by Bridget Farr
Suddenly Jamiya is by my side, sweat beading on her forehead. “I had to sprint to get over here,” she says as she fans the bottom of her T-shirt. “Look at the turnout.” The large crowd outside the library door churns, the energy buzzing as they wait for the signal. “Are you ready?”
I don’t know. Maybe you’re never ready when you’re about to be brave. Maybe Amelia Earhart just got in the cockpit and started the engine, not worried about what would happen next. Rosa Parks sat down on the bus knowing she wasn’t going to get up. Maybe you just do it anyway.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask as someone pushes me toward the library doors.
Jamiya laughs. “It’s a little late now.” She sets her backpack on the floor and pulls out a stack of posters. “Here,” she says, handing a few to the kids in the crowd.
“I’m just asking because of what Daniela said yesterday, about how I’m probably not going to get in trouble, but you guys are, you and Gloria, because—”
“Because I’m Black and Gloria’s Latina?” Jamiya hands another poster to a boy wearing a homemade “Dress Code Sucks” T-shirt.
“Yeah…”
Jamiya smirks, passing out her last extra sign. “Of course that’s true. That’s not just a dress code thing.”
Suddenly, Gloria’s full voice shouts, “Hey, hey, ho, ho, this sexist dress code has got to go!” That was number two on the list of chants, but okay. Here we go!
“I’m just worried—”
“No time for that now, Margie,” Jamiya says as she hoists her poster above her head. “I make my own choices. Let’s go!”
I unbutton the last button of my cardigan, ripping it off my shoulders and tying it around my waist, which looks tacky but there’s no other place to put it. I really don’t want to trample it; it’s a nice sweater. Jamiya hands me a stack of posters to pass out. A ton of kids are already holding signs or screaming—maybe fifty, maybe a hundred—but maybe it only feels that way because we’re all so close together in the hallway. Are more protesters somewhere else? I catch Gloria’s eye, and she winks before descending the stairs.
“Hey, hey,” I shout as I begin handing out Jamiya’s posters to anyone who will take one. Someone pulls a poster out of my hand so hard that it cuts my palm. I ignore it, keeping the last poster for myself, and follow the group.
“We are not a distraction! We are not a distraction!” we chant, with the few boys beside me hollering, “I am not distracted!”
We turn down the hallway toward the science labs. “This is so awesome,” someone shouts, then there’s Xavier running up to me. He’s made his own T-shirt with “I’m not distracted.”
“You made a shirt?”
He nods. “My mom bought me some stuff at Walmart last night.” I smile and cup my hands over my mouth as I chant.
After ten minutes my voice is hoarse from shouting, and my arms are bruised from being banged back and forth by students darting through the crowd as we march. I feel exactly like I do after a day spent at the beach: thrilled to have had the best day ever but also dried out, as if all my energy was left in the water. I raise my fist above the black-haired girl in front of me and part of me thinks, I wish I had a Popsicle right now. And equality.
We turn the corner near the main office, and all the secretaries stare at us through the windows, the phones pressed to their ears momentarily forgotten. Teachers are stationed alongside the walls as we march. Mr. Shao leans against the stairs as if he’s watching golf or some other incredibly boring sport. He doesn’t seem to realize what’s happening. We’re taking over the school right now, and I think I saw him yawn.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The intercom bursts into sound, and even though we keep marching and some kids keep cheering, we all sense it. A girl beside me screams, “I am not a distraction” right in my ear, and I want to tell her “shh,” so I can hear the announcement, but I don’t.
“Live Oak students. This is your principal, Mr. Franklin. It is time for all students to return to their classes. I repeat, all students must return to their classes. Students who do not immediately return to their classes will receive disciplinary consequences. Teachers and staff, please help escort students to their assigned rooms.”
