Moxie: A Novel

by Jennifer Mathieu

Emma lives what Meemaw would refer to as a charmed life. Beautiful, popular, good student, richer than most, head cheerleader, and actually fairly nice if you talk to her, which I estimate I’ve done five times in my entire life. Girls like Emma Johnson are supposed to be nasty and snooty, but Emma isn’t like that. Not really. She holds herself like a politician running for office, which makes sense considering she’s class vice president. She’s careful. Mature. Goal-oriented. Once in ninth grade Real Life class—which was this class where we were supposed to learn stuff like how to balance a checkbook, but mostly we just watched public service announcements about the dangers of crystal meth—I spotted Emma working on her résumé. In the ninth grade.

  As Emma settles herself in, I glance sideways at Seth Acosta to see if he’s noticed her. I can’t help myself. After all, she’s gorgeous by anyone’s standards.

  But Seth is glancing at me.

  I raise my eyebrows a little out of shock or terror or delight and then Seth glances back down at his desk.

  God, I’m an idiot.

  He doesn’t look at me for the rest of the class.

  After the bell rings, Lucy and I head down to the cafeteria to meet up with Claudia and the other girls. Lucy is still on a tear about the dress code checks.

  “This whole thing is just so gross and sexist,” she says, her angry pace of walking so quick I have to double-time my own steps to keep up despite my long legs. We pause only so we can get our lunches out of our lockers. Then Lucy starts up again. “I mean, it’s totally random. These girls have to stand up and allow themselves to be looked at and endure this … like … public shaming.” She spits out the last word.

  “I know, it’s gross,” I answer, waving to Claudia, who is waiting for us near the entrance to the cafeteria.

  “So this has happened before?” Lucy asks.

  “Yeah, a couple of times last year. Whenever the administration decides we’re falling out of line in terms of our clothes or whatever.”

  “But that asshole Jason whatever-his-name-is is allowed to wear insulting T-shirts every day of the week, yeah?”

  I don’t have to answer because she already knows what I would say.

  When Claudia joins us at the door, she leans in close, her expression muted. “Y’all, Sara is really upset.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Just now in French class,” Claudia explains. “Mr. Klein came in and busted her for her top.”

  “But she was in first period with us!” I’m confused. “Why didn’t she get busted then if they were going to bust her?”

  “Why bust her at all?” Lucy says, her voice rising.

  We take our seats with Kaitlyn and Meg and a few other girls as Claudia explains how horrible it was when Mr. Klein made Sara get up in front of the entire class. “He told her top was inappropriate and she should have known better,” Claudia says. “He really laid into her.”

  “It’s because she has biggish boobs,” Meg says under her breath. “Like you can control that.”

  Just then we spot Sara coming toward us, dressed in an ugly-as-sin East Rockport gym shirt that’s way too big. Grass and dirt stains as old as the school are embedded into the orange fabric.

  “Hey,” Sara says, sitting down. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper. Nobody knows what to say. Sara puts her paper bag lunch on the table, opens it, and pulls out a carton of chocolate milk. Then a shaky exhale slips through her lips and her eyes tear up.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I had to change. Mr. Klein was so rude about it. He accused me of wearing an outfit that could distract the boys.” The tears reach the edges of her eyes and one blink is all it takes to make them spill over. Meg, Kaitlyn, Claudia, and I begin a chorus of “I’m sorry”s and Meg reaches over to squeeze Sara’s shoulders. But Lucy just slams her hands down on the cafeteria table so loudly we jump.

  “This is bullshit,” she says, and none of us respond. We just stare at Lucy as Sara wipes her eyes with a napkin.

  “I mean it,” Lucy continues. “It is. Making girls monitor their behavior and their appearance because boys are supposedly unable to control themselves? That is one of the oldest fucking tricks in the book.” She falls back against her chair as though she’s worn out. The other girls are staring at her, almost a little nervous, but I’m hanging on every word. Lucy’s little speech sounded like it could have come out of one of my mom’s zines. It’s exhilarating.

  “At my old school in Houston, the administration never could have gotten away with this shit without a fight,” she continues. “The girls in my GRIT club would have found some way to fight back.”

