“Call my dad,” she finally said, her voice quiet.
Bailey closed her eyes and exhaled. Ashforth shook her head as she reached for the phone.
Sunday’s lips trembled but—with the last amount of dignity she could muster—she kept her mouth closed and held her head high.
Jackie was laughing. “If that doesn’t win for best story, it should definitely win an award for best bullshit.”
“It wasn’t bullshit,” Sunday said. “It’s true.”
Lucinda was smiling. “So you had two hot guys after you that you blew off, and one planted drugs on you as revenge?” She shook her head. “Sounds less like a problem and more like a party.”
“For real,” Tino said. “Maybe when we’re out of this, I could visit you in L.A. and—”
“You really think we’re going to speak to one another after this?” Sunday asked. “I mean, get real. My dads wouldn’t let me within a mile of any of most of you.” She glanced at Georgia. “No offense or anything.”
“I get it,” Jenna said. “My parents are the same.”
“That’s because parents are assholes.” Lucinda’s smile had faded. “It’s true, right? They’d look at Jenna and see a pyro, David a perv, Sunday a drug dealer, Cody a—” She stopped, tilted her head. “Well, I think your story was bullshit, so I don’t know what they’d see when they looked at you, but it probably wouldn’t be good.”
“We’re all fuckups, right?” Jackie said.
“I’m not a pyromaniac,” Jenna said defiantly.
Jackie shrugged. “I got arrested for stealing a movie prop from a sci-fi con. We’re all fuckups.”
“Exactly,” Lucinda said. “Except we’re not. We’ve been out here two whole days, and we’re still alive. Maybe we won’t make it back to camp today, but we will make it back. Our parents see us as these problems to solve, delinquents to deal with. But we’re more than that. David clearly cares about his sister—”
“Maybe a little too much,” Tino added.
“Shut up,” David said.
“And Sunday’s always helping out when she can, and Cody’s protective and Jaila’s the smartest person I’ve ever met.”
“None of that makes a difference, though,” Jenna said. “Not if all people see is what we’ve done rather than who we are.”
Lucinda smiled; grinned, really. “But that’s the thing. What we’ve done is who we are. Even if we don’t want to admit it.”
“What’d you do, then?” Tino asked. “And don’t give us some old-time movie version of it, either.”
“That’s easy,” Lucinda said. “Mine is a story of pure injustice. And it’s totally true.”
“A VIOLATION OF RULE 16”
by Suzanne Young
THE LIGHTS IN the hallway between English class and the principal’s office flicker above me. They’ve been in need of replacing for at least three months, and I once asked Mrs. Greer, my English teacher, why it hasn’t been done yet. She told me some excuse about how the fixtures were outdated and the bulbs were special order. I feel like that sums up my entire school district—out-of-date and waiting for replacement.
I pull open the office door and walk into the lobby, warm air blowing over my pale skin. The woman behind the desk frowns when she sees me, but it’s not because she doesn’t like me. In fact, Mrs. Patron is one of the coolest adults at this school. She has a superstraight bob and a killer collection of silk scarves. And like me, she thinks this rule is bullshit. She nods for me to go in.
I pause at the entrance of Mr. Jones’s office and then knock on the open door. He looks up from his desk and immediately sighs when he realizes it’s me. His agitated reaction stings a bit, but I go to sit down when he waves me in.
Mr. Jones is in his fifties, black with a shaved head and a crisp gray suit. He keeps his beard neatly trimmed; his desk is immaculate. I often joke that he seems like someone who uses a ton of hand sanitizer. And to support my theory, his office always smells a bit like rubbing alcohol.
“Ms. Banks,” he says in his deep voice. “Lucinda.”
“You know this is bullshit,” I say, and he closes his eyes.
Mr. Jones has been my principal for my entire career here at Heritage High—he’s exceedingly patient, even when I’m not the most tactful.
“If you could please watch your language,” he says, and motions for me to start over. I take a steadying breath, trying to temper down my annoyance, and smile politely.
