“Nice. Is it for the mural?”
“Yup.”
All week, I’ve been spending my free time holed up at the library, surrounded by a thousand colored pencils, working on sketches and emblems, researching inspirational quotes and leaders. Every part of me aches, but in a good way.
“Milo’s the real artist,” I say. “I’m trying to keep up with him.”
“Shut up,” he says, kissing me. He glances around the table. “I meant that in the most feminist way possible. Jo’s really talented. In fact, so talented that I’m out of my league.”
“Hardly. I suck.”
“You don’t suck,” Gabby insists. “I’ve never seen you so focused—on stuff other than sewing, at least.”
Milo starts to get up, putting his books into his messenger bag.
“You’re leaving?” I pout.
“I’m meeting Hayes.”
“Hayes?” I say, feigning jealousy. “Look at you, making friends.”
“Your boy’s growin’ up.”
“Oh my gawd, you two.” Gabby moans, but then grins.
“Nice to see you too, Gabby. Leah, a pleasure, as always.” Milo flashes me a Hey, Girl smile, bending down to kiss me again. “Call me later?”
I nod, watching him walk away, wondering if I’ll ever not get shivers looking at that butt and broad shoulders. Hope not. Across the table, Leah starts snapping her fingers at me. My cheeks flush as I look back at her.
“Good girl,” she says, tossing me an imaginary treat. “Now. Tell me what you’re doing.”
“I found an article,” I say. “Y’know—by the artist Barb, who helps with the murals? She said researching quotes can be really inspirational, to help get ideas flowing.” I lean forward. “Listen to this one: In a gentle way, you can shake the world. Isn’t that beautiful?”
Leah curls her hands into a heart shape. “Who’s it by?”
“Wait,” Gabby says. “Let me guess—”
“Excuse me?” From the next table, Annette huffs. Audibly. “Could you guys keep it down? This is the library, and some of us are trying to study.”
“Uh, we are studying,” Gabby shoots back.
“Yeah.” I giggle, mostly at Gabby and Leah. They giggle too, which only angers the student council beast more. I clear my throat. “Sorry.”
Annette nods. “Just please keep it down, okay? Not everyone wants to hear all that bullshit.”
“Bullshit?” Gabby sputters.
“Annette, it’s Gandhi,” I gasp, as if he were my first-born son.
“For shame,” Leah adds, tsking in disappointment.
Annette’s eyebrows pinch—torn between peace on earth and a quiet study environment. She motions toward my notebook. “Is that for the mural?”
I nod. “Why? Do you want to help?”
Gabby snickers, but I kick her foot under the table. Unless Leah told her, Gabby doesn’t know about the photocopies-on-the-lockers incident—aka, how Annette saved my ass.
“Who is your faculty sponsor, by the way?” Annette asks.
“Mr. Donnelly. Why?”
“Dude,” Gabby says. “If you don’t want to work on the mural, can we, at least?”
Annette huffs, looking back at the mountain of SAT prep books in front of her.
I stretch my arms, trying to refocus on my work. Mr. Donnelly said we could set up a meeting with the gun violence prevention group next week, and it’s really important to me that we are super ready. Show ’em we mean business. Already, I have an entire notebook full of ideas. Hours spent without me berating myself over my mother’s death or worrying about where I stand with Robert or if things will ever go back to normal with my grandparents.
A few minutes later, I tap our table with my eraser. “Did you guys see the flyers I put up? Volunteering for the mural committee?”
Leah frowns. “Where’d you put them?”
“On the bulletin board and in the quad. A few people emailed me about it, but I thought there’d be more. I feel like someone is taking them down.”
“It wasn’t me,” Gabby says. Her voice gets all low and dancehall-Jamaican in this incredibly spot-on Shaggy impersonation. I can’t not roar with laughter.
“Seriously?” Annette shouts. “Shut up, Johanna.”
“Why don’t you leave her alone?”
I look up, surprised to see Selene Kenworth rushing to my rescue with a French dictionary tucked under her arm. She takes Milo’s abandoned seat, sitting so close, I can feel her lavender body lotion moisturizing my own skin. “She’s been through enough without your crap. Don’t you think?”
Annette’s face reddens.
