a great deal and talked about the funny things that happened to them when they were wrecked. They began by treating her with patronizing good fellowship (all high school girls, no matter how goodlooking, were Bush League) and always ended up trotting after her with panting, doglike lust. If they trotted long enough and spent enough in the process, she usually let them go to bed with her. Quite often she lay passively beneath them, not helping or hindering, until it was over. Later, she achieved her own solitary climax while viewing the incident as a single closed loop of memory. She had met Billy Nolan following a drug bust at a Portland apartment. Four students, including Chris's date for the evening, had been busted for possession. Chris and the other girls were charged with being present there. Her father took care of it with quiet efficiency, and asked her if she knew what would happen to his image and his practice if his daughter was taken up on a drug charge. She told him that she doubted if anything could hurt either one, and he took her car away. Billy offered her a ride home from school one afternoon a week later and she accepted. He was what the other kids called a whitesoxer or a machineshop Chuck. Yet something about him excited her and now, lying drowsily in this illicit bed (but with an awakening sense of excitement and pleasurable fear), she thought it might have been his carat least at the start. It was a million miles from the machinestamped, anonymous vehicles of her fraternity dates with their ventless windows, foldup steering wheels, and vaguely unpleasant smell of plastic seat covers and windshield solvent. Billy's car was old, dark, somehow sinister. The windshield was milky around the edges, as if a cataract was beginning to form. The seats were loose and unanchored. Beer bottles clicked and rolled in the back (her fraternity dates drank Budweiser; Billy and his friends drank Rheingold), and she had to place her feet around a huge, greaseclotted Craftsman toolkit without a lid. The tools inside were of many different makes, and she suspected that many of them were stolen. The car smelled of oil and gas. The sound of straight pipes came loudly and exhilaratingly through the thin floorboards. A row of dials slung under the dash registered amps, oil pressure, and tach (whatever that was). The back wheels were jacked and the hood seemed to point at the road. And of course he drove fast. On the third ride home one of the bald front tires blew at sixty miles an hour. The car went into a screaming slide and she shrieked aloud, suddenly positive of her own death. An image of her broken, bloody corpse, thrown against the base of a telephone pole like a pile of rags, flashed through her mind like a tabloid photograph. Billy cursed and whipped the fuzzcovered steering wheel from side to side. They came to a stop on the lefthand shoulder, and when she got out of the car on knees that threatened to buckle at every step, she saw that they had left a looping trail of scorched rubber for seventy feet. Billy was already opening the trunk, pulling out a jack and muttering to himself. Not a hair was out of place. He passed her, a cigarette already dangling from the corner of his mouth. Bring that toolkit, babe. She was flabbergasted. Her mouth opened and closed twice, like a beached fish, before she could get the words out. II will not! You almost kyoualmostyou crazy bastard! Besides, it's dirty! He turned around and looked at her, his eyes flat. You bring it or I ain't taking you to the fuckin fights tomorrow night. I hate the fights! She had never been, but her anger and outrage required absolutes. Her fraternity dates took her to rock concerts, which she hated. They always ended up next to someone who hadn't bathed in weeks. He shrugged, went back to the front end, and began jacking. She brought the toolkit, getting grease all over a brandnew sweater. He grunted without turning around. His tee shirt had pulled out of his jeans, and the flesh of his back was smooth, tanned, alive with muscles. It fascinated her, and she felt her tongue creep into the corner of her mouth. She helped him pull the tire off the wheel, getting her hands black. The car rocked alarmingly on the jack, and the spare was down to the canvas in two places. When the job was finished and she got back in, there were heavy smears of grease across both the sweater and the expensive red skirt she was wearing. If you think she began as he got behind the wheel. He slid across the seat and kissed her, his hands moving heavily on her, from waist to breasts. His breath was redolent of tobacco; there was the smell of Brylcreem and sweat. She broke it at last and stared down at herself, gasping for breath. The sweater was blotted with road grease and dirt now. Twentysevenfifty in Jordan Marsh and it was beyond anything but the garbage can. She was intensely, almost painfully excited. How are you going to explain that? he asked, and kissed her again. His mouth felt as if he might be grinning. Feel me, she said in his ear. Feel me all over. Get me dirty. He did. One nylon split like a gaping mouth. Her skirt, short to begin with, was pushed rudely up to her waist. He groped greedily with no finesse at all. And somethingperhaps that, perhaps the sudden brush with deathbrought her to sudden, jolting orgasm. She had gone to the fights with him. Quarter of eight, he said, and sat up in bed. He put on the lamp and began to dress. His body still fascinated her. She thought of last Monday night, and how it had been. He had (no) Time enough to think of that later, maybe, when it would do something for her besides cause useless arousal. She swung her own legs over the edge of the bed and slid into gossamer panties. Maybe it's a bad idea, she said, not sure if she was testing him or herself. Maybe we ought