Rules for Being a Girl - Candace Bushnell Page 0,40

in his apartment.

“He kissed me,” I say, cringing; God, I can’t believe I’m using that word in front of Mr. DioGuardi. I can’t believe I’m using that word about Bex. Everything about this is humiliating.

When I’m finished Mr. DioGuardi doesn’t say anything for a long time, whistle clicking rhythmically against his two front teeth.

“These are serious allegations, Marin,” he tells me finally. “You realize I’m required to report them to the school board. They’ll want to do a full investigation.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, not sure if he’s trying to warn me off or not. It kind of feels like maybe he is. “I just—what else is there to investigate?” I shake my head, confused. “I mean, I just told you what happened.”

Mr. DioGuardi’s impassive expression flickers, just barely. “Well, this is a process, Marin. We’ll need to gather more information before we decide on a course of action. They’ll want to interview you themselves, first of all. And I imagine they’ll want to speak to Mr. Beckett as well.”

“And what if he says I’m making the whole thing up?”

Mr. DioGuardi frowns. “Are you?”

“What? No!” I say, more sharply than I mean to. “Of course not!”

“Watch the tone, please,” Mr. DioGuardi reminds me, reaching for the whistle around his neck like he’s checking to make sure it’s still there in case he needs to foul me out. “I know this is an . . . emotional situation, which is exactly why there’s a procedure in place.” He smiles again—reassuring, dadlike. “These things take time, Marin. But the board will be thorough. You can trust us all to do our jobs.”

I wrap my hands around the arms of the chair, knowing somehow—the way he said emotional situation, maybe—that there’s no room to argue without proving his point.

“Okay,” I say instead, reaching down for my backpack before standing up so quickly I get lightheaded. It’s claustrophobic in here all of a sudden, the air too hot and thick to breathe properly. “Well. Um. Thank you. I should get back to class.”

Mr. DioGuardi frowns. He was expecting me to be more grateful to him, I realize. And I’m not following the playbook.

“Marin—” he begins, but I paste another bland smile on my face before he can say anything else.

“I appreciate your help with this, Mr. DioGuardi.” I promise. “Really.”

“Of course,” he says, mollified. I’m somebody he recognizes again: good student, reliable coeditor of the Beacon, not one to make a fuss. A nice girl.

“Feel free to come to my office with any questions. We’re here to support you.”

I thank him one more time, keeping the smile plastered on my face as I head out of his office. I wave to Ms. Lynch, who’s scrolling industriously through Facebook on her office computer. I wait until I’m out in the empty hallway to let the mask slip off my face, leaning against a bank of sophomore lockers and taking deep breaths, trying to swallow down the whirlpool of dread rising in my chest. I wanted telling Mr. DioGuardi to put an end to this whole miserable episode.

But now it looks like it’s barely begun.

Gray’s waiting by my locker at the end of last period, tie already loosened and a charmingly ridiculous reindeer beanie—complete with pompom—shoved down over his wavy hair.

“Hey,” he says, with a smile that makes me shiver in spite of the sense of impending doom I’ve been carting around since my meeting with DioGuardi. “How did it go?”

I shrug. “Okay, I guess?” I fill him in as quickly and factually as possible, trying not to sound like a person at the mercy of her own emotional situation. “It sounds like I’ll know more after the break.”

“Well, that’s good, right?” Gray asks. “That he’s bringing it to the school board?”

“No, it is,” I agree, though in fact the very idea makes me want to dig a hole in the nearest snowbank and live inside it till spring. Already I feel like an idiot for having ever imagined I could tell my story to DioGuardi and that would be the end of it. It feels like a theme in my life lately: what did I think was going to happen? “It is.”

“Good,” Gray says again, like it’s just that simple; still, I know he’s just trying to be encouraging. “You coming to pizza?”

I shake my head. Everybody at Bridgewater always goes for slices at Antonio’s on the last day of school before Christmas break; normally it’s one of my favorite afternoons of the year, the line