Rules for Being a Girl

“Ah.” Gray smiles a real smile now, all straight white teeth and sheepish expression. “You know, as I was coming over here I was wondering what the hell an emergency book club meeting could possibly be about. But I figured, what do I know, right? I’m new.”

“There could conceivably have been some time-sensitive literary issue,” I protest with a laugh. Then I shake my head. “I’m sorry I lost it like that the other day,” I tell him. “Outside Bex’s classroom.”

Gray snorts. “That was you losing it?” he asks, sitting down on the sagging sofa beside me.

I shrug. “You know what I mean.”

Gray nods. “You can tell me, you know,” he says, leaning his head back against the threadbare cushions. “If you need space. I know I can be, like, a lot sometimes. Just say, ‘Gray, with respect, go fuck off.’ Easy as that.”

I laugh. “With respect, obviously.”

“The key to any successful relationship,” he shoots back.

“Is that what this is?” I ask, before I can think better of it. The fluorescent lights overhead feel unforgivingly bright all of a sudden. “A relationship?”

Gray raises his eyebrows. “You tell me.”

I bite my lip. On one hand, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel something for him, that being with him doesn’t light a spark inside me, doesn’t fill my heart like a balloon inside my chest. On the other hand . . .

“I don’t think you’re a lot,” I tell him finally, which isn’t really an answer to his question. “Or I mean, okay, you can be. A lot, I mean. But in a good way.” I reach for his hand, the calluses on his palm scraping gently against my skin. “I would never tell you to fuck off. I mean, I’d never tell anyone to fuck off, let’s be real. But especially not you.”

Gray smiles. “Too polite, huh?”

“Something like that,” I tell him.

“Well,” he says, “you never know. You might surprise yourself. Maybe one of these days you’ll snap and start telling people to fuck themselves left and right.”

“Maybe.” I hold up the doughnut bag. “Peace offering?”

“There better be bear claws in there,” he says, and kisses me before I can reply.

Twenty-Six

I’m in the bathroom near the gym on Friday morning when the door to the stall beside me opens and Chloe comes out.

“Oh! Sorry,” I say, motioning at the sinks; there are only two in this bathroom, and only one of them has any water pressure. “Go ahead.”

Chloe shakes her head, blond hair bouncing; today the lapel pin on her uniform collar is shaped like a tiny palm tree. “No,” she says, “you can go.”

“No, really.”

“Marin,” Chloe says, an impatient edge creeping into her voice. “Just go, okay?”

“Okay. Sorry.” I wash my hands as fast as humanly possible, wrinkling my nose at the smell of the cheap green soap and grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser.

“So, um,” I try, sensing an opening. “How’s your day going?”

As an opening gambit it’s pretty pathetic; Chloe’s expression makes that much abundantly clear.

“It’s fine. No complaints.”

“That’s good.” I pull the sleeves of my uniform sweater down over my hands, wanting to howl at the thought of things being this awkward and impossible between us forever. It’s just me, I want to tell her. I’m still the same person I was before.

“Look,” I tell her, “I know this is a long shot, but there’s a book club potluck tonight, if you’re interested.”

Chloe blinks at me. “A potluck?” she repeats.

“I know,” I say, suddenly embarrassed by the earnestness of it—it’s the kind of thing we probably would have made fun of, three months ago. “It’s kind of like, very Midwestern mom of us? But it could be fun, right? And you don’t have to be in the book club to come, so . . .”