to just get back into bed and It's a good idea, he said, and a shadow of humor crossed his face. Pig blood for a pig. What? Nothing. Come on. Get dressed. She did, and when they left by the back stairs she could feel a large excitement blooming, like a rapacious and nightflowering vine, in her belly. From My Name Is Susan Snell (p. 45). You know, I'm not as sorry about all of it as people seem to think I should be. Not that they say it right out; they're the ones who always say how dreadfully sorry they are. That's usually just before they ask for my autograph. But they expect you to be sorry. They expect you to get weepy, to wear a lot of black, to drink a little too much or take drugs. They say things like Oh, it's such a shame. But you know what happened to her and blah, blah, blah. But sorry is the KoolAid of human emotions. It's what you say when you spill a cup of coffee or throw a gutterball when you're bowling with the girls in the league. True sorrow is as rare as true love. I'm not sorry that Tommy is dead any more. He seems too much like a daydream I once had. You probably think that's cruel, but there's been a lot of water under the bridge since Prom Night. And I'm not sorry for my appearance before the White Commission. I told the truthas much of it as I knew. But I am sorry for Carrie. They've forgotten her, you know. They've made her into some kind of a symbol and forgotten that she was a human being, as real as you reading this, with hopes and dreams and blah, blah, blah. Useless to tell you that,I suppose. Nothing can change her back now from something made out of newsprint into a person. But she was, and she hurt. More than any of us probably know, she hurt. And so I'm sorry and I hope it was good for her, that prom. Until the terror began, I hope it was good and fine and wonderful and magic. . . . Tommy pulled into the parking lot beside the high school's new wing, let the motor idle for just a second, and then switched it off. Carrie sat on her side of the seat, holding her wrap around her bare shoulders. It suddenly seemed to her that she was living in a dream of hidden intentions and had just become aware of the fact. What could she be doing? She had left Momma alone. Nervous? he asked, and she jumped. Yes. He laughed and got out. She was about to open her door when he opened it for her. Don't be nervous, he said. You're like Galatea. Who? Galatea. We read about her in Mr. Evers' class. She turned from a drudge into a beautiful woman and nobody even knew her. She considered it. I want them to know me, she said finally. I don't blame you. Come on. George Dawson and Frieda Jason were standing by the Coke machine. Frieda was in an orange tulle concoction, and looked a little like a tuba. Donna Thibodeau was taking tickets at the door along with David Bracken. They were both National Honor Society members, part of Miss Geer's personal Gestapo, and they wore white slacks and red blazersthe school colors. Tina Blake and Norma Watson were handing out programs and seating people inside according to their chart. Both of them were dressed in black, and Carrie supposed they thought they were very chic, but to her they looked like cigarette girls in an old gangster movie. All of them turned to look at Tommy and Carrie when they came in, and for a moment there was a stiff, awkward silence. Carrie felt a strong urge to wet her lips and controlled it. Then George Dawson said Gawd, you look queer, Ross. Tommy smiled. When did you come out of the treetops, Bomba? Dawson lurched forward with his fists up, and for a moment Carrie felt stark terror. In her keyedup state, she came within an ace of picking George up and throwing him across the lobby. Then she realized it was an old game, often played, wellloved. The two of them sparred in a growling circle. Then George, who had been tagged twice in the ribs, began to gobble and yell Kill them Congs! Get them Gooks! Pongee sticks! Tiger cages! and Tommy collapsed his guard, laughing. Don't let it bother you, Frieda said, tilting her letteropener nose and strolling over. If they kill each other, I'll dance with you. They look too stupid to kill, Carrie ventured. Like dinosaurs. And when Frieda grinned, she felt something very old and rusty loosen inside her. A warmth came with it. Relief. Ease. Where'd you buy your dress? Frieda asked. I love it. I made it. Made it? Frieda's eyes opened in unaffected surprise. No shit! Carrie felt herself blushing furiously. Yes I did. I . . . I like to sew. I got the material at John's in Westover. The pattern is really quite easy. Come on, George said to all of them in general. Band's gonna start. He rolled his eyes and went through a limber, satiric buckandwing. Vibes, vibes, vibes. Us Gooks love them big Fender viyyybrations. When they went in, George was doing impressions of Flash Bobby Pickett and mugging, Carrie was telling Frieda about her dress, and Tommy was grinning, hands stuffed in his pockets. Spoiled the lines of his dinner jacket Sue would be telling him, but fuck it, it seem to be working. So far it was working fine. He and George and Frieda had less than two hours to live.    