“Sorry,” Seth says, taking his seat, and my eardrums melt a little at the sound of his voice.
Mr. Davies ends up putting us into groups to go over comprehension questions for the short story we were supposed to have read last night. By some miracle, I get put in the same group as Seth, and when we begin the awkward process of dragging our desks into a circle, he catches my eye.
“Cool bathrobe,” he says to me.
“Thanks,” I answer, willing myself not to blush.
As we go over the questions Mr. Davies has written on the whiteboard, it strikes me that Seth is pretty smart. The story is Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery,” which I’ve read once before because my mom told me it was her favorite short story. Everyone in the group is saying how screwed up it is, but Seth says that’s the point.
“It’s about, like, realizing that just because something is a tradition, that doesn’t make it good,” he says.
I bite my bottom lip. I never talk in these things. But I want Seth to know I’m smart, too.
“Some people might say tradition is a good thing, though,” I offer, doodling a tiny circle over and over in the corner of my paper, not looking up. “Some people would argue that tradition is part of what holds us together as, you know, a community.”
The group is silent for a split second and then this boy, Peter Pratt, slides down into his desk and sighs.
“Who the fuck cares?” he says. “I just want the bell to ring so we can go to lunch.”
My cheeks flare up. I stare down at my turquoise bathrobe. “I guess I care,” I say. “It’s a story that makes you think is all.” I feel like I’m going to spontaneously combust out of embarrassment at that admission, but somehow I don’t die.
When I look back up, Peter Pratt shrugs and yawns. But Seth looks over at me and smiles. I smile back. My cheeks are still warm, but for a different reason now.
During lunch in the cafeteria, my friends and I talk about how many girls have bathrobes on but Claudia doesn’t say much. She just sips her Diet Coke and listens, her face still as Lucy prattles on about all the girls she knows who came to school wearing one.
At the end of the day, I find Claudia at her locker, shuffling through her binders, picking out the ones she needs to take home with her.
“Want to walk home with me?” I ask.
“Sure,” Claudia says, shutting her locker door carefully.
I want to make things feel nice between us. As a peace offering, I pull my bathrobe off and stuff it into my backpack. After all, the school day’s over. Claudia and I walk out the side entrance and head toward home.
“It’s so nice out,” she says.
“Yeah,” I answer. And it is. It’s a gorgeous early November afternoon, the Texas summer heat finally gone for good. The autumn sun—as much as we get autumn in this state—feels good on the back of my neck and my arms as Claudia and I trudge down the sidewalk.
“You know what?” Claudia says.
“What?”
“I didn’t have a single girl called out of my classes today for dress code. Did you?”
It hits me Claudia’s right. I can’t believe I’ve only just realized it. But it’s true.
“No,” I say, smiling. “I didn’t.”
“So maybe it worked,” Claudia says. “Maybe you were right to do it, and I was a chicken not to.”
“No,” I answer, shaking my head. “No, that’s not true.” But I think maybe it is. A little.
“I don’t know,” Claudia says. “Maybe it’s just that I was scared to get in trouble.”
“Maybe some things are worth getting in trouble over,” I offer.
“Maybe,” Claudia answers. I can tell she wants to say something else, but she’s picking her words. Finally they come out in a rush. “I don’t know if you would have done this bathrobe thing before Lucy got here.”
Her words sting enough that for a split second I want to tell her I’m the one who made Moxie. Instead I just shrug.
“I think I still would have, honestly,” I say. “But you can think what you want.” Once they’re out, my words sound harsh. I’m not used to talking like that to my best friend.
“Forget it,” Claudia says. “Forget I said anything.”
“Okay, let’s not worry about it, it’s over anyway,” I answer. Claudia’s house is coming up on the left. Make nice, make nice, make nice. I dig up some light chatter about stupid homework assignments to warm up the mood before we have to say goodbye. When we get to her driveway, she leans her head against my shoulder. I lean my head toward hers, catching a whiff of her strawberry-scented shampoo.
“Talk to you later?” she asks.
“Of course,” I answer. But as I walk off, leaving Claudia’s house behind, I find myself pulling out my phone to text Lucy.
Did any girls get pulled out of your classes for dress code? I type.
A few moments later she writes back.
No!!!!!!! Not a single one!
I can’t believe it worked
I know right? So awesome
Stopping under a big pecan tree, I grin at my phone and type out one more text.
MOXIE GIRLS FIGHT BACK!!!!!! I add a few heart emojis for good measure.
Lucy texts back right away.
MOXIE GIRLS KICK ASS AND TAKE NAMES!!!!!
I read the text and laugh out loud, standing there in the middle of the sidewalk.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It’s been three days since the bathrobe stunt, and not a single girl has been called out for dress-code violations since it happened. It’s gone down like this before—these weird, cavalier explosions of dress code “checks” on girls by the administration that evaporate into nothing after a few days—but I’d like to think Moxie had something to do with it this time. And that means that I had something to do with it because I started Moxie. Last night after I brushed my teeth and washed my face, I caught myself standing in front of the mirror for a full two minutes looking into my own dark eyes. I grasped my hair and pulled it up into a high ponytail. Squinting, I thought maybe I looked a little like Kathleen Hanna of Bikini Kill.
But by today’s Friday football pep rally, I’m beginning to feel like the whole thing was some sort of fantastical dream. The band plays the same songs. The cheerleaders do the same flips. The only thing that’s different this time is that if the Pirates lose the game tonight, they’re out of the playoffs.
“Wait, is that a freaking fog machine?” Sara asks as we sit down in our usual spot, high up and away from the action. All of us peer down at the billowing clouds of smoke enveloping the entrance where the football team is about to make their appearance.
“Oh my God, it is,” Claudia says, rolling her eyes. The pirate mascot is in a fancy new uniform, too, and there’s even someone dressed as a bobcat, representing the opposing team’s mascot. The pirate is pretending to slice the bobcat’s neck with a sword as the bobcat writhes around in mock terror. These aren’t Halloween costumes either, but full-on, college-level mascot gear.