A few students—the ones like me, who usually follow the rules and never get in trouble—start looking at the adults on the sidelines. But we don’t stop. We don’t follow the rules today. We keep marching. We keep shouting, and it feels the same as it did when I was with Dad at the Women’s March, all those women and all those people on the streets. It’s different this time since I’m not doing it because someone else told me to. I’m not just the cute kid to take a picture of as a hoped-for future leader. We are the leaders. Now. Today. Not in the future. Not in twenty years. We, the girls of Live Oak Middle School, are changing our world. One dress code policy at a time.
I wish my mom could see me. I know she would be proud.
“Okay, okay, let’s go. You heard Principal Franklin,” a teacher in a purple dress shouts as she claps her hands at us. The crowd ignores her, even as other teachers push closer to us from the edge of the hallways, like the squeezing walls in one of Dad’s old adventure movies. My heart is still pounding, the chants fresh on my lips, but I can feel the tug of exhaustion creeping in.
“I am not a distraction!” I shout, and when a classroom door beside us opens, a few kids go in. Up ahead, one of the assistant principals, Mr. Vargas, barks into a headset.
“I am not a distraction!” I shout again, looking down at my T-shirt to give myself an extra dose of courage. I’m not ready to be finished.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The intercom again. Mr. Franklin: “All students must be in a classroom in the next two minutes or they will receive in-school suspension for disruption and insubordination. Teachers, please escort students to the nearest classroom, even if it is not their assigned room.”
Mr. Vargas steps forward. He’s so close that I can see the tiny basketballs embroidered on his tie. Most people have stopped chanting now, and we’re beginning to disperse, like dandelion seeds blown from the stem. All around me kids are turning and walking in opposite directions. I’ve lost Jamiya in the crowd, but she should be heading to the eighth-grade building anyway.
“You have one minute,” Mr. Vargas calls, and the other teachers stationed in the hall repeat him like an echo in a cavern. “One minute!”
I guess it’s done, though it feels strange to just walk back to class. Regardless, I have a long way to go to get to Ms. Anthony’s room so I start walking faster, suddenly more afraid, but also excited—a true solution, not a mixture, where you can’t tell the different emotions apart. The hallways are almost empty now, but I still have half a hallway and a set of stairs to go.
Beep. Beep. Beep. “All students still in the hallway will be escorted to in-school suspension to be processed. Available teachers and staff, please escort all students to the in-school suspension room now.”
I decide to run. Yes, I’ve been in ISS before, but for stupid dress code, not for “disruption” and “insubordination”! My shoes clatter as I sprint down the hall. I can see the bottom of the staircase, the portal to freedom, and then—
Ms. Scott is waiting with her hands on her hips, her bun even higher on her head. “Have you enjoyed your little adventure?” she asks with the terrifying smile of the villain in every movie ever.
“I’m going to class.”
“You heard Mr. Franklin’s announcement. All students still in the hallway must be escorted to ISS.”
Down the hall I can hear someone arguing with an adult, shouting and scuffling. Even Ms. Scott looks, and there she is, Gloria, wearing jean shorts and her own homemade T-shirt. It’s tied up in a knot on the side, and a glimpse of her stomach shows when she lifts her arms.
“I know! I’m going! You don’t have to keep telling me,” Gloria says, shrugging off the three adults following her down the hall. We watch the group turn the corner, and a weight drops into my stomach
. I wonder how many other kids didn’t make it to their classrooms and are now getting escorted to ISS, where Ms. Padilla waits to call their families.
Ms. Scott smirks. “Actions have consequences.”
I await my punishment, knowing freedom is only a flight of stairs away. Daniela is safe in Ms. Anthony’s classroom. I wonder what she knows already. What she’s heard. Has she seen any of the posts on someone else’s phone?
Ms. Scott assesses me, her arms folded tight across her chest.
“I suggest you get to class as fast as possible.”
“Thank you!” I say before realizing Daniela was right. My stomach clenches. I’m not getting in trouble, but Gloria is. Just as I reach the first set of stairs, Ms. Scott stops me, her eyes gesturing to my Live Oak Code Breakers shirt.
