Moxie: A Novel

by Jennifer Mathieu

  Kiera doesn’t answer. Just bites her bottom lip and stares at her phone again before clicking it off and tossing it into her backpack.

  “You know what’s so infuriating to me?” Kiera says. “My boyfriend actually thinks it’s cool I got picked. Like it makes him cooler, which is just gross. And what’s also gross is it’s always a white girl who wins, anyway. And all the girls who aren’t white get pissed about it and it’s like, wait, isn’t it screwed up that anyone wins this bullshit in the first place?”

  I frown. “I never thought about it like that. That a white girl always wins.”

  “Well, no offense,” says Kiera, eyeing me, “but you’re white, so you wouldn’t have.” But then she offers a wry smile, so I think it’s okay. I smile back.

  Kiera and I sit there for a bit, not talking. The weedy, sad patches of grass that make up East Rockport High’s poor excuse for a campus lawn stretch out in front of us. It’s a chilly, gray morning, especially for March in Texas, and I’m in a lousy mood.

  “I wish we could do more bake sales, like maybe under some name that’s not Moxie,” Kiera says finally. “Soccer season is upon us, and my uniform isn’t getting any newer, you know.” She scowls a bit. “But maybe not even that is safe with Wilson watching.”

  “Yeah, I’ve thought the same thing,” I say. “It would be great to do another bake sale, but my friend Lucy, who planned the first one, got sent home on the day of the assembly. She wasn’t even the one who made the stickers, but they sent her home anyway. It just seems too risky. Even if we don’t call it Moxie.”

  Kiera nods. “I get it. It just sucks that whoever the girls are who did that newsletter have stopped altogether.”

  “Yeah,” I say, deflated. It’s almost like it was some other girl who made the Moxie zines, and she doesn’t exist anymore. Not since she got replaced by a girl who has a super cute and nice boyfriend and spends her free time making out at the beach and thinking about when she should have sex for the first time.

  That girl is great, too.

  But she misses Moxie.

  A breeze makes it way past us, kicking up a few cigarette butts and dead leaves. Then Kiera says, “Maybe something off campus would work. Like a place where Wilson couldn’t get to it.”

  It is an idea, and one I haven’t thought of before. But where and how it could happen? It seems like so much work and risk that I don’t feel fired up about it.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I say. I don’t want to hurt Kiera’s feelings, so I quickly add, “It’s a good idea.”

  Kiera nods slowly, then looks across the lawn and points.

  “There’s your man,” she says, and I see Seth heading toward us.

  “Yup,” I say, and as excited as I am to see him—I’m always excited to see him—there’s a part of me that wants to sit here and keep talking to Kiera. To try to work out this Moxie thing, even if I can’t tell her I’m the one who started it all.

  But Kiera stands up and brushes off the back of her pants. “I’m taking off.”

  “’Kay,” I say as Seth gets closer.

  “Good talking to you,” she says, walking away.

  “Good talking to you, too,” I tell her. But before she gets too far, I call out to her. “Kiera!”

  “Yeah?” she asks, turning to look at me.

  “Fuck March Madness,” I say.

  A wide grin spreads over Kiera’s face.

  “Fuck it!” she shouts, popping both middle fingers in the air for good measure.

  I stand as Seth approaches, and we share a quick kiss.

  “What were you talking to Kiera about?” he asks.

  I fill him in on March Madness and tell him Kiera made the first bracket.

  “Oh, I saw stuff about that online,” he says. “It’s stupid.”

  “Yeah, really stupid,” I add. “But I’m still depressed about it, I guess.”

  “Well, just remember,” Seth says, and he sneaks an arm around my waist, pulling me in for another kiss, “not all guys are like that.”

  Before I even realize I’m doing it, I ice up and pull back a bit.

  “What’s wrong?” Seth asks, frowning.

  “I just…,” I exhale. More and more kids are starting to walk up toward the building. I lower my voice.

  “I just miss Moxie, that’s all,” I whisper. “I miss finding a way to fight back against all the bullshit in this school. And you telling me not all guys are like that doesn’t really help me feel better. Because some guys are like that. A lot of them, actually.”

