“They’re back!” she shouts, almost collapsing into me, clutching a copy in her hands.
I yawn and blink. I made the fourth issue last night in an explosive rush of anger. By the time I got it all done and biked down to U COPY IT, it was almost 10:30 at night. My mom had been on an overnight shift, so I wasn’t worried about beating her home. Frank the copy guy insisted it was “the coolest issue yet” and I was on a high by the time I biked home, so nervous and hyper that I’d stayed awake until almost one in the morning, watching old Bikini Kill videos on YouTube and reading the fourth issue over and over. Each time Principal Wilson’s threats from the assembly started to worm through my mind, I played the next video even louder. The risks I’m taking with this issue—the chance that it could hurt Lucy, the chance I could get caught and be expelled—were ever present in my head as I cut and glued and folded. But I’m done with Principal Wilson. I’m done with East Rockport High School bullshit. No more fun and games.
“Yeah, I saw it, too,” I answer.
She flips the zine over and peers at the back, then opens it, her eyes scanning the words and images I carefully chose while listening to Bratmobile and Team Dresch.
“This issue is … I don’t know how to describe it. I think it’s more intense than before.”
“You think?” I ask, peering over Lucy’s shoulder like I’m taking it all in for the first time. But Lucy’s right. When I made this issue of Moxie, I felt rage coursing through me like steam. Like a venomous snake. And when I slipped on a hoodie this morning before distributing the copies, I felt like a soldier on a dangerous mission, determined to succeed no matter what. The anger was enough to make me almost forget what a treacherous position I was putting myself in. And Lucy.
“It’s much more aggressive, I think,” she says, her eyes still on the issue of Moxie. “Only there’s no call to action. No stickers or bathrobes or whatever. It’s just … angry.”
“Well,” I say, slamming my locker shut, “there’s a lot to be angry about.”
“Yeah, obviously,” Lucy answers, and we join the wave of students filing to class, their voices echoing off the walls and their shoes squeaking on the tiled floor. “You know, I’m wondering if that girl Marisela Perez made it.”
My eyebrows shoot up, and I immediately try to cover up how surprised I must appear.
“What makes you say that?” I ask.
“Remember that morning we saw her put her asshole sticker on Tim Fitzpatrick?” she asks. “She just seems like she’d have the guts to do this.”
“Huh,” I offer. “Yeah, well, she’s as good a guess as any.”
“I just hope I don’t get hauled into the principal’s office over it,” Lucy says, and my stomach knots up.
“There’s no way he can know who it is,” I say. “You just thought it was Marisela.”
“Yeah,” Lucy says, shrugging. “You’re right.” But I can tell she’s a little worried.
We part ways with promises to see each other in English class. I scan the halls for Seth’s face. After our conversation outside school yesterday morning, things have felt a little strange between us. A little awkward even. I’m not sure. I didn’t even tell him about this latest issue of Moxie. I’m worried about what it means that I didn’t feel the urge to share it with him.
*
That afternoon I head over to Meemaw and Grandpa’s for dinner. After some Stouffer’s mac and cheese and a salad of iceberg lettuce doused in ranch dressing, I join them in the TV room to work on my homework while they watch Wheel of Fortune. As I listen to Meemaw blurt out nonsensical answers (“The Nile River!” “Bridge on the River Kwai!” “‘Old Man River!’”), I let my thoughts drift back to the fall, back before Moxie started. When I started making the zine, I felt like I was cracking something open. Telling a secret that needed to be told. And for a while it was amazing. And then came Seth, who was—is—smart and cool and nice. That was great, too. But Moxie fell by the wayside.
But since March Madness started something has changed again. With this fourth Moxie zine, I’m itching for something but I’m not sure what.
“You okay, sweetie?” Meemaw asks during a commercial break, tilting her head a little in concern.
“How come you’re asking?”
“Well, for starters, you’ve been sitting there staring at the wall for the whole last round of the Wheel,” Grandpa offers. “You look as confused as a goat on Astroturf.”
I blush slightly and look down at my math spiral. I’m holding a pencil, but I’ve only done one problem.
“Just stuff on my mind,” I say. “Nothing serious.”
“Anything you want to talk about?” Meemaw asks. I think of trying to explain Moxie and Seth and March Madness to my grandmother. As much as I love her, I know she wouldn’t get it. Meemaw and Grandpa see the world one way. You go to church on Sunday, you don’t wear white after Labor Day, and you always say “Merry Christmas,” not “Happy Holidays.”
“I’m really fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just tired, I guess.”
Meemaw smiles back. This is an answer that makes sense to her, and it seems to reassure her and Grandpa. They go back to watching television, and I go back to trying to focus on my math until a few moments later when my phone buzzes.
Hey you mind if I come over later? Is your mom home?
Seth. I didn’t really speak to him much at school today. I know he saw the zine because he told me so after English. He said it was “cool,” and that it was “cool” that I was making Moxie again. But we didn’t really have a long conversation.
I text back that I’m at my grandparents’, but I’ll be home in a few minutes.
Cool, he writes back.
My heart starts to hammer. Is this Seth’s version of the “we need to talk” line that always comes before breakups in stupid rom coms and television sitcoms?
I tell Meemaw and Grandpa that I need to head home and give them each a kiss on the cheek. Grandpa walks me to the door and watches until I make it to our house.
“Love you!” he shouts.
“I love you, too, Grandpa!”
I sit in the living room so I can keep an eye out the front door. Seth knows to park down the street to avoid being spotted by my grandparents. When I catch a glimpse of him making his way down the sidewalk, his hands in his jeans pockets, his head bowed low, my first thought is He is so crazy cute. I watch as he slips through the alley between my house and our other next door neighbors’ before coming in through the back door, which I’ve already unlocked.
“Hey,” he says, sliding his hoodie off his shoulders. “I always feel like a secret agent when I sneak in like this.”
I grin. In truth I bet my mom already knows Seth comes by when she’s not here. But it’s just a little bit easier if we can keep Meemaw and Grandpa out of it.
“Sorry,” I say. “But you really don’t want my grandparents to see you. My grandpa owns a shotgun.”