From The Shadow Exploded (p. 132) The White Commission's stand on the trigger of the whole affairtwo buckets of pig blood on a beam over the stageseems to be overly weak and vacillating, even in light of the scant concrete proof. If one chooses to believe the hearsay evidence of Nolan's immediate circle of friends (and to be brutally frank, they do not seem intelligent enough to lie convincingly), then Nolan took this part of the conspiracy entirely out of Christine Hargensen's hands and acted on his own initiative . . . He didn't talk when he drove; he liked to drive. The operation gave him a feeling of power that nothing could rival, not even fucking. The road unrolled before them in photographic blacks and whites, and the speedometer trembled just past seventy. He came from a broken home; his father had taken off after the failure of a badly managed gasstation venture when Billy was twelve, and his mother had four boy friends at last count. Brucie was in greatest favor right now. He was a Seagrams 7 man. She was turning into one ugly bag, too. But the car the car fed him power and glory from its own mystic lines of force. It made him someone to be reckoned with, someone with mana. It was not by accident that he had done most of his balling in the back seat. The car was his slave and his god. It gave, and it could take away. Billy had used it to take away many times. On long, sleepless nights when his mother and Brucie were fighting, Billy made popcorn and went out cruising for stray dogs. Some mornings he let the car roll, engine dead, into the garage he had constructed behind the house with its front bumper dripping. She knew his habits well enough by now and did not bother making conversation that would simply be ignored anyway. She sat beside him with one leg curled under her, gnawing a knuckle. The lights of the cars streaking past them on 302 gleamed softly in her hair, streaking it silver. He wondered how long she would last. Maybe not long after tonight. Somehow it had all led to this, even the early part, and when it was done the glue that had held them together would be thin and might dissolve, leaving them to wonder how it could have been in the first place. He thought she would start to look less like a goddess and more like the typical society bitch again, and that would make him want to belt her around a little. Or maybe a lot. Rub her nose in it. They breasted the Brickyard Hill and there was the high school below them, the parking lot filled with plump, glistening daddies' cars. He felt the familiar gorge of disgust and hate rise in his throat. We'll give them something (a night to remember) all right. We can do that. The classroom wings were dark and silent and deserted; the lobby was lit with a standard yellow glow, and the bank of glass that was the gymnasium's east side glowed with a soft, orangey light that was ethereal, almost ghostly. Again the bitter taste, and the urge to throw rocks. I see the lights, I see the party lights, he murmured. Huh? She turned to him, startled out of her own thoughts. Nothing. He touched the nape of her neck. I think I'm gonna let you pull the string. Billy did it by himself, because he knew perfectly well that he could trust nobody else. That had been a hard lesson, much harder than the ones they taught you in school, but he had learned it well. The boys who had gone with him to Henty's place the night before had not even known what he wanted the blood for. They probably suspected Chris was involved, but they could not even be sure of that. He drove to the school minutes after Thursday night had become Friday morning and cruised by twice to make sure it was deserted and neither of Chamberlain's two police cars was in the area. He drove into the parking lot with his lights off and swung around in back of the building. Further back, the football field glimmered beneath a thin membrane of ground fog. He opened the trunk and unlocked the ice chest.


The blood had frozen solid, but that was all right. It would have the next twentytwo hours to thaw. He put the buckets on the ground, then got a number of tools from his kit. He stuck them in his back pocket and grabbed a brown bag from the seat. Screws clinked inside. He worked without hurry, with the easeful concentration of one who is unable to conceive of interruption. The gym where the dance was to be held was also the school auditorium, and the small row of windows looking toward where he had parked opened on the backstage storage area. He selected a flat tool with a spatulate end and slid it through the small jointure between the upper and lower panes of one window. It was a good tool. He had made it himself in the Chamberlain metal shop. He wiggled it until the window's slip lock came free. He pushed the window up and slid in. It was very dark. The predominant odor was of old paint from the Dramatics Club canvas flats. The gaunt shadows of Band Society music stands and instrument cases stood around like sentinels. Mr. Downer's piano stood in one corner. Billy took a small flashlight out of the bag and made his way to the stage and stepped through the red velvet curtains. The gym floor, with its painted basketball lines and highly varnished surface, glimmered at him like an amber lagoon. He shone his light on the apron in front of the curtain. There, in ghostly chalk lines, someone had drawn the floor silhouette of the King and Queen thrones which would be placed the following day. Then the entire apron would be strewn with paper flowers . . . why, Christ only knew. He craned his neck and shone the beam of his light up into the shadows. Overhead, girders crisscrossed in shadowy lines. The girders over the dance floor had been sheathed in crepe paper, but the area directly over the apron hadn't been decorated. A short draw curtain obscured the girders up there, and they were invisible from the gym floor. The draw curtain also hid a bank of lights that would highlight the gondola mural. Billy turned off the flashlight, walked to the lefthand edge of the apron, and mounted a steelrunged ladder bolted to the wall. The contents of his brown bag, which he had tucked into his shirt for safety, jingled with a strange, hollow jolliness in the deserted gymnasium. At the top of the ladder was a small platform. Now, as he faced outward toward the apron, the stage flies were to his right, the gym itself on his left. In the flies the Dramatics Club props were stored, some of them dating back to the 1920s. A bust of Pallas, used in some ancient