“Well,” I say, my voice strained. “Mrs. Montgomery marked my card and sent me to you. Violation of rule sixteen.” I cross my heel over my thigh so he can see the black leggings. I also tug on the hem of my T-shirt, which is long enough to cover my ass.
Mr. Jones tightens his jaw, but doesn’t say anything at first. He opens his desk drawer, takes out a pen, and outstretches his hand for my card so he can initial that I was here.
He writes on the card, and then lifts his eyes to mine before handing it back. “This is the fourth time this month,” he says.
“To be fair,” I reply. “I dispute every instance. Two weeks ago I was in here for a bra strap. It’s bad enough that I have to wear a bra at all, but then . . . as if that layer plus a layer of clothing isn’t enough barrier between boys and my breasts, they can’t bear to see a quarter-inch strap that is nowhere near my boob?”
Mr. Jones shakes his head, looking down at his desk. He’s heard my arguments before, but I don’t let up.
“Then last week,” I continue, “I was here for a bare shoulder. Okay, I wore a strapless bra so there would be no straps. I wore a tank top underneath a tank top so there’d be no skin showing under my armpit. But even that wasn’t enough. Because boys can see one inch of my shoulder blade?” I ask. “This is Phoenix; it was a hundred and twelve outside. At what point do the rules address male behavior? At what point are they responsible for their damn selves?”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “But four marks equal in-school suspension for the rest of the day.”
I swear, my blood turns to lava, and I feel my entire face heat up, my cheeks burning.
“I don’t get to go back to class? Let me ask you, Mr. Jones,” I say, slamming both feet down on his carpeted floor. “How many boys have you brought in here this month? If they’re so distracted by the mere outline of my calves, then I’m sorry—they’re the ones with the problem.”
“It’s the rule,” Mr. Jones says. “Rule sixteen, and you know it.”
“Like I said, it’s bullshit.”
“Don’t make it two days, Lucinda.”
“Did you ever think that Mrs. Montgomery is the problem?” I ask. “I mean, besides our poor boys who can’t control themselves, apparently. No, Mrs. Montgomery looks for a reason to send me out. She’s obsessed with the dress code—why? Why does she get off on it?”
“Nobody’s . . . getting off,” Mr. Jones says. “She’s following the rules.”
“The rules?” I repeat. “Why doesn’t someone send Miss Heely down, then? Her pants are so tight you can see when she has a wedgie. Or how about Mr. Rentry? He smells awful, and I personally find that distracting. But no,” I say, standing, “it’s only the teenage girls who get sent down here. Ridiculed. Controlled. And if you can’t see that—”
“Lucinda,” Mr. Jones says, his temperament cold now that I’ve criticized his staff. “That’s two days. Head there now.”
Two days of in-school suspension? I should have probably stopped arguing, but I guess part of me didn’t expect him to go through with it. I think I might cry. Instead, I stand straighter.
“I’m disappointed in you,” I tell my principal, my voice shaking. And then I turn around and walk out.
* * *
I used to be an A student. Seriously—straight As in every subject, excelling in math. But this year the new governing board added Rule 16 to our handbook. We don’t have uniforms; this is a public charter school. We’ve been nationally recognized for our excellence in academics. We won a grant for
our outstanding work with girls in STEM. Hell, we were progressive.
The new governing board is made up of four old-ass men and one mother of six. I only know this because my own mother goes to the meetings and comes home fuming mad.
“They’re trying to erase science!” she yelled one night, slamming her purse on the kitchen table. My mother’s a nurse, and she’s fiercely protective of her research hospital.
My father told her to calm down; they couldn’t actually erase science. But every meeting his attempts to console her worry became less and less convincing.
I’ve heard them talking after I’ve gone to my room, and something my mother said stuck with me. “They’re doing this because the girls are outshining the boys,” she murmured. “I swear they’re trying to take us back to the fifties.”
I expected to hear my father immediately refute her claim, but instead, in a quiet voice, he said, “I think you’re right.”
