“Well,” I say, my voice strained. “Mrs. Montgomery marked my card and sent me to you. Violation of rule sixteen.” I cross my heel over my thigh so he can see the black leggings. I also tug on the hem of my T-shirt, which is long enough to cover my ass.
Mr. Jones tightens his jaw, but doesn’t say anything at first. He opens his desk drawer, takes out a pen, and outstretches his hand for my card so he can initial that I was here.
He writes on the card, and then lifts his eyes to mine before handing it back. “This is the fourth time this month,” he says.
“To be fair,” I reply. “I dispute every instance. Two weeks ago I was in here for a bra strap. It’s bad enough that I have to wear a bra at all, but then . . . as if that layer plus a layer of clothing isn’t enough barrier between boys and my breasts, they can’t bear to see a quarter-inch strap that is nowhere near my boob?”
Mr. Jones shakes his head, looking down at his desk. He’s heard my arguments before, but I don’t let up.
“Then last week,” I continue, “I was here for a bare shoulder. Okay, I wore a strapless bra so there would be no straps. I wore a tank top underneath a tank top so there’d be no skin showing under my armpit. But even that wasn’t enough. Because boys can see one inch of my shoulder blade?” I ask. “This is Phoenix; it was a hundred and twelve outside. At what point do the rules address male behavior? At what point are they responsible for their damn selves?”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “But four marks equal in-school suspension for the rest of the day.”
I swear, my blood turns to lava, and I feel my entire face heat up, my cheeks burning.
“I don’t get to go back to class? Let me ask you, Mr. Jones,” I say, slamming both feet down on his carpeted floor. “How many boys have you brought in here this month? If they’re so distracted by the mere outline of my calves, then I’m sorry—they’re the ones with the problem.”
“It’s the rule,” Mr. Jones says. “Rule sixteen, and you know it.”
“Like I said, it’s bullshit.”
“Don’t make it two days, Lucinda.”
“Did you ever think that Mrs. Montgomery is the problem?” I ask. “I mean, besides our poor boys who can’t control themselves, apparently. No, Mrs. Montgomery looks for a reason to send me out. She’s obsessed with the dress code—why? Why does she get off on it?”
“Nobody’s . . . getting off,” Mr. Jones says. “She’s following the rules.”
“The rules?” I repeat. “Why doesn’t someone send Miss Heely down, then? Her pants are so tight you can see when she has a wedgie. Or how about Mr. Rentry? He smells awful, and I personally find that distracting. But no,” I say, standing, “it’s only the teenage girls who get sent down here. Ridiculed. Controlled. And if you can’t see that—”
“Lucinda,” Mr. Jones says, his temperament cold now that I’ve criticized his staff. “That’s two days. Head there now.”
Two days of in-school suspension? I should have probably stopped arguing, but I guess part of me didn’t expect him to go through with it. I think I might cry. Instead, I stand straighter.
“I’m disappointed in you,” I tell my principal, my voice shaking. And then I turn around and walk out.
*
I used to be an A student. Seriously—straight As in every subject, excelling in math. But this year the new governing board added Rule 16 to our handbook. We don’t have uniforms; this is a public charter school. We’ve been nationally recognized for our excellence in academics. We won a grant for our outstanding work with girls in STEM. Hell, we were progressive.
The new governing board is made up of four old-ass men and one mother of six. I only know this because my own mother goes to the meetings and comes home fuming mad.
“They’re trying to erase science!” she yelled one night, slamming her purse on the kitchen table. My mother’s a nurse, and she’s fiercely protective of her research hospital.
My father told her to calm down; they couldn’t actually erase science. But every meeting his attempts to console her worry became less and less convincing.
I’ve heard them talking after I’ve gone to my room, and something my mother said stuck with me. “They’re doing this because the girls are outshining the boys,” she murmured. “I swear they’re trying to take us back to the fifties.”
I expected to hear my father immediately refute her claim, but instead, in a quiet voice, he said, “I think you’re right.”
So meaning to or not, my parents have fed my feeling of injustice. The girls here are excelling, and that scares the people in charge. They’re trying to control us. They’re putting the responsibility of male learning on us. They refuse to confront the actual problems.
And sure, I’ve read the dress code. But like I told Mr. Jones, it’s bullshit. And I won’t follow it.
*
The in-school suspension room is a small, block-walled room with no windows. It’s off the cafeteria, so we can hear the students during lunch hour, laughing and having fun while we sit in silence. That’s part of the psychological punishment: we’re not allowed to work on anything. We can’t read, write, or do our homework. We have to sit there.
In my opinion the school shouldn’t get paid a fucking dime from the government when a student goes into that miserable room. They’re not providing an education—in fact, they’re withholding it. Why should they get paid for that?
I walk in, and Shelly—a staff member—glances up to see me. She shifts her lips to the side in an expression of concern and holds out her hand for my behavior card. She’s tiny, known for wearing sneakers with everything. Even dresses. Like now, she’s wearing a blue-checked dress with a pair of Converse.
I stop at her desk in the front of the room while she checks over my card. I causally glance around to see who’s here to share hell with me.
The view is underwhelming at first. Michael Bellagio—a rich kid with an affinity for getting high in the parking lot before school—and Doug Wilkerson—a guy from my English class. Doug was sent out yesterday for calling Mrs. Montgomery a bitch when she wouldn’t accept his tardy pass.
And there’s Cece Garcia, who I pretty much grew up with. Her mother is from Mexico, and Mrs. Garcia babysat me when we first moved into our neighborhood. Cece nods a hello at me, and I roll my eyes to let her know just how shitty I think our situation is.
“Here you go,” Shelly says, handing back my card. I look down at it, disgusted by the red box filled in next to today’s date. Like I’m so awful that I don’t deserve to be in class.
I’ll admit, it hurts my feelings. This year—my senior year—I have become a solid C student thanks to missing out on class time.
“Sit where you want, Lucinda,” Shelly says. She picks up her copy of The Awakening, pulls her leg underneath her, and leans back in her chair to read silently.
I sit next to Cece. Her heavily lined eyes slide over to me, and I pinch the fabric of my leggings and let them snap back. She snorts a laugh.
“I didn’t turn in my homework assignment,” she whispers. “Never mind I got a hundred on the last quiz.”