“Thanks to Evie,” someone mumbles—Matt, I think, but I’m not sure.
“Yes, thanks to Evie.” Brookner squeezes his way around the circle. He stops in back of me and presses his hands onto my shoulders. The bell buzzes. Like Pavlov’s dogs, everyone pops into motion, trained to move to the next class at the synthetic beep. “Chairs back where they were!” Brookner calls. “Don’t forget: Tomorrow is global event day and your report is due. Print or internet, just be certain to cite the source. It will be graded!”
I move my chair and gather my things, but Brookner holds a finger up. “Evie. If you’ll stay behind.”
Jacinda’s eyes go wide. “I’ll catch up with you later,” she says, adding in a whisper, “tell me everything.”
As the class files out, Brookner closes in on me and hovers a little too close. Is it on purpose? Or does he have a warped sense of personal space? Was he raised in a cage full of battery hens, or is it some strange assertion of power? Either way, I refuse to budge an inch.
“I wonder,” he whispers, leaning even closer and lowering his voice like a conspirator, “did you have something else in mind just then?” His breath smells like coffee and sour milk.
I do not move. “What do you mean?”
“Surely you didn’t just want everyone to die.”
“Of course not.”
“Mmm-hmm. I thought so. You had something in mind.”
“I didn’t get time to explain it.”
“Please, enlighten me.”
I cross my arms. “Okay. Clearly you wanted us to base our decisions on what’s listed on the cards. That’s not rocket science.”
He smiles. “Go on.”
“But there’s a lot more to a person than age, occupation, whether they have kids. And who are we to judge anyway?”
“Condemning people to death is better than placing value judgments?”
“No. There’s a better way—better ways. I can think of at least two.”
Brookner leans close enough that I can smell the soap on his skin. He’s way, way too close; it’s immensely distracting. I give in and pull back a little.
“Well?” he prompts.
“Um, right. One, go by age, starting with the oldest. They’ve lived more, so they should give the younger people a fighting chance. Or two, draw straws. Make it completely random. Otherwise you’re placing your values onto other people. You have to go by age or nothing at all.”
“Interesting.”
“Everyone gets a chance that way. It’s called fairness?” I’m goading him now. “You may have heard of it?”
“Sounds more like anarchy.”
I snort without meaning to. “No, it doesn’t. But even so, what’s so bad about anarchy? There are worse things. Fascism, for one. Authoritarianism.”
Brookner chuckles. He leans on the corner of a desk. “Hmm. Well, you can go now. You’re not in trouble.”
“Why on earth would I be in trouble?”
He smirks. In the space of a millisecond, his eyes flick down to my shoes, travel up my Levis, skim over my dark gray hoodie, jump to my eyes. He looks intrigued, as if he thinks of me as a challenge. A puzzle he can solve. It’s both flattering and unsettling.
“I should go.” I pick up my books.
Brookner steps toward me, compressing the air between us again. Is this a power thing? Is he that concerned I’ll forget who’s in charge? Why is he so invested in making me uncomfortable? He sighs and turns, reaching for a notepad. “You’ll be late for your next class. Let me write you a pass.”
There it is: another assertion of power.
I do not say thank you, because I refuse to let him feel superior.
As he hands me the pass, his fingers graze my palm. I can feel the heat from his fingertips. They linger a little too long.
Lunch in the shop room with Rajas. Oh, how it can take my mind off everything. Ms. Gliss giving me more crap about my ankle, and then ranting to the class about body mass? Gone. Mr. Wysent’s confusing assignment about Punnett squares? No longer an issue. Power dynamic weirdness with Brookner? It all just floats away like wisps of cloud in the wind. Now it’s just me and Rajas: kissing, eating, talking. So far we’ve managed to keep our shop room trysts a secret.
Jacinda doesn’t miss us during lunch, because she started scheduling regular lunchtime practices for Cheer Squad. God only knows when they eat. Jacinda is committed to qualifying for state cheerleading finals at the expense of almost anything else. I have to hand it to her, she excels at what she does. Her squad respects her leadership and, in the little bits of their practices I’ve seen, it does seem like it takes skill. Especially their dance routines. If I tried to do them, I’d look like a charging bull moose. With rabies. On meth.