dramatic version of Poe's The Raven, stared at Billy with blind, floating eyes from atop a rusting bedspring. Straight ahead, a steel girder ran out over the apron. Lights to be used against the mural were bolted to the bottom of it. He stepped out onto it and walked effortlessly, without fear, out over the drop. He was humming a popular tune under his breath. The beam was inchthick with dust, and he left long, shuffling tracks. Halfway out he stopped, dropped to his knees, and peered down. Yes. With the help of his light he could make out the chalk lines on the apron directly below. He made a soundless whistling. (bombs away) He X'd the precise spot in the dust, then beamwalked back to the platform. No one would be up here between now and the Ball; the lights that shone on the mural and on the apron where the King and Queen would be crowned (they'll get crowned all right) were controlled from a box backstage. Anyone looking up from directly below would be blinded by those same lights. His arrangements would be noticed only if someone went up into the flies for something. He didn't believe anyone would. It was an acceptable risk. He opened the brown bag and took out a pair of Playtex rubber gloves, put them on, and then took out one of two small pullies he had purchased yesterday. He had gotten them at a hardware store in Lewiston, just to be safe. He popped a number of nails into his mouth like cigarettes and got the hammer. Still humming around his mouthful of nails, he fixed the pulley neatly in the corner a foot above the platform. Beside it he fixed a small eyehole screw. He went back down the ladder, crossed backstage, and climbed another ladder not far from where he had come in. He was in the loftsort of a catchall school attic. Here there were stacks of old yearbooks, motheaten athletic uniforms, and ancient textbooks that had been nibbled by mice. Looking left, he could shine his light over the stage flies and spotlight the pulley he had just put up. Turning right, cool night air played on his face from a vent in the wall. Still humming, he took out the second pulley and nailed it up. He went back down, crawled out the window he had forced, and got the two buckets of pig blood. He had been about his business for a half hour, but it showed no signs of thawing. He picked the buckets up and walked back to the window, silhouetted in the darkness like a farmer coming back from the first milking. He lifted them inside and went in after. Beamwalking was easier with a bucket in each hand for balance. When he reached his dustmarked X, he put the buckets down, peered at the chalk marks on the apron once more, nodded, and walked back to the platform. He thought about wiping the buckets on his last trip out to themKenny's prints would be on them, Don's and Steve's as wellbut it was better not to. Maybe they would have a little surprise on Saturday morning. The thought made his lips quirk. The last item in the bag was a coil of jute twine. He walked back out to the buckets and tied the handles of both with running slipknots. He threaded the screw, then the pulley. He threw the uncoiling twine across to the loft, and then threaded that one. He probably would not have been amused to know that, in the gloom of the auditorium, covered and streaked with decadesold dust, gray kitties flying dreamily about his crow'snest hair, he looked like a hunched, halfmad Rube Goldberg intent upon creating the better mousetrap. He piled the slack twine on top of a stack of crates within reach of the vent. He climbed down for the last time and dusted off his hands. The thing was done. He looked out the window, then wriggled through and thumped to the ground. He closed the window, reinserted his jimmy, and closed the lock as far as he could. Then he went back to his car. Chris said chances were good that Tommy Ross and the White bitch would be the ones under the buckets; she had been doing a little quiet promoting among her friends. That would be good, if it happened. But, for Billy, any of the others would be all right too. He was beginning to think that it would be all right if it was Chris herself. He drove away. From My Name Is Susan Snell (p. 48) Carrie went to see Tommy the day before the prom. She was waiting outside one of his classes and he said she looked really wretched, as if she thought he'd yell at her to stop hanging around and stop bugging him. She said she had to be in by eleventhirty at the latest, or her momma would be worried. She said she wasn't going to spoil his time or anything, but it wouldn't be fair to worry her momma. Tommy suggested they stop at the Kelly Fruit after and grab a root beer and a burger. All the other kids would be going to Westover or Lewiston, and they would have the place to themselves. Carrie's face lit up, he said. She told him that would be fine. Just fine. This is the girl they keep calling a monster. I want you to keep that firmly in mind. The girl who could be satisfied with a hamburger and a dime root beer after her only school dance so her momma wouldn't be worried . . . The first thing that struck Carrie when they walked in was Glamor. Not glamor but Glamor. Beautiful shadows rustled about in chiffon, lace, silk, satin. The air was redolent with the odor of flowers; the nose was constantly amazed by it. Girls in dresses with low backs, with scooped bodices showing actual cleavage, with Empire waists. Long skirts, pumps. Blinding white dinner jackets, cummerbunds, black shoes that had been spitshined. A few people were on the dance floor, not many yet, and in the soft revolving gloom they were wraiths without substance. She did not really want to see them as her classmates. She wanted them to be beautiful strangers. Tommy's hand was firm on her elbow. The mural's nice, he said. Yes, she agreed faintly. It had taken on a soft nether