“I was wondering if you might be willing to review that last grammar concept?” I start, not caring that my cheeks are pink. Only caring that, for the moment, Mitchell has shut up. “I was a little lost on the … what did you call them, the gerundive phrases?”
And then, from across the room, Seth’s voice.
“Yeah, me, too, Mr. Davies. I was a little lost, and we have five pages of homework on them, don’t we?”
I glance at Seth, my eyes grateful.
Mr. Davies groans and runs his hand through his buzz cut like he’d rather not, but he eases out of his desk and starts lecturing again, and his presence in front of us is enough to shut Mitchell up. When the bell rings, Lucy turns to look at me.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
* * *
By the end of the day, Moxie stickers are everywhere, and when I get to my locker to gather my stuff, I’m feeling more than proud of myself. That’s when I spot Claudia darting through the hallway with determination.
“Viv, did you hear?” she says, breathless.
“What?” I ask, slamming my locker door shut.
“Well…,” she says, but then she shakes her head. I can’t tell if she’s happy or scared or both. “You have to come see.”
She tugs me by the wrist and drags me out the side door toward the faculty parking lot. As I follow, I hear the distinct buzz of voices building. Snippets of students saying, “No shit?” and shouts full of the giddiness that comes with good gossip. With the excitement of Something Finally Happening.
And there the something is, in the front row of the faculty lot. Right under the RESERVED FOR PRINCIPAL sign.
There, on the bumper of Principal Wilson’s bright red, late model, extended cab Ford truck are four Moxie stickers, lined up one right after another like floats on parade.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The assembly is mandatory. And girls only.
We file in during first period on Tuesday, and it hits me that I’ve never been in a space with so many girls before and no guys. Even though I’m sure we’re about to be punished, something about it feels special, exhilirating even. It’s just us. Just girls. I remember seeing some of my mom’s old Riot Grrrl zines and flyers—how they advertised girl-only spaces and girl-only shows, or how they wouldn’t let the boys come to the front of the stage when their bands were playing but reserved that space just for ladies, so all the women would feel safe.
But right now the East Rockport High School auditorium doesn’t feel safe, especially with Principal Wilson standing on the stage, his arms crossed in front of him, his mouth a firm line.
“File in quickly, you’re going too slow,” he commands into the microphone.
“So what’s going to happen to us?” Lucy says, tucking an arm into mine. “Will we be threatened with the gallows? Or burned at the stake? It’s all going to go down very Salem Witch Trials. Mark my words.”
Claudia’s in front and she turns around, her face anxious.
“He does seem pissed, doesn’t he? You don’t think they know who did the stickers, do they?”
“We don’t know who did the stickers, remember?” Lucy says. “Don’t worry, Claudia.”
“But I…” Claudia’s voice drops to barely there levels. “I put one on a locker.”
We continue getting jostled down the aisle of the auditorium as Lucy puts her arm around Claudia. “Claudia,” she says, “I’m betting half of the girls in this room put one on a locker. Did you see the school yesterday? I’m sure Wilson is just going to blow off some steam and give us all a warning.”
“But what if they have cameras?” Sara pipes up.
“They don’t, so don’t worry,” I say. It’s one thing I checked on before I distributed my first copies of Moxie. East Rockport High spends more money on football than security.
Still, my friends’ nervousness is contagious. Maybe someone did spot something. Maybe somehow something has been traced back to somebody, namely me. Maybe Frank at U COPY IT is some undercover spy for Principal Wilson.
Stop it, Viv, you’re being ridiculous.
As we take our seats, I notice Emma Johnson walking across the stage, taking the one empty seat next to Principal Wilson, who is standing at the microphone. She has her hands folded in her lap, her slender fingers wrapped around several index cards. She crosses her feet at the ankles and gazes out at all of us, like a warden at a women’s prison.
“What is she doing up there?” I ask, but no one gets a chance to answer because Principal Wilson raises his hands to get our silence.
“Ladies of East Rockport, your attention, now,” he barks, and my stomach burns at the sound of his voice. His beady little eyes remind me of a snake’s. And of his son’s.