After lunch, down the hall from shop class, Rajas and I start to peel apart. But near the gym, a sustained screeching stops us cold. What is that? I look at Rajas; he shrugs at my unspoken question. We step into the gym to investigate.
From inside a crowd of cheerleaders, Jacinda spots us. Her eyes go wide and she holds up her hand to tell me and Rajas to stop where we are. We do—and stay to listen. It’s difficult to understand the shrill shrieks. When the yelling finally starts making sense, my stomach tightens. The words are awful.
“I have had it with this squad!” Ms. Gliss screeches. “Look at yourselves! It’s like you don’t even care!” She appears to start crying. “I’ve never seen such muffin tops! You’re bulging out of your uniforms! No wonder you keep dropping your lifts!”
I start toward her.
“Wait, Eve.” Rajas catches my arm and whispers, “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know yet. Something!”
Ms. Gliss hiccups. “Fitness doesn’t just mean exercise, ladies! It means limiting your calories for heaven’s sake!”
Jacinda catches my attention. Eyebrows knit, lips pursed into a concerned O, she shakes her head. She doesn’t want me to intervene.
Rajas is shaking his head too. “This is Jay’s territory. Let her handle it.”
We stand, horrified, as Ms. Gliss wipes her running mascara and continues, “Get yourselves together, ladies! Your appearance is inexcusable. Inexcusable! Especially you,” she wags a finger at Marcie. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed those five pounds! Or is it ten?”
Ms. Gliss walks toward her office, her white sneakers squeaking on the floor. She turns around. “And do not make me out to be the bad guy here, ladies.” She sniffs. “I don’t mean to sound harsh. But the truth can be painful. I’m telling you this for your own good. You’ve got a pep rally and homecoming soon. If I don’t say something now, the whole school will be talking later, and that would be much worse.” She whips open the door to the locker room and disappears into her office.
Girls start whispering. Jacinda hugs Marcie, who is crying. The Cheer Squad converges en masse. Their eyes seem to plead with Jacinda, their captain, to do something. Across the gym, a cluster of boys is loitering by the door to their locker room. Marcie’s was a very public humiliation.
“Ohmigod, Marcie, you are not fat.” Still holding on to her, Jacinda walks Marcie toward the door where Rajas and I are standing. The other girls follow. Jacinda pulls her shoulders back and straightens up to address the group. “I think that we just need to practice our lifts more. Work up our strength and balance, right, squad?” Jacinda smiles gratefully at her cousin as he holds the door for them.
“But—but Ms. Gliss—” Marcie tries to say; it comes out as a sob.
“Ms. Gliss bullshit,” Jacinda spits. Wow. I’ve never heard her swear. Judging from Rajas’s shocked look, she must not do it often. “She can be mean when she’s stressed. But, still! That was out of line! Don’t listen to her, Marcie.”
I touch Marcie’s shoulder. “Jacinda’s right. She can’t do this to you. We won’t let her.”
Rajas brushes my hand with his, like he doesn’t want to interrupt. “See you later,” he whispers.
I nod.
Marcie watches Rajas go and wipes her eyes. “Ms. Gliss is right, I am so fat.”
“Bullshit!” Jacinda lets out a big breath. “Here’s what you’re going to do. Go to Ms. Cleary and fake a migraine so she’ll send you home. Take the rest of the day off. That is, like, captain’s orders. And don’t you dare start starving yourself!”
Marcie dabs her nose with her sleeve. “Okay.”
Jacinda turns to the rest of the group. “Everyone else? Let’s take a break from after-school practice today, but we’ll definitely meet tomorrow as usual. Just put this behind you, have a healthy dinner, and come back better than ever. We are strong, we are a team. We are the fricking Tornados Cheer Squad!”
Murmuring agreement, the group disperses toward lockers and classrooms. I hang back with Jacinda, walking slowly, turning the corner into a more crowded hall.
“You okay?” I ask.
