Carrie by Stephen King Page A

“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 . . .
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â *                  *                  *
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œIt makes me have pimples, Momma.”
    â€œYour pimples are the Lord's way of chastising you. Now eat your pie.”
    â€œMomma?”
    â€œYes?”
    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 my-ears-are-deceiving-me 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.
    â€œâ€”and he's a very nice boy. He's promised to stop in and meet you before and—”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œâ€”to have me in by eleven. I've—”
    â€œNo, no,
no!”
    â€œâ€”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 funny—I 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.
    â€œGod! 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 half-mad expression of compassion mixed with hate.
    â€œThe closet,” she said. “Go to your closet and pray.”
    â€œNo, Momma.”
    â€œBoys. 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.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œI'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.
    â€œMomma—”
    â€œIn 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.
    â€œMomma, 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.
    â€œThe closet,” she muttered. “Go to your closet and pray.”
    â€œNo.”
    Momma raised her hand to