“What is— I mean, what are you—” I break off, not even sure which question to start with. “Is this in the city?” I finally ask.
She nods. “Right on Boston Common,” she says. “I took the bus in with a bunch of girlfriends for a civil rights demonstration. Your grandfather almost lost his mind.”
“He didn’t want you to protest?” I ask, eyebrows raised.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that, exactly.” Gram takes the picture from my hand, gazes at it appraisingly. “But he was worried about me, I think.”
“Well, if this was when you got arrested, I guess he was right to be.”
Gram waves a hand. “Oh, please,” she says with a smirk. “First of all, this wasn’t the protest where I got arrested. Second of all, maybe worried isn’t the right way to put it. We were coming from different places, that’s all. He didn’t always understand why certain things were important to me, or why I reacted to things the way I did.” She smiles at the picture, almost to herself. “He tried though. And that was the most important thing.”
I think of Gray then. He and I haven’t talked much either, the last couple of days, and I feel crummy about the way we left things outside Bex’s classroom. I know he just wanted to take care of me, back in Bex’s classroom. I didn’t know how to explain how important it felt for me to take care of myself.
I’m about to ask Gram what she thinks I should do about him when Camille knocks on the door, poking her head in. “That baklava is delicious,” she reports with a smile. “How are you ladies doing in here?”
“We’re great,” Gram says, beaming, the box of photos still balanced in her narrow lap. “My daughter is visiting.”
“Granddaughter,” I remind her gently.
“Of course,” Gram says. “My granddaughter. Ah . . .” She trails off then, a flash of panic skittering across her face; I can see she’s lost her train of thought.
“Marin,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. She’s never forgotten my name before. It’s a fluke, that’s all. “But Camille and I know each other already, remember?”
“We’re old friends,” Camille says. She’s smiling, but her tone is slightly wary, her gaze flicking from me to Gram and back again. “You girls just yell if you need me, okay?”
“We will,” I promise, and smile back.
I’m waiting in the bio lab Monday morning before first period when Gray appears in the doorway, looking around the empty room and back at me with confusion written all over his face. “Hey,” he says. “Am I early?”
I shake my head. “Nope,” I say. “Right on time.”
Gray nods slowly. “There was a note taped to my locker this morning,” he says, the faintest of smirks appearing at the very edges of his mouth. “Said there was an emergency book club meeting before first period. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
I tilt my head to the side for a moment, pretending to consider. “It’s possible,” I admit, holding up the Dunkin’ Donuts box I picked up on the way in this morning, “that you’re pretty much looking at it.”
“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 . . .”