  Seth’s eyes go wide. I can’t tell if he’s hurt or surprised.

  “But Vivian, there are guys at this school who don’t do March Madness,” he says. “The guys I sometimes eat lunch with … the guys who are into baseball stats and shit. They’re not that kind of guy. I’m not that kind of guy. It’s not like this place is all awful. I mean, we’ve got each other here, right? And anyway, you’re going to graduate eventually and you’ll leave. I just don’t want to see you get so upset.”

  I take a deep breath. How can I make him get it? He doesn’t understand that Moxie isn’t—wasn’t—just a fun thing I did to be cool or different like his old hipster friends in Austin. I sincerely wanted to change East Rockport High School. Maybe I was naïve to think I could, but deep down I believed it might happen.

  “What?” Seth asks.

  “What what?” I answer.

  “Are you … like … what’s up?” he asks, stepping back from me, his brow wrinkling in confusion.

  “Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “Just forget it.” I’m frustrated with him, but I’m also frustrated with myself. That I can’t find the words to explain it to him. I’m totally sure he’s not doing it on purpose, but Seth is a guy, and he can’t ever know what it feels like to walk down a hallway and know that you’re getting judged for the size of your ass or how big your boobs are. He’ll never understand what it’s like to second guess everything you wear and how you sit and walk and stand in case it doesn’t attract the right kind of attention, or worse, attracts the wrong kind. He’ll never get how scary and crazy-making it is to feel like you belong to some big Boy Monster that decides it can grab you and touch you and rank you whenever and however it wants.

  The first bell rings long and loud. By now kids are streaming in all around us, bumping into Seth and me as we stand there and stare at each other, awkward for the first time since we met.

  “Can I walk you in, or is that not okay?” Seth asks, and his voice has got the tiniest edge to it.

  “I don’t want to fight,” I murmur, looking down at my feet.

  “Me neither,” he says. “I really like you, Vivian. Like, a lot.”

  I nod. “I like you, too,” I say.

  “So let’s go in? Maybe talk about this later?”

  I nod again, and Seth and I walk up the steps into the main building. As I head inside, I get smacked with the scent of industrial cleanser mixed with Axe body spray. I hear the shouts of voices—mostly boys’ voices because nice girls don’t shout—and catch words like March Madness and dumb bitch and she’s so hot.

  I clench my fists. I feel like a match about to be lit. Or like the first crack of thunder before the storm. When Seth turns to tell me goodbye before heading to his first-period class, I jump, almost like I forgot he was there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Lucy’s face is eager and open when she finds me the morning after the fourth issue of Moxie makes its debut.

  “They’re back!” she shouts, almost collapsing into me, clutching a copy in her hands.

  I yawn and blink. I made the fourth issue last night in an explosive rush of anger. By the time I got it all done and biked down to U COPY IT, it was almost 10:30 at night. My mom had been on an overnight shift, so I wasn’t worried about beating her home. Frank the copy guy insisted it was “the coolest issue yet” and I was on a high by the time I biked home, so nervous and hyper that I’d stayed awake until almost one in the morning, watching old Bi
kini Kill videos on YouTube and reading the fourth issue over and over. Each time Principal Wilson’s threats from the assembly started to worm through my mind, I played the next video even louder. The risks I’m taking with this issue—the chance that it could hurt Lucy, the chance I could get caught and be expelled—were ever present in my head as I cut and glued and folded. But I’m done with Principal Wilson. I’m done with East Rockport High School bullshit. No more fun and games.

  “Yeah, I saw it, too,” I answer.

  She flips the zine over and peers at the back, then opens it, her eyes scanning the words and images I carefully chose while listening to Bratmobile and Team Dresch.

  “This issue is … I don’t know how to describe it. I think it’s more intense than before.”

  “You think?” I ask, peering over Lucy’s shoulder like I’m taking it all in for the first time. But Lucy’s right. When I made this issue of Moxie, I felt rage coursing through me like steam. Like a venomous snake. And when I slipped on a hoodie this morning before distributing the copies, I felt like a soldier on a dangerous mission, determined to succeed no matter what. The anger was enough to make me almost forget what a treacherous position I was putting myself in. And Lucy.

