Moxie

by Jennifer Mathieu

  My heart slips back down to my chest where it belongs. I exhale. I want to walk by them so they’ll see me and know they’re not alone, but just then I feel someone collide into my left shoulder.

  “You did it!”

  It’s Lucy, and she’s wearing not only a puffy pink bathrobe that makes her look like a Hostess Sno Ball, but also fuzzy pink slippers that match.

  “Oh my God, you look awesome,” I say, and Lucy grins and shrugs like she knows.

  “I saw a few other girls by the gym entrance who had them on, too,” she tells me. “I think there are already more girls doing this than the hearts and stars thing.” She eyes the campus carefully. “I wish I knew which girls were the Moxie girls. I mean, they’re here somewhere.”

  The irony is too much for me to handle with a neutral face, so I just urge Lucy along so I don’t have to make eye contact. Along the way into school, we wave to a few other girls who have bathrobes on. I spot Kiera Daniels, and she has on fuzzy slippers just like Lucy, only her getup is lavender. Kiera and I wave at each other. More than half of the girls she’s with have bathrobes on.

  Inside all the buzz is about the bathrobes. I overhear a few guys asking each other what’s going on and some people talking about “that newsletter.” It’s a zine, but whatever, I think as I start toward history. Lucy says she’ll see me in English and we split off.

  Heading into class, I see Claudia in the back row. No bathrobe, just a pale pink top and jeans. She waves at me as I walk in.

  “Hey,” I say, sliding into my desk next to her.

  “Hey,” she answers, and it’s very obvious we are both Not Talking About It. I’m disappointed she didn’t do it, and she’s probably disappointed in me for the opposite reason.

  “I’m so tired,” she says, pushing out a little yawn. It’s forced and weird between us, like it almost never is.

  “Yeah, I’m tired, too,” I say. “I didn’t really sleep well last night.” That’s the truth, actually. I spent most of the night in a half-awake, half-asleep state, hearing Bikini Kill songs in my head and imagining an army of girls in bathrobes, complete with curlers in their hair and wielding blow dryers as weapons.

  Just then Sara files into class, and my heart leaps when I see she’s wearing this dark blue bathrobe with daisies on it that she’s had since we were in middle school.

  “You did it!” I say, grinning. I don’t look at Claudia because I don’t have to. The disconnect between us is almost tangible.

  “I decided at the last minute,” Sara says. “Kaitlyn did it, too. But not Meg.”

  Claudia coughs a little and the bell rings. Mrs. Robbins walks in carrying a stack of papers—no doubt some brain-melting “graphic organizer” for us to fill out using our textbook while she stares at her computer screen. As she sets the papers down on her desk, she looks up at us for the first time and her eyes pop open like she’s finally awake.

  “What’s going on here?” At least five other girls in the class are wearing bathrobes in addition to Sara and me. There’s tittering at Mrs. Robbins’s question, but nobody says anything. I stare down at my notebook, glad I’m in the back row.

  When no one answers Mrs. Robbins’s question, she takes a step closer to us and peers carefully. “Are those … bathrobes? Did y’all not get dressed this morning?”

  More giggles. Kate McGowan in the first row cracks a wide grin. She’s wearing an obnoxious plaid number that must belong to her father or older brother or something.

  “Do you think this is funny, Miss McGowan?” Mrs. Robbins says. “Take that ridiculous bathrobe off right now.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Kate says.

  Kate has always been sort of a badass, talking back to teachers when they won’t let her go to the bathroom or get a drink of water. I’m not sure if she wore a bathrobe just to stir up trouble or if she honestly thinks the dress code is bullshit. But then she drops the bathrobe down to her waist.

  Kate is wearing a bright red bikini top underneath.

  “Miss McGowan!” Mrs. Robbins shouts, barely heard over the hoots and gasps coming from my classmates.

  “See, Mrs. Robbins,” Kate says, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, “I wasn’t sure if I was following the East Rockport dress code because it’s so weird and unclear, you know? So I decided to be safe and cover myself with this bathrobe so as not to distract any of our precious male students.”

