Rules for Being a Girl - Candace Bushnell Page 0,61
manage. I don’t wait for him to reply before I turn and walk away.
Thirty-One
I tear down the hallway toward the south exit, slamming the push bar and exploding out into the parking lot even though it’s the middle of the day. After all, it’s not like it matters—what are they possibly going to do to me at this point if they catch me skipping my afternoon classes? Tell me I can’t go to Brown?
The parking lot is strangely quiet, just a couple of birds chattering away in the trees and the occasional car cruising by out on the street. I unlock the car with shaking hands, jamming the key into the ignition and nearly clipping a red Passat as I peel out of the parking lot, everything I should have said to Bex echoing meanly in my head. I’m spoiled? He’s the one with his name on the auditorium at an Ivy League university. I’m responsible for what happened between us? He’s the asshole who drove me to his fucking apartment.
Hot tears blur my view of the road in front of me. I head down Juniper Hill Avenue, midday traffic thinning out as I pass the municipal baseball fields and the golf course development, the function hall where we had my eighth-grade graduation party. I don’t have any real destination in mind. I can’t go home and face my parents. I can’t turn around and go back to school. There’s a part of me that wants to just keep on driving—to speed right out of this stupid town, to keep my foot pressed to the pedal until I get all the way to the Atlantic Ocean.
Finally I head for Sunrise without ever quite making the conscious decision to do it, instinct and muscle memory taking over. My gram is the only person I can imagine being around right now.
Camille is coming out of a suite down the hall as I step off the elevator, a blood-pressure cuff dangling from one hand. Her scrubs have rubber ducks parading across them today, her Crocs the same bright, cheery yellow.
“Marin,” she says, looking surprised—and there’s that uncomfortable look again, that flicker of trepidation at the sight of me. “What are you doing here, hm? Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“Reading day,” I tell her, surprised at how smoothly the lie comes out of my mouth. “I just need to talk to my gram real quick.”
“It’s not really a good time, sweetheart. You should come back later.”
That surprises me—in all the years I’ve been coming here, Camille has never said anything like that to me before. “Why?” I ask, frowning. “What’s going on?”
“She’s having a tough day, that’s all. She was a little agitated this morning. It’s probably better if you just let her rest.”
Camille’s tone is light—friendly, even—but there’s an underlying warning I’ve never heard from her before. “What do you mean, agitated?” I ask, trying to keep my own voice even. “Is she okay?”
Camille nods. “She’s fine, sweetheart. She just—you know. Needs to take it easy until she’s feeling more like herself.”
“What, like she’s not remembering stuff?” I shake my head. “That’s okay though. I don’t mind.”
“Marin—”
“She knows who I am,” I promise. “It’s fine, Camille, honestly. I’ll be quick.”
Camille takes a step closer then—to try to block my path down the hallway, maybe, or to catch me by the arm—but I’m too fast and too determined and possibly a little too wound up, skirting past her and slipping down the brightly lit corridor to the door of Gram’s suite. It’s all the way closed today, which is unusual, but I knock lightly before pushing it open, same as always.
“Hi, Gram,” I call, all slightly manic sunshine—then stop where I’m standing in the doorway, caught short. The woman sitting vacantly on the love seat doesn’t look anything like my grandmother. She’s not wearing any lipstick, her mouth so pale it’s nearly vanished into the rest of her face. Her white hair is a matted mess. She’s still in her pajamas, the undone top button revealing her sharp, jutting collarbones. Most of all she just looks frail.
“Who are you?” she asks, her blue eyes watery and suspicious.
I bite my lip. “Hey Gram,” I say again, careful to keep my voice breezy. “It’s me. Marin.”
Gram shakes her head, stubborn. “I don’t know you.”
“I’m your granddaughter,” I remind her, working hard to swallow down the sudden lump in my throat, knowing instinctively that getting emotional is only going to make this worse—which, I think bitterly, is