By the time Mom gets home late from work, the Magic Squares are cooling on the counter. They smell pretty delicious if I do say so myself. My mother gives a little cheer and heads over to grab one.
“One!” I shout from the couch where I’m doing my homework, scaring Joan Jett, who bolts from the den and down the hallway. “They’re for a fund-raiser at school.”
My mom is already taking a bite as she collapses on the couch next to me like she might faint because the Magic Squares are so good.
“Deeeeeelisssssshhhhh, Vivvy. Seriously.”
I smile. Since the awkwardness the morning after John slept over, we’ve been tiptoeing around each other like parents around a sleeping baby. But right now feels like old times.
“What’s the fund-raiser for?” she asks. When I tell her about the girls’ soccer team and how no one supports them, my mom’s face brightens.
“That is so cool, Viv,” she says, leaning over to push some hair out of my face. “Was it your idea?”
Not really, but kind of yes if you think about it.
“It was my friend Lucy’s.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re doing it.”
I squirm a bit at the compliment before sliding under my mom’s arm, snuggling up close like I did when I was little. She kisses me on top of the head.
“Sorry if I smell like strep throat,” she says.
“No, just like hand sanitizer,” I reassure her.
“John says there’s no way to get the smell off, even if you take two showers when you get home.”
I don’t want to talk about John right now. And I really don’t want to think about John in the shower. My mom threads her fingers through my hair, pushing it back off my face. I try to focus on the coziness of it but suddenly my mom’s arm seems suffocating.
“You know, I should get ready for bed,” I say, forcing a yawn. “I think baking wore me out.”
My mom laughs, oblivious to any weirdness between us.
“Okay,” she says, letting me loose. “And I really think it’s cool about your fund-raiser.” She smiles and I smile back, but the old times are gone.
I brush my teeth and get ready for bed.
* * *
Lucy has put up more Moxie bake sale flyers all week long, and I’ve helped, too. I think Sara put up a couple. But I’m still not sure how many girls will come out with food. Lucy and I make plans to get to the cafeteria right at the start of lunch, and we commandeer the table in the corner that student groups often use for fund-raisers.
“I even filled out the stupid school group fund-raiser form in the office, so we’re totally street legal,” Lucy says.
“Wait,” I say, pulling back the aluminum foil from my Magic Squares, “did you actually put down on the paper that Moxie is a club?”
“Yeah,” Lucy says with a shrug. “Well, I mean, I just put my name because you only need one person as club representative. But do you think Principal Wilson or anyone in the administration has even noticed that newsletter or even put together that the bathrobe thing was connected to it? Please.”
“I guess,” I say, my heart fluttering. Something about Moxie being official—even just on a fund-raiser permission form filed away in the office—makes me anxious. But I can’t do anything about it now.
At least I don’t have to be anxious about the fund-raiser. Claudia brings her lemon bars and Sara brings banana bread and lots of girls from the soccer team show up with plates of cookies and brownies. Once the sale starts, Lucy grins at every transaction, sliding the dollar bills and coins into an envelope.
Halfway through lunch, Kiera Daniels walks up with her friend Amaya.
“Hey,” Kiera says. Both girls eye the spread.
“Hey, Kiera,” I say. “Hey, Amaya.”
Kiera asks for two lemon bars. She hands over a five dollar bill, and Lucy makes the change while I wrap the bars up in a pink paper napkin.
“So wait,” Kiera asks, “are you the girls who made the newsletter thing? With the bathrobes and the hearts and the stars?” She eyes me, confused. She has to be remembering our conversation in the bathroom the day we marked our hands. When I acted like I didn’t know anything about it.
“No,” I answer, maybe too quickly. “We didn’t. But Lucy decided to do this bake sale and just, like, adopt the name, I guess.”
Amaya slides the napkin out of Kiera’s hands and unwraps the lemon bars. She takes a bite out of one and smiles. “These are so good,” she says, her mouth full. Powdered sugar spills down her chin.