“I suggest you put on that sweater. Your demonstration is over.”
She smiles one more time, a smile that makes me wish for spinach in her teeth. I run up the stairs, not waiting for her to change her mind.
Chapter 22
Ms. Anthony is showing a documentary about women in the media, but no one is watching. Not even her. I doubt anyone is trying to teach after the protest. We only have ten minutes left in the class period anyway. Ms. Anthony tries to keep us off our phones, moving to squash any screen that lights up the dark classroom, but it’s too late. The videos are already posted on Instagram and YouTube, probably even Bubble. I’m grateful for the quiet since I can’t imagine answering discussion questions when my heart is still pounding this fast.
Daniela hasn’t said a word to me since I slunk back into Ms. Anthony’s room. I keep waiting for her to ask a question or reach over and squeeze my hand, but she’s staring at the screen as if it’s the most important thing in her life.
“Do you know if Jamiya…,” I ask in a whisper, roasting now under my cardigan, which is back on but still unbuttoned. “She hasn’t responded to my text.”
Daniela shakes her head, not even looking my way.
“I think Gloria might have gotten in trouble.”
That spins her around. “Told you that was gonna happen.”
I button my sweater, getting the buttons mismatched at first. “I don’t know for sure.”
Daniela shrugs, her eyes back on the screen.
“Ms. Scott stopped me on my way up here, but she let me go.”
“Different girls. Different consequences,” Daniela says with a look like I’m a fifth grader again, someone who doesn’t know the basics of life.
“But lots of kids participated.”
“Great.”
“Can you stop doing that?”
“Stop doing what?”
I can feel the fire moving to my cheeks. “Stop being a jerk. You’re the one who didn’t want to be a part of the protest, and now you can’t say anything nice about the fact that we just ran a huge school-wide walkout to change the dress code?”
“What do you want, Margie? Balloons?”
“You’re just mad that you were too scared to participate. The protest was amazing and you missed it. You said it was Quiz Bowl, but we both know the Kings aren’t going to let you play. They don’t need you.”
Her mouth drops open, and I wish I could pull the words back, but they’re already speeding away like the rapidly expanding universe.
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t bother.” Daniela turns in her chair, and even though she’s close enough that I can smell her lavender laundry detergent, my best friend couldn’t feel farther away.
The Kings might not need Daniela, but I do.
Where are you? I text as I run across the street, certain I’m going to crash into a kid or a car with my eyes glued to the screen. With all after school activities canceled—including Quiz Bowl—I only have a few minutes before the buses leave, but I have to see Gloria before I head home. My backpack pounds against my body as I jump the curb and race toward the 7-Eleven. I check my phone as I pull open the doors, jumping back to get out of the way of three eighth-grade boys carrying out an armload of soda and chips.
7-11, Gloria finally texts back. I roll my eyes. I knew that.
I’m in the middle of writing “where” when she calls my name. Gloria waves me over to the cooler.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “I saw you with those teachers. Did you get suspended?”
Gloria smirks as she holds up her fingers. “Three days.”
“No! I’m so sorry!”
“I’m not,” she says, grabbing a soda. “I’ve gotten in trouble at this school enough times for no reason, por estar parada allí no más, so at least this time it was for something real. Do you want one?”
“Gracias,” I say, and she grabs another bottle. She hands it to me and opens hers, taking a huge drink.
“Are your parents going to be mad?” I ask, still not sure whether I’ll tell Dad. Since Ms. Scott let me go, I have the luxury of not having to tell him.
“My mom has bigger things to worry about right now,” Gloria says. “She’s not going to be happy, but honestly, vale la pena. We finally got to say something about the way this school treats us.”
She pauses. “Did you get caught? I saw you with that teacher.”
Shame floods my veins. “No, she let me go.”
