Rules for Being a Girl - Candace Bushnell Page 0,37

the front of the empty classroom all that comes out is a sputter.

“What happened?” I manage, holding the wrinkled paper out of in front of me, carefully typed pages drooping like so many white flags.

“I’m sorry, Marin,” Bex says, looking disappointed. “But this essay just wasn’t up to your usual standards.”

“Wha—” I shake my head. “Why not?”

“It was rushed, and it was sloppy,” he says. “It just felt like you didn’t try at all. I know you’ve been spending a lot of time on your editorials. Maybe you’ve been distracted.”

“That’s not true,” I say. “I mean, maybe it wasn’t my best work. But seriously, a D?”

Bex just shrugs. “If you need to make it up, we can talk about extra credit.”

Something about his attitude has the skin on the back of my neck prickling unpleasantly. This isn’t about the essay. This feels personal.

“What is this really about?” I say.

“Excuse me?” Bex’s eyebrows almost crawl off his face entirely.

“I don’t deserve this grade. I just . . . I don’t.”

We both just stare at each other for a minute until Bex blows a breath out.

“What’s up with you, huh?” he asks me, leaning back against his desk and scrubbing a hand through the hair at the back of his neck; for a moment he’s the same Bex I recognize, whose class was my favorite part of the day.

That stops me. “What?”

“You’ve been a really tough crowd lately. With the reading list and your attitude in class . . . And you know, I didn’t want to say this about your essays in the Beacon, but honestly . . .” He trails off.

I frown. “Honestly what?”

His eyes narrow. “I thought you said everything was cool.”

I take a step back. “If everything was cool, would I not be getting a D on this paper?”

The words are out before I can think better of them. For a moment they hang there between us like a dare. Finally Bex presses his lips together, a muscle twitching once in his jaw.

“Easy, Marin,” he says, and his voice is all warning. “I’m your teacher.”

“Yeah,” I say, shoving my useless paper into my backpack, turning around, and heading for the door. “I know.”

I don’t mention the paper to my parents. I don’t know what stops me, exactly; I can’t figure out who I’m protecting—me or Bex. It’s my turn to clear the table after dinner that night, and I hold the plates distractedly under the faucet to rinse them, wondering if I made the smart move confronting him. Just once I’d like to be sure I was doing the right thing.

I stick the leftover cheese and sour cream back in the refrigerator—my dad made tacos tonight, Gracie loading hers up with enough jalape?os to have my eyes watering clear across the table—and wipe the counters with a slightly-grungy yellow sponge. My mom comes up behind me as I’m finishing up, resting her chin on my shoulder and wrapping her arms around my waist.

“Oh, hi there, daughter of mine,” she says, squeezing gently. “I’m proud as hell of you, you know that?”

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. I don’t know how she senses when I need the extra encouragement. “Thanks.”

“I mean it,” she says, planting a kiss against my cheek before straightening up again. She gives the counter a perfunctory wipe with a dish towel, then glances at the clock on the stove. “Grey’s Anatomy doesn’t start for twenty minutes,” she says thoughtfully. “You think that’s enough time to run to Seven-Eleven for ice cream and get back?”

I consider it. “If we speed,” I conclude after a moment.

My mom nods, scooping her keys off the hook near the doorway. “Let’s go.”

Nineteen

Gray takes me skating at the Frog Pond on Boston Common on Friday night, his big hand warm against my chilly one as we weave our way through the crowded rink. Little kids in hockey skates whiz past clusters of college students in fur-collared parkas while Ariana Grande blasts over the speakers; a giant Christmas tree winks with colored lights.

Once the session ends we get hot chocolates in a tiny coffee shop overlooking the park, all Edison bulbs and basket-weave tile, a heavy velvet curtain hung across the doorway to keep out the chill. Gray folds his bulky body basically in half to sit in a wobbly chair by the window, his knees bumping the mosaic tabletop, which isn’t much bigger than a dinner plate.

“You okay over there?” I ask with a laugh, grabbing