heard about my partying was a lie.”
“Laundry detergent?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“I didn’t tell anyone to eat laundry detergent!” Gray says, sounding outraged. “Like, Jesus, I’m the one with fucking ADHD, and even I know enough not to eat soap.”
I snort. “Fair enough.”
“Anyway, I had to go there three times a week and play games with these little kids, and at first it was a total drag, but I actually really liked it, so I still go, even though I did all my hours. And they like me too, I guess, because they offered me a full-time gig after graduation if I want it.”
“That’s awesome,” I say—picturing it before I can stop myself, trying not to find it charming and failing completely. “But your parents—your moms, I mean—aren’t on board?”
Gray grimaces. “Oh, no way. Not go to college? As far as they’re concerned I might as well sell my body for drug money. Or like, go work for the US government.”
Gray finishes his burger-and-pancake feast, plus a slice of questionable cheesecake from the spinning case near the cashier; his shoulder bumps mine as we head outside into the raw, chilly night.
“Can I ask you a rude question?” I say as we cross the parking lot. “If your grades are really that bad, what are you doing in AP English?”
Gray snorts. “It was the only language arts requirement that would fit in my schedule,” he explains, clicking the button to unlock the doors to the Toyota. “They made an exception so I could play lacrosse. Which,” he says, obviously reading the expression on my face in the neon light coming off the diner sign, “I recognize is probably the same special treatment that makes it so the girls’ volleyball team doesn’t get a bus.”
“Wait—” I start, remembering Gray wasn’t even there when we started talking about that.
“I was standing outside the door before I came in,” he explains. “I was nervous.”
I smile at that, sliding back into the passenger seat. “It’s a fucked-up system, that’s all. And for what it’s worth, I’m really glad you’re in that class with me. And I’m glad you came to book club.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m glad I am too.”
We ride to my house mostly in silence, just the sound of Gray’s tinny iPhone speaker and the slightly labored hum of the Toyota’s engine.
“Thanks again,” I tell him when we pull up in front of my house. “You really bailed me out.”
“Yeah, no problem,” he says. “I’ll see you Monday.”
“See you Monday,” I echo, reaching down for my backpack. I’ve got my hand on the car door when he touches my arm.
“Hey, Marin, by the way?” Gray clears his throat, like maybe he’s a tiny bit nervous again. “I, um. Really liked your article.”
I laugh out loud, surprised and weirdly delighted, but then it’s like the laugh jangles something loose in me, and for a moment I think I might be about to burst into tears.
Instead, I take a deep breath and smile at him in the green glow of the dashboard.
“Thanks.”
Fourteen
Saturday night finds me sitting at my desk in my pajamas, trying to keep my eyes from glazing over as I scroll boringly through an ancient SparkNotes guide to the symbolism in “The Swimmer.” Chloe ended up spending the weekend with Kyra, so instead of hitting Starbucks or driving around singing along to her latest Spotify masterpiece like we usually would, I’m listening to Sam Smith, picking at my short-story paper for Bex’s class, and—okay, I can admit it—thinking about Gray. I’m not looking for a new boyfriend, obviously. But still. I liked talking to him. I liked the feeling that he actually cared about what I had to say.
I’m making zero progress on this paper, meanwhile. Part of me just wants to say screw Bex and go rogue and write it on the Hunger Games essay from Bad Feminist, but what good would that do? I’d just be hurting myself in the end.
Grace knocks on my open door. “Will you do that thing with the flat iron?” she asks, holding it up and rotating it in a circle to demonstrate.
“Sure,” I say, feeling my eyebrows flick before I can quell the impulse. She’s dressed in skinny jeans and a crop top I’m not entirely sure my mom is going to let her wear out of the house, plus a pair of wedge booties that are definitely mine. “Where are your glasses?” I ask, ignoring the petty theft for now in favor of getting