“In-school for homework?” I ask.
She smiles. “In-school for pointing out that Randall didn’t do his homework either, but he got excused because he had a game. Last I checked, basketball wasn’t a required course.”
“Yeah, not yet,” I say, sinking down in my seat.
I hate this place. I long for my freshman year, when we organized pep rallies and dances, guys and girls together, as if we were the same species. Something the administration clearly doesn’t consider to be the case now that my boobs have gotten bigger.
There’s movement from the door, and I look up and see Jameson Merrick walk in. He has brown hair, blue eyes, and seriously wrinkled cargo shorts. We’ve been hanging out for the past six months; nothing confirmed. He’s cool, though.
I kind of love him.
Jameson winks at me and goes to Shelly, who seems surprised to see him.
“Jameson,” she says. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs, pulling one of those boyish smiles that everyone likes. “Got in trouble,” he says innocently. “I set the bunnies free in agriculture class. Didn’t know they could hop so damn fast.”
I actually laugh out loud and then quickly cover my mouth when Shelly gives me a stern look. She checks Jameson’s card, her expression somewhere between disappointment and amusement. She eventually sighs, marks it in pen, and tells him to have a seat.
Jameson comes to sit directly in front of me, nodding a hello to Cece. I can smell his shampoo and see the ends of his hair are still damp from showering. He turns, glancing back at me.
“Are you in here because of me?” I ask quietly.
“I wasn’t going to let you serve time alone. I tried to call you this morning. Brian Sokolowski texted me to say Montgomery was waiting for you in the hall before class. She got a vendetta or what? When did you piss in her houseplants?”
I laugh, and we all immediately lower our heads so Shelly won’t separate us. When it’s clear, I lean in, and so do Cece and Jameson. “See?” I tell them. “I knew she was being unfair. But Mr. Jones won’t listen to me. Why is Mrs. Montgomery obsessed with how I dress?”
“I heard her husband was behind the school board vote,” Cece says. “He campaigned for one of those old dudes. Part of the same cult, maybe?”
“Or they could be from an alternate universe where all the men are terrible,” Jameson adds.
“That’s an alternate universe?” I ask, and then grin when he looks over at me.
“You’re so funny, Lucinda,” he whispers, narrowing his eyes playfully. “I wonder if that’s why Mrs. Montgomery doesn’t like you. Just too damn funny.”
Truth is, I don’t know why Mrs. Montgomery hates me, singles me out. I’ve never done anything to her; I just dress how I want. Be an individual. I’m not even rude to her face—and believe me, that takes a significant effort. Yet she acts like I’m openly defiant. But it’s her bad attitude that makes me have to prove a point. I can’t . . . fold. Let her win when she’s wrong.
“Listen,” I say to Cece and Jameson. “We have to destroy Rule sixteen. It is legitimately preventing my education. Who knows? I could have been valedictorian.”
Jameson smiles at this and murmurs something like “You still can be,” when another person walks in the door. I’m surprised to see it’s Mr. Jones.
He smiles politely at Shelly, who quickly closes her book and stands. Mr. Jones looks around until he finds me. “Lucinda,” he says, waving me forward.
My cheeks immediately heat up, and I’m concerned what this means. I shouldn’t have said “bullshit” in front of him. I toughen up, though—straight back, tight jaw, and get up from my desk.
As I pass by Jameson, he reaches out to touch my hand, just a gentle reminder that he’s with me.
*
I’ve known Jameson Merrick since middle school, and I hope it’s not shallow to say I didn’t really think of him in a romantic way until he got superhot. He was always my friend, though. I still think about the first time I realized I liked him. We’d been out at a party, and after a drink—just one—he came back to my house to watch some YouTube videos. We sat in my basement, laughing. Cringing at people making fools of themselves. And at one point . . . I just looked over at him and thought he was so damn cute.
And when he turned to me, I think maybe he thought the same thing about me. I’m not ashamed to admit that I asked him if he wanted to hook up. He gave me a resounding yes, and leaned in and kissed me. We’ve pretty much been together ever since. Neither of us were virgins, although I’m the only one whose past has ever been brought up in the locker room. Jameson punched a dude for calling me a slut, which was nice of him. I would have happily done the punching myself if Dickhead McBryant had said it to my face. But he hadn’t.
Just like the school, he judged me. Locker-room talk and unfair dress codes—symptoms of the same problem. Both spearheaded by assholes.
Jameson and I don’t talk about our relationship. We don’t brag about it. We’re just . . . together. And, yeah, I kind of love him. And he kind of loves me, too.
*
“So what’s this about?” I ask Mr. Jones as we turn down the arts-and-sciences hallway on the second floor. There’s a flurry of movement; several students from the agriculture department running around, frazzled and concerned. One of the girls protectively holds a fluffy white bunny. I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said—missing class time,” Mr. Jones says. “Mrs. Montgomery has come up with a solution.”
I furrow my brow, not willing to trust the suggestion of my persecutor. Mr. Jones motions to the small room at the end of the hall—the room they use for the fashion design elective.
“What are we doing in here?” I ask. We walk inside the room, and I immediately see Mrs. Montgomery, her arms crossed over her chest, a smug smile on her face. I have a visceral reaction, and my fists clench.
“Lucinda,” she says. I don’t respond and turn to Mr. Jones.
“This isn’t my class. I want my classwork.”
Mr. Jones gives me a look, like he wishes I were someone else entirely, and nods to my teacher. “This is what Mrs. Montgomery has suggested as an alternative,” he says.
Confused, I look at her just as she pulls a shirt off the screen printer. It’s gray, and across the chest in black are the words “Violation of Rule 16.” Next to the printer is a pair of oversize sweatpants with the words on them as well.
I stare at the clothes. I stare so long my eyes start to water, but I refuse to blink. “You have got to be kidding me,” I say in a low voice. “Have either of you ever read The Scarlet Letter? Why not just put a big A on my chest?”
Mrs. Montgomery’s smile fades, and Mr. Jones adjusts the button on his suit jacket.