All Girls

by Emily Layden

  Louisa raises an eyebrow. Issue in and issue out, Mia’s procrastination is the editor’s chief source of anxiety. More than once, she’s emailed the file to their printer literally one minute before their deadline. But Mia has a point here, in that the survey the freshmen developed might be worth the stress this time: 278 of Atwater’s 342 students responded to Bryce and Macy’s questionnaire, and although the Google Form was hardly scientific, there were some compelling numbers (e.g., although Louisa had never been sent an unsolicited dick pic, apparently over 30 percent of her classmates had).

  “And! I know you’re going to say that I barely get layout done in time as it is, but I can add the graphic after I’ve sent the issue to the printer, because the PDF doesn’t have to be ready for public view until the morning.”

  “So you’ll pull an all-nighter for the sake of data journalism?”

  “It would be my honor to make such a sacrifice.” Mia puts a hand to her chest.

  Louisa laughs. “Okay, let’s talk about it after meeting. And let me run it by Anjali.”

  As the room slowly fills—the new freshmen, Macy and Bryce, both staff writers, are the next to arrive, followed by Brie Feldman (Arts) and Kit Eldridge (Sports), and finally Hitomi Sakano (Opinion) and Anjali—Louisa looks over the outline on their whiteboard. They’ve done theme issues before—they did one on climate change last year, with contributing pieces by alumnae who worked as environmental scientists and in environmental policy, and one her freshman year for Atwater’s bicentennial—but this one is different, and not just because of the topic.

  There’s the interview Brie did with the alumna filmmaker who made a documentary about sexual assault in the military. There’s the feature Kit wrote about Title IX and the interview she did with an alumna who works as a counselor to victims of sexual assault. The Opinion section is twice as long this issue, in the format of letters instead of editorials, from alumnae who believe Karen Mirro. She and Anjali pitched the issue as one designed to explore how Atwater equipped its young women with an understanding of healthy relationships, and although Louisa wasn’t sure they had delivered on exactly this, they had created something that reflected their community’s understanding of sex and sexual violence. It placed the Hartford Courant article and Karen Mirro’s case in the broader context of a cultural issue. In a world where the lens that framed the conversation about sex was always chosen by the grown-ups, this was their chance to say: This is what it looks like to us.

  Anjali sidles up next to Louisa. She wears a Brown crewneck sweatshirt. Before she speaks, she pushes her sleeves up to the crook of her elbow, like a male senator signaling that he’s getting ready to work. Anjali’s sister is a junior at Brown, and Anjali is applying early decision in a few weeks. Louisa read her essay, about how everyone assumes she is quite literally from India, or at least the daughter of immigrants (in reality, she is the granddaughter of immigrants on her father’s side). It was funny but, in Louisa’s opinion, a little bit done-before. But it was just Brown, and so it was probably fine.

  “All right everybody,” Anjali yells. “Listen up!”

  From her usual spot in the back by the computers, Mia smacks the table loudly. “Hey! Listen to Anjali.”

  The room quiets. “Thanks, Mia. Okay, so, we’ve got forty-eight hours to get this thing in shape. You know the drill: Get with your editing partner and do a final round of copy edits. Make sure you’ve loaded your work into InCopy before you leave today, so that Mia can get cranking on layout.”

  “Bryce and Macy,” Louisa adds: “We need to talk to you about your survey.”

  Brie and Kit make a low ooooohing sound, like middle schoolers when a classmate is sent to the principal’s office.

  “Real mature, guys,” Louisa chides. “This is a finishing touches day, everybody, and I don’t need to explain how important this issue is. We want it to be good.”

  “Don’t we always want it to be good?” Brie asks.

  Louisa raises an eyebrow. “Of course. But we all know that the administration hasn’t exactly invited our input on this particular subject. This is our opportunity to be heard.”

  “Right,” Anjali chimes in. “Not to get all sentimental or anything, but: We could make some real change with this.”

  In the back corner, Mia rolls her eyes.

  “All right,” Louisa jumps in, before Anjali starts to moralize about student voice and institutional transparency, her favorite topics this year. “Let’s get to work, everybody.”