  “It’s much more aggressive, I think,” she says, her eyes still on the issue of Moxie. “Only there’s no call to action. No stickers or bathrobes or whatever. It’s just … angry.”

  “Well,” I say, slamming my locker shut, “there’s a lot to be angry about.”

  “Yeah, obviously,” Lucy answers, and we join the wave of students filing to class, their voices echoing off the walls and their shoes squeaking on the tiled floor. “You know, I’m wondering if that girl Marisela Perez made it.”

  My eyebrows shoot up, and I immediately try to cover up how surprised I must appear.

  “What makes you say that?” I ask.

  “Remember that morning we saw her put her asshole sticker on Tim Fitzpatrick?” she asks. “She just seems like she’d have the guts to do this.”

  “Huh,” I offer. “Yeah, well, she’s as good a guess as any.”

  “I just hope I don’t get hauled into the principal’s office over it,” Lucy says, and my stomach knots up.

  “There’s no way he can know who it is,” I say. “You just thought it was Marisela.”

  “Yeah,” Lucy says, shrugging. “You’re right.” But I can tell she’s a little worried.

  We part ways with promises to see each other in English class. I scan the halls for Seth’s face. After our conversation outside school yesterday morning, things have felt a little strange between us. A little awkward even. I’m not sure. I didn’t even tell him about this latest issue of Moxie. I’m worried about what it means that I didn’t feel the urge to share it with him.

  * * *

  That afternoon I head over to Meemaw and Grandpa’s for dinner. After some Stouffer’s mac and cheese and a salad of iceberg lettuce doused in ranch dressing, I join them in the TV room to work on my homework while they watch Wheel of Fortune. As I listen to Meemaw blurt out nonsensical answers (“The Nile River!” “Bridge on the River Kwai!” “‘Old Man River!’”), I let my thoughts drift back to the fall, back before Moxie started. When I started making the zine, I felt like I was cracking something open. Telling a secret that needed to be told. And for a while it was amazing. And then came Seth, who was—is—smart and cool and nice. That was great, too. But Moxie fell by the wayside.

  But since March Madness started something has changed again. With this fourth Moxie zine, I’m itching for something but I’m not sure what.

  “You okay, sweetie?” Meemaw asks during a commercial break, tilting her head a little in concern.

  “How come you’re asking?”

  “Well, for starters, you’ve been sitting there staring at the wall for the whole last round of the Wheel,” Grandpa offers. “You look as confused as a goat on Astroturf.”

  I blush slightly and look down at my math spiral. I’m holding a pencil, but I’ve only done one problem.

  “Just stuff on my mind,” I say. “Nothing serious.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?” Meemaw asks. I think of trying to explain Moxie and Seth and March Madness to my grandmother. As much as I love her, I know she wouldn’t get it. Meemaw and Grandpa see the world one way. You go to church on Sunday, you don’t wear white after Labor Day, and you always say “Merry Christmas,” not “Happy Holidays.”

  “I’m really fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just tired, I guess.”

  Meemaw smiles back. This is an answer that makes sense to her, and it seems to reassure her and Grandpa. They go back to watching television, and I go back to trying to focus on my math until a few moments later when my phone buzzes.

  Hey you mind if I come over later? Is your mom home?

  Seth. I didn’t really speak to him much at school today. I know he saw the zine because he told me so after English. He said it was “cool,” and that it was “cool” that I was making Moxie again. But we didn’t really have a long conversation.

  I text back that I’m at my grandparents’, but I’ll be home in a few minutes.

  Cool, he writes back.

  My heart starts to hammer. Is this Seth’s version of the “we need to talk” line that always comes before breakups in stupid rom coms and television sitcoms?

  I tell Meemaw and Grandpa that I need to head home and give them each a kiss on the cheek. Grandpa walks me to the door and watches until I make it to our house.

  “Love you!” he shouts.

  “I love you, too, Grandpa!”

