I was stunned.
“Does that mean you fired Mr. E.? Dr. Graff, he didn’t do anything wrong. He’s a victim too. Maybe Park Prep could issue a statement on his behalf and—”
Dr. Graff shook her head. “I don’t believe that’s wise at the moment, Kyle. Truthfully, it’s best to draw as little attention to this as possible. Mrs. Cheng, believe me when I say that no one cares about the reputation of Parkside Preparatory or its students more than I do. But sadly, as most schools are learning through one painful example after another, when it comes to online vileness like this, our hands are frustratingly tied.”
Final bell.
I’d made it. School was finito. Maybe the girls had been conspicuously absent from all our between-classes gossip spots. And maybe Mac hadn’t used the lav pass in AP Calc to come visit me in lunch. But now it was time for the good stuff, namely Park Prep’s Community Club’s pre–holiday party gift-wrapping session.
Say that one time fast.
Tomorrow afternoon, Christmas Eve, we were throwing a party for families from a women-and-children’s shelter in South Slope. Today was the gift-wrapping bonanza. We’d been fund-raising since September. The kids were going to leave with more presents than they could carry. The moms would go home with new clothes and coats and, most important—thank you, Swiped Tech on Fifth—a solar Doc-lite. Meaning their kids’ current situation wouldn’t force them to fall behind on the latest tech, and hopefully ensuring they’d still be in the running for a quality future.
Every year, Mr. Hugh, the AP Government teacher, dressed up as Santa Claus. And for the past three years, I’d dressed up as Mrs. Claus. I’d been looking forward to this since the previous year’s party ended.
I breezed into the library, my arms filled with shopping bags I’d wrestled out of my cubby. Last week I’d convinced a card store on Seventh Ave. to donate fifty rolls of wrapping paper and nearly a bushel of ribbons and bows. I couldn’t wait to see the kids’ faces when they got a load of their fancy swag bags.
“Hey, everyone.”
I set down the bags. The library was empty.
Ms. Tompkins, the librarian, came over with a garbled cry of distress.
Thanks to Dad, I had an affinity for librarians in general, but I loved Ms. Tompkins in particular. She sat alone in a tiny room that looked across the hall at where the old library used to be before it was turned into a student café. She also geeked out over the Suicide Games series and gave all-caps GREAT e-book recommendations that my suggested-likes lists had never even heard of. And she always bought cookies for our Community Club meetings.
“Brittany asked me to tell you that they’re wrapping presents in Mr. Hugh’s classroom.”
Brittany was the vice to my presidency. She was a know-it-all junior who I might have admired for her overabundance of well-meaning if she weren’t so utterly lacking in imagination. We got along fine as long as we worked on entirely separate projects. Suffice to say, we had not run on the same ticket.
“Okay.” I started to collect bags. “Thanks.”
“Wait.” Ms. Tompkins held me back. “Kyle, she also wanted me to tell you…they’re impeaching you.”
I laughed. “What?”
“They have Dr. Graff’s approval. Brittany’s going to be interim president.”
There were a thousand things I wanted to say, like how this fall when I told the group I wanted to tackle a major community-wide project before I graduated, Vice President Brittany Mulligan’s best idea was sticking dog-waste bags onto every garbage can in Park Slope—i.e., Brittany Mulligan thought dog poop was our community’s biggest issue. Not to mention she nearly failed algebra freshman year and her voice had more whine in it than Uncorked on Fourth Ave. How was she going to stretch the budget? How was she going to convince local businesses to donate nearly all our supplies? Have I mentioned she thought dog poop was Brooklyn’s biggest problem?
The rest of what I wanted to say was curse words.
I managed a shrug.
“Good prep for politics, huh? I’ll just do the behind-the-scenes stuff.”
Ms. Tompkins was staring at me like I’d just told her I’d never read the Narnia books. Sympathy mixed with remorse mixed with awkward.
“Oh.” Even I could hear the awful hurt surprise in my voice. “I’m, like, totally out. But I started the Community Club. I’m not even allowed to go to the party?”
She gave the barest shake of her head, no.
“But who will be Mrs. Claus?”
I knew from Ms. Tompkins’s expression exactly who was going to be Mrs. Claus. I set the bags back down, redid my ponytail, and tried to tell myself that the important thing was that the party was still happening.
“Kyle, I’m so sorry.” Ms. Tompkins squeezed my arm. “For the record, I told them I disagreed with their decision. Especially considering how much time you put into the club. If it makes you feel better, I didn’t let them take the cookies.”
Her gaze flicked to the door. I turned in time to see Brittany backing out of the room, her eyes wide with horror, trying to make a silent escape.
“Oh, hi, Kyle.” Brittany bumped into the door frame, then rubbed her elbow. “Sorry to interrupt. Just came to see if you’d brought, well, those yet.”
She reached toward the shopping bags that were still sitting at my feet. The shopping bags full of lovely free goodies that I’d scored for the kids. I stepped in front of them. Brittany stepped back.
“You know,” I said, “the Community Club bylaws state that you can’t just decide to impeach a person. You have to have a two-thirds vote, otherwise it isn’t legal even if Dr. Graff gives her approval. I should know, seeing as I wrote them. The whole point of Community Club is that we’re student-run, Brittany.”
“I know what the point of Community Club is, Kyle. You remind me of it every week. And for some of us, excessive dog waste is important, okay? Have you tried running in the park lately?”
“Girls,” Ms. Tompkins warned.
But Brittany was on a roll.
“And for the record,” she continued, “you can contest it if you want, but I have a two-thirds vote. Or I will. Because maybe you get things done, but you’re pushy and impatient and there are nice ways to say your opinion, you know. I’d rather get nothing done but know that people like me than solve every problem in Brooklyn and have people think I’m a BTCH.”
As soon as she finished speaking, her lower lip began to wobble. She inched toward Ms. Tompkins for safety. As if I might physically hurt her. Why use violence when I had words? Ms. Tompkins was too stunned to say anything. I wasn’t.
“Congratulations, Brittany. With one speech you set the women’s movement back a hundred and fifty years.”