light under the orange spots, the boatman leaning with eternal indolence against his tiller while the sunset blazed around him and the buildings conspired together over urban waters. She knew with suddenness and ease that this moment would be with her always, within hand's reach of memory. She doubted if they all sensed itthey had seen the worldbut even George was silent for a minute as they looked, and the scene, the smell, even the sound of the band playing a faintly recognizable movie theme, was locked forever in her, and she was at peace. Her soul knew a moment's calm, as if it had been uncrumpled and smoothed under an iron. Viiiiiybes, George yelled suddenly, and led Frieda out onto the floor. He began to do a sarcastic jitterbug to the oldtimey bigband music, and someone catcalled over to him. George blabbered, leered, and went into a brief armscrossed Cossack routine that nearly landed him on his butt. Carrie smiled. George is funny, she said. Sure he is. He's a good guy. There are lots of good people around. Want to sit down? Yes, she said gratefully. He went back to the door and returned with Norma Watson, whose hair had been pulled into a huge, teased explosion for the affair. It's on the other SIDE, she said, and her bright gerbel's eyes picked Carrie up and down, looking for an exposed strap, an eruption of pimples, any news to carry back to the door when her errand was done. That's a LOVELY dress, Carrie. Where did you EVER get it? Carrie told her while Norma led them around the dance floor to their table. She exuded odors of Avon soap, Woolworth's perfume, and Juicy Fruit gum. There were two folding chairs at the table (looped and beribboned with the inevitable crepe paper), and the table itself was decked with crepe paper in the school colors. On top was a candle in a wine bottle, a dance program, a tiny gilded pencil, and two party favorsgondolas filled with Planters Mixed Nuts. I can't get OVER it, Norma was saying. You look so DIFFERENT. She cast an odd, furtive look at Carrie's face and it made her feel nervous. You're positively GLOWING. What's your SECRET? I'm Don MacLean's secret lover, Carrie said. Tommy sniggered and quickly smothered it. Norma's smile slipped a notch, and Carrie was amazed by her own witand audacity. That's what you looked like when the joke was on you. As though a bee had stung your rear end. Carrie found she liked Norma to look that way. It was distinctly unchristian. Well, I have to get back, she said. Isn't it EXCITING, Tommy? Her smile was sympathetic Wouldn't it be exciting if? Cold sweat is running down my thighs in rivers, Tommy said gravely. Norma left with an odd, puzzled smile. It had not gone the way things were supposed to go. Everyone knew how things were supposed to go with Carrie. Tommy sniggered again. Would you like to dance? he asked. She didn't know how, but wasn't ready to admit to that yet. Let's just sit down for a minute. While he held out her chair, she saw the candle and asked Tommy if he would light it. He did. Their eyes met over its flame. He reached out and took her hand. And the band played on. From The Shadow Exploded (pp. 13334) Perhaps a complete study of Carrie's mother will be undertaken someday, when the subject of Carrie herself becomes more academic. I myself might attempt it, if only to gain access to the Brigham family tree. It might be extremely interesting to know what odd occurrences one might come across two or three generations back . . . And there is, of course, the knowledge that Carrie went home on Prom Night. Why? It is hard to tell just how sane Carrie's motives were by that time. She may have gone for absolution and forgiveness, or she may have gone for the express purpose of committing matricide. In any event, the physical evidence seems to indicate that Margaret White was waiting for her. . . . The house was completely silent. She was gone. At night. Gone. Margaret White walked slowly from her bedroom into the living room. First had come the flow of blood and the filthy fantasies the Devil sent with it. Then this hellish Power the Devil had given to her. It came at the time of the blood and the time of hair on the body, of course. Oh, she knew the Devil's Power. Her own grandmother had it. She had been able to light the fireplace without even stirring from her rocker by the window. It made her eyes glow with (thou shalt not suffer a witch to live) a kind of witch's light. And sometimes, at the supper table the sugar bowl would whirl madly like a dervish. Whenever it happened, Gram would cackle crazily and drool and make the sign of the Evil Eye all around her. Sometimes she panted like a dog on a hot day, and when she died of a heart attack at sixtysix, senile to the point of idiocy even at that early age, Carrie had not even been a year old. Margaret had gone into her bedroom not four weeks after Gram's funeral and there her girlchild had lain in her crib, laughing and gurgling, watching a bottle that was dangling in thin air over her head. Margaret had almost killed her then. Ralph had stopped her. She should not have let him stop her. Now Margaret White stood in the middle of the living room. Christ on Calvary looked down at her with his wounded, suffering, reproachful eyes. The Black Forest cuckoo clock ticked. It was ten minutes after eight. She had been able to feel, actually feel, the Devil's Power working in Carrie. It crawled all over you, lifting and pulling like evil, tickling little fingers. She had set out to do her duty again when Carrie was three, when she had caught her looking in sin at the Devil's slut in the next yard over. Then the stones had come, and she had weakened. And the power had risen again, after thirteen years. God was not mocked. First the blood, then the power, (you sign your name you sign it in blood) now a boy and dancing and he