I pick up the sweatshirt and hold it up. Cece’s eyes widen.
“That for you?” she asks. “You’re not wearing that.”
“It’s for all of us,” I say. “You know, if we dare to show our shoulders, bra straps, outlines of our legs, and whatever body part they outlaw next year. Maybe ankles? But instead of talking to Lance Duncan and his leering eyes and grope-y fingers, they pull me into the office. They suspend me.” The tears well up again, but this time they’re from anger. “And I’m sick of it,” I say.
“Then what are we going to do about it?” Cece asks.
I shake my head, unsure. “What can we do?” I ask. “What rights do we even have?”
Cece bites one of her long fingernails, thinking it over. “We should walk out,” she says. “All the girls should walk out.”
“That sort of goes toward them denying our education, though,” I say, slumping onto the table. “We need something bigger. I want to . . .” I pause because even I realize the violence in the words. “I want to ruin them,” I say in a quiet voice.
I look up at Cece, and she seems surprised but not entirely opposed.
“What do you suggest?” she asks.
I glance around the room, see balls of newspaper coated in polyurethane, the beginnings of some art project. I see more paper and glue next to it. I look at Cece.
“Want to help me build a girl?” I ask.
She snorts a laugh. “Only if I get to do her makeup.” And she comes over to the table, and we get to work.
*
When Cece and I finish with the project, it’s close to lunchtime—which is perfect. We stuffed the clothes with the coated newspaper, like a Halloween scarecrow, making sure to fill out the female form. Over the chest of the sweatshirt, we changed the words. It now reads “Rule 16: A Violation of Our Dignity.”
Now I just need to get to the cafeteria and put it on display.
“I think we should call her Barbara,” Cece says, gazing down at the stuffed clothing. I look over at her, crinkling my nose.
“What the fuck?”
She shrugs. “It’s what I called my first Barbie,” she says. “She had, like, three houses, a Jeep, and she got to wear whatever she wanted. Barbara was fierce.”
“Oh my God, I love you,” I say with a laugh, but then notice the time. “You should get back to the in-school room before Shelly gets worried,” I say.
“It’s fine,” Cece replies. “I’ll tell her I had a lot of shit to talk through.” She leans in to give me a quick hug good-bye. “Just hurry up and get out of there,” she adds. “They can’t prove it was you if they don’t see you.” She smiles reassuringly even though she knows I’m busted already. My indefinite suspension may never be lifted.
And I’m not sorry. I won’t be used as an excuse for bad male behavior again. I won’t be used by Mrs. Montgomery to explain her fanatical view about my role in society.
I’m worth more than that.
“Be careful,” Cece warns, and then grabs her pass off the table and leaves.
I see a lighter on the teacher’s desk, and I shove it into my pocket. I check the time on the wall clock and realize I only have a few minutes before lunch starts. I gather up our creation—Barbara—trying to balance both halves of the body and make sure the hallway is clear before sneaking down the back stairs.
The cafeteria is empty, although there’s a flurry of movement in the food line where the cooks are getting everything set out. I look cautiously at the in-school room, but the door is closed. No one sees me.
I set the body parts on the floor, grab a chair, and drag it to the center of the room. It’s in full view of the entire place, and I set Barbara on the chair, sitting her up like she’s a person. The words are visible, and as I take a step back to admire my work, I’m struck again with the feeling of humiliation.
It’s shocking now that I see it. They wanted this to be me. They thought I deserved this because I wore leggings and a long shirt. This is what they would have done if they could have.
I know part of me is being irrational; that’s the thing—I know it. But I can’t stop the impulses. They’ve broken me—Mrs. Montgomery, the school board, all of them. And now I want to break them.
The bell rings, startling me. I quickly move behind a pole, not completely hidden from view but not obviously connected with Barbara. I watch as students walk in, some with crumpled brown paper bags. All of them stop to look, to read the sweat suit.
The guys laugh, mostly—their brows pull together with confusion. But it’s the faces of the other girls, the way they read the words with alarm and then anger. They see the original intention of the suit. And when that anger passes, they nod their heads in agreement. Rule 16 is a violation. And we all feel it.
A crowd has formed around Barbara, and for a moment, I feel vindicated, even if they don’t know it was me. I even start to smile. The bell rings, but no one is eating lunch. The door to the in-school suspension room opens, and Shelly and the students come out to see what’s going on.
My heart starts to beat faster. There’s a booming voice, and we all look over to see Mr. Jones marching over from the entrance, asking what’s going on.
He comes to a stop in front of Barbara. There are a few laughs, and some of the students get out of his way and go to sit down. I watch my principal read the words, seeing when he realizes it doesn’t say what he thought it would.
Mr. Jones spins around, searching, until he finally finds me standing next to the pole. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. Montgomery and another teacher enter the cafeteria.
I step out from my hiding spot, and stand next to my project. In my pocket my fingers touch the lighter that I grabbed from the art room.
“What is this?” Mrs. Montgomery yells shrilly. “This is destruction of school property.” She points to Barbara and then looks to Mr. Jones for backup.
I’m sure he will, but I don’t wait to be proven right. I’m well past that.
I glance across the room and find Jameson standing with Cece, watching it all unfold. He’s clearly worried, but then, as if saying the point is bigger than me and maybe I should see this through. I smile at him and take out the lighter.
And I don’t know what I’m going to do next, but I look at Mrs. Montgomery and . . . maybe part of me is hoping she’ll make this right. She’ll admit she was wrong. Instead, she glances from me to the lighter.
“You have no respect for yourself,” she says, her eyes narrowed. “At least have respect for your classmates.”
With a flash of anger followed by an eerie calm, I look directly at her. “That’s the thing, Mrs. Montgomery,” I say. “I’m doing this for all of us.”
I flick the lighter and hold the flame to the newspaper.