Margie Kelly Breaks the Dress Code

by Bridget Farr

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, everyone take a deep breath.” Dad presses his palms on the counter, his head dropping behind him. “Your mother told me raising a teenage girl was going to be hard, and you’re not even a teenager yet.”

  “I’m eleven. That’s double digits.”

  He laughs, shaking his head and raising his hands in disbelief.

  “That’s right, Marge. Let’s take a minute here to go back to the beginning.”

  I tell him the whole story, from the moment Ms. Scott’s ruler rested against my bare leg to the gym shorts to Dress Code to the boys never getting in trouble and Gloria and all the girls stuck in suspension. Even Grandma Colleen listens to me without interrupting.

  “Ms. Scott really said that your skirt was a distraction?” Dad asks, his hands pressed to his temples. “And she measured you in class, in front of all the other kids? I am going up to school tomorrow to talk to your principal. This is not okay.”

  “No, Dad! We handled it.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he says, reaching out a hand to pat mine. “You’re not in trouble for running this protest, but you are going to be homebound for the next few weeks.”

  “You mean I’m grounded? For marching?”

  Dad shakes his head. “No. There’s nothing wrong with you using your voice. Honestly, your mom would be proud. But you lied to me—about the skirt, about Quiz Bowl, about a school-wide walkout you orchestrated—”

  “But you haven’t really been around much to tell you anything. And when you are here, you’re always on your phone or your computer.”

  Dad pauses, running a hand across his chin. “You’re right. This new job has been tough on all of us.” He looks over at Grandma, who’s sorting clothes. “I’ll make some changes so we can spend some needed time together. Maybe Grandma and I can help you practice your question sets. Get you ready for the team next year.”

  “Grandma does know a lot about celebrities.”

  Grandma smiles. “I know a lot more than that.”

  The door pushes open as I lay on top of my comforter, and I expect it to be Dad coming to tell me to turn the light off and go to sleep. My bedtime was almost an hour ago, but I can’t do anything but lie here looking up at the stars, wondering how everything could feel so great and so terrible at the same time.

  Grandma Colleen pokes her head around the door. “Margaret,” she calls, and I prop myself up on my elbows.

  “Yes, Grandma?”

  Her wrinkled fingers curl around the door. “You’re still awake?” I nod. “Do you want me to make you some chamomile tea?”

  I shake my head. Tea can’t solve my problems.

  “Did you need something, Grandma?” I ask, and she shakes her head before coming to sit on the edge of my bed. She pulls at the collar of her nightgown. She bought me a similar one when she moved in, and honestly, I love it, but Teravista is usually too hot for a full-length nightgown. Grandma reaches out to cover my hand with hers.

  “When I was your age, my best friend, Mary Catherine, and I wanted to be altar girls. My older brother, Tom, was an altar boy, and he got to wear the white robes and help the priest each Sunday. I wanted that job.”

  I sit up a little more as Grandma continues.

  “Mary Catherine and I asked Father Michael if we could be altar girls. It wasn’t that different than setting up a supper table or cleaning up the dishes. We could carry the chalice. We could pour the water to wash his hands.”

  “Did he let you?” I ask, thinking about how I refused to be an altar girl, even though Daniela and I went through the training. I was too embarrassed to stand up in front of the whole church in those stuffy white robes.

  “No,” Grandma says, patting my hand before interlacing her wrinkled fingers with mine.

  “Really? Why?”

  “He said that altar serving was a preparation for the priesthood, and of course, girls could not be priests.”

  “They let girls do it now.”

  Grandma sighs. “Things are different for you. Back then, I could only watch Tom, then Peter, then Michael, then John all serve while I sat in the pew with my mother.” She smiles. “Mary Catherine and I did once sneak into the sacristy to try on the altar server vestments, but we were found out when we both told Father Michael in confession.”

  She laughs, and I do, too, surprised at my grandmother breaking any rule, especially a rule at church.

  “I don’t know much about your dress code and your protest, but…”

  Grandma brushes back one of my curls.