  The class erupts into more hoots and laughter, and of course Mrs. Robbins has no choice but to make Kate put her bathrobe back on. By the time we all calm down Mrs. Robbins’s face is as red as Kate’s bikini top. She pinches her mouth up tight and passes out the graphic organizers, slamming Kate’s on her desk, and then demands that we work quietly and independently.

  The entire time I fill in the meaningless and pointless exercise, I think about the Riot Grrrl Manifesto in my mom’s zine. It said girls are a revolutionary soul force that can change the world for real. My chest feels heavy with something that feels scary and good at the same time. I picture myself running up to Kate McGowan after class and telling her how cool she is. The urge is so strong that maybe I’ll actually do it.

  But right now, there is one thing I can do for sure. In pencil, in the bottom right-hand corner of my desk, I carefully print the words MOXIE GIRLS FIGHT BACK. The letters are only half an inch or so high, but I trace them over and over until the tip of my pencil is dull. I smile approvingly at my artwork as the bell rings.

  I hope a girl is sitting in this desk second period.

  * * *

  All day long girls walk around East Rockport in their bathrobes. Through the grapevine I hear of a few girls being forced to take them off in class, but they put them back on once they file out into the hallways. As we take our seats in English class, Lucy tells me that when her chem teacher asked her about it, she followed the script in Moxie.

  “I just said I wanted to make sure I wasn’t in violation of the dress code, and I didn’t want to tempt any boys,” Lucy says, her eyes triumphant. “Mr. Carlson got so confused. It was hilarious.” She leans over the back of her desk as she turns to talk to me. “And do you know what? I’m pretty sure some girls brought their bathrobes to school and hid them in their lockers until they realized they wouldn’t be alone. I think we’ve doubled in number since this morning.”

  I think Lucy’s right about some girls joining in late, but I don’t know if we’ve doubled in number. The bathrobe-wearing girls are still in the minority. But it’s not a tiny minority. It might be as high as 30 or 40 percent of all the girls in the school. And it’s not just one type of girl but all kinds. Jocks and loud girls and girls on the yearbook and quiet girls and black girls and white girls and brown girls.

  Except for Emma Johnson. Not that girl. She walks in a minute or so before the bell and takes her seat, flipping her hair over her shoulder in her signature move, lining her pens and notebooks up on her desk. She’s wearing a blindingly white hoodie with the words EAST ROCKPORT CHEER stamped across the back in bright orange. When Mitchell walks in he pauses by her desk, leaning on it with his big hand that reminds me of a hunk of ham.

  “You didn’t join the bathrobe brigade?” Mitchell asks.

  Wow, Mitchell Wilson knows how to use the word brigade correctly. Shocking.

  “No, I didn’t,” Emma says, peering up at Mitchell through her perfectly made-up eyes. “I’m not sure I understand it, to be honest.”

  Of course you don’t. You would never get caught for dress-code violations because Principal Wilson knows his son has the hots for you so you’re, like, protected.

  Instantly, I feel bad for thinking this. Emma is gorgeous and demure and all these other things I’m not, but she’s never been anything but nice to people. If anything, it just feels like she’s not one of us. Like she’s actually an actress on a television show about high school, and she’s twenty-five playing sixteen.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re not wearing a bathrobe,” Mitchell says, raising one
eyebrow, “because it would be a shame to cover you up.”

  Oh gag me.

  Emma pinks up a little but smiles carefully, then flips her hair over her shoulder again. The bell rings and Seth runs in after Mr. Davies, who starts in about being on time to class.

  “Sorry,” Seth says, taking his seat, and my eardrums melt a little at the sound of his voice.

  Mr. Davies ends up putting us into groups to go over comprehension questions for the short story we were supposed to have read last night. By some miracle, I get put in the same group as Seth, and when we begin the awkward process of dragging our desks into a circle, he catches my eye.

  “Cool bathrobe,” he says to me.

  “Thanks,” I answer, willing myself not to blush.

  As we go over the questions Mr. Davies has written on the whiteboard, it strikes me that Seth is pretty smart. The story is Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery,” which I’ve read once before because my mom told me it was her favorite short story. Everyone in the group is saying how screwed up it is, but Seth says that’s the point.