  “I know, Lucy, but this isn’t Houston,” Claudia answers, and there’s something just under the surface of her voice. Annoyance, maybe? Frustration?

  “Trust me, I know this place isn’t Houston,” Lucy responds. She puffs up her cheeks and then exhales loudly, angrily. I tense up, anxious that my best friend and my new friend are upset with each other and unsure what I should do about it.

  “Hey, look, I just want to forget about it and eat my lunch,” Sara says, opening up her milk carton. “Can we please change the subject?”

  “Of course,” Claudia says, and she glances at Lucy with watchful eyes. Lucy doesn’t say anything else after that. She just sits there, her chin in her hands, her eyes scanning the cafeteria and all the East Rockport cliques, resting on the girls who are dressed in bright orange gym shirts like Sara. Girls of every color and from every kind of group are scattered around the cafeteria like hazard signs, impossible to miss. Sara and the other girls start chatting about mostly benign stuff like how hard the math quiz was and would the deejay at the Fall Fling be better than the deejay at the Homecoming dance and so on. By the time the bell rings, Lucy hasn’t taken a bite from her Tupperware container full of leftovers. I glance down at my lunch. I have’t eaten much either.

  “You’re not hungry?” I ask her.

  “No,” says Lucy. “I lost my appetite. I’ll see y’all later.” And with that, she scoots her chair back loudly, gets up from our table, and heads for the exit, her head down. I resist the urge to follow her. To ask her more about what the GRIT girls of Houston would have done to fight these dress code checks. Lucy doesn’t seem like she’s in the mood to talk much to anyone, not even me.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The dress code checks go on all week, and I find myself wearing my biggest, baggiest shirts and sloppiest jeans to avoid getting called out in front of everyone. Each time a girl has to stand up in front of the room for inspection, I find myself sinking deeper into my desk. On Wednesday morning, after we recite the Pledge of Allegiance and the Texas Pledge, Principal Wilson’s pinched twang cuts into second period announcements.

  “You may have noticed we’ve put an emphasis on dress code this week, and we hope y’all will adhere to the rules and regulations detailed in the student handbook about modesty and proper dress.” As he speaks, I notice a few girls near me roll their eyes at each other. I glance at my shoes and grin. Principal Wilson keeps talking.

  “Please remember that when you get dressed in the morning, you’re coming to a learning environment, and we expect you to be dressed as a student, not a distraction. Ladies, I’m especially asking you to keep tabs on your outfits and remember that modesty is a virtue that never goes out of style. Now here’s Assistant Principal Kessler with the rest of this morning’s announcements.”

  Modesty is a virtue that never goes out of style! What a bastard! I can’t help myself. Glancing up to make sure the teacher isn’t paying attention, I lean over to the rolling-eye girls—Marisela Perez and Julia Rivera—and whisper, “Have you ever noticed he never goes after the guys wearing those gross shirts about sex?”

  Marisela nods furiously. “I know, right?” She doesn’t whisper. Her voice is loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “Ladies,” the teacher drones from his desk, “please listen to the announcements.”

  Marisela waits a beat until the teacher checks out a
gain. “And have you noticed,” she says in a softer voice, “that the dress code doesn’t even have anything specific in it about how you should dress? It’s, like, super vague.”

  “That’s why they can enforce it however they want,” Julia chimes in.

  I never thought of that. I scowl and Marisela scowls and Julia scowls, and even though I’m still mad, this tiny little moment between the three of us buoys me. It keeps me afloat until Mr. Shelly appears at our classroom door and Marisela is hauled out for the length of her shorts.

  As Marisela makes it to the door, she pauses, turns, and looks at the rest of us.

  “If I never make it back, tell my mother I love her.” Then she holds her wrists in front of her face like she’s expecting Mr. Shelly to slap handcuffs on her.

  We all crack up except for Mr. Shelly.

  “That’s enough, Miss Perez,” he tells her, ushering her down the hallway.

  Marisela’s act of insurrection—however tiny—sets something off inside of me. That little fire that was lit when I made the first issue of Moxie feels like it’s getting stoked again. When I get to English class, it burns even more strongly because Lucy’s hands are covered in fresh stars and hearts, intricately drawn with green ink.

