I said ‘Hi.’ She was wearing a little yellow dress, sort of cute but awfully long for a little girl in the summer. Momma says good girls don't.’ She looked strange for a little girl, half sad and half self-righteous. It's almost like living it all over again, you know,” she says, not turning around.
I'm all riled up inside again.” She laughs a little and cradles her elbows in her palms. She can't get away with it!” She opened a door at random, pulled out a pair of sneakers and hurled them across the room. Her mother's voice, slightly disturbed, floated up. she's getting interference like the radio when you turn on the blender good good).
Thank you,” she said, and it sounded odd, as if she had thanked an Inquisitor for torture. No,” she said, and in her sudden pensiveness she could have been mistaken for beautiful. I heard her father was going to sue the School Department and then he changed his mind,” she said.
She had done an ungovernable, dangerous thing. she had broken cover and shown her face.
PART TWO PROM NIGHT
Faintly, through the board floor, came the thump of the juke playing “She's Got To Be a Saint,” by Ray Price. Maybe it's a bad idea,” she said, not sure if she was testing him or herself. 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.
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. Who do we vote for?” She looked doubtfully from the ballot to the tiny pencil by her boatful of nuts. Vic boomed into the mike: “The King and Queen of the 1979 Spring Ball—. Tommy ROSS and Carrie WHITE!”.
Tommy Ross, in the fading moments of his life now, took Carrie's hand and grinned at her, thinking that Suzie's intuition had been very right. she was right and i love her well i love this one too this carrie she is she is beautiful and it's right and i love all of them the light the light in her eyes) and Carrie. Now, in her mind, as clearly as a leaf pressed in plastic,. the town whistle is blowing). she heard the words clang in her mind. In a flash her mind recalled (black thick cords like snakes). the power cords strung all over the stage.
I turned to Georgette and said: “There she is.” Georgette said: “Yes, that's her.” She started to say something else, and then the whole street was lit up by a bright glow and there were crackling noises and then the power lines started to fall into the street, some of them spitting live sparks. There was a big explosion over in the West End—the gas main, I suppose—but I never even noticed it. When the pains began I went and got a knife—this knife—” she held it up “—and waited for you to come so I could make my sacrifice.
This is the end, Billy.” She backed away from him, breasts swelling into her bra, flat stomach pumping, legs long and tapering in her jeans; but she backed toward the bed. More fire engines screamed by on Route 6 like huge red hounds in the night. the town's burning down o well). Momma wanted her to be the Angel's Fiery Sword, to destroy—. she's going to destroy that too).
Finding more than Sue herself had suspected—love for Tommy, jealousy, selfishness, a need to subjugate him to her will on the matter of taking Carrie, disgust for Carrie herself,. she could take better care of herself she does look just like a GODDAM TOAD) hate for Miss Desjardin, hate for herself. For a moment Sue felt as if she were watching a candle flame disappear down a long, black tunnel at a tremendous speed. she's dying o my god i'm feeling her die).
PART THREE WRECKAGE
PHENOMENA CONTINUES AMID PERSISTENT RUMORS THAT AN AUTOPSY ON THE WHITE GIRL HAS UNCOVERED CERTAIN UNUSUAL FORMATIONS IN THE CEREBRUM AND CEREBELLUM OF THE BRAIN. The residential streets are still there on the town's East Side, guarded by graceful oaks that have stood for two hundred years. But this New England pastoral lies on the rim of a blackened and shattered hub, and many of the neat houses have FOR SALE signs on their front lawns.
The town's major industry, Chamberlain Mills and Weaving, still stands, untouched by the fire that raged over much of the town on those two days in May. Roger Fearon has lived in Chamberlain for twenty-two years, and has been with the mill for eighteen of those years. We could sell the house—it's worth $20,000 easy—and although we probably won't realize half of that, we'll probably go ahead and put it up.
The main road has been cleared of rubble and that is about the extent of it. Men drink beer without talking in Frank's Bar on the corner of Sullivan Street, and women exchange tales of grief and loss in back yards. And sixty-seven of the dead were Ewen High School Seniors on the verge of graduation.
Attendance was in the thousands, and the entire assemblage was still as the school band, stripped from fifty-six to a bare forty, played the school song and taps. If you are one of the many curiosity-seekers who have been through Chamberlain in the last week, you have seen a town that may be suffering from terminal cancer of the spirit. The old men still sit on the benches in Courthouse Square, but there is little interest in the checkerboards or even in conversation.
In conclusion, I would like to point out the grave risk authorities are taking by burying the Carrie White affair under the bureaucratic mat—and I am speaking specifically of the so-called White Commission. Elsewhere in this book mention is made of a page in one of Carrie White's school notebooks where a line from a famous rock poet of the '60s, Bob Dylan, was written repeatedly, as if in desperation. The other day wile she was playin in the dirt beside the house I sneeked around and saw the funnyest thing.
BY STEPHEN KING
Footnotes
