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. You 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.”
Bex nods and heads back inside the office, perching on the edge of the desk, but I hover awkwardly in the open doorway, crossing and uncrossing my arms.
“So,” he says, in that same cheery voice—and am I imagining it, or does it sound just the tiniest bit hollow? “I just wanted to chat really quick about the editorial you uploaded last night.”
“Sure,” I repeat cautiously. The essay was the last thing I thought about before I fell asleep and the first thing I thought about when I woke up—I think it’s one of the strongest things I’ve ever written—but something about that tone in his voice has me second-guessing myself all of a sudden. “Why, are you not into it?”
“No, no, I think it’s great,” Bex says quickly, holding his hands up. “It’s really smart, and thoughtful, and edgy—and obviously the writing is top-notch. I guess I just wanted to make sure you’d thought through all the angles before we published it, that’s all.”
I frown. “What’s there to think about?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Bex says, tilting his head to the side. “You’re taking some pretty bold positions, don’t you think?”
“I guess,” I say slowly. “I mean, I didn’t think they were that bold.”
“Look, Marin, don’t get me wrong.” Bex smiles. “It’s a stellar piece. This school is just full of a bunch of dopes, that’s all. As your adviser, I want to make sure you’re prepared for whatever blowback might come your way.”
“You think I’m going to get blowback?” I ask, surprised. The idea hadn’t actually occurred to me, and all at once I wonder if that makes me completely naive. “From who?”
“I have no idea,” Bex says immediately. “Not from me, obviously. I just don’t want you to be taken off guard if people aren’t crazy about what you have to say, that’s all.”
I nod, crossing my arms a little bit tighter until it almost feels like I’m hugging myself. I’m getting the distinct impression he thinks I should pull the piece altogether, and part of me wants to agree with him—after all, the last thing I want is for people around school to think I’m some kind of militant feminist.
The other part of me can’t help but wonder if somehow this is related to what happened in his apartment.
“Isn’t that the point of being the editor of the paper?” I ask finally, forcing myself to relax my posture, to stand up straight and push my shoulders back like someone who knows her own mind and isn’t afraid to speak it. “Saying stuff that makes other people uncomfortable sometimes?”
Bex looks at me for a long moment, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Fair enough,” he says, as the warning bell rings for homeroom. “We’ll put it in the next issue.”
The seed of doubt Bex planted in my head spends all morning growing roots and leaves and flowers; by the time third period rolls around, it’s practically a national park. I’m hoping for a pep talk from Chloe before the bell rings, but when she scurries into Bex’s classroom her painted eyebrows are knitted tightly together.