would take her to a roadhouse after, take her into the parking lot, take her into the back seat, take her Blood, fresh blood. Blood was always at the root of it, and only blood could expiate it. She was a big woman with massive upper arms that had dwarfed her elbows to dimples, but her head was surprisingly small on the end of her strong, corded neck. It had once been a beautiful face. It was still beautiful in a weird, zealous way. But the eyes had taken on a strange, wandering cast, and the lines had deepened cruelly around the denying but oddly weak mouth. Her hair, which had been almost all black a year ago, was now almost white. The only way to kill sin, true black sin, was to drown it in the blood of (she must be sacrificed) a repentant heart. Surely God understood that, and had laid His finger upon her. Had not God Himself commanded Abraham to take his son Isaac up upon the mountain? She shuffled out into the kitchen in her old and splayed slippers, and opened the kitchen utensil drawer. The knife they used for carving was long and sharp and arched in the middle from constant honing. She sat down on the high stool by the counter, found the sliver of whetstone in its small aluminum dish, and began to scrub it along the gleaming edge of the blade with the apathetic, fixated attention of the damned. The Black Forest cuckoo clock ticked and ticked and finally the bird jumped out to call once and announce eightthirty. In her mouth she tasted olives. THE SENIOR CLASS PRESENTS SPRING BALL 79 May 27, 1979 Music by The Billy Bosnan Band Music by Josie and the Moonglows ENTERTAINMENT CabaretBaton Twirling by Sandra Stenchfield 500 Miles Lemon Tree Mr. Tambourine Man Folk Music by John Swithen and Maureen Cowan The Street Where You Live Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head Bridge Over Troubled Waters Ewen High School Chorus CHAPERONES Mr. Stephens, Miss Geer, Mr. and Mrs. Lublin, Miss Desjardin Coronation at 1000 P.M. Remember, it's YOUR prom; make it one to remember always! When he asked her the third time, Carrie had to admit that she didn't know how to dance. She didn't add that, now that the rock band had taken over for a halfhour set, she would feel out of place gyrating on the floor, (and sinful) yes, and sinful. Tommy nodded, then smiled. He leaned forward and told her that he hated to dance. Would she like to go around and visit some of the other tables? Trepidation rose thickly in her throat, but she nodded. Yes, that would be nice. He was seeing to her. She must see to him (even if he really did not expect it); that was part of the deal. And she felt dusted over with the enchantment of the evening. She was suddenly hopeful that no one would stick out a foot or slyly paste a kickmehard sign on her back or suddenly squirt water in her face from a novelty carnation and retreat cackling while everyone laughed and pointed and catcalled. And if there was enchantment, it was not divine but pagan (momma untie your apron strings i'm getting big) and she wanted it that way. Look, he said as they got up. Two or three stagehands were sliding the King and Queen thrones from the wings while Mr. Lavoie, the head custodian, directed them with hand motions toward preset marks on the apron. She thought they looked quite Arthurian, those thrones, dressed all in blinding white, strewn with real flowers as well as huge crepe banners. They're beautiful, she said. You're beautiful, Tommy said, and she became quite sure that nothing bad could happen this nightperhaps they themselves might even be voted King and Queen of the Prom. She smiled at her own folly. It was nine o'clock. Carrie? a voice said hesitantly. She had been so wrapped up in watching the band and the dance floor and the other tables that she hadn't seen anyone coming at all. Tommy had gone to get them punch. She turned around and saw Miss Desjardin. For a moment the two of them merely looked at each other, and the memory traveled between them, communicated (she saw me she saw me naked and screaming and bloody) without words or thought. It was in the eyes. Then Carrie said shyly You look very pretty, Miss Desjardin. She did. She was dressed in a glimmering silver sheath, a perfect complement to her blonde hair, which was up. A simple pendant hung around her neck. She looked very young, young enough to be attending rather than chaperoning. Thank you. She hesitated, then put a gloved hand on Carrie's arm. You are beautiful, she said, and each word carried a peculiar emphasis. Carrie felt herself blushing again and dropped her eyes to the table. It's awfully nice of you to say so. I know I'm not . . . not really. . . but thank you anyway. It's true, Desjardin said. Carrie, anything that happened before . . . well, it's all forgotten. I wanted you to know that. I can't forget it, Carrie said. She looked up. The words that rose to her lips were I don't blame anyone any more. She bit them off. It was a lie. She blamed them all and always would, and she wanted more than anything else to be honest. But it's over with. Now it's over with. Miss Desjardin smiled, and her eyes seemed to catch and hold the soft mix of lights in an almost liquid sparkling. She looked across toward the dance floor, and Carrie followed her gaze. I remember my own prom, Desjardin said softly. I was two inches taller than the boy I went with when I was in my heels. He gave me a corsage that clashed with my gown. The tailpipe was broken on his car and the engine made . . . oh, an awful racket. But it was magic. I don't know why. But I've never had a date like it, ever again. She looked at Carrie. Is it like that for you? It's very nice, Carrie said. And is that all? No. There's more. I couldn't tell it all. Not to anybody. Desjardin smiled and squeezed her arm. You'll never forget it, she said. Never. I think you're right. Have