  “It’s about, like, realizing that just because something is a tradition, that doesn’t make it good,” he says.

  I bite my bottom lip. I never talk in these things. But I want Seth to know I’m smart, too.

  “Some people might say tradition is a good thing, though,” I offer, doodling a tiny circle over and over in the corner of my paper, not looking up. “Some people would argue that tradition is part of what holds us together as, you know, a community.”

  The group is silent for a split second and then this boy, Peter Pratt, slides down into his desk and sighs.

  “Who the fuck cares?” he says. “I just want the bell to ring so we can go to lunch.”

  My cheeks flare up. I stare down at my turquoise bathrobe. “I guess I care,” I say. “It’s a story that makes you think is all.” I feel like I’m going to spontaneously combust out of embarrassment at that admission, but somehow I don’t die.

  When I look back up, Peter Pratt shrugs and yawns. But Seth looks over at me and smiles. I smile back. My cheeks are still warm, but for a different reason now.

  During lunch in the cafeteria, my friends and I talk about how many girls have bathrobes on but Claudia doesn’t say much. She just sips her Diet Coke and listens, her face still as Lucy prattles on about all the girls she knows who came to school wearing one.

  At the end of the day, I find Claudia at her locker, shuffling through her binders, picking out the ones she needs to take home with her.

  “Want to walk home with me?” I ask.

  “Sure,” Claudia says, shutting her locker door carefully.

  I want to make things feel nice between us. As a peace offering, I pull my bathrobe off and stuff it into my backpack. After all, the school day’s over. Claudia and I walk out the side entrance and head toward home.

  “It’s so nice out,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I answer. And it is. It’s a gorgeous early November afternoon, the Texas summer heat finally gone for good. The autumn sun—as much as we get autumn in this state—feels good on the back of my neck and my arms as Claudia and I trudge down the sidewalk.

  “You know what?” Claudia says.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t have a single girl called out of my classes today for dress code. Did you?”

  It hits me Claudia’s right. I can’t believe I’ve only just realized it. But it’s true.

  “No,” I say, smiling. “I didn’t.”

  “So maybe it worked,” Claudia says. “Maybe you were right to do it, and I was a chicken not to.”

  “No,” I answer, shaking my head. “No, that’s not true.” But I think maybe it is. A little.

  “I don’t know,” Claudia says. “Maybe it’s just that I was scared to get in trouble.”

  “Maybe some things are worth getting in trouble over,” I offer.

  “Maybe,” Claudia answers. I can tell she wants to say something else, but she’s picking her words. Finally they come out in a rush. “I don’t know if you would have done this bathrobe thing before Lucy got here.”

  Her words sting enough that for a split second I want to tell her I’m the one who made Moxie. Instead I just shrug.

  “I think I still would have, honestly,” I say. “But you can think what you want.” Once they’re out, my words sound harsh. I’m not used to talking like that to my best friend.

  “Forget it,” Claudia says. “Forget I said anything.”

  “Okay, let’s not worry about it, it’s over anyway,” I answer. Claudia’s house is coming up on the left. Make nice, make nice, make nice. I dig up some light chatter about stupid homework assignments to warm up the mood before we have to say goodbye. When we get to her driveway, she leans her head against my shoulder. I lean my head toward hers, catching a whiff of her strawberry-scented shampoo.

  “Talk to you later?” she asks.

  “Of course,” I answer. But as I walk off, leaving Claudia’s house behind, I find myself pulling out my phone to text Lucy.

  Did any girls get pulled out of your classes for dress code? I type.

  A few moments later she writes back.

  No!!!!!!! Not a single one!

  I can’t believe it worked

  I know right? So awesome

  Stopping under a big pecan tree, I grin at my phone and type out one more text.

  MOXIE GIRLS FIGHT BACK!!!!!! I add a few heart emojis for good measure.

  Lucy texts back right away.

  MOXIE GIRLS KICK ASS AND TAKE NAMES!!!!!