  “Hey,” I say, nodding at her drawings. “What gives?”

  Lucy lets one fingertip glide over her graffiti. “I don’t know,” she says. “I guess I was feeling pissed about everything with the dress code checks and Sara and this place in general. I thought maybe this would be some sign to whoever created that issue of Moxie that there are some of us that really believe in what they’re saying. I mean, I don’t know if we’ll ever hear from them again, but doing this at least makes me feel better.” She looks at me, her face open and vulnerable. “Do you think that’s dumb?”

  I stare at Lucy’s hands. “I don’t think it’s dumb at all,” I tell her. “I totally get it.” The fire inside me is growing by the moment. I feel warm from the inside out.

  “Thanks, Viv,” Lucy says, a smile breaking across her face.

  “And I think it’s really cool,” I add.

  Lucy smiles again. Then her eyes grow big with excitement. “Hey, I was just thinking. Do you want to come over to my house for dinner tonight? We could hang out after. I mean, if you’re up for it.”

  It’s the first time Lucy has asked me to hang out just the two of us. My initial thought is Claudia and what she might say. But then I remember that my mom and I are supposed to have dinner at Meemaw and Grandpa’s.

  “I wish I could, but we’re going to my grandparents’ for dinner,” I say, halfway grateful for the out, halfway disappointed.

  Lucy’s shoulders sink. “Okay, I understand.”

  “But I’d love to come over sometime,” I add. Maybe Claudia wouldn’t even have to know.

  “Cool,” Lucy says, brightening.

  “Cool,” I offer in agreement.

  During class I find myself glancing at Lucy’s hands. By the time the bell rings, I’ve filled my notebook with hearts and stars, and my mind is churning with ideas.

  * * *

  That evening, just before we’re supposed to head over to Meemaw and Grandpa’s, my mom finds me in my bedroom, spread out on my bed doing homework.

  “Hey, Vivvy,” she says, her voice soft, “I wanted to let you know that I’m planning on meeting John for a drink at the Cozy Corner later tonight. Is that okay?”

  “On a weeknight?” I ask, shoving my math book aside.

  My mom tucks some of her long, dark hair behind her ear and offers me a shy grin. “Well, our shifts are really different this weekend, and we won’t be able to hang out. I mean, you know, to go out. So we thought it might be nice to get together this evening.”

  “You must really like him, huh?” I ask. “I mean, if you’re seeing him on a weeknight.” My mom’s face falls a little bit. Maybe my words sound more accusatory than I intend them to be.

  Or did I mean it?

  My mother stands there for a moment, looking at me like she’s trying to figure out a math problem. I know I should say something, reassure her that I’m cool with everything, but I can’t. Even though I know I should be, I’m not cool with everything. I just don’t know what she sees in him.

  At last she shrugs and says, “I like him, Viv. He’s a really good person. And a hard worker. He’s one of ten kids, and his parents didn’t help him at all. He put himself through college and med school.” Her tone is blunt—irritated even.

  “I never said he wasn’t a good person or a hard worker,” I answer, rolling over onto my back and talking to the ceiling. “I’m glad he’s nice.” A little rock forms in my stomach.

  Silence.

  Finally my mom says, “We can talk about it more when I get home tonight, if you want to.”

  “Okay, but there’s nothing really to talk about,” I say, wishing this conversation wasn’t happening. “It’s really totally fine.”

  I hear my mom take a breath. I stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars above me, dull and plastic under my bright bedroom lights. I can tell without looking that my mother is trying to figure out what to say next. Finally, she tells me, “We should make a move.”

  “Yeah, we should,” I say, and I slide off the bed and walk toward the front door of our house like everything’s normal and fine even though everything feels strange and off-kilter between me and my mom, and it’s probably my fault but I have no idea how to fix it.

  * * *

  As we sit down for dinner at Meemaw and Grandpa’s, Meemaw asks Mom how late we can stay, and Mom answers not for too long because she’s going out with John. My grandparents don’t seem too surprised, so I guess my mom has filled them in on John’s existence.