I flash Selene an appreciative smile, only slightly wondering when we became I-got-your-back friends; remembering the days of yore when she complimented Annette’s jewelry rather than glaring dagger-eyes at her.
I wonder if Annette had the same thought—about the bracelet—because it takes her a good few seconds to snap back to attention, tightening her ponytail for battle.
“Well, sorry.” She slams her college prep books shut, carting everything two tables farther away from us for some kind of ultimate solitude. “Johanna’s problems aren’t any more important than anyone else’s. Okay? I’m just trying to study. Showing respect for your fellow students shouldn’t be too much to ask,” she stage-whispers.
The rest of us sigh.
“Whatever,” Leah mutters.
“Are you okay?” asks Selene.
“Yeah, fine.” I turn to her. “What’s your problem with Annette?”
She swats the air dismissively. “She’s trying to take funding away from the cheerleading squad. Apparently the ‘robotics club’ needs it. Such bullshit.”
It doesn’t totally sound like bullshit. And I don’t totally get why the word robotics deserves air quotes. But I shake my head commiseratively anyway.
“Oh, wow, is that for the mural?” she asks, eyes brightening as they land on my notebook. “The best weapon is to sit down and talk. That is totally beautiful. Did you write that?”
“Nope. Nelson Mandela.”
“Wow,” she says.
“Oooh. Deep.”
We glance behind us. Cringe. The douchebag voice belongs to Tim, the whole room reeking of farts as he stumbles out of the boys’ bathroom. He walks up to our table with Brandon and the other boy banders collecting like dust bunnies behind him. I feel my pulse spike as he points to my notebook, like, May I? before just grabbing it anyway, skimming the pages.
Brandon snorts with laughter. “Why is it that giving guns is so easy, but giving books is so hard?” he says in this horrendously offensive, vaguely African accent. “Who the hell is Malala Yousa-whatever?”
“Seriously?” I say. “Brandon, you never cease to amaze.”
“What’s this for, anyway?” asks Tim. “Your gay-ass mural?”
“Hey!” my entire table barks in unison.
He raises an apologetic palm. “Just saying, I didn’t know you cared about gun control.”
“Of course I do.” My voice grows claws, cheeks burning. “Would you fuck off already? Give me back my notebook.”
“Give it back to her, you dick,” Gabby growls.
“Come on,” adds Selene.
“Okay, okay. Shit, you guys. Take a joke.”
Relief settles in my ribs as Tim drops the notebook. I can tell Brandon wants to add something dickish too, but the shitster grin on his doughy cheeks evaporates when Dr. Sanders pushes through the library doors. Fear whitens Tim’s skin instantly. He’s probably terrified the whole thing has been caught on the library’s security camera. I’m sort of enjoying his petrification until Sanders, in his tweed suit and stupid red bowtie, looks directly at me, beelining toward our table.
“Miss Carlson, a quick word?”
“Oh.” My shoulders roll back automatically. “Um, sure?”
He smiles an odd, my-lunch-isn’t-sitting-well smile and walks over to the librarian’s desk for more privacy.
/>
What does Colonel Sanders want? Gabby mouths, and Leah goes, Are you okay?
I shrug and walk over to him. “Is something wrong?”
“I wanted to let you know—” Sanders clears gravel from his throat, ducking closer to me. “We’re having a lockdown drill tomorrow.”
I blink. “O-kay?”
“We’re required to have one per semester.”
Over at my table, Tim picks up a Martin Luther King Jr. biography, suddenly enraptured. Everyone’s doing the same thing, eyes hovering from behind books, aglow with anticipation. I look back at Sanders, not really sure how to respond because WTF does he want me to say? Well done for following the rules? Yay, if it’ll get me out of my math test?
“Out of sensitivity,” he goes on, “I wanted to let you know that you won’t be required to participate.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I’ll give you an excused absence, if you’d like to stay home and avoid any … reminders.”
My skin goes numb, voice low. “My mother’s death was not a school shooting.”
“No, no, of course,” he says, tugging the bowtie farther from his neck. “But after all that you’ve been through, I didn’t know if the implications of a lockdown drill might have an adverse effect. I only meant it as a courtesy.”
Okay, hmmm. My heart sprints, face attempting neutrality while trying to muster an appropriate response, so I don’t end up screaming fuck you to the Head of School. But luckily I’m saved by Annette, who stands and clears her throat. Oh, Annette. So prim and poised in her pressed khakis, always sticking up for her fellow man. My insides exhale.
