The first thing off everyone’s lips will be Don’t you feel hot in that? “That” meaning my covered-from-head-to-toe self. They’ll act like their eyeballs will boil from the steam coming off me.
A kind, good-hearted person might be touched that people are being so empathetic to the personal weather condition of others, but the more I hear it, the more I fume. Thus, getting hotter. So I need to dress carefully today.
Tats says I wear too many layers, so I choose my thinnest shirt made out of T-shirt material. It’s weathered near the neckline, like worn enough to see my bra strap, so I yank it off and put a tank on underneath before putting it back on. The shirt also kind of goes up at one side, because it’s an asymmetrical cut, so I have to pull a short skirt over my jeans to cover the way it hugs my hips. With my scarf on, I realize that I’m layered again, and it’s all in black. I pick up my backpack and do a silent scream at the mirror.
I’m not like Fizz. As soon as summer comes around, her family whips out these loose cotton tunics in colorful designs that her grandma sends from abroad. Sure, they keep cool, but I don’t feel like looking like an exhibit at an international museum of exotica. I get called “exotic” enough at Fenway.
Fizz et al go to a Muslim high school. You’re allowed to look different there because, apparently, it’s a bastion of difference. They wear their hijabs in twenty-one different ways, according to Fizz. She wears the pull-on kind.
I have to wait until lunch to talk to Tats. We have a “temporary” cell phone ban currently at school due to some infringement of the rules by the regular ruffians, so now we all pay by being denied our civil right to text in the hallways. It’s supposedly temporary, but it lasts until school lets out next week. Collective punishment, anyone?
Ms. Keaton stops me as I’m leaving English to let me know that my final timed essay has to be on The Tempest. I asked her earlier if I could do any of the literary works we’d studied this year. “You can do Flannery O’Conner next year for your independent project.”
“Ms. Keaton, do you think Shakespeare demonized dark men by depicting Caliban in that way? A friend of mine thinks so.”
“There are diverse ways of reading texts, depending on who you are. We all access books differently.” She zips up her laptop case. “But it’s true: Sycorax, his mother, was of North African background.”
Mr. Ram must be concentrating on that part, while the only thing I see is that Caliban tried to assault Miranda.
? ? ?
In history, Mr. Pape does an interesting exam review period, where he puts the desks in a rectangular formation with one historical war image on each desk. We have to discuss among ourselves and put the images in an agreed timeline order. Then we’re to stand behind an image of our choice and talk briefly about the topics the picture triggers in us. I stand behind the image of the woman in the war effort poster, raising her fist. We Can Do It! I’m sure I can talk about the way things changed for women during both world wars.
Lauren Bristol is beside me, behind the image of the mushroom cloud after the bombing of Hiroshima. She’s been in my classes since I moved here but never says anything more than hi to me. She travels in the upper echelons of Fenway High, and getting a hi from up there is good enough.
“Discuss with the person next to you what you’re going to say,” Mr. Pape says. “Take three minutes.”
Lauren looks to her left side and then at me and turns to choose me. I glance at who she gave up as a partner. Sandra, Ms. Kolbinsky’s granddaughter, who people call Mustache because of a port-wine stain birthmark under her nose. I was friends with her in middle school, but then she changed, and by the end of freshman year, she turned quiet, almost mute.
The guy at my right has already chosen his friend next to him, so I turn to Lauren. Sandra leans against the wall, partnerless. Mr. Pape heads our way.
“Janna, Lauren, make a group of three with Sandra.” He motions for Sandra to join us.
After he leaves, Lauren turns her back on Sandra again and faces me. “So, what are you going to say?”
“That the Second World War, like the First, resulted in a lot of changes for women,” I say, leaning out to address Sandra, too, who is slumped on the wall once more. “Because women were seen as being valuable to war efforts, and they kept things going with the industries back home.”
“Okay, and my picture reminds me that no one thinks about the tragedy that results when places are bombed,” Lauren says. “This image reminds me of the human costs of war and why no one has ever used nuclear weapons again. We’re done.”
I look at Sandra, who’s standing by the picture of the naked girl running after being burned by napalm in the Vietnam War.
“Sandra? Your turn,” I say.
Lauren stares at me and excuses herself. She stops to talk to Mr. Pape and heads out of the classroom.
“This picture reminds me of why war sucks,” Sandra says, watching Lauren leave.
“I heard the girl in this picture lives in Canada,” I say. “Well, she’s a woman now.”
“She’s okay?” Sandra asks. “I thought she’d died.”
“She’s a spokesperson for peace or something.”
“That’s cool,” Sandra says. “Okay, so this picture reminds me of why it’s important to work for peace.”
I smile at her just as Lauren rejoins us. “Sorry, had to take a bathroom break. My hair.”
Her hair looks exactly the same as when she left: straight, dark and shiny, parted perfectly to showcase her profile.
Mr. Pape calls us to attention and starts the timeline presentations from my far right.
Lauren leans over to me. “She feels herself. In class.”
“Who?”
“Mustache. I’ve seen it.”
I’m quiet for a minute, pretending I’m listening to Mike talk about the development of cannons. “In this class? Because I haven’t seen it.”
Lauren straightens up. She doesn’t say anything again.
? ? ?
Sandra follows me out to the cafeteria after history. It’s sophomore lunch, and the halls are mostly empty.
“You know, your grandma wants to go to the games club at the community center really badly,” I tell her.
“Yeah, but my mom’s too tired to look into it. She works two jobs.”
“Can you get your grandma to sign the forms? You can fill out the rest yourself.”
“You have them?”
“I’ll get them to you tomorrow.” I make a mental note to add it to my agenda. “She’s hilarious, your grandma. She likes Mr. Ram and doesn’t hide it.”
Sandra laughs as we enter the cafeteria. Tats waves me over.
I walk to our table in the corner, beside the entrance to the serving line. When I look back, Sandra is not behind me but sitting on the steps leading into the cafeteria pit, unwrapping a sandwich. Something tugs at me.
“Mind if Sandra sits with us?” I ask before I can stop my mouth that has a direct line to my heart.
“Why?” Tats says. “I thought we were going to talk.”
Jeremy and Janna, my brain says.
The way Sandra slumped on the wall in history, like it was normal to be ignored, that’s what gets me.