Rules for Being a Girl - Candace Bushnell Page 0,3

a couple hours ago, but I’m stuck waiting for my mom to pick me up. “Hey,” he says, glancing at the clock above the whiteboard. “You got a ride?”

“Oh yeah,” I tell him. He’s wearing a buttery-looking leather jacket, his dark hair curling over his collar. There’s a rumor that Bex paid his way through grad school by modeling—supposedly some senior dug up the pictures online last year, though Chloe and I haven’t ever been able to find them ourselves—and right now I can believe it. “My mom’ll be here in a while. I mean, I have my license, obviously, but—one car. And my sister has a chess thing.” I shrug.

Bex raises his eyebrows. “A chess thing?”

“My little sister is a Massachusetts chess champion,” I explain, a little embarrassed. “She gets lessons from this crotchety old guy out in Brookline. Normally my dad would just come get me, but he had a meeting, and Chloe had a dentist appointment, so—” I snap my jaws shut, not sure why I feel compelled to bore him with the mundane logistical details of my life. “Anyway. I’m good.”

Bex just smiles. “Come on,” he says, nodding in the general direction of the parking lot. “I can drive you.”

“Oh.” I shake my head like an instinct, pulling the scratchy blue sleeves of my uniform sweater down over my hands. “No, that’s okay, you don’t have to do that.”

Bex shrugs. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it,” he says easily. “Pretty soon it’s going to be just you and Mr. Lyle rattling around this place.”

Mr. Lyle is the janitor, who’s seven feet tall and almost as wide in the shoulders. Everybody calls him Hodor behind his back.

“Grab your stuff.”

I glance out the window, at the dusk falling purple-blue behind the pine trees. Back at Bex. “Okay,” I say finally, swallowing down a thrill and reaching for my backpack. “Sure. Thanks.”

I text my mom to let her know I’ve got a ride and follow Bex down the empty hallway and out into the teachers’ lot, explaining where I live as we walk. He drives a beat-up Jeep with a peeling Bernie Sanders sticker on the bumper. Inside it smells like coffee; there’s a gym bag slouched on the back seat. As he starts the engine the car fills with sad, guitar-heavy indie folk—Bon Iver, I think, although possibly that’s just the only artist like that I could name.

“I’m a caricature of myself, I know,” Bex says, nodding at the stereo as we pull out of the parking lot. “All I’m missing is the mountain-man beard.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say with a smile. “I mean, I like to stand outside and weep in the pouring rain as much as the next girl.”

Bex lets out a loud laugh. “That’s what my ex-girlfriend always used to say,” he admits. “She used to call it sad-man dead-dog music.”

I laugh too, even as the word ex-girlfriend sends a tiny electric shock through me. I wonder what she was like, if she was pretty. Most of all I wonder why they broke up.

Bex has always been strangely easy to talk to for a teacher, and he keeps up a pretty steady conversation as we head for my neighborhood—about DioGuardi and the dress code, yeah, but also about a concert he just went to in Boston and a series of author readings at Harvard Book Store that he thinks I should check out.

“So you and Jacob Reimer, huh?” he asks, turning the music down as we cruise along the VFW Parkway, passing the Stop & Shop and the PetSmart. “He seems like a good dude.”

“Oh!” I don’t know who told him that, and it must show on my face, because Bex mirrors an exaggerated, shocked expression back at me, wide eyes and his mouth a perfect O.

“I know stuff,” he says, breaking into a grin. “You guys think teachers are, like, deaf, blind dinosaurs, like we shuffle around with no idea what’s going on.”

“No, that’s not what I think!” I protest.

Bex’s lips twist. “Yeah, yeah.”

“It’s not,” I insist, giggling a little. “But yeah. Jacob is awesome.”

“Good,” Bex says, glancing over his shoulder before switching into the turn lane, long fingers hooked casually at the bottom of the wheel. “Most high school guys are basically walking mailboxes. You’re right to hold out for someone great.”

A pleased, unfamiliar blush creeps up my chest, hot and prickly. I’m glad I’m wearing a scarf. “Thanks,” I say, fussing with the sticky zipper on the outside pocket of