Rules for Being a Girl

Ten

That night I sit at my desk eating all the pink Starbursts out of a giant bag I picked up at CVS and staring at the blinking cursor on the screen of my laptop, trying with extremely limited success to put together a draft of this article about the new cafeteria menu. Normally I really like writing for the Beacon, but now it feels all mixed up with what happened with Bex, all those afternoons we spent in the newspaper office supposedly having such a good time. I mean, we were having a good time. At least I was. But now . . .

Also, damn if it isn’t a tall order to make grilled chicken on top of limp romaine lettuce sound exciting and novel.

Finally I push my chair back from my desk, catching sight of myself in the mirror on the back of my closet door. My hair has gotten long, the ends still bearing traces of last summer’s sun-and-lemon-juice highlights. When I was little I wanted to look like a mermaid—I remember how Chloe and I used to sleep in braids the night before a beach trip, then hole up in her bathroom or mine slathering on self-tanner, spending way longer getting ready than we ever did messing around in the waves. All at once it occurs to me how much time I’ve wasted in my life trying to make it look like I haven’t spent any at all.

I stand up and face myself full-on in the mirror, taking in my cropped shirt and the sliver of belly that peeks up over my high-waisted jeans and wondering briefly what I’d think if I was a stranger and saw a picture of myself on Instagram. What would I say to Chloe about that girl’s flat butt and smudgy mascara? Probably not “She looks smart and like a good friend,” that’s for sure.

I glance over at the empty place on the carpet where Chloe sat the other night, our conversation replaying like some bad radio earworm inside my head: You’re freaking out a disproportionate amount. I got so amped up at the thought of it, but what if she’s right? I went to his house, I remind myself again. I reapplied my ChapStick right there in his front seat. But was that an invitation? I didn’t mean it that way—at least, I don’t think I did—but maybe we did just have bad communication.

And then I remember: it happened. I was there. God, it’s like even I want to make myself doubt myself. How messed up is that? But there are so many unspoken rules for navigating high school—for navigating life, maybe—that I can’t help but try to figure out which one I broke to get myself into this situation. There are so many rules for girls.

I stretch my arms over my head and think again about what happened to Deanna at lunch today, the caught-animal look in her eyes as DioGuardi called her out in front of everyone. The longer I think about it the angrier I get—at DioGuardi, sure, but also at myself. I want to tell Deanna I’m sorry for all the casually nasty, sexist stuff I’ve ever heard about her, for all the times I could have said That’s not funny and didn’t. I want to tell her how unfair the whole thing is. Like, every guy wants to hook up, but if you actually do hook up, you have to worry about this? I want to ask her if she also feels like there are all these guidelines we’re supposed to be following in exchange for the alleged privilege of walking around this world as a teenage girl: Be flirty but not too flirty. Be confident but not aggressive. Be funny but in a low-key, quiet way. Eat cheeseburgers, but don’t get fat. Be chill, but don’t lose control. I feel like I could keep on going, like a full list would cover one of those old-fashioned scrolls from cartoons about Santa Claus.

I dig through the bag and unwrap another Starburst, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before laying my hands back down on the keyboard.

RULES FOR BEING A GIRL

I type frantically for the better part of an hour, my fingers flying over the keys and my tongue caught between my teeth. I’m just finishing up when Gracie knocks on the door. “Are you going to come watch TV?” she asks, leaning against the jamb in her buffalo-check pajama pants and fuzzy slippers. “Dad’s making popcorn.”

“I— What?” I feel wrung out like a washcloth; I glance at the clock in the corner of the screen, sure that hours have passed and it’s the middle of the night, but to my dazed surprise it’s barely nine o’clock. “Um. Sure.”

“Okay.” Gracie looks at me for another minute. “Are you all right?”

I glance at my editorial, back at my sister. “I’m good,” I tell her, smiling a little. And for the first time since that day in Bex’s apartment, it actually feels like the truth.

RULES FOR BEING A GIRL

BY MARIN LOSPATO

It starts before you can remember: you learn, as surely as you learn to walk and talk, the rules for being a girl. Yo

u are Princess. You are Daddy’s Little Girl. Are you ticklish? Give him a hug. You’re sweet, aren’t you? You’re a good little girl.

You don’t remember those early days, but here’s what you do remember: You remember ballet class, the way your tummy stretched your pink leotard and your parents fretted over some future eating disorder, and then you were trying tap, or soccer, or what about a musical instrument? You remember “We just want you to be happy!” and you remember you said you were happy because you knew that’s what they wanted to hear. How long have you been saying what everyone else wants to hear?

Time went on, and GIRLS CAN DO ANYTHING! So speak up, I can’t hear you! But also: Manners, young lady. A boy is bothering you at school? Stand up for yourself! A boy is bothering you at school? He’s just trying to get your attention. Do you like sparkles and unicorns and everything pink? Oh that’s stupid now. Can you play in this game? Sorry, no girls allowed.

Put a little color on your face. Shave your legs. Don’t wear too much makeup. Don’t wear short skirts. Don’t distract the boys by wearing bodysuits or spaghetti straps or knee socks. Don’t distract the boys by having a body. Don’t distract the boys.

Don’t be one of those girls who can’t eat pizza. You’re getting the milk shake too? Whoa. Have you gained weight? Don’t get so skinny your curves disappear. Don’t get so curvy you aren’t skinny. Don’t take up too much space. It’s just about your health.

Be funny, but don’t hog the spotlight. Be smart, but you have a lot to learn. Don’t be a doormat, but God, don’t be bossy. Be chill. Be easygoing. Act like one of the guys. Don’t actually act like one of the guys. Be a feminist. Support the sisterhood. Wait, are you, like, gay? Maybe kiss a girl if he’s watching though—that’s hot. Put on a show. Don’t even think about putting on a show, that’s nasty.

Don’t be easy. Don’t give it up. Don’t be a prude. Don’t be cold. Don’t put him in the friend zone. Don’t act desperate. Don’t let things go too far. Don’t give him the wrong idea. Don’t blame him for trying. Don’t walk alone at night. But calm down! Don’t worry so much. Smile!

Remember, girl: It’s the best time in the history of the world to be you. You can do anything! You can do everything! You can be whatever you want to be!

Just as long as you follow the rules.

Eleven

I’m headed for my locker the following morning when someone calls my name from down the hallway; I turn, and there’s Bex poking his head out of the newspaper room, the collar of his plaid flannel button-down just slightly askew.

“Hey,” he says cheerfully, gesturing me over. “You got a minute?”

“Um,” I say, glancing at the ancient clock in the hallway. A week ago I wouldn’t have thought twice about being alone in the newspaper room with Bex—would have welcomed it, even, the chance to have his whole and undivided attention—but it isn’t a week ago. “Sure.”