Kiera rolls her eyes at Amaya. “You cannot even wait until we get back to the table, can you?” Amaya shoots Kiera a look, but Lucy snorts at Kiera’s comment.
“Y’all planning on doing another one?” Kiera asks. “I mean, like another bake sale.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say. “I mean, you guys need new uniforms, right?”
Amaya nods vigorously, her mouth full of lemon bar.
Kiera nods, too. She opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. “I guess I was wondering,” she starts, “if this club is … like … open to new members?”
“She means is it just white girls,” Amaya says, finishing her lemon bar.
I’m instantly uncomfortable and not sure how to answer, but Lucy doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, my dad’s Mexican,” she says, “so take that for what it’s worth.” Kiera grins a little when Lucy says that.
“I think everyone should be able to do this,” I say. “I mean, it’s for everyone. I don’t think whoever started Moxie wants, like, a leader. If a girl wants to hold another bake sale, or anything like that, she can just … do it.”
“And call it Moxie?” Kiera asks, arching an eyebrow.
“Sure, why not?” Lucy answers. A group of freshman boys collects around the table to buy what’s left of my Magic Squares, and Lucy turns to help them.
“Well, that’s cool,” Kiera says. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I say.
Kiera gives us a small wave, and she and Amaya make their way back to their table.
When the freshman boys leave the table, I whisper to Lucy, “That was kind of awkward.”
“What’s awkward is how this place is as fucked up when it comes to race as it is about anything else,” she tells me, flipping her fingers through the money envelope, doing a quick estimation of how much we’ve raised. “I mean, look at this cafeteria.” She motions at the tables in front of us. The Latina girls who speak mostly Spanish hang out together, and they don’t have much to do with the Latina girls like Claudia and Lucy who speak mostly English. And the black girls have their own cliques that I don’t fully get. And the few Asian kids and the biracial kids and the kids who don’t fit any particular box unless they play a certain sport or something go with whoever will take them. It’s messed up.
“At my old school, at least the teachers brought up racial issues in class sometimes,” Lucy continues.
I’m glad Claudia’s not around to hear Lucy tell us again how advanced life is in the big city. For the first time Lucy makes me feel a little prickly, too. We hardly ever talk about race stuff at East Rockport. Hell, we hardly ever talk about it at home either. The night we watched that documentary about Kathleen Hanna, my mom talked about how Riot Grrrl was mostly white girls, and she was sorry they weren’t as welcoming to other girls as they could have been. That it was one of the few regrets she had about the whole thing. But that was as far as she’d gone. East Rockport High isn’t just white girls, for sure. I glance over to where Kiera and Amaya are sitting. I think about how in this one way, maybe Moxie could be even better than the Riot Grrrls. Even stronger.
As the bell rings to end lunch, I help Lucy throw out the garbage from the sale.
“We made over a hundred dollars,” she tells me.
I frown. “I thought it would be more. That’s enough for, like, one uniform.”
“Okay, Miss Negative,” says Lucy. “We have to start somewhere.”
“I know,” I answ
er, my irritation fading a bit. “You’re right.” Lucy seems so sure of herself. So confident. Standing there in that moment, I can almost convince myself that she’s the one who started Moxie, not me.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The few weeks between Thanksgiving and winter break are just, I don’t know, such an exercise in futility. No one wants to be at school, and that includes the teachers. It’s a three-week countdown until a precious, blessed break when we can sleep in, numb out on television, and forget about worksheets and grammar exercises and chemistry labs.
And as far as the girls are concerned, holiday vacation will be a break from the bump ’n’ grab.
The bump ’n’ grab started not long after the long Thanksgiving weekend. Just like “Make me a sandwich,” it started small at first. A few boys did it—boys like Mitchell and Jason and their buddies—and then it started to spread like a match to dry kindling, with so many boys playing along that making it down a hallway was like picking your way through a minefield.