“That fricking witch!” she explodes. “God! She’s always been high-strung. But lately she’s getting worse. I mean, you saw that! That was out of control, right?” Jacinda bumps into someone, a first-year student I think, but doesn’t apologize or break her cadence. “She’s always been totally overboard about ‘fitness’”— Jacinda makes quotation marks in the air—“which we all know what that means! Like it’s some sort of secret code? Please. It means be skinny or else. I mean, it’s a lot of pressure, you know? But she’s never, ever singled someone out like that before. Saying those things to Marcie? Isn’t that, like, illegal or something?”
“It’s definitely harassment.”
“We should tell Dr. Folger.” Jacinda picks at her nail polish while we walk. For once she isn’t greeting by name every person we pass. “Principals can fire teachers, right?”
“You’re asking me?” But she’s too upset to see the irony. I say, “From the very little I know of school bureaucracy, I doubt a principal can fire a teacher. Not easily, anyway.”
“We have to do something.”
Wait. The quote about the internet on Brookner’s board. Our conversation after his lifeboat game. Forget trying to change things through the student newspaper… or student government…but what about…
Jacinda looks at me, bewilderment screwing up her forehead. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“Because. I have an idea.”
11
I want to live in a society where people are intoxicated with the joy of making things.
—WILLIAM COPERTHWAITE, EDUCATOR AND BUILDER
After school, Jacinda comes home with me. We stop at Walmart for Martha on the way. When we get home, Jacinda and I set up camp in my loft with the computer and a notebook.
Martha bangs around the kitchen as she starts cooking supper. “Why don’t I skip my thing tonight?” she calls up to us.
“The co-op?” I lean down over the ladder. “You should go.”
“Not the co-op. It’s a Horny Singletons thing.”
“Again? Didn’t you just go?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she says a little too breezily. “A couple of the Singletons are getting together for coffee. It’s extracurricular.” She waves her hand. “But I think I’ll skip it. I’ll just hang out, keep you two company.” She twists the top off a jar of fresh milk and takes a swig. I don’t have to look to know that next to me, Jacinda is wrinkling her nose.
“Martha!” I scold. “One, pour yourself a glass, you heathen. And two, you should go. Have a life.”
“I have a life—”
“Have a life with grown-upicals.”
Now it’s Martha’s turn to crinkle her nose. “Yes, Mother.” She brings the back of her hand to her forehead. “Your authority is too strong for the feeble likes of me. I suppose I’ll just disappear and go do the chores.”
I laugh. “Poor Cinderellie, mayhaps the mice and bluebirds will help you.”
Martha squints and shakes a finger at me. “You owe me an evening of weeding, darling. That ankle’s all better and you know it.” Martha breaks into a chorus of Bob Dylan’s “Maggie’s Farm” as she puts the milk back, turns the stove to simmer, grabs the garden basket, and clomps out the door.
I open the computer and type in some notes as we brainstorm ideas. Jacinda taps her fingers against my Eco-Village model, wiggling her foot as she thinks.
“It’s like, I’m shocked on the one hand? But then again I’m totally not surprised on the other.” She lies back to stare out the huge skylight. “Ms. Gliss has always had a thing against Marcie. And it is hard to hide a few pounds under our uniforms and spanky pants.”
“What-y pants?” I ask as I move Eco-Village to a safer location.
“Spanky pants. The granny panties we wear over our real undies?” She shakes her head. “It’s, like, you get more sexism when you’re on Cheer Squad. Like Ms. Gliss and Marcie today, obviously.” She shivers, as if she’s remembering Marcie’s sobs. And Ms. Gliss’s rant. “I mean, in what other sport do they pick on you about your weight?”
“Gymnastics?” I answer. “Wrestling? Figure skating? Boxing? Swimming?”
“Okay, true. But that’s not what I mean. With Cheer Squad, it’s not just about what you weigh, it’s about how you look. People ogle you, and they think you’re stupid or superficial or backbitey, just because you’re a cheerleader. Like you’re straight out of Bring it On or something.”
“So why do you do it if it’s so much trouble?”
“Why do you go hiking if it’s so dangerous?” she snaps.
“Good point.” I backpedal. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. You must really like it.”