So meaning to or not, my parents have fed my feeling of injustice. The girls here are excelling, and that scares the people in charge. They’re trying to control us. They’re putting the responsibility of male learning on us. They refuse to confront the actual problems.
And sure, I’ve read the dress code. But like I told Mr. Jones, it’s bullshit. And I won’t follow it.
* * *
The in-school suspension room is a small, block-walled room with no windows. It’s off the cafeteria, so we can hear the students during lunch hour, laughing and having fun while we sit in silence. That’s part of the psychological punishment: we’re not allowed to work on anything. We can’t read, write, or do our homework. We have to sit there.
In my opinion the school shouldn’t get paid a fucking dime from the government when a student goes into that miserable room. They’re not providing an education—in fact, they’re withholding it. Why should they get paid for that?
I walk in, and Shelly—a staff member—glances up to see me. She shifts her lips to the side in an expression of concern and holds out her hand for my behavior card. She’s tiny, known for wearing sneakers with everything. Even dresses. Like now, she’s wearing a blue-checked dress with a pair of Converse.
I stop at her desk in the front of the room while she checks over my card. I causally glance around to see who’s here to share hell with me.
The view is underwhelming at first. Michael Bellagio—a rich kid with an affinity for getting high in the parking lot before school—and Doug Wilkerson—a guy from my English class. Doug was sent out yesterday for calling Mrs. Montgomery a bitch when she wouldn’t accept his tardy pass.
And there’s Cece Garcia, who I pretty much grew up with. Her mother is from Mexico, and Mrs. Garcia babysat me when we first moved into our neighborhood. Cece nods a hello at me, and I roll my eyes to let her know just how shitty I think our situation is.
“Here you go,” Shelly says, handing back my card. I look down at it, disgusted by the red box filled in next to today’s date. Like I’m so awful that I don’t deserve to be in class.
I’ll admit, it hurts my feelings. This year—my senior year—I have become a solid C student thanks to missing out on class time.
“Sit where you want, Lucinda,” Shelly says. She picks up her copy of The Awakening, pulls her leg underneath her, and leans back in her chair to read silently.
I sit next to Cece. Her heavily lined eyes slide over to me, and I pinch the fabric of my leggings and let them snap back. She snorts a laugh.
“I didn’t turn in my homework assignment,” she whispers. “Never mind I got a hundred on the last quiz.”
“In-school for homework?” I ask.
She smiles. “In-school for pointing out that Randall didn’t do his homework either, but he got excused because he had a game. Last I checked, basketball wasn’t a required course.”
“Yeah, not yet,” I say, sinking down in my seat.
I hate this place. I long for my freshman year, when we organized pep rallies and dances, guys and girls together, as if we were the same species. Something the administration clearly doesn’t consider to be the case now that my boobs have gotten bigger.
There’s movement from the door, and I look up and see Jameson Merrick walk in. He has brown hair, blue eyes, and seriously wrinkled cargo shorts. We’ve been hanging out for the past six months; nothing confirmed. He’s cool, though.
I kind of love him.
Jameson winks at me and goes to Shelly, who seems surprised to see him.
“Jameson,” she says. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs, pulling one of those boyish smiles that everyone likes. “Got in trouble,” he says innocently. “I set the bunnies free in agriculture class. Didn’t know they could hop so damn fast.”
I actually laugh out loud and then quickly cover my mouth when Shelly gives me a stern look. She checks Jameson’s card, her expression somewhere between disappointment and amusement. She eventually sighs, marks it in pen, and tells him to have a seat.
Jameson comes to sit directly in front of me, nodding a hello to Cece. I can smell his shampoo and see the ends of his hair are still damp from showering. He turns, glancing back at me.
“Are you in here because of me?” I ask quietly.
“I wasn’t going to let you serve time alone. I tried to call you this morning. Brian Sokolowski texted me to say Montgomery was waiting for you in the hall before class. She got a vendetta or what? When did you piss in her houseplants?”