  In a few minutes the room has settled into its usual murmur of productivity, keyboards clacking intermittently, low-level conversation here and there, the groan of the furniture as someone shifts her weight. Louisa and Anjali take their usual spots at the table next to Mia, and Louisa pulls up her browser to their draft of the editors’ letter. Unwrapping a granola bar, Anjali scans the language.

  “I dunno, I still think it’s too … restrained,” she says.

  Louisa reads the introduction: For over two centuries, Atwater has worked to advance the progress of women and girls … “Well, we said we wanted to write something neutral,” Louisa argues.

  “Yeah, I know, but I think that, ultimately”—Anjali pauses, chewing, her cheek protruding as she digs for a piece of granola wedged in her back teeth—“we didn’t exactly produce an issue that is neutral. It’s fairly reported, sure, but it definitely sets out to establish that the school, you know, needs to … I don’t know, step up as a leader in this particular…” She searches for the word: “realm.”

  Louisa nods, mulling it over. Anjali is a little bit prone to drama—again, this is why Brown makes sense for her—and that’s why they make a good team as coeditors. Louisa is more restrained, more disciplined, more reasonable. Anjali is impulsive, bighearted, always looking for a cause.

  “Hey, gang!” Ms. Doyle teaches American Lit in addition to advising the Heron. She’s tiny—five foot two, 115 pounds, if Louisa had to guess—with chin-length brown hair that falls across her face when she speaks, which she does animatedly. Unlike most female teachers who carry their things in tote bags, Ms. Doyle uses a backpack—urban and slightly masculine, squared off at the corners, a Japanese brand Louisa has never seen anywhere else. She has a high-pitched voice and piercing blue eyes.

  There’s a chorus of return greetings—Hey, Ms. D; What’s up, Ms. Doyle?—that Ms. Doyle waves off as she settles her backpack onto an empty chair and unwinds her scarf.

  “How’re things?” She directs her first question to Anjali and Louisa.

  “Louisa and I are just tweaking our letter,” Anjali says, and Louisa resists the urge to glare at her coeditor. “We think it needs to match the tone of the issue a little bit more.”

  “Mmm.” Ms. Doyle nods, thinking. In the pause that opens between them, Louisa sizes up their adviser. She notices that her eyes are red-rimmed, and that the circles underneath are darker than usual—something beyond the general perpetual tiredness of most people Louisa’s parents’ age. So she is not all that surprised when Ms. Doyle takes a breath and says, “Listen, girls: I need to talk to you both.”

  Louisa feels her stomach somersault, like when she was a little girl and her elementary school teachers would catch her reading during math, a chapter book propped inside her desk, the fear that she was in real trouble quickly usurped by embarrassment that she was so uncool, so afraid of disappointing her teachers.

  “What’s up?” Anjali asks.

  “Can we step outside for a minute?”

  “For sure,” Anjali says, and they rise from their chairs and follow Ms. Doyle out into the hallway alcove.

  “I’m so sorry, girls,” Ms. Doyle begins. “I know you’ve put a lot of hard work into this issue, and—there’s just no easy way to say this…”

  Anjali and Louisa exchange a glance. It’s clear to Louisa that Anjali is experiencing the same mild panic that floods Louisa’s bloodstream.

  When Ms. Doyle finally speaks, Louisa has the disorienting sensation
of déjà vu, as if she’s inside her own dream: “Mrs. Brodie has decided that it is not in the best interests of the school to publish this special issue of the Heron.”

  “What?”

  “I know that you both wanted to produce seven issues this year, so canceling this current issue might require adjusting that goal, but I really think—I think these are circumstances beyond your control.”

  “It’s not just about printing an extra issue,” Anjali squeaks, and her voice chokes at the edges, caught in her throat. She looks like she might start crying.

  “I think we feel really proud of this issue,” Louisa says, trying to finish what her coeditor cannot.

  “I know that,” Ms. Doyle says.

  Louisa waits for her to say more; when she doesn’t, Louisa asks: “Why?”