The bump ’n’ grab is exactly what it sounds like. A boy bumps you in the hallway. Maybe quasi-gently with a hip. Maybe more forcefully like he’s enjoying himself a little too much.
When you stumble, there’s a grab. Sometimes you get goosed around the waist. Sometimes you get pinched on the butt. And as quickly as it starts, it’s over, and the boy is off down the hall, maybe squawking that he’s sorry. Maybe laughing at the top of his lungs.
The whole thing really gets you into the holiday spirit. Ha, ha, ha.
This morning, as I make my way to English, it happens to me. I can’t even get a sense of which guy does it, he’s so fast, but his fingers manage to make it just under my shirt, cold and rough on my waist.
I want to yell out, chase him down, scream out loud. But I’m frozen from the shock of it, standing so still that some kids behind me whine that I’m blocking the hallway.
My cheeks burning, I make my way into class. With just a few days left before break, Mr. Davies has decided to show the film version of Romeo and Juliet (even though we’ve never read the play, so go figure), and I collapse into my seat, thankful for the cool darkness of the classroom. Lucy leans toward me over her desk.
“You okay? Your face is all red.”
At the front of the classroom Mr. Davies seems appropriately checked out, so I lean in and in a quiet voice tell Lucy what happened. She listens, frowns, and then mutters, “Asshole!” a little too loudly. A few kids around us laugh.
“Shhh…,” I whisper. But in the same breath, I want to scream Asshole! out loud, too.
“I don’t get this,” Lucy argues. “Is it some kind of game?”
The sappy music from the Romeo and Juliet movie drones on. Several kids around us are nodding off, and Mr. Davies’s chin is resting on his chest. In a few minutes he’ll probably be audibly snoring. Considering permission granted, I explain to Lucy that the bump ’n’ grab is one of many games some of the boys at East Rockport like to play.
“Last year, they started this thing where they tried to take pictures up girls’ skirts and then posted them online,” I explain. “There was this whole point system to it, too.”
Lucy mock faints, collapsing into her desk. Then she sits back up again.
“I can’t wait for Friday. I need a vacation from this retrograde nightmare.”
“Me, too.”
“Maybe the Moxie newsletter girls will do something about it,” she tells me.
“But what?” I ask. It strikes me that I’m open to suggestions.
“Advocate for kneeing them in the balls,” Lucy says definitively. “They can call it the knee-in-the-nuts.”
I grin back, imagining the scenario. Mitchell Wilson would get it so bad he wouldn’t be able to father children. Now that would be a win for human evolution.
After forty more minutes of Romeo and Juliet, the bell rings. As we head out of class, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I guess I’m a little jumpy from the bump ’n’ grab, because I spin around, a glare on my face.
It’s Seth. He blinks his eyes a bit as they adjust to the light of the hallway.
“Hey,” he says, pulling back. “Sorry if I scared you.”
“Oh,” I say, glancing down, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I thought you were … I don’t know.”
“It’s cool.”
Lucy gives me a quick wave and a knowing look before ducking into the crowded hallway, and I find myself walking with Seth, my heart keeping double time. At one point we’re squeezed up against each other, shoulder to shoulder. He doesn’t fall back or pull forward. His shoulder is warm. Sturdy. I didn’t know shoulders could be so sexy.
“I listened to that album you told me about,” he says.
“Did you like it?”
“Definitely. Especially the lead guitarist.”
“Yeah, she’s great.”
“Are you going anywhere for break?” he asks.
“No, just staying put. Hangin’ out with the grandparents.”
“Cruising the Sonic?” he asks.
“And the funeral home, naturally,” I answer, pleased I don’t miss a beat.
“Very funny,” Seth says, and we look each other right in the eyes and grin. Seth is super tall like me, but I kind of like the fact that I don’t have to peer up at him like I’m some little kid.
We approach my locker, and I tell him I have to stop to get my lunch. He doesn’t keep walking, though. He sort of leans up against the locker next to mine, resting on one of his incredibly sexy shoulders. I fumble with my combination and finally open my locker on the second try.