I laugh, and we all immediately lower our heads so Shelly won’t separate us. When it’s clear, I lean in, and so do Cece and Jameson. “See?” I tell them. “I knew she was being unfair. But Mr. Jones won’t listen to me. Why is Mrs. Montgomery obsessed with how I dress?”
“I heard her husband was behind the school board vote,” Cece says. “He campaigned for one of those old dudes. Part of the same cult, maybe?”
“Or they could be from an alternate universe where all the men are terrible,” Jameson adds.
“That’s an alternate universe?” I ask, and then grin when he looks over at me.
“You’re so funny, Lucinda,” he whispers, narrowing his eyes playfully. “I wonder if that’s why Mrs. Montgomery doesn’t like you. Just too damn funny.”
Truth is, I don’t know why Mrs. Montgomery hates me, singles me out. I’ve never done anything to her; I just dress how I want. Be an individual. I’m not even rude to her face—and believe me, that takes a significant effort. Yet she acts like I’m openly defiant. But it’s her bad attitude that makes me have to prove a point. I can’t . . . fold. Let her win when she’s wrong.
“Listen,” I say to Cece and Jameson. “We have to destroy Rule sixteen. It is legitimately preventing my education. Who knows? I could have been valedictorian.”
Jameson smiles at this and murmurs something like “You still can be,” when another person walks in the door. I’m surprised to see it’s Mr. Jones.
He smiles politely at Shelly, who quickly closes her book and stands. Mr. Jones looks around until he finds me. “Lucinda,” he says, waving me forward.
My cheeks immediately heat up, and I’m concerned what this means. I shouldn’t have said “bullshit” in front of him. I toughen up, though—straight back, tight jaw, and get up from my desk.
As I pass by Jameson, he reaches out to touch my hand, just a gentle reminder that he’s with me.
* * *
I’ve known Jameson Merrick since middle school, and I hope it’s not shallow to say I didn’t really think of him in a romantic way until he got superhot. He was always my friend, though. I still think about the first time I realized I liked him. We’d been out at a party, and after a drink—just one—he came back to my house to watch some YouTube videos. We sat in my basement, laughing. Cringing at people making fools of themselves. And at one point . . . I just looked over at him and thought he was so damn cute.
And when he turned to me, I think maybe he thought the same thing about me. I’m not ashamed to admit that I aske
d him if he wanted to hook up. He gave me a resounding yes, and leaned in and kissed me. We’ve pretty much been together ever since. Neither of us were virgins, although I’m the only one whose past has ever been brought up in the locker room. Jameson punched a dude for calling me a slut, which was nice of him. I would have happily done the punching myself if Dickhead McBryant had said it to my face. But he hadn’t.
Just like the school, he judged me. Locker-room talk and unfair dress codes—symptoms of the same problem. Both spearheaded by assholes.
Jameson and I don’t talk about our relationship. We don’t brag about it. We’re just . . . together. And, yeah, I kind of love him. And he kind of loves me, too.
* * *
“So what’s this about?” I ask Mr. Jones as we turn down the arts-and-sciences hallway on the second floor. There’s a flurry of movement; several students from the agriculture department running around, frazzled and concerned. One of the girls protectively holds a fluffy white bunny. I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said—missing class time,” Mr. Jones says. “Mrs. Montgomery has come up with a solution.”
I furrow my brow, not willing to trust the suggestion of my persecutor. Mr. Jones motions to the small room at the end of the hall—the room they use for the fashion design elective.
“What are we doing in here?” I ask. We walk inside the room, and I immediately see Mrs. Montgomery, her arms crossed over her chest, a smug smile on her face. I have a visceral reaction, and my fists clench.
“Lucinda,” she says. I don’t respond and turn to Mr. Jones.
“This isn’t my class. I want my classwork.”
Mr. Jones gives me a look, like he wishes I were someone else entirely, and nods to my teacher. “This is what Mrs. Montgomery has suggested as an alternative,” he says.
Confused, I look at her just as she pulls a shirt off the screen printer. It’s gray, and across the chest in black are the words “Violation of Rule 16.” Next to the printer is a pair of oversize sweatpants with the words on them as well.