We shift in our seats as Principal Wilson waits for total silence. Even after he gets it he waits a few beats more, his mouth turning into a small frown. Finally he starts talking again.
“Girls, to say I’m angry would be an understatement,” he begins. “I’m livid. There are stickers all over boys’ lockers and reports that girls are placing stickers on boys’ shirts.” I’m surprised he doesn’t mention his truck. I hope it’s because he’s too embarrassed. “This destruction of school property must stop. This bad behavior must stop. Immediately. The cost to remove these stickers will eat into the school budget, so in the end, you’re only hurting yourselves.” I imagine the football budget won’t be touched, but Principal Wilson’s expression is so angry, his voice so stern, that I’m almost scared to think something rebellious for fear he might read my mind.
“Now it’s my understanding this Moxie club has been doing bake sales in the cafeteria for the girls’ soccer team,” he continues, and my cheeks flood with heat. I work up the guts to glance at Lucy. Her name is on the club paperwork in the main office. But she just stares ahead, her expression icy.
“Raising money for an athletic team is a noble goal and is allowed on school grounds, but now that this graffiti has become such a problem in our fine school, I have no choice but to ban the Moxie club from any future activities,” continues Principal Wilson. “Any girl who is caught defacing school property or using this Moxie label will be suspended immediately and I will move to have her expelled.”
The audience of girls breaks into whispers.
“Can he really do that?” Sara murmurs.
But no one needs to answer her. We all know Principal Wilson can do whatever he wants.
“For those of you applying to college, I don’t have to tell you what that kind of consequence will look like on your transcript, but let me spell it out for you,” he adds. “No school would accept such a girl.” I think about the college fund Mom has been building for me since I was in kindergarten. I remember the years she worked Christmas Eve and the times she pulled double shifts to be able to sock away some extra money.
“Now in conclusion, I would like to have your class vice president, Emma Johnson, share a few words with you,” Principal Wilson says. At this, Emma tosses her hair over her shoulder and steps up to the microphone. She gazes down at her note cards for a moment, but she never uses them as she speaks. Instead she looks toward us, but I can tell she’s using that public speaking trick of talking at the tops of our heads. She’s not really making eye contact with any of us.
“Y’all, Principal Wilson asked me to talk with you today about the importance of being a lady,” she begins, her voice soft and even. She pauses and looks out, then takes a breath and keeps going.
“Being a lady means acting in such a way that you show respect to other people and places, too. Places that should be close to your heart, like our school. East Rockport High is our home away from home, and we need to treat it as such when we’re here. So I’m asking you, girl to girl, to please stop all this nonsense with the stickers and remember to hold yourself to the standards of a Texas lady.” She gives us a little nod to punctuate her speech, then steps back and sits down. There’s a smattering of applause from a handful of girls in t
he front row—Emma’s friends. But mostly I want to squirm. To see one of our own—even someone who always seems to have it all—shilling for the administration is super gross and weird. It’s almost enough to make me feel sorry for Emma, but not quite.
Then Principal Wilson steps back up to the microphone.
“I hope you take those words to heart, girls, and I hope you take my warning very, very seriously,” he says. “Now you’re dismissed. Get to your first period classes immediately.”
Quietly, we file up the ratty red carpet that covers the aisles. Girls are looking at each other with wide eyes and open mouths. The buzzing and sense of possibility that I felt yesterday has fizzled into fear. My heart sinks.
Up ahead Assistant Principal Shelly is standing by the main doors of the auditorium, watching us exit.
“Lucy Hernandez?” he says as my friends and I head toward him.
“Yeah?” says Lucy. Not yes, but yeah.
“Try ‘Yes, sir,’ next time,” Mr. Shelly says, scowling. Girls coming up the aisles glance at us as they pass by, then start whispering to each other. Claudia is standing just behind us with Sara and the others, and when I turn to check on her, her face is strained.
“I need you to come with me,” Mr. Shelly says, curling his index finger toward himself like Lucy is a misbehaving toddler and he’s about to send her to the naughty chair.