  I read the text and laugh out loud, standing there in the middle of the sidewalk.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It’s been three days since the bathrobe stunt, and not a single girl has been called out for dress-code violations since it happened. It’s gone down like this before—these weird, cavalier explosions of dress code “checks” on girls by the administration that evaporate into nothing after a few days—but I’d like to think Moxie had something to do with it this time. And that means that I had something to do with it because I started Moxie. Last night after I brushed my teeth and washed my face, I caught myself standing in front of the mirror for a full two minutes looking into my own dark eyes. I grasped my hair and pulled it up into a high ponytail. Squinting, I thought maybe I looked a little like Kathleen Hanna of Bikini Kill.

  But by today’s Friday football pep rally, I’m beginning to feel like the whole thing was some sort of fantastical dream. The band plays the same songs. The cheerleaders do the same flips. The only thing that’s different this time is that if the Pirates lose the game tonight, they’re out of the playoffs.

  “Wait, is that a freaking fog machine?” Sara asks as we sit down in our usual spot, high up and away from the action. All of us peer down at the billowing clouds of smoke enveloping the entrance where the football team is about to make their appearance.

  “Oh my God, it is,” Claudia says, rolling her eyes. The pirate mascot is in a fancy new uniform, too, and there’s even someone dressed as a bobcat, representing the opposing team’s mascot. The pirate is pretending to slice the bobcat’s neck with a sword as the bobcat writhes around in mock terror. These aren’t Halloween costumes either, but full-on, college-level mascot gear.

  “How much does all this shit cost?” Lucy asks out loud. “Have you ever considered that?” She scowls. “Last I checked, the Bunsen burner in the chem lab runs on coal or something, it’s so ancient.”

  “What the football team wants, the football team gets,” Claudia says. “It’s so dumb.”

  “Totally,” agrees Lucy, and I relish this moment where my best friend and my new friend are in harmony with each other. Since bathrobe day I’ve been trying to pay extra attention to Claudia—sitting next to her at lunch, waiting for her by her locker in the morning before history—even while I’ve been sucked into long periods of texting with Lucy after school where we talk about everything from what Moxie might do next to music
we want to share with each other. (Unbelievably, she’s never heard of Bikini Kill or any of the Riot Grrrl bands, and after I make her a playlist, she’s hooked.)

  After the rally is lunch, but I eat quickly so I can leave a few minutes early and go to the main office to drop off my permission slip for Driver’s Ed next semester. As I walk down the nearly empty hall, I catch Principal Wilson approaching the office from the opposite direction, barking into his cell phone. I’m the only other person in the hallway, but he doesn’t smile or even nod. I’m a student at his school, and I was in his mind-numbing Texas history class way back before he became Mr. Muckety-Muck at East Rockport High. But I’m not his son or on his son’s team or a cheerleader like Emma Johnson or even a member of the pep band. I’m a nothing on his radar. His jowls quiver a little as he speaks in his thick Texas twang, and he brushes right past me as he enters the office, zooming by like I’m a mosquito or fly.

  I scowl at his back and revel in the tiny rush it gives me. He continues through the labyrinth of secretaries and assistant principals as he heads back to wherever his lair must be.

  After I turn in my permission slip to one of the secretaries, I head back toward my locker to get my books for my next class. At the end of the hall, I spot Seth Acosta, leaning up against a wall, fooling around on his phone. My heart skips.

  “Hey,” I manage as I walk by, wanting to stop but not sure I can or should. So I just slow down a little.

  He looks up. There are a handful of other students at their lockers way down at the other end of the hall. The bell to end the lunch period is a few minutes away.

  “Hey back,” he says, sliding his phone into his back pocket and standing up straighter. All signs that make me think it’s cool if I stop. That he really does want to talk to me.

  “So…,” I start—because I’m the one who should be speaking next, I realize—“… thanks for not saying anything. About … you know.” I raise my eyebrows like we’re in some movie about the Mafia or a government conspiracy, and I immediately feel like an idiot. But Seth just nods and grins. I love that he’s taller than me if only by a little. Ever since those sweaty, awkward middle school dances where I loomed head and shoulders over all the guys and no one ever asked me to partner up, I’ve always been self-conscious of my height.