  “I hope we can meet this young man at some point,” Meemaw says, carefully setting down a Stouffer’s meat loaf in the middle of the dining room table. She slips off her rooster-decorated oven mitts and we pause for a minute while Grandpa says the blessing.

  “Oh, you’ll meet him at some point,” my mother says, passing her plate toward Meemaw. “And Mom, we’re both in our forties. I wouldn’t exactly refer to him or me as young.”

  “As long as your knees don’t sound like popping popcorn when you stand up, you’re still young,” Grandpa dictates, and Mom gives me a knowing look and grins. I smile back. Some things between my mom and me—like getting a kick out of Grandpa—are so habitual that it’s impossible to fight. The weirdness between us fades a bit.

  “So how’s school, Vivvy?” Meemaw asks, dishing out my serving.

  I frown. “They’re going crazy cracking down on the dress code. But only the girls.”

  My mom takes a bite of meat loaf and looks confused. “What do you mean ‘only the girls’?”

  “Like pulling girls out of class because their pants are too tight or they’re showing too much skin. Then the girls have to wear ugly gym shirts over their clothes for the rest of the day as, like, a punishment.” I hear Lucy’s words from Monday’s lunch in my ears. “It’s ridiculous. Why should girls be responsible for what boys think and do? Like the boys aren’t able to control themselves?”

  Grandpa and Meemaw are silent, looking at me with careful eyes. I guess they’re not used to their dutiful Viv getting so upset.

  My mother’s brow is furrowed, and she pauses before saying, “I think you’re exactly right, Vivvy. It sounds ridiculous to me. It also sounds like classic East Rockport High.”

  I tingle with validation. “It really is,” I mutter. The conversation about John slips further out of my mind.

  “Well,” Grandpa says, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin, “as the only person sitting here who was once a teenage boy, I can tell you, they only have one thing on their minds.”

  Meemaw slaps Grandpa on the shoulder with her napkin in this good-natured way, but my mom sighs loudly and throws down her own napkin in protest.

  “Dad, that’s ridiculous,” she starts. “It’s just contributing to the narrati
ve that girls have to monitor their bodies and behaviors, and boys have the license and freedom to act like animals. Don’t you think that’s unfair to girls? Don’t you think that’s shortchanging boys? The whole thing is just toxic.” She finishes her little speech with a huff, and I feel like I’ve caught a glimpse of her looking like the girl in the Polaroid in her MY MISSPENT YOUTH shoe box. The one with the dyed hair and the friend with the piercing and the RIOTS NOT DIETS slogan scribbled down one arm. That girl still exists, I know it. Even if I can’t quite figure out how that girl is the same woman who is hanging out on a weeknight with Republican John.

  “Oh, Lisa, let’s not start,” Meemaw says, her hands hovering over the dinner table. “Your dad was just trying to be funny.”

  My mom takes a deep breath. I haven’t seen her this frustrated with Meemaw and Grandpa in a long time. It’s quiet for a moment. I wait, wondering how much she’ll push back. Kind of wanting her to do it, too, even if Grandpa doesn’t mean any harm.

  “Let’s just drop it and eat,” my mother says, picking up her napkin and putting it back in her lap. She gives me a soft, sympathetic look. “Just keep getting those good grades and staying out of trouble and give me time to save a little more for your college fund, and we’ll get you out of here, Vivvy. I promise.”

  “You talk about East Rockport like it’s some terrible place,” Meemaw says, fretting. “Her family is here, after all.”

  “You’ll see how much you’ll miss her when she’s gone,” my grandfather tells her. “When you took off for the West Coast, our hearts broke.” This is Grandpa’s version of a peace offering.

  “We don’t have the money for her to go that far,” my mother says. “Besides, Viv won’t be running off to follow bands or go too wild. She’s just going to college.”

  “Hey,” I say, setting down my fork with a frown. “Who says I can’t go wild?”

  At this the entire table starts laughing, including my mother.

  “You, Vivvy?” she asks, like I’ve just suggested I swim the English Channel. “Oh, sweetie, you going wild. Unlikely. And for that, I’m grateful.”