a lovely time, Carrie. Thank you. Tommy came up with two Dixie cups of punch as Desjardin left, walking around the dance floor toward the chaperones' table. What did she want? he asked, putting the Dixie cups down carefully. Carrie, looking after her, said I think she wanted to say she was sorry. Sue Snell sat quietly in the living room of her house, hemming a dress and listening to the Jefferson Airplane Long John Silver album. It was old and badly scratched, but soothing. Her mother and father had gone out for the evening. They knew what was going on, she was sure of that, but they had spared her the bumbling talks about how proud they were of Their Girl, or how glad they were that she was finally Growing Up. She was glad they had decided to leave her alone, because she was still uncomfortable about her own motives and afraid to examine them too deeply, lest she discover a jewel of selfishness glowing and winking at her from the black velvet of her subconscious. She had done it; that was enough; she was satisfied. (maybe he'll fall in love with her) She looked up as if someone had spoken from the hallway, a startled smile curving her lips. That would be a fairytale ending, all right. The Prince bends over the Sleeping Beauty, touches his lips to hers. Sue, I don't know how to tell you this but The smile faded. Her period was late. Almost a week late. And she had always been as regular as an almanac. The record changer clicked; another record dropped down. In the sudden, brief silence, she heard something within her turn over. Perhaps only her soul. It was ninefifteen. Billy drove to the far end of the parking lot and pulled into a stall that faced the asphalt ramp leading to the highway. Chris started to get out and he jerked her back. His eyes glowed ferally in the dark. What? she said with angry nervousness. They use a P.A. system to announce the King and Queen, he said. Then one of the bands will play the school song. That means they're sitting there in those thrones, on target. I know all that. Let go of me. You're hurting. He squeezed her wrist tighter still and felt small bones grind. It gave him a grim pleasure. Still, she didn't cry out. She was pretty good. You listen to me. I want you to know what you're getting into. Pull the rope when the song is playing. Pull it hard. There will be a little slack between the pulleys, but not much. When you pull it and feel those buckets go, run. You don't stick around to hear the screams or anything else. This is out of the cutelittlejoke league. This is criminal assault, you know? They don't fine you. They put you in jail and throw the key over their shoulder. It was an enormous speech for him. Her eyes only glared at him, full of defiant anger. Dig it? Yes. All right. When the buckets go, I'm going to run. When I get to the car, I'm going to drive away. If you're there, you can come. If you're not, I'll leave you. If I leave you and you spill your guts, I'll kill you. Do you believe me? Yes. Take your fucking hand off me. He did. An unwilling shadowgrin touched his face. Okay. It's going to be good. They got out of the car. It was almost ninethirty. Vic Mooney, President of the Senior Class, was calling jovially into the mike All right, ladies and gentlemen. Take your seats, please. It's time for the voting. We're going to vote for the King and Queen. This contest insults women! Myra Crewes called with uneasy good nature. It insults men, too! George Dawson called back, and there was general laughter. Myra was silent. She had made her token protest. Take your seats, please! Vic was smiling into the mike, smiling and blushing furiously, fingering a pimple on his chin. The huge Venetian boatman behind him looked dreamily over Vic's shoulder. Time to vote. Carrie and Tommy sat down. Tina Blake and Norma Watson were circulating mimeographed ballots, and when Norma dropped one at their table and breathed Good LUCK! Carrie picked up the ballot and studied it. Her mouth popped open. Tommy, we're on here! Yeah, I saw that, he said. The school votes for single candidates and their dates get sort of shanghaied into it. Welcome aboard. Shallwe decline? She bit her lip and looked at him. Do you want to decline? Hell, no, he said cheerfully. If you win, all you do is sit up there for the school song and one dance and wave a scepter and look like a goddam idiot. They take your picture for the yearbook so everyone can see you looked like a goddam idiot. Who do we vote for? She looked doubtfully from the ballot to the tiny pencil by her boatful of nuts. They're more your crowd than mine. A little chuckle escaped her. In fact, I don't really have a crowd. He shrugged. Let's vote for ourselves. To the devil with false modesty. She laughed out loud, then clapped a hand over her mouth. The sound was almost entirely foreign to her. Before she could think, she circled their names, third from the top. The tiny pencil broke in her hand, and she gasped. A splinter had scratched the pad of one finger, and a small bead of blood welled. You hurt yourself? No. She smiled, but suddenly it was difficult to smile. The sight of the blood was distasteful to her. She blotted it away with her napkin. But I broke the pencil and it was a souvenir. Stupid me. There's your boat, he said, and pushed it toward her. Toot, toot. Her throat closed, and she felt sure she would weep and then be ashamed. She did not, but her eyes glimmered like prisms and she lowered her head so he would not see. The band was playing catchy fillin music while the Honor Society ushers collected the foldedover ballots. They were taken to the chaperones' table by the door, where Vic and Mr. Stephens and the Lublins counted them. Miss Geer surveyed it all with grim gimlet eyes. Carrie felt an unwilling tension worm into her, tightening muscles in her stomach and back. She