  “You’re a very brave girl, Margaret. Maybe you and your girlfriends will get what you want.”

  I hope we can. For me, for Gloria and Jamiya, for Daniela, for all the people at Live Oak who want the freedom to be who they want and wear whatever they choose, and even for Grandma Colleen, who didn’t want to wear a sequined, tulle skirt, but a long white robe. Different girls, different clothes, same goal. I only hope I’m still brave enough to help make it happen.

  Chapter 24

  The next day at lunch, I linger by Ms. Anthony’s door on the way to the cafeteria. It’s not like Daniela will be waiting to sit with me anyway. Ms. Anthony stands on a chair, digging through a pile of handmade posters on the top of her gray filing cabinet. Her multicolored skirt sways as she yanks at the poster board.

  “Do you need help?” I ask, noticing an unopened Tupperware container of salad sitting on Ms. Anthony’s desk.

  “Aren’t you headed to lunch?” she asks, looking down at my lunch box.

  “I’m not really that hungry.”

  “Well then, sure, Margie, thanks.” She hands me a poster on the types of political systems and another on ancient civilizations of Mesopotamia. A few dust bunnies float down and land on my shoulders.

  “I really need to get these organized one year.” Ms. Anthony sighs. She gives one final yank, her ballet flats slipping on the chair before she catches herself on the side of the nearby window frame. “Got it!”

  She hands me a large white poster with cartoon pictures of a TV, magazine, computer, and cell phone, and the title “Who is telling the story? Whose story is missing?” I set it down on a desk before handing her up the extras.

  “I really like your class,” I say as she shoves the posters back onto the cabinet. “Especially this unit, about women and society.”

  Ms. Anthony smiles, her magenta lipstick popping against her deep-brown skin. She rubs her hands along her skirt before climbing down.

  “Me too. That’s why I start the year with it. It’s one of my favorites.”

  I pause, knowing what I want to ask her. No one said the words out loud today—“dress code,” “protest,” “walkout”—but the school buzzed, a slow hum like a beehive, the energy filling us all up, the teachers and principals waiting for us to sting. Each time I saw an empty seat I wondered: Suspended or home sick? Suspended or a field trip? Jamiya hasn’t responded to a single text, but Gloria sent me a few before she started her first day of in-school suspension. All day I’ve been wondering what other girls are sitting there with her, boredom filling up their brains instead of knowledge. I know what those girls look like, and I still feel guilty that it isn’t me.

  Hoping I know what she’ll say, but worried about her answer since she is a teacher after all, I finally ask: “What did you think of the protest?”

  Ms. Anthony raises an eyebrow. “I’m still sorting that out. What did you think?”

  “I thought it was a good thing.”

  “Thought?”

  I trail my fingers along the edge of a desk. “My mom was an activist. She used to go to a lot of marches and protests.”

  Ms. Anthony takes the poster to the empty bulletin board. A dark rectangle waits in the center of the green paper, the outside edges faded by the sun.

  “Does she march much anymore?” Ms. Anthony asks, smoothing out the curled edges of the poster with her palm.

  “She died of cancer before I was two.”

 
; “Sorry to hear that, Margie.”

  “But my dad still takes me to marches sometimes. Well, only one so far. We went to the Women’s March last year. Did you go?”

  Ms. Anthony holds the poster up on the board. “I did not.”

  “Really? Why not?” Ms. Anthony is the exact type of person I thought would be at the Women’s March. We’ve been talking about women’s rights in her class since the very first week of school.

  “Hand me those, please,” Ms. Anthony says, gesturing toward a container of pushpins. I move closer so I can hold the box for her. “I didn’t attend because while I agreed with a lot of the march’s focus on women’s rights, I felt the organizers and many of the attendees disregarded the issues specifically affecting Black women and other women of color.”

  “Oh.” I feel another rush of guilt into my stomach.

  “I also had concerns about representation for the LGBT community. While well-intentioned, the march wasn’t as intersectional as it needed to be. We can’t march for women’s rights without considering the different identities women have and the way those identities affect how they are viewed and treated by society.” Ms. Anthony steps back to look at her poster. “That corner is crooked, isn’t it?”

