“Hey,” Sara says, sitting down. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper. Nobody knows what to say. Sara puts her paper bag lunch on the table, opens it, and pulls out a carton of chocolate milk. Then a shaky exhale slips through her lips and her eyes tear up.
“Sorry,” she says. “I had to change. Mr. Klein was so rude about it. He accused me of wearing an outfit that could distract the boys.” The tears reach the edges of her eyes and one blink is all it takes to make them spill over. Meg, Kaitlyn, Claudia, and I begin a chorus of “I’m sorry”s and Meg reaches over to squeeze Sara’s shoulders. But Lucy just slams her hands down on the cafeteria table so loudly we jump.
“This is bullshit,” she says, and none of us respond. We just stare at Lucy as Sara wipes her eyes with a napkin.
“I mean it,” Lucy continues. “It is. Making girls monitor their behavior and their appearance because boys are supposedly unable to control themselves? That is one of the oldest fucking tricks in the book.” She falls back against her chair as though she’s worn out. The other girls are staring at her, almost a little nervous, but I’m hanging on every word. Lucy’s little speech sounded like it could have come out of one of my mom’s zines. It’s exhilarating.
“At my old school in Houston, the administration never could have gotten away with this shit without a fight,” she continues. “The girls in my GRIT club would have found some way to fight back.”
“I know, Lucy, but this isn’t Houston,” Claudia answers, and there’s something just under the surface of her voice. Annoyance, maybe? Frustration?
“Trust me, I know this place isn’t Houston,” Lucy responds. She puffs up her cheeks and then exhales loudly, angrily. I tense up, anxious that my best friend and my new friend are upset with each other and unsure what I should do about it.
“Hey, look, I just want to forget about it and eat my lunch,” Sara says, opening up her milk carton. “Can we please change the subject?”
“Of course,” Claudia says, and she glances at Lucy with watchful eyes. Lucy doesn’t say anything else after that. She just sits there, her chin in her hands, her eyes scanning the cafeteria and all the East Rockport cliques, resting on the girls who are dressed in bright orange gym shirts like Sara. Girls of every color and from every kind of group are scattered around the cafeteria like hazard signs, impossible to miss. Sara and the other girls start chatting about mostly benign stuff like how hard the math quiz was and would the deejay at the Fall Fling be better than the deejay at the Homecoming dance and so on. By the time the bell rings, Lucy hasn’t taken a bite from her Tupperware container full of leftovers. I glance down at my lunch. I have’t eaten much either.
“You’re not hungry?” I ask her.
“No,” says Lucy. “I lost my appetite. I’ll see y’all later.” And with that, she scoots her chair back loudly, gets up from our table, and heads for the exit, her head down. I resist the urge to follow her. To ask her more about what the GRIT girls of Houston would have done to fight these dress code checks. Lucy doesn’t seem like she’s in the mood to talk much to anyone, not even me.
CHAPTER NINE
The dress code checks go on all week, and I find myself wearing my biggest, baggiest shirts and sloppiest jeans to avoid getting called out in front of everyone. Each time a girl has to stand up in front of the room for inspection, I find myself sinking deeper into my desk. On Wednesday morning, after we recite the Pledge of Allegiance and the Texas Pledge, Principal Wilson’s pinched twang cuts into second period announcements.
“You may have noticed we’ve put an emphasis on dress code this week, and we hope y’all will adhere to the rules and regulations detailed in the student handbook about modesty and proper dress.” As he speaks, I notice a few girls near me roll their eyes at each other. I glance at my shoes and grin. Principal Wilson keeps talking.
“Please remember that when you get dressed in the morning, you’re coming to a learning environment, and we expect you to be dressed as a student, not a distraction. Ladies, I’m especially asking you to keep tabs on your outfits and remember that modesty is a virtue that never goes out of style. Now here’s Assistant Principal Kessler with the rest of this morning’s announcements.”
Modesty is a virtue that never goes out of style! What a bastard! I can’t help myself. Glancing up to make sure the teacher isn’t paying attention, I lean over to the rolling-eye girls—Marisela Perez and Julia Rivera—and whisper, “Have you ever noticed he never goes after the guys wearing those gross shirts about sex?”
Marisela nods furiously. “I know, right?” She doesn’t whisper. Her voice is loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Ladies,” the teacher drones from his desk, “please listen to the announcements.”
Marisela waits a beat until the teacher checks out again. “And have you noticed,” she says in a softer voice, “that the dress code doesn’t even have anything specific in it about how you should dress? It’s, like, super vague.”
“That’s why they can enforce it however they want,” Julia chimes in.
I never thought of that. I scowl and Marisela scowls and Julia scowls, and even though I’m still mad, this tiny little moment between the three of us buoys me. It keeps me afloat until Mr. Shelly appears at our classroom door and Marisela is hauled out for the length of her shorts.
As Marisela makes it to the door, she pauses, turns, and looks at the rest of us.
“If I never make it back, tell my mother I love her.” Then she holds her wrists in front of her face like she’s expecting Mr. Shelly to slap handcuffs on her.
We all crack up except for Mr. Shelly.
“That’s enough, Miss Perez,” he tells her, ushering her down the hallway.
Marisela’s act of insurrection—however tiny—sets something off inside of me. That little fire that was lit when I made the first issue of Moxie feels like it’s getting stoked again. When I get to English class, it burns even more strongly because Lucy’s hands are covered in fresh stars and hearts, intricately drawn with green ink.
“Hey,” I say, nodding at her drawings. “What gives?”
Lucy lets one fingertip glide over her graffiti. “I don’t know,” she says. “I guess I was feeling pissed about everything with the dress code checks and Sara and this place in general. I thought maybe this would be some sign to whoever created that issue of Moxie that there are some of us that really believe in what they’re saying. I mean, I don’t know if we’ll ever hear from them again, but doing this at least makes me feel better.” She looks at me, her face open and vulnerable. “Do you think that’s dumb?”
I stare at Lucy’s hands. “I don’t think it’s dumb at all,” I tell her. “I totally get it.” The fire inside me is growing by the moment. I feel warm from the inside out.
“Thanks, Viv,” Lucy says, a smile breaking across her face.
“And I think it’s really cool,” I add.