  Ms. Doyle brings her left hand to her forehead and rubs her temple briefly before tucking her hair behind her ear. “The school is really under a lot of scrutiny right now,” Ms. Doyle says, repeating a phrase Louisa has heard ricocheting around the halls since Karen Mirro’s yard signs appeared on Opening Day. “I think there’s a desire that we present a unified front.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Louisa extends a hand to Anjali’s shoulder, a kind of sympathetic but warning tap.

  Ms. Doyle nods. “It means that the school newspaper cannot publish the letters of alumnae who support Karen Mirro,” she says.

  “So we’ll cut that section,” Louisa says. She had concerns about the portion anyway: They’d sourced the letters via the private Facebook group for Heron alumnae, and although the responses themselves were sent to and filtered through Ms. Doyle, Louisa was nonetheless concerned that the feedback they’d received represented a degree of groupthink, something their adviser was always cautioning them against. They hadn’t received a single letter that articulated support for the school’s handling of the scandal, either in 1995 or now. Three of the letters claimed to be from Karen’s classmates.

  “I offered the same compromise to Mrs. Brodie. I also suggested that we print some articles that present a more balanced view of the reality … letters from alumnae who believe the school always provided a safe environment for them to learn and grow, for example; an interview with an attorney who has defended people against false accusations of rape and assault—”

  “That doesn’t happen,” Anjali spits.

  “Well, it does, but I’ll admit it does not happen all that frequently—”

  “Less than ten percent of accusations of reported rapes are false,” Anjali says. “And only about twenty percent of rapes are reported to the police. It’s in Brie’s article.”

  “—but I thought it might help Mrs. Brodie to see that we weren’t trying to … undermine the school in any way.”

  “We’re not,” Louisa says, hating how her voice sounds when she pleads.

  “I know that. And, honestly, I think Mrs. Brodie knows that, too. But she is in the difficult position of having to defend the school’s reputation right now, and I think that means that she is extra cautious about doing anything … controversial.”

  Anjali’s jaw hangs half-open.

  “So—so this is final?” Louisa asks. “Can we meet with Mrs. Brodie and try to change her mind?”

  Ms. Doyle shrugs. “I can’t tell you not to reach out to the Head of School. But I can tell you that I’m not sure it will do any good.”

  “We’ve never had to get her permission before,” Anjali argues. “I mean, this seems like a violation of the First Amendment.”

  Ms. Doyle laughs, quietly, a sympathetic chuckle. “Unfortunately, school newspapers are subject to a lower level of First Amendment protection. Hazelwood versus Kuhlmeier,” Ms. Doyle says, emphasizing the cool in the last name. “1988 Supreme Court ruling.”

  “Well, that’s bullshit,” Anjali says, and Louisa briefly wonders if her coeditor means the ruling itself or the ease with which Ms. Doyle called it up as evidence.

  “Maybe,” Ms. Doyle says. “But it’s the world we’re writing in.”

  “I mean, the Heron isn’t some piece of marketing material. If it was then Communications would produce it.”

  “I know,” Ms. Doyle says. “Listen—I think there’s a way that some of the work you’ve done for this issue can be incorporated into a new one. Brie’s piece, for example—it’s really a standard alum profile. We can definitely hang on to that one.”

  “What about the survey? Eighty percent of the school participated in it. Does Mrs. Brodie know about that? That she’s effectively just disappearing their feedback?”

  Ms. Doyle sighs, so deeply and exaggeratedly that it reminds Louisa of a breathing pattern they learned last year during a workshop on “mindfulness”: inhale for five seconds, hold for one, exhale for eight. “Mrs. Brodie would like to hold on to that information for sharing at a faculty meeting later this year. Perhaps I can persuade her to invite you ladies to present the data.” Normally, it is quite an honor to be a student guest at an Atwater faculty meeting, and one bestowed on only one or two students per year—or sometimes none at all.

  Anjali blinks, unmoved by Ms. Doyle’s half-invitation. “So—that’s it?”

  “What are we going to tell the staff?” Louisa asks.

  “I’ll take care of that,” Ms. Doyle says. “You guys shouldn’t have to explain this.”

