“Gray . . .”
He raises his eyebrows. “Marin,” he says, exactly mimicking my tone.
I blow a breath out, debating. It’s not that I’m not interested, obviously. If I’m being honest, I’ve been interested since the day of our first book club meeting, when he fixed the zipper on my backpack in the parking lot outside of school. Or before that, even. It’s not like I never noticed him, always surrounded by admiring onlookers—it’s just, I promised myself I’d never be one of them.
“You know what everybody says about girls when they hook up with you, right?” I ask him finally.
I’m expecting him to play dumb, but right away Gray nods. “I do know, actually,” he says. “And it’s fucked-up. I don’t know why it’s anybody’s business. We’re all just having a good time.”
That surprises me, although probably it shouldn’t. I’m guilty of it myself, aren’t I? How many times did Chloe and I sit around on my front porch complaining about girls with the audacity to kiss boys we had crushes on, or how skanky some sophomore looked at the Valentine’s Day dance? I have to admit, for all of Gray’s alleged conquests, I’ve never heard a peep about him being anything less than gentlemanly to anyone. And I’ve certainly never heard him running his mouth.
“Anyway,” he says now, cracking a peanut shell and offering me a cheeky smile. “Who says I’m trying to hook up with you to begin with?”
“I—” Suddenly I’m back at Bex’s apartment: sure I misread the situation, confused his intentions. “I’m not saying—”
The panic must register on my face, because Gray nudges me gently in the shoulder. “I mean, no, I’m definitely trying to hook up with you,” he admits. Then he shrugs. “But—and listen, I know this is going to sound like a line, and it’s not—I’m not only trying to hook up with you, okay?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Oh no?”
“No,” Gray says. “I meant what I said to you. I think it’s cool, what you’re doing here. You kind of blow me away a little bit.”
I consider that for a moment. I’ve spent the last few weeks feeling like such an outsider, it’s hard to imagine Gray could think that what I’m doing is something cool. “Well,” I say finally, “I will keep that in mind.”
“You do that,” Gray says, eyes warm and steady on me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to watch this volleyball game.”
I snort. “Oh, sorry, am I distracting you?”
“Yes, actually,” he says, but he’s grinning.
I can’t help but grin back.
It’s weird, watching the girls’ volleyball team defend their title—after all, I know it’s just a game. But something about it makes me feel hopeful, and when Elisa makes the winning point at the very end of the final set, the rest of us leap to our feet like lunatics, hooting as the ref blows his whistle and the team floods onto the court. Lydia and Dave are slapping each other five in all different configurations. Ms. Klein is screaming like a drunk football fan.
“Oh my god!” I fling my arms around Gray’s neck before I totally know I’m going to do it, nearly knocking him clear off his feet, and when he ducks his head to kiss me, it feels like the most surprising win of all.
Eighteen
Bex hands our response papers back the following morning. I’m so prepared for an A that for a second I think that’s what I’m seeing before I realize there’s actually a bright red D at the top.
Wait, what?
I flip the paper over as fast as humanly possible, glancing around to make sure nobody saw it as my whole body burns with shame and disbelief. I’ve never gotten a D in my life, let alone on something that involved writing. Let alone on something for Bex. It just . . . doesn’t happen.
Except that apparently now it does.
We’ve got a vocab lesson this morning, but I barely hear anything anyone says the entire period over the horrified roar echoing inside my head. By the time class ends I’ve crafted an argument in my own defense worthy of Ruth Bader Ginsburg herself, but when I finally make it up to the front of the empty classroom all that comes out is a sputter.
“What happened?” I manage, holding the wrinkled paper out of in front of me, carefully typed pages drooping like so many white flags.
“I’m sorry, Marin,” Bex says, looking disappointed. “But this essay just wasn’t up to your usual standards.”
“Wha—” I shake my head. “Why not?”
“It was rushed, and it was sloppy,” he says. “It just felt like you didn’t try at all. I know you’ve been spending a lot of time on your editorials. Maybe you’ve been distracted.”
“That’s not true,” I say. “I mean, maybe it wasn’t my best work. But seriously, a D?”
Bex just shrugs. “If you need to make it up, we can talk about extra credit.”
Something about his attitude has the skin on the back of my neck prickling unpleasantly. This isn’t about the essay. This feels personal.
“What is this really about?” I say.
“Excuse me?” Bex’s eyebrows almost crawl off his face entirely.
“I don’t deserve this grade. I just . . . I don’t.”
We both just stare at each other for a minute until Bex blows a breath out.
“What’s up with you, huh?” he asks me, leaning back against his desk and scrubbing a hand through the hair at the back of his neck; for a moment he’s the same Bex I recognize, whose class was my favorite part of the day.
That stops me. “What?”
“You’ve been a really tough crowd lately. With the reading list and your attitude in class . . . And you know, I didn’t want to say this about your essays in the Beacon, but honestly . . .” He trails off.
I frown. “Honestly what?”
His eyes narrow. “I thought you said everything was cool.”
I take a step back. “If everything was cool, would I not be getting a D on this paper?”
The words are out before I can think better of them. For a moment they hang there between us like a dare. Finally Bex presses his lips together, a muscle twitching once in his jaw.
“Easy, Marin,” he says, and his voice is all warning. “I’m your teacher.”
“Yeah,” I say, shoving my useless paper into my backpack, turning around, and heading for the door. “I know.”
I don’t mention the paper to my parents. I don’t know what stops me, exactly; I can’t figure out who I’m protecting—me or Bex. It’s my turn to clear the table after dinner that night, and I hold the plates distractedly under the faucet to rinse them, wondering if I made the smart move confronting him. Just once I’d like to be sure I was doing the right thing.
I stick the leftover cheese and sour cream back in the refrigerator—my dad made tacos tonight, Gracie loading hers up with enough jalapeños to have my eyes watering clear across the table—and wipe the counters with a slightly-grungy yellow sponge. My mom comes up behind me as I’m finishing up, resting her chin on my shoulder and wrapping her arms around my waist.