It’s super likely that Jana is so high right now she doesn’t know what she’s wearing. She peers down and blinks hard once, then twice, at her black top pulled lazily over her boy jeans hanging low on her thin hips.
“Um, they’re … straps?” Jana says. There’s the tiniest ripple of giggling. I’m wondering when Mr. Shelly is going to clue in that the bong rips Jana did in her pickup before school are a larger concern than her outfit, but he doesn’t.
“Jana, come with me. We need to get you changed.”
“They’re about to take a quiz,” Mrs. Robbins says.
“I’ll have her back in a jif,” Mr. Shelly insists, and soon Jana is making her way out of the classroom and Mrs. Robbins is handing out the quiz, which she clearly printed off the Internet, and probably this morning, too. At least it’s easy. But Jana never does come back.
All throughout our morning classes, girls get pulled out by administrators. Sometimes it’s Mr. Shelly who does it and sometimes it’s other assistant principals and counselors. In my second period math class, Jasmine Stewart and Kelly Chen get pulled out for their pants being too tight even though they don’t seem extra tight to me. In fourth period chem, Carly Sanders gets told her shirt is inappropriate. It’s just a T-shirt with a scoop neck, but maybe the fact that Carly’s boobs aren’t the smallest in the school have something to do with it.
I glance down at my boring jeans and plain gray T-shirt. Each time a girl has been called out by an administrator, she’s been forced to stand up like some doll on display as the administrator scans her carefully. When Kelly Chen had to stand in math class, her cheeks pinked up so quickly that I felt myself blushing out of sympathy. I’d rather die than have the whole class’s eyes on me analyzing my clothes and body.
When I walk into English, I see two girls in the back row practically drowning in oversized East Rockport High School gym gear. The bright-orange-and-white shirts drape almost to their knees, and one of them tugs at the collar like it itches. That must be the clothes that girls who break the rules have to change into.
“What the hell is going on?” Lucy asks as I slide into the seat behind her.
“With what?”
“With the Hester Prynnes over there,” she says, nodding her chin toward the back row. “You know, those weird dress code checks.”
“Who knows,” I answer. “The administration gets all excited about the dress code every once in a while.”
“It seems totally arbitrary,” Lucy says, but I don’t get to answer her because the bell rings, and Seth Acosta walks in. I watch as he makes his way to his seat, wondering if he’ll acknowledge our conversation this morning, but he doesn’t. Mitchell Wilson and his crew crowd through the door a few minutes late, but of course Mr. Davies doesn’t say anything to them.
Then a soft, sweet voice rings out from the doorway.
“Mr. Davies, sorry to interrupt, but I got a schedule change into this class?”
The boys in the back hoot a little as Emma Johnson saunters over to Mr. Davies and hands him a pink slip of paper. She slides into her seat like a bird to its nest, delicate and lovely, each movement perfectly coordinated. She ignores the hoots of Mitchell and his friends until the last possible second, when she flips her honey-colored hair over her shoulder and gives them one of those looks Emma Johnson has been giving to boys since we were in the fifth grade. A look that seems irritated and inviting at the same time. I’ve always wondered how she pulls it off.
Emma lives what Meemaw would refer to as a charmed life. Beautiful, popular, good student, richer than most, head cheerleader, and actually fairly nice if you talk to her, which I estimate I’ve done five times in my entire life. Girls like Emma Johnson are supposed to be nasty and snooty, but Emma isn’t like that. Not really. She holds herself like a politician running for office, which makes sense considering she’s class vice president. She’s careful. Mature. Goal-oriented. Once in ninth grade Real Life class—which was this class where we were supposed to learn stuff like how to balance a checkbook, but mostly we just watched public service announcements about the dangers of crystal meth—I spotted Emma working on her résumé. In the ninth grade.
As Emma settles herself in, I glance sideways at Seth Acosta to see if he’s noticed her. I can’t help myself. After all, she’s gorgeous by anyone’s standards.
But Seth is glancing at me.
I raise my eyebrows a little out of shock or terror or delight and then Seth glances back down at his desk.
God, I’m an idiot.
He doesn’t look at me for the rest of the class.
After the bell rings, Lucy and I head down to the cafeteria to meet up with Claudia and the other girls. Lucy is still on a tear about the dress code checks.
“This whole thing is just so gross and sexist,” she says, her angry pace of walking so quick I have to double-time my own steps to keep up despite my long legs. We pause only so we can get our lunches out of our lockers. Then Lucy starts up again. “I mean, it’s totally random. These girls have to stand up and allow themselves to be looked at and endure this … like … public shaming.” She spits out the last word.
“I know, it’s gross,” I answer, waving to Claudia, who is waiting for us near the entrance to the cafeteria.
“So this has happened before?” Lucy asks.
“Yeah, a couple of times last year. Whenever the administration decides we’re falling out of line in terms of our clothes or whatever.”
“But that asshole Jason whatever-his-name-is is allowed to wear insulting T-shirts every day of the week, yeah?”
I don’t have to answer because she already knows what I would say.
When Claudia joins us at the door, she leans in close, her expression muted. “Y’all, Sara is really upset.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Just now in French class,” Claudia explains. “Mr. Klein came in and busted her for her top.”
“But she was in first period with us!” I’m confused. “Why didn’t she get busted then if they were going to bust her?”
“Why bust her at all?” Lucy says, her voice rising.
We take our seats with Kaitlyn and Meg and a few other girls as Claudia explains how horrible it was when Mr. Klein made Sara get up in front of the entire class. “He told her top was inappropriate and she should have known better,” Claudia says. “He really laid into her.”
“It’s because she has biggish boobs,” Meg says under her breath. “Like you can control that.”
Just then we spot Sara coming toward us, dressed in an ugly-as-sin East Rockport gym shirt that’s way too big. Grass and dirt stains as old as the school are embedded into the orange fabric.