  I sit in the living room so I can keep an eye out the front door. Seth knows to park down the street to avoid being spotted by my grandparents. When I catch a glimpse of him making his way down the sidewalk, his hands in his jeans pockets, his head bowed low, my first thought is He is so crazy cute. I watch as he slips through the alley between my house and our other next door neighbors’ before coming in through the back door, which I’ve already unlocked.

  “Hey,” he says, sliding his hoodie off his shoulders. “I always feel like a secret agent when I sneak in like this.”

  I grin. In truth I bet my mom already knows Seth comes by when she’s not here. But it’s just a little bit easier if we can keep Meemaw and Grandpa out of it.

  “Sorry,” I say. “But you really don’t want my grandparents to see you. My grandpa owns a shotgun.”

  “Of course he does,” Seth says.

  This would normally be the moment when Seth kisses me, when we collapse onto the couch and start making out, and I start wondering if and when we’ll go further than we have the time before. But this time he just stands there, and I hear myself blurt out, “Are we breaking up?”

  Seth’s eyes pop open, genuinely surprised. “No! What?” He blinks once, then twice. “Not unless you want to break up with me.”

  I’m blushing, embarrassed. I feel like I’m playing the part of the anxious girlfriend, and I hate it. I just shake my head and look at my feet.

  “It’s stupid,” I say. “But I just feel like … since that morning when you saw me talking to Kiera … we’ve been awkward.”

  “You wanna talk?” Seth asks.

  I nod, and we end up on the couch together.

  “So what’s up?” Seth starts.

  I bite my lip and try to find the right words. “I don’t know … I don’t even know what I’m trying to say,” I start. “I just felt like you were … trying to make me think things weren’t so bad. With the March Madness thing. Because you aren’t that kind of guy. And I was frustrated because of course, like, I know you’re not that guy. But there are those guys at East Rockport. There are … so many of them.”

  Seth nods, scratches the back of his head.

  “Yeah, I can see that,” he says.

  “I’m not upset because there are no good guys at East Rockport. I’m upset because there are so many assholes. When I get upset about March Madness, it’s not about you
.”

  “Yeah,” he answers, exhaling. “I guess I was being kind of a dick.”

  “No, not a dick,” I say. “You were just kind of … unaware. Defensive even?”

  “I feel like I can’t say the right thing here,” Seth says.

  “No, you are saying the right thing. It’s okay.”

  Seth gives me a half grin. “I promise I’ll try to be … more sensitive about stuff.” What that might look like to Seth I’m not exactly sure. I think he could just be saying it because he hopes it’s the right thing to say. Honestly, I’m not even sure what I want Seth to say. Maybe there isn’t a right thing.

  “I did like the latest issue of Moxie,” he says. “I wasn’t just saying so earlier. It was different this time.”

  I pluck at a loose string on my jeans, recalling what Lucy said about the issue. “Different how?” I dare to look up at Seth.

  “Maybe a little more intense,” he says. “Not that that’s necessarily bad or whatever. I liked the art you chose. I just think it’s cool you’re doing it again. Plus it makes you happy, right?”

  I’m not sure I would describe the feeling of making Moxie as happy. Important, maybe. Necessary? Definitely. But I just smile and nod. At this, Seth reaches out and runs his thumb over my knee, sending an electric shiver up my body. I give him a knowing look.

  “Oh, do you want to fool around or something?” I ask, acting like I’m surprised.

  “I don’t know, do you?” Seth asks, his voice casual, like we’re talking about what we want to watch on Netflix.

  “Shut up,” I say, throwing a couch cushion at his head.

  “When does your mom get home?” Seth asks, his voice dropping a little. Getting all whispery. My breathing quickens just a bit.

  “Like in an hour or so,” I say.

  “Okay,” Seth says, nodding. He’s close to me now, and I can smell his soap and aftershave and the peppermint Tic Tacs he must have popped in his mouth just before coming over. His dark eyes stare into mine.

  I want to attack him right there. So I do, reaching over to kiss him and letting myself fall into him, forgetting all my mixed-up feelings and ignoring the sense that the conversation we just had didn’t really change anything at all. That it was just a make-nice before the make out.