“So … what about, like, over the break?” I hear Seth’s voice saying as I dig through my stuff for my bag lunch. “What if you let me take you out? Like on a real date? Like eating real food together or whatever. Not just a drive-thru.”
Blood pumps in my ears. My hand is clutching my brown bag lunch as if it’s the only thing keeping me from collapsing on the tiled floor. I manage to turn to make eye contact with Seth, but as soon as I do he glances past me for a moment and then briefly back at me and then at his shoes.
“Uh, like … okay?” I say. “Like, that would be … great.”
“Cool,” Seth says, looking up at me and smiling. I’m still clutching my damn lunch, trying to steady myself. “I’ll text you. Or call you. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay,” he says.
Just as I’m wondering if I should say okay one more time, Seth grins and heads off down the hallway, and I’m feeling all spinny and silly and sure I’m about to pass out. I close my locker and scan the faces around me, looking for Claudia or Lucy.
Bump.
I gasp, catching my breath. It comes from behind, and just as I try to catch my balance, I feel a hand on my back. Snap! My bra strap slides back against my skin with a sting.
“What the…,” I start, catching a glimpse of what I’m pretty sure is the back of Jason Garza’s pointy, pea-brained head as he races off.
“Sorry!” he yells.
A fuck you is buried in my throat, but all I can manage to do is make it into the nearest bathroom. I catch a glimpse of a few girls preening at the sinks. I nod at them briefly and slide into one of the stalls, my eyes on the floor, and shut the door behind me. The shock of what Jason’s just done makes me want to scream. I think maybe I want to cry, too, but tears don’t come out. There’s just a buzzing, sharp rage coursing through me. Any good feeling I got from Seth asking me out has been switched off. I can still sense Jason’s hand on my back. I can still feel the snap of my bra. I can still hear him shouting out a fake apology.
Outside, the girls’ voices are light and lyrical, chatting about Christmas and the upcoming break. I want to make sure I have it together before I leave the stall, and I turn just a bit and take a breath. That’s when I see it. Written in black Sharpie on the back wall. Just over the toilet.
MOXIE GIRLS FIGHT BACK!
I don’t recognize the handwriting. I don’t know who
did it. It wasn’t me, and Lucy wouldn’t have been able to keep it quiet if she’d been the one responsible. That means some girl—a girl I don’t even know—has written those words.
MOXIE GIRLS FIGHT BACK!
I take a deep breath and smile at the graffiti as if I expect it to smile back.
* * *
That night as I’m zoning out in front of the television, my phone buzzes on the coffee table. I reach for it.
Hey—what’s up? It’s Seth. I grin.
Hey—not much just watching tv
I watch the text bubble pop up and my breathing tightens a little in anticipation.
So about going out … what about this friday?
My eyes pop open. That’s the very first night of break.
Yeah that would be great
Maybe that Mexican place … Los Tios? Went there with my parents a few times right after we moved here
Yeah it’s pretty good
I bite my lip. Joan Jett jumps up next to me on the couch and starts pawing at me to pet her. With one hand I reach for her absentmindedly, my eyes glued to my phone.
Listen you probably think I’m an asshole …
“Huh?” I say out loud. Joan Jett purrs in agreement.
Uh … no … should I? I write back.
There’s a long pause before a message pops up. My eyes try to take it all in at once, and I have to force myself to slow down and read word by word.
Like … I asked you to hang out that one time and then we didn’t hang out again … I was seeing this girl back in Austin and I felt kind of like a dick hanging out with you when I hadn’t really ended things with her … which I did recently btw …
“Oh,” I say out loud, like Seth can hear me. My brain is struggling to process this information. I’m already imagining going through it syllable by syllable when I call Claudia later. Maybe Lucy, too. I take a breath and think of how to respond.
I didn’t think you were a dick …
Seth responds immediately.
Yeah? Btw I’m worried that last text makes me sound like a fucking player … and that is actually not the case
Moxie: A Novel Page 13