“Como la Rosa de Guadalupe, tienes suerte.” I’m not sure Daniela would call it luck. She doesn’t look upset, not like Daniela, but I can feel my cheeks burning again. Gloria grabs me around the shoulder, laughing. “Cálmate, chica, that’s a good thing. Now you don’t have to spend the day in stupid ISS.”
“Do you know anyone else who got suspended? I haven’t heard from Jamiya.” I follow Gloria to the checkout. She drums her fingers on her soda bottle.
“I didn’t see her. There were a couple kids, mostly girls, but I don’t know how many of them will get actual referrals. Some kids just got talked to and sent back to class.”
“Really? But not you?”
“I ran my mouth, so como te dije…” Gloria splays her hands as if three days of suspension were the logical conclusion.
“This school is so unfair.”
“But maybe that’s changing.” Gloria sets her soda on the counter. “I got yours. Don’t you have to catch the bus?”
I look out the window to see the first bus pulling out of the driveway.
“Yeah, I should go,” I say, and she shoves my soda at me, laughing.
“We did it, Margie,” she calls as I race toward the door. “¡Disfrútalo!”
Chapter 23
Dad is washing windows when I get home. At four o’clock on a Tuesday, he is not in his fancy downtown office, but here. Cleaning. This cannot be good.
“You’re home early,” he says as he spritzes the glass panes in the dining room.
I could say the same about you.
“Clubs were canceled.”
“Right. For the protest. I got another automated message from your school about the walkout.”
I slink past him toward the kitchen and hear his footsteps behind me. I yank on the fridge door and look at all the Tupperware containers full of leftovers and no good snacks. I open and close the veggie drawer looking for something other than an onion and finally settle on some blueberry yogurt. Dad moves around me, spraying the window above our sink, whistling while he dries it with a paper towel. He never whistles.
“Dad,” I complain, and he shrugs. “You know what you’re doing.”
“I’m just taking advantage of my early afternoon to wash some windows.”
“You didn’t leave work to clean house. You came home early because you knew there were no after school clubs,” I say as I take a seat at the counter.
“And there was a school-wide protest that my daughter had something to do with.”
I freeze, my heart launching into my throat. “Who told you?”
Dad eyes me across the counter. “You told me. Just now.”
I should have kept my mouth shut. Though, honestly, I feel the tiniest bit reli
eved.
“I know you didn’t get in trouble, because I didn’t get that call,” Dad continues. “All the parents are talking about it in the Facebook group.”
“You guys need to get a life.”
“Don’t talk to your father that way,” Grandma Colleen says as she comes out of her room with a laundry basket tucked under her arm. She starts tossing whites into the washer.
“Hate to break it to you, Margie, but you are my life,” Dad says as he sprays the counter. “It’s in my dad job description. So?”
“So, what?”
“Margie.” The tone tells me I better knock it off.
“Fine. I started the protest. It was my idea, and then some other girls and I planned it. We shared it on social media. We marched in the hallways, and now it’s done.”
“Oh, Margie!” Dad says, his fingers massaging his forehead. “I don’t know whether to yell at you or applaud you. This is a big deal. Your principal robocalled the entire school twice. How did you even do this?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, jamming my spoon in my yogurt. “We had to do it. The dress code is sexist, Dad! Only the girls ever get dress coded. And if you do, you might spend hours doing nothing in ISS or they make us wear these enormous, gross gym shorts to embarrass us—”
“Wait. When did you have to wear gym shorts?”
“On the first day of school!”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“Well, I had enough going on with not getting into Quiz Bowl—”
“You’re not on the Quiz Bowl team? You’ve been going to practice.”
“I’m just an alternate!”
“Wow, Margie, this is a lot of information. And a lot of lies.”
I pound my hand on the table. “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you. Because I didn’t need you! I’m in sixth grade now! And you’re too busy with work to care anyway!”
“Don’t yell at your father,” Grandma calls from the washer.
“I’m not yelling. I’m just being loud!”