“For what?” Lucy asks, and the tiny little tremor in her voice tells me that her level of bravado has fallen a notch or two.
“We’ll discuss it in my office,” he says. And just like that, Lucy is spirited away down the crowded halls of East Rockport.
“Shit,” I say once they’re out of earshot, and I turn to look at Claudia, Sara, and the others.
“I wonder if she did make those stickers,” Claudia says, frowning.
“I really believe she didn’t,” I say, turning my focus toward the direction where Mr. Shelly went with Lucy. I should go after them. I should at least tell Mr. Shelly that I helped plan the bake sale. But my feet don’t move. Shame courses through me.
“What do you think’s going to happen to her?” Sara asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer.
Claudia bites her bottom lip. “Even if she did make those stickers, she doesn’t deserve to get in tons of trouble,” she says. “I think girls used them for a reason. Not just to mess with school property.”
“Yeah,” I say, and as my eyes meet Claudia’s, I know that she’s a Moxie girl now for real. But given Principal Wilson’s warnings, being a Moxie girl can only mean danger.
* * *
We don’t see Lucy in any of our classes or at lunch. When I text her, she doesn’t respond. All day long I can’t sit still, constantly checking my phone, willing it to buzz with some message from Lucy telling me she’s okay. Guilt keeps building inside me, leaving me half-queasy.
“I’m worried,” I tell Seth when he meets me at my locker at the end of the day. “She’s going to take the fall for everything because she put her name on that club form to do the bake sale.”
Seth scratches the back of his neck and frowns. “But they can’t prove anything, right?”
“That doesn’t matter here,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “If they want to pin it on her, they will.”
Seth shakes his head. “You make this place sound like it’s run by the Russian mob or something.”
I can tell he doesn’t get it. “Sometimes it feels like that,” I say, my voice tight.
Just then, at last, I get a text.
Can you please please please come over? To my house? I’m home now. Do you remember where I live? 9762 Memorial? I really need to talk
“Oh, good, it’s Lucy,” I say, holding up the phone as proof. “She’s at home. Maybe the school sent her home early? God, I hope she wasn’t suspended.” Before Seth answers, I text Lucy back that I’m on my way.
“I need to see her. Think you can give me a lift?” I ask, lugging my backpack over my shoulder.
“Yeah, no problem,” says Seth, but he doesn’t sound like it’s no problem.
We trudge out to the parking lot, dodging other students. It’s weirdly quiet between us. “Thanks again,” I say, eager to fill the space. “I just want to make sure she’s okay.”
“Yeah, I get it,” Seth says, clicking open his Honda. “So when do you want to watch the documentary we were going to check out this afternoon?”
“Oh, yeah, that,” I answer, sliding into the front passenger seat. Suddenly I feel like the subject of one of those stupid quizzes in the teen magazines that I used to read in middle school. (“Are You a True Blue BFF or a Fair-Weather Friend?” “Is It Love or Lust?” “Do You Put Your Guy or Your Gal Pals First?”) Lucy needs me. I promised to hang out with Seth. I don’t want either one of them to be disappointed in me. I want to see Lucy and find out what happened to her today. And I want to kiss Seth again. I really want to kiss Seth again.
But I also want him to get how much trouble Lucy could be in, and how much that matters to me. And I don’t know that he does.
“I’m sorry, I just feel like everything that’s happened to Lucy is all my fault … which it is.”
“No, no, I’m being a dick,” Seth insists. “You don’t have to apologize. You should be with your friend.” He nods his head, like he’s trying to prove to me how he really feels. And maybe to himself, too.
“We can hang out tomorrow? And every day this week? And maybe this weekend?” Why is everything I say coming out like a desperate question? Having a Real Boyfriend is so much more complicated than having a Fantasy Boyfriend.
“It’s cool, Vivian,” Seth says. “I should probably make some more guy friends around here. Maybe start brushing up on my obscure baseball stats so I fit in more with the guys I eat lunch with.” He shoots me a warm smile. The kind of smile that makes me want to evaporate into a mushy, crushy girl puddle. Then he asks for directions, and it’s not long before we pull up in front of Lucy’s grandmother’s house.