  I nod, and she takes out the pin so she can line up the edge with the other side.

  “So, about the protest yesterday?” she continues. “I need more information to decide if it was a protest I would have wanted to join. What was the organizers’ motivation? What students were represented? Were the dress code challenges for girls of color or queer girls or nonbinary people considered and vocalized?”

  My chest tightens. “No… I mean sort of… but no.”

  A tear slinks down my cheek. How did I get this so wrong? Ms. Anthony smiles.

  “This was your, what, second protest march?”

  I nod.

  “That’s why I’m teaching these concepts to you: sexism, racism, the importance of recognizing the intersectionality of our identities, that place where all these important parts of who we are mesh together with purpose. The march you girls led might create some really good change for the school. It might not. But now that you know better, you can do better.”

  Know better. Do better.

  That seems like something I can handle. A fresh start. Maybe Daniela and I can have a new beginning to our friendship, too.

  I sniffle, and Ms. Anthony hands me a tissue.

  “My last one,” she says, tossing the empty box into the blue recycling bin. “Thankfully, we’re fully stocked at the beginning of the school year.” She opens a closet to reveal boxes and boxes of Kleenex and hand sanitizer.

  “You’ve got a lot of passion, Margie, so keep asking questions. Learn to use your voice in a way that your message becomes a harmony, not a solo.”

  I smile, thinking back to our voices chanting in the hallway. Gloria, Jamiya, me, and the other students of Live Oak. Many voices, but one song.

  “You’re late, Dress Code!” Marcus yells as I fly into the room, my backpack sliding back and forth behind me. “Hope you’re ready ’cause you’re up.”

  “What?” I ask as I look at the two rows of faces already set up for our practice round. Saturday is the big meet. All familiar faces in the seats except… no Jamiya. And no Daniela. What’s happening?

  “You’re in, Dress Code. Elman’s got strep throat, and Jamiya’s suspended so she can’t compete.”

  No! That must be why she hasn’t responded to any of my texts. Or maybe she’s mad at me for getting suspended. This can’t be happening. She has to compete. “But we need her!”

  Mikey shrugs. “It’s not right, but she knew the consequences before she decided to march.”

  I cringe. “And Daniela?”

  “She’s getting copies of the new practice set from the library printer.”

  Mr. Shao’s head peeks around the mountain of junk on his desk. His own Mount Shao. I smell tacos. And maybe cotton candy. Just then Daniela comes through the door, her breathing heavy as she holds a stack of copy paper.

  “Got ’em!” she says before glancing at me. “Did they tell you you’re on the team now? Congratulations.” Her words sting like bare feet covered with fire ants. Neither of us wants me to be on the team this way.

  “Let’s go, people,” Marcus says, tapping his fist on the table. He stands up, pulling on the hem of his black T-shirt. “We’re down one practice because of yesterday’s protest.”

  Sean pats the chair next to him. “You’re on our team.”

  “Jamiya’s our person for world religions, chemistry lab techniques, civil rights leaders, and general music and dance,” Marcus says. “You good with any of those?”

  “Some,” I say, though I know nothing about chemistry lab techniques and only minimal facts about world religions and dance. Daniela and I got extra books from our librarian during Black History Month last year so I know more than the basics on civil rights leaders. I know about Claudette Colvin and Malcom X, but there is no way I compare to Jamiya. She said she didn’t need Quiz Bowl to learn about her history. She’s been drilling all her topics for months, probably for years, refining her expertise. She has two extra years of knowledge. She should be here. She should be competing Saturday.

  I know what I need to do.

  Phones are ringing nonstop in the front office, and the two secretaries run back and forth between the phones and the parents waiting in line. I’ve never seen so many parents in the office, not even on registration day. The secretaries switch between English and Spanish, their smiles big, too big for how tired their eyes are. I get in line behind a large woman with kaleidoscope leggings and a hot-pink top. She taps her toes while she waits, her neon-green toenails flashing in the peep toe of her shoe. I take a deep breath, imagining all the items that have given me strength: my skirt, my homemade protest shirt, the Saint Joan of Arc pendant sitting at home in my jewelry box.