  * * *

  Louisa came to Atwater from Pittsburgh via Dubai. In eighth grade, her father—an engineer and executive for a major oil company—was reassigned again, and they were heading back and deeper into the American West when Louisa made her father promise that if she started over at some high school in Wyoming that she wouldn’t have to move again in two years. When her father couldn’t promise that—when he said, actually, that it was really unlikely they’d be in Wyoming longer than eighteen months—Louisa announced that she wanted to go to boarding school. At first, her mother had flat-out refused: they could have separated the family long ago, let Louisa’s father continent jump while Louisa and her mother stayed put in the town house in Shadyside or, before that, the oversize craftsman in Seattle. But they had decided to keep the family together, because wasn’t that the most important thing?

  So Louisa made a list, and sent emails to admissions representatives at schools, and within two weeks she had prepared a presentation for her parents that she delivered on a Tuesday night after dinner. She chose all-girls schools not necessarily because she believed in the confidence-building benefits of a single-gender education (as their websites promised) but simply because she thought her more traditional Korean parents might be more open to the idea if she took sex out of the equation. There was Miss Hall’s, nestled in the Berkshires in western Massachusetts, a reasonable safety school for her; there was Foxcroft, in Virginia, which was maybe a little too Southern culturally and where every girl learned to ride a horse; there was Miss Porter’s, in central Connecticut, the most prestigious of the all-girls schools; there was Ethel Walker, also in Connecticut, another school where every girl learned to ride a horse. And, finally, there was Atwater, tucked in the Litchfield Hills, where white-collar lawyers and Westchester bankers sent their daughters instead of Manhattan’s Chapin or Brearley or Spence. Louisa liked Atwater from the start: its proximity to the city, for one (“Just a quick train ride away,” the admissions counselor told her), and that the girls didn’t have to wear a uniform.

  At first, the compromise was that Louisa’s mother would get an apartment nearby, and Louisa would be among the small cohort of Atwater’s day students, a group that mostly consisted of the children of successful creative types who’d decamped from New York lofts to farmhouse fixer-uppers but whose careers still necessitated proximity to the city. In Louisa’s mind, this was an obviously laughably ludicrous idea. (Why couldn’t they just stay in Dubai, then? Why hadn’t they stayed in Pittsburgh? If they were going to do that, then she wanted to look at other elite day schools: Castilleja near San Francisco; Harvard-Westlake in Los Angeles.
If that’s the plan, she argued, then she reserved the right to begin her research from scratch, choosing any place in the world.) For Louisa, though, the whole experiment wasn’t just about the ability to stay put for four years, to see one high school all the way through; she liked the idea of boarding school, liked the bubble-like insularity of one in the middle of her changing world. In a lifetime defined by traveling in tow, boarding school would be a destiny of her own choosing.

  * * *

  In the middle of study hall, when she should be working her way through The Scarlet Letter, the conversation with Ms. Doyle clangs around Louisa’s brain. She rehearses an interior monologue of all the things she should have said, a lengthy list of all the reasons this issue of the Heron deserved to be published. On her computer, next to the tabs she has open for her homework—Atwater’s online learning platform, PowerSchool, which provides real-time reporting of her GPA, so she can watch the decimals fluctuate out to the hundredths as her teachers enter grades; dictionary.com, so she can look up words like “sepulchre” and “sumptuary” and “phantasmagoric” as she reads; Shmoop, not because she isn’t doing the reading, but because it helps her to read more quickly if she scans a summary first—she has open the Heron’s shared-drive folder, where the staff keeps their writing until they load it into InCopy.

  She clicks open the editors’ letter. Anjali was right, she thinks: It’s too detached. In her effort to write something neutral, she said nothing at all. There is no mention of Karen Mirro or her allegation; as far as the letter is concerned, the Heron staff chose to run this special issue without any particular inspiration or impetus.

  Louisa doesn’t know if Karen Mirro is telling the truth. Before they thought of the special issue, the plan was to write a feature on her allegation. It would be a real piece of investigative journalism. Louisa had spent hours in the library poring over yearbooks from the midnineties, hunting for any clues: what clubs Karen did, what sports she played, who her friends might have been based on group photos in the collages that peppered each book. She wanted to know what kind of girl Karen was—was she a jock? A loner outsider? An artist? Did she get drunk in the woods behind campus? Did she go to New York during the weekends?