“I used to love it. Now it’s just a lot of stress. But the dance routines still make me happy.” She chips at her nail polish. “Then again, I think it’s complicated, you know? Because it’s good being in Cheer Squad. We can get away with more than other kids. Like how many detentions have you gotten? I cannot relate. I never get in trouble, even when I should.”
“That’s the trick, though.” I pull my ponytail elastic out and twirl my hair into a loose bun. “Oppressors— people in power—do that on purpose so you lose your motivation for change. They’re especially careful with natural leaders. They put you in charge of something to give you a stake in the system. That way, you buy into the status quo instead of leading a revolution.”
Jacinda hugs her knees. “Like being captain of Cheer Squad instead of fighting sexism?”
“Maybe.”
Her bottom lip starts to quiver. “You think it’s stupid. Cheer Squad. Like I’m some tool of The Man.”
“No, Jacinda. I don’t.”
“Don’t lie.”
I take a breath. “Okay, truth? At first I thought it was”—what word won’t sound too harsh?—“um, different… than what I’m used to. But that’s my problem. You’re a fantastic person. You’re smart and capable and a great friend. If anyone should be Cheer Squad captain, it should be you. You shatter the stereotype, but all stealth and sneaky-like.”
“Ohmigod, you really think that?”
“I really do. You can be the cheerleader revolutionary.”
She sinks into my bed, a lumpy futon mattress. “I’m so relieved. I was afraid you thought it was silly or something.”
“No.” I prop my head on my hand. “Look, it’s most definitely not my kind of thing. You couldn’t pay me to put on one of those little skirts. It wouldn’t cover half of one butt cheek.”
“Oh, come on now, you know you want to rock some spanky pants,” Jacinda laughs.
“How do you know I don’t have them on right now? Maybe Rajas can’t get enough of my spanky pants.”
Jacinda slaps her hands over her ears. “Ew! Shut up! I do not want to hear about my cousin’s sex life.” Her eyes go wide. She sits up. “Wait! Is there a sex life?”
“I thought you didn’t want to hear!”
“I need details. I’ll just pretend he’s not related to me.”
I pick at the tapestry on my bed. “It’s not a sex life. It’s a kissi
ng life. So far.”
“That’s so cute! Raj and Evie sittin’ in a tree, K-I-SS- I-N…” She trails off. “What’s wrong?”
I pull my hair around so I can hide behind it. I don’t want to know, but I have to know: “Is Rajas…has Rajas…?”
“Is he experienced?”
I pretend to examine my hair.
Jacinda sighs. “He’s not a virgin, let’s put it that way.”
My stomach churns. I keep quiet.
“Ugh! I can’t believe I know all the girls my cousin’s been with! It’s not like we talk about it. But I am friends with, like, everyone.” Apparently I’m not hiding my devastation— all the girls he’s been with!—because when she peeks through my hair to see the look on my face, Jacinda waves her hand. “But whatever! Pish-posh. I mean you’re not worried about it, are you?”
With zero conviction, I shake my head.
“You’re a virgin?”
I nod. “Are you?”
She scrunches up her face. “Sort of yes, sort of no. I’ve, like, hooked up with Stiv—”
“What! Global View Stiv? Newspaper Stiv? You didn’t tell me that!”
“It’s so not a big deal. We hooked up a couple of times last year and again over the summer.”
“Does Rajas know?”
Her mouth curls into a pretty frown. “I think that he kind of knows. He, like, maintains denial about my sex life.” She sighs. “Or lack thereof.”
I comb my fingers through my hair. “What do you mean ‘lack thereof’? Surely you, of all people, could have anyone you want.”
She gives me a reserved smile. She looks sad.
Realization dawns: “Oh. Right. Who you want is your InterWeb Lover.”
She shrugs. “I’m kind of waiting for him.”
“Who is he, Jacinda? Just spill it.”
Nothing.
“Does he live around here?” I ask. “Is he worthy of you?”
She stares through the skylight, her foot wiggling so hard it shakes the bed. “Let’s, like, change the subject.”
“You never want to talk about it. What’s with all the secrecy?”
She doesn’t respond. She’s so open about most things that it’s jarring when she does keep something hidden. Maybe she just needs more time?
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