“Thanks for the lift,” I say, turning toward him. “And I’m really sorry we couldn’t hang out.”
But Seth doesn’t say anything. Just leans in and kisses me, all soft and warm and perfect, and my head is dizzy as I make my way up the front walk to the door.
“Hey,” Lucy says, pulling open the door in one swift motion just as I make a move to knock. “I was watching for you. Thanks for coming.” Her face looks a little pale, and she’s not smiling.
As I walk in, I realize how little I really know about Lucy’s life outside of school, and how much you learn when you see where someone lives. Lucy’s grandmother’s house is crammed with large pieces of dark wood furniture and tons of knickknacks, like a collection of ceramic sewing thimbles on the coffee table and a shelf full of nothing but conch shells. The walls are decorated in gold-and-white-striped wallpaper, and there are framed photographs everywhere. The smiling eyes of people I can only guess are Lucy’s relatives watch my every move. I focus on a few that must be of Lucy as a little girl, complete with an infectious grin and smiling eyes.
“Are you here by yourself?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “My grandmother and little brother are in the den watching television. Wanna say hi?” She doesn’t wait for an answer as she leads me toward the back of the house, where a woman with salt-and-pepper hair is curled up with a little boy on the couch. They’re watching PBS Kids. Lucy’s brother never breaks his gaze from the television screen.
“Hey, Abuelita,” Lucy says, waving. “This is my friend from school? Vivian?”
“Hi, dear,” the woman says to me, nodding. “Are you here to help keep our girl out of trouble? She’s never been sent home early from school before.” She pitches an eyebrow up high, and Lucy just sighs and rolls her eyes.
“Abuelita, I told you it’s not like that,” she says, and she drags me by the wrist out of the den and up the stairs.
“God, I love her, but I really, really want us to get our own pl
ace,” Lucy says, leading me into a tiny room the size of a walk-in closet. She shuts the door behind me, and I let my backpack slide to my feet. Lucy kicks off her shoes and I follow.
“This is where I sleep,” she says, motioning her hand around. “At least I get my own space. My poor brother sleeps on the couch downstairs and keeps all his stuff in my parents’ bedroom.”
Lucy sits down on the unmade twin bed that’s tucked into the corner and motions for me to join her. It’s really the only place to sit since the floor is covered in books and papers and schoolwork. The rest of the room is covered, too, with every inch of wall space decorated in postcards and music posters and ripped-out pages from magazines. Along the side of the one tiny window next to Lucy’s bed is a series of bright-yellow Post-its. Each one has a single word on it, spelling out the vertical message YOUR SILENCE WILL NOT PROTECT YOU. When Lucy catches me glancing at it, she tells me it’s a quote from a poet named Audre Lorde.
“Cool,” I say. “I like it.”
“Yeah, she was a badass. She died a long time ago, though.”
“How long until your family gets its own place?” I ask.
“Well, my mom just got a job doing medical billing at the same retirement home my dad works at,” she says, “so it’s looking up. Maybe by the end of next month.”
“That’s good,” I say, nodding my head. I’m trying to act supportive and casual, but suddenly, I feel like I’m going to cry. I keep picturing mean Mr. Shelly marching Lucy down the hall. I keep imagining her all alone with him.
“So,” she starts, dragging her long hair up and tying it effortlessly into a knot on top of her head, “do you want to know the gory details?”
“Please tell me you’re not in huge trouble,” I say.
“Well, I’m not going to be named student of the week anytime soon, that’s for sure,” Lucy says, her voice softening. “Mr. Shelly hauled me into his office, wanted to know all about the Moxie club. He said everything I told him would be reported back to Principal Wilson and they’re all watching me.” At this, Lucy’s cheeks flush, and she stares down at the bedspread. “I told him I had nothing to do with the stickers. I mean, I left out the part about putting them on lockers, which of course I did. But I didn’t make them.”
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