  Right now, I don’t have anything to give me strength, but me.

  When it’s finally my turn, I step up to the counter. “I need to speak with Mr. Franklin, please.”

  “What about?” the secretary asks, twisting the charm bracelet around her wrist.

  “I need to talk to him about the protest.” She raises an eyebrow before gesturing to the people standing and sitting outside Mr. Franklin’s office.

  “Join the line.”

  I find an open space next to the fire extinguisher. At least six adults are waiting. No kids except me. I slide down the wall, sitting on the floor with my legs scrunched up in front of me. I pull out a stack of Quiz Bowl cards to study while I wait. I’m sure Marcus and Mikey are furious that I left in the middle of practice, especially when I was already late, but I couldn’t help it. I have to tell Mr. Franklin that the protest was my idea. None of these girls would be in trouble if it weren’t for me.

  I read one card: “This religion that contains 15.1 percent of the world’s believers does not have a single founder or founding incident.” Taoism? Hinduism? I toss the card back in the pile without bothering to look at the answer. Jamiya would have known. She knows world religions. My answers will never be more than a guess. I need to get in that office.

  For forty-five minutes I wait on the floor until finally Mr. Franklin’s “Who’s next?” means me. His face tells me that he doesn’t want to have another conversation and definitely not with a kid.

  “Me!” I hop off the floor, brushing the dust bunnies off my shorts.

  I sit down in front of Mr. Franklin’s desk. The room is decorated like the inside of a craft store. There are several motivational signs painted on wood and a large rectangular mirror with a twisted iron frame. His desk is empty except for a neat stack of papers and a few picture frames, but I can only see their black velvet stands.

  Mr. Franklin takes a deep breath. “What can I do for you, Ms.…?”

  “Kelly. Margaret Kelly. I’m in sixth grade here.”

  Obviously. Why would I be talking to the principa
l if I didn’t even go to school here? This is not starting off how I planned, but I refuse to let it be another Ms. Scott conversation. I pull my sweaty legs off the fake leather seat and scoot forward in the chair so my feet are firmly on the ground. I press my hands on my thighs like I do before they ask a question in Quiz Bowl. My ready position.

  “Mr. Franklin,” I say, the words catching in my throat. “I planned the protest yesterday. It was my original idea because I was dress coded on my first day of school.”

  Mr. Franklin lifts his bushy eyebrows, rubbing a hand against his white-speckled stubble. It’s strange to see his face at the same time I hear his voice. Normally, it’s one or the other: I see him standing in the corner of the lunchroom or hear his voice over the intercom.

  He tilts his head as if waiting for me to keep going.

  “I will accept any punishment I have to take, but that’s not really why I’m here. I’m here because some girls got in trouble for being involved, and they shouldn’t be in ISS if I’m not.” I feel tears welling in my eyes. “Or they shouldn’t be at all. For example, Jamiya? She’s an eighth grader in Quiz Bowl, and she can’t participate in our big meet against Cactus Canyon, but we need her. Yes, she participated in the protest, but so did like half the school.”

  Mr. Franklin rolls his eyes as though he vividly remembers hundreds of kids marching in his halls.

  “She participated in the protest, but that’s part of our rights as students. I think.”

  Mr. Franklin leans back in his chair. “Let me ask you a question, Margaret: What is it you’re wanting from me?”

  Of all the things he could possibly change at this school, right now I only want one thing.

  “I don’t think any students should get in trouble for the protest.”

  “Skipping class, even for a protest, is against school rules. And an unplanned walkout created an unsafe environment.”

  “But not all girls who marched got punished. Just some girls. And that’s not fair.”

  “I can’t share the disciplinary actions for individual students,” Mr. Franklin says. “But you don’t need to worry about the Quiz Bowl team. Ms. Dawson’s parents were in earlier and… made a case.”