“Hey,” I say, sliding into my desk next to her.
“Hey,” she answers, and it’s very obvious we are both Not Talking About It. I’m disappointed she didn’t do it, and she’s probably disappointed in me for the opposite reason.
“I’m so tired,” she says, pushing out a little yawn. It’s forced and weird between us, like it almost never is.
“Yeah, I’m tired, too,” I say. “I didn’t really sleep well last night.” That’s the truth, actually. I spent most of the night in a half-awake, half-asleep state, hearing Bikini Kill songs in my head and imagining an army of girls in bathrobes, complete with curlers in their hair and wielding blow dryers as weapons.
Just then Sara files into class, and my heart leaps when I see she’s wearing this dark blue bathrobe with daisies on it that she’s had since we were in middle school.
“You did it!” I say, grinning. I don’t look at Claudia because I don’t have to. The disconnect between us is almost tangible.
“I decided at the last minute,” Sara says. “Kaitlyn did it, too. But not Meg.”
Claudia coughs a little and the bell rings. Mrs. Robbins walks in carrying a stack of papers—no doubt some brain-melting “graphic organizer” for us to fill out using our textbook while she stares at her computer screen. As she sets the papers down on her desk, she looks up at us for the first time and her eyes pop open like she’s finally awake.
“What’s going on here?” At least five other girls in the class are wearing bathrobes in addition to Sara and me. There’s tittering at Mrs. Robbins’s question, but nobody says anything. I stare down at my notebook, glad I’m in the back row.
When no one answers Mrs. Robbins’s question, she takes a step closer to us and peers carefully. “Are those … bathrobes? Did y’all not get dressed this morning?”
More giggles. Kate McGowan in the first row cracks a wide grin. She’s wearing an obnoxious plaid number that must belong to her father or older brother or something.
“Do you think this is funny, Miss McGowan?” Mrs. Robbins says. “Take that ridiculous bathrobe off right now.”
“Sure, no problem,” Kate says.
Kate has always been sort of a badass, talking back to teachers when they won’t let her go to the bathroom or get a drink of water. I’m not sure if she wore a bathrobe just to stir up trouble or if she honestly thinks the dress code is bullshit. But then she drops the bathrobe down to her waist.
Kate is wearing a bright red bikini top underneath.
“Miss McGowan!” Mrs. Robbins shouts, barely heard over the hoots and gasps coming from my classmates.
“See, Mrs. Robbins,” Kate says, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, “I wasn’t sure if I was following the East Rockport dress code because it’s so weird and unclear, you know? So I decided to be safe and cover myself with this bathrobe so as not to distract any of our precious male students.”
The class erupts into more hoots and laughter, and of course Mrs. Robbins has no choice but to make Kate put her bathrobe back on. By the time we all calm down Mrs. Robbins’s face is as red as Kate’s bikini top. She pinches her mouth up tight and passes out the graphic organizers, slamming Kate’s on her desk, and then demands that we work quietly and independently.
The entire time I fill in the meaningless and pointless exercise, I think about the Riot Grrrl Manifesto in my mom’s zine. It said girls are a revolutionary soul force that can change the world for real. My chest feels heavy with something that feels scary and good at the same time. I picture myself running up to Kate McGowan after class and telling her how cool she is. The urge is so strong that maybe I’ll actually do it.
But right now, there is one thing I can do for sure. In pencil, in the bottom right-hand corner of my desk, I carefully print the words MOXIE GIRLS FIGHT BACK. The letters are only half an inch or so high, but I trace them over and over until the tip of my pencil is dull. I smile approvingly at my artwork as the bell rings.
I hope a girl is sitting in this desk second period.
*
All day long girls walk around East Rockport in their bathrobes. Through the grapevine I hear of a few girls being forced to take them off in class, but they put them back on once they file out into the hallways. As we take our seats in English class, Lucy tells me that when her chem teacher asked her about it, she followed the script in Moxie.
“I just said I wanted to make sure I wasn’t in violation of the dress code, and I didn’t want to tempt any boys,” Lucy says, her eyes triumphant. “Mr. Carlson got so confused. It was hilarious.” She leans over the back of her desk as she turns to talk to me. “And do you know what? I’m pretty sure some girls brought their bathrobes to school and hid them in their lockers until they realized they wouldn’t be alone. I think we’ve doubled in number since this morning.”
I think Lucy’s right about some girls joining in late, but I don’t know if we’ve doubled in number. The bathrobe-wearing girls are still in the minority. But it’s not a tiny minority. It might be as high as 30 or 40 percent of all the girls in the school. And it’s not just one type of girl but all kinds. Jocks and loud girls and girls on the yearbook and quiet girls and black girls and white girls and brown girls.
Except for Emma Johnson. Not that girl. She walks in a minute or so before the bell and takes her seat, flipping her hair over her shoulder in her signature move, lining her pens and notebooks up on her desk. She’s wearing a blindingly white hoodie with the words EAST ROCKPORT CHEER stamped across the back in bright orange. When Mitchell walks in he pauses by her desk, leaning on it with his big hand that reminds me of a hunk of ham.
“You didn’t join the bathrobe brigade?” Mitchell asks.
Wow, Mitchell Wilson knows how to use the word brigade correctly. Shocking.
“No, I didn’t,” Emma says, peering up at Mitchell through her perfectly made-up eyes. “I’m not sure I understand it, to be honest.”
Of course you don’t. You would never get caught for dress-code violations because Principal Wilson knows his son has the hots for you so you’re, like, protected.
Instantly, I feel bad for thinking this. Emma is gorgeous and demure and all these other things I’m not, but she’s never been anything but nice to people. If anything, it just feels like she’s not one of us. Like she’s actually an actress on a television show about high school, and she’s twenty-five playing sixteen.
“Well, I’m glad you’re not wearing a bathrobe,” Mitchell says, raising one eyebrow, “because it would be a shame to cover you up.”
Oh gag me.
Emma pinks up a little but smiles carefully, then flips her hair over her shoulder again. The bell rings and Seth runs in after Mr. Davies, who starts in about being on time to class.