Rules for Being a Girl - Candace Bushnell
One
“And that,” Mr. Beckett says, leaning against the edge of his desk in third-period AP English, ankles crossed and dark eyes shining, “is the story of how Hemingway and Fitzgerald became the most famous literary frenemies of the twentieth century. Full disclosure, it probably won’t be that useful to you on the AP exam, since for some reason they don’t test your knowledge of hundred-year-old publishing gossip. But you can keep it in your back pocket and use it to impress your friends at parties.” He grins, standing up and tugging a whiteboard marker out of the back pocket of his dark blue khakis.
“Okay,” he says, “let’s talk homework.”
We let out a collective groan, and Bex—which is what we all call him—waves us off as a bunch of bellyachers, then assigns the first forty pages of A Farewell to Arms for us to read that night.
“It’ll go fast,” he promises, twirling the marker between his fingers like a magician with a deck of cards. “One of the great things about Hemingway—and there are a lot of great things about Hemingway, and we’ll talk about them tomorrow—is that he’s not much for big words.”
“Well, that’s good,” cracks Gray Kendall, a long-legged lacrosse player who just started here back in September. He’s sprawled in his chair a couple of rows behind me, a dimple appearing briefly in the apple of his cheek. “Neither am I.”
Eventually the bell rings for the end of the period and we all shuffle toward the door, the scrape of chair legs on linoleum and the smell of chicken sandwich day in the cafeteria wafting down the hallway.
“You ready?” I ask Chloe, stopping by her desk at the front of the room. She’s wearing her signature red lipstick and huge hipster glasses, her yellow-blond hair falling in soft waves to her shoulders. A tiny lapel pin in the shape of a pink flamingo is affixed to the collar of her uniform blouse.
“Um,” she says, glancing over my shoulder at where Bex is erasing the whiteboard, elegant shoulders moving inside his gray cashmere sweater.
I raise my eyebrows at her blatant gawking, and she makes a face at me in return.
“Yeah.”
“Uh-huh. Right.” I offer her an exaggerated nod and sling my backpack over one shoulder; we’re just about to go when Bex looks up.
“Oh, Marin, hey,” he says with a guilty shake of his head. “I managed to space on your book again today, if you can believe it. But I’ll bring it in tomorrow for sure.”
“Oh! No worries.” I smile.
Bex has been telling me for the better part of two weeks that he’s going to lend me his copy of The Corrections, which he says I’ll love, but he keeps forgetting to bring it in.
“Whenever is good. Honestly, it’s not like I have a ton of time to read for pleasure anyway.”
“I know, I know.” Bex makes a mischievous face. “You’re all too busy posting unboxing videos to your YouTube channels, or whatever it is you people do for fun.”
My mouth drops open. “Not true!” I say, though my whole body is flushing pleasantly. “Getting buried in AP English homework is more like it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bex says, but he’s smiling. “Get out of my classroom. I’ve got lunch duty; I’ll see you down there.”
“Lucky you,” Chloe teases.
“Uh-huh.” Bex grins, setting the eraser on the ledge and wiping his hands on the seat of his pants. “You’re making fun of me, but joke’s on you because you’re underestimating how excited I get about chicken sandwich day. Now go.”
The cafeteria at Bridgewater Prep is actually a combination auditorium/gym, with a stage at one end and tables that fold down and slide into a storage room during phys ed periods. Ours is already crowded by the time Chloe and I show up, with the same slightly incongruous mix of honors kids from Bex’s class and lacrosse bros we’ve been sitting with since I started dating Jacob.
“Hey, babe,” he says now, tweaking me in the side by way of hello. “How’s your day?”
“You checking to make sure she’s not getting fat?” his buddy Joey cracks, reaching over like he’s going to give me a pinch of his own.
I duck out of the way and flip him the finger, rolling my eyes. “Shove it, Joey.” Then, nudging Jacob in the shoulder: “Defend my honor, will you?”
“You heard the lady,” Jacob says, which is admittedly a little bit weak as far as honor defending goes, but he’s pulling me into his lap and pressing a kiss