I frown. “Don’t they have to accommodate you for that?” I ask. “It’s a learning disability, no?”
“I mean, sure,” Gray says. “But you also have to like . . . do your work every once in a while.”
“Ah,” I say, feeling my face relax into a smile. “Right. I can see how that would be part of the bargain.”
“Yeah. Anyway,” Gray continues, “people are going to think what they want to think about you, right? So I just kind of . . . let them think it. It’s a better story, in any case.”
“But don’t you ever want to set the record straight?” I dip my fork in his ketchupy sauce, tasting cautiously. Not bad.
Gray shrugs. “Sure, sometimes,” he says, “if it’s somebody whose opinion I give a shit about. But mostly I feel like: it’s only a few more months, right? What do I care?”
“I guess,” I say slowly. “Where are you headed next year, do you know?”
Gray groans, pretending to upend his plate of pancakes and slither onto the floor underneath the booth—only then he almost does knock over his Pepsi, grabbing the big plastic cup at the last second. His reflexes are impressive, I’ve got to give him that much.
“Uh-oh,” I say with a laugh. “Sorry. Touchy subject?”
Gray sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Both my moms are lawyers, right? Or actually, it’s worse—one of them is a lawyer, and the other one is a law professor. And both of them went to St. Lawrence, and both of them want me to go there and play lacrosse, because they donate a ton of money there every year, so it’s like the one place I’m guaranteed to get in even though I’m an idiot.”
“Stop saying that,” I tell him, kicking him under the table before I quite know I’m going to do it. “You’re not an idiot. What do you want to do?”
“Paint,” Gray deadpans, his face heartbreakingly serious for a moment before it busts wide open into a goofy grin. “No, I’m kidding. I kind of don’t want to go at all, honestly. I had to volunteer at this after-school program in Fall River for community service last year—which, yeah, I’m not saying that everything you heard about my partying was a lie.”
“Laundry detergent?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“I didn’t tell anyone to eat laundry detergent!” Gray says, sounding outraged. “Like, Jesus, I’m the one with fucking ADHD, and even I know enough not to eat soap.”
I snort. “Fair enough.”
“Anyway, I had to go there three times a week and play games with these little kids, and at first it was a total drag, but I actually really liked it, so I still go, even though I did all my hours. And they like me too, I guess, because they offered me a full-time gig after graduation if I want it.”
“That’s awesome,” I say—picturing it before I can stop myself, trying not to find it charming and failing completely. “But your parents—your moms, I mean—aren’t on board?”
Gray grimaces. “Oh, no way. Not go to college? As far as they’re concerned I might as well sell my body for drug money. Or like, go work for the US government.”
Gray finishes his burger-and-pancake feast, plus a slice of questionable cheesecake from the spinning case near the cashier; his shoulder bumps mine as we head outside into the raw, chilly night.
“Can I ask you a rude question?” I say as we cross the parking lot. “If your grades are really that bad, what are you doing in AP English?”
Gray snorts. “It was the only language arts requirement that would fit in my schedule,” he explains, clicking the button to unlock the doors to the Toyota. “They made an exception so I could play lacrosse. Which,” he says, obviously reading the expression on my face in the neon light coming off the diner sign, “I recognize is probably the same special treatment that makes it so the girls’ volleyball team doesn’t get a bus.”
“Wait—” I start, remembering Gray wasn’t even there when we started talking about that.
“I was standing outside the door before I came in,” he explains. “I was nervous.”
I smile at that, sliding back into the passenger seat. “It’s a fucked-up system, that’s all. And for what it’s worth, I’m really glad you’re in that class with me. And I’m glad you came to book club.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m glad I am too.”
We ride to my house mostly in silence, just the sound of Gray’s tinny iPhone speaker and the slightly labored hum of the Toyota’s engine.
“Thanks again,” I tell him when we pull up in front of my house. “You really bailed me out.”
“Yeah, no problem,” he says. “I’ll see you Monday.”
“See you Monday,” I echo, reaching down for my backpack. I’ve got my hand on the car door when he touches my arm.
“Hey, Marin, by the way?” Gray clears his throat, like maybe he’s a tiny bit nervous again. “I, um. Really liked your article.”