held Tommy's hand tightly. It was absurd, of course. No one was going to vote for them. The stallion, perhaps, but not when harnessed in tandem with a sheox. It would be Frank and Jessica or maybe Don Farnham and Helen Shyres. Orhell! Two piles were growing larger than the others. Mr. Stephens finished dividing the slips and all four of them took turns at counting the large piles, which looked about the same. They put their heads together, conferred, and counted once more. Mr. Stephens nodded, thumbed the ballots once more like a man about to deal a hand of poker, and gave them back to Vic. He climbed back on stage and approached the mike. The Billy Bosnan Band played a flourish. Vic smiled nervously, harrumphed into the mike, and blinked at the sudden feedback whine. He nearly dropped the ballots to the floor, which was covered with heavy electrical cables, and somebody snickered. We've sort of hit a snag, Vic said artlessly. Mr. Lublin says this is the first time in the history of the Spring Ball How far does he go back? someone behind Tommy grumbled. Eighteen hundred? We've got a tie. This got a murmur from the crowd. Polka dots or striped? George Dawson called, and there was some laughter. Vic gave a twitchy little smile and almost dropped the ballots again. Sixtythree votes for Frank Grier and Jessica MacLean, and sixtythree votes for Thomas Ross and Carrie White. This was followed by a moment of silence, and then sudden, swelling applause. Tommy looked across at his date. Her head was lowered, as if in shame, but he had a sudden feeling (carrie carrie carrie) not unlike the one he had had when he asked her to the prom. His mind felt as if something alien was moving in there, calling Carrie's name over and over again. As if Attention! Vic was calling. If I could have your attention, please. The applause quieted. We're going to have a runoff ballot. When the people passing out the slips of paper get to you, please write the couple you favor on it. He left the mike, looking relieved. The ballots were circulated; they had been hastily torn from leftover prom programs. The band played unnoticed and people talked excitedly. They weren't applauding for us, Carrie said, looking up. The thing he had felt (or thought he had felt) was gone. It couldn't have been for us. Maybe it was for you. She looked at him, mute. What's taking it so long? she hissed at him. I heard them clap. Maybe that was it. If you fucked up The length of jute cord hung between them limply, untouched since Billy had poked a screwdriver through the vent and lifted it out. Don't worry, he said calmly. They'll play the school song. They always do. But Shut up. You talk too fucking much. The tip of his cigarette winked peacefully in the dark. She shut. But (oh when this is over you're going to get it buddy maybe you'll go to bed with lover's nuts tonight) her mind ran furiously over his words, storing them. People did not speak to her in such a manner. Her father was a lawyer. It was seven minutes of ten. He was holding the broken pencil in his hand, ready to write, when she touched his wrist lightly, tentatively. Don't . . . What? Don't vote for us, she said finally. He raised his eyebrows quizzically. Why not? In for a penny, in for a pound. That's what my mother always says. (mother) A picture rose in her mind instantly, her mother droning endless prayers to a towering, faceless, columnar God who prowled roadhouse parking lots with a sword of fire in one hand. Terror rose in her blackly, and she had to fight with all her spirit to hold it back. She could not explain her dread, her sense of premonition. She could only smile helplessly and repeat Don't. Please. The Honor Society ushers were coming back, collecting folded slips. He hesitated a moment longer, then suddenly scrawled Tommy and Carrie on the ragged slip of paper. For you, he said. Tonight you go firstclass. She could not reply, for the premonition was on her her mother's face. The knife slipped from the whetstone, and in an instant it had sliced the cup of her palm below the thumb. She looked at the cut. It bled slowly, thickly, from the open lips of the wound, running out of her hand and spotting the worn linoleum of the kitchen floor. Good, then. It was good. The blade had tasted flesh and let blood. She did not bandage it but tipped the flow over the cutting edge, letting the blood dull the blade's sharp glimmer. Then she began to sharpen again, heedless of the droplets which splattered her dress. If thine right eye offend thee, pluck it out. If it was a hard scripture, it was also sweet and good. A fitting scripture for those who lurked in the doorway shadows of onenight hotels and in the weeds behind bowling alleys. Pluck it out (oh and the nasty music they play) Pluck it (the girls show their underwear how it sweats how it sweats blood) out The Black Forest cuckoo clock began to strike ten and (cut her guts out on the floor) if thine right eye offend thee, pluck it out The dress was done and she could not watch the television or take out her books or call Nancy on the phone. There was nothing to do but sit on the sofa facing the blackness of the kitchen window and feel some nameless sort of fear growing in her like an infant coming to dreadful term. With a sigh she began to massage her arms absently. They were cold and prickly. It was twelve after ten and there was no reason, really no reason, to feel that the world was coming to an end.    The stacks were higher this time, but they still looked exactly the same. Again, three counts were taken to make sure. Then Vic Mooney went to the mike again. He paused a moment, relishing the blue feel of tension in the air, and then announced simply Tommy and Carrie win. By one vote. Dead silence for a moment. Then applause filled the hall again, some of it not without satiric overtones.