“Dr. Sanders?” she says. “Sorry, but I’m worried about this ‘courtesy’ you’re giving Johanna. Letting her skip school? Doesn’t it send a confusing message?”
Dr. Sanders stiffens. “Annette, this is none of your concern. Why don’t you—”
But then Tim happens, slamming my MLK book down on the table. Not, like, this is an outrage loud, but clearly annoyed. “No disrespect, Dr. Sanders, but I agree with Annette. What you’re offering Johanna sounds like an egregious oversight.”
Sanders blinks. Half intrigued, half stupefied as he comes to the mind-bending realization that everyone in the room is riveted by this. “Tim, I didn’t see you there. What’s on your mind?”
Tim sweeps his bangs aside. “I’d like to hear what Annette has to say.”
For three seconds, Dr. Sanders stands mute. Which is a really short amount of time. But it also says a lot. “Right. Of course. Annette?”
She beams quickly at Tim before refocusing on Sanders. “Well, in the past week, I’ve spoken to a lot of students at Chavez Academy. And I think we deserve to be heard. I realize you have a great deal of compassion—as do I—but what Johanna is trying to get away with isn’t fair to the rest of the student body.”
Wait, what?
“Yes, but the lockdown drill—”
“Not the drill,” she says. “I’m talking about this mural she’s obsessing over. Have you seen the flyers?”
Sanders coughs, looking around for one.
“There were on the bulletin board,” I say.
“And all over the quad,” Tim contributes.
“And the flyers are for a mural?” Sanders asks, trying to keep up.
“Yes. A mural that is borderline graffiti.”
“Graffiti?” My eyes almost pop out of my head.
Annette nods, not at me but at Sanders. “Not everyone believes that our right to bear arms should be challenged. What about the rest of us? What about our rights?”
Brandon claps fiercely and another dozen people join in.
“Who approved this?” Sanders demands.
“Mr. Donnelly,” I say. “But I assumed—didn’t he—”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not buying it,” chimes in Lucy Bingham, this year’s Princeton-bound valedictorian. “All of a sudden Johanna, of all people, is an activist?”
Gabby gasps. “She is.”
“Uh, sure.” Lucy snorts. “It’s obvious she’s scrambling. Every other junior has like fifty clubs on their résumé—and what does she have? About two. I checked. I bet a big fancy mural is going to look great on her college applications. Can anyone say scam?”
Whispers erupt, and Sanders starts to nod—actually nod thoughtfully along with them. My blood boils. Do people honestly think that? That I’d use my own mother’s death to get into college? They’re not just idiots, they’re monsters.
“Okay, I think we’re all getting a bit off topic,” Sanders eventually says, patting the air to shush the din of conspiracy. “However, I will look into this.”
“Thank you for hearing us out, Dr. Sanders.” Annette flashes this blue-ribbon grin that has me throwing up in my mouth. “It’s really important that everyone’s voices are heard.”
Sanders smiles presidentially. “You’re quite welcome. And I appreciate you bringing this to my attention. Looking out for your constituents once again, Annette.”
“That’s why I’m student council president,” she says.
“Is that why you’re an ass-hat too?” Selene mutters.
Giggles flutter around the room as poor Annette’s face spikes crimson.
“For the record,” I interject, “I am also her constituent, and I think the mural is a great idea. For the school—not personal gain, which is an absolutely putrid suggestion.”
“Yeah.” Gabby and Leah, and even Selene, cheer.
“And no offense,” I say, “but I don’t care about the stupid lockdown drill.”
Sanders sniffs sharply.
“What I care about is the mural. I care about gun violence.”
“Of course.” He glances at his watch. “Thank you for your input. Lots to think about. Kids, I’m running late for a meeting. This is all very interesting, and I will be following up.”
He speeds toward the door, and Annette pads after him, onto the next case on her docket—some other poor constituents that need saving. As soon as they’re gone, Gabby grabs my hand and leads me back to our table, past Tim, who gets a high five from Brandon on their way out of the room.
“Are you okay?” Selene asks.
“That was ridiculous,” Gabby says. “I hate Annette.”
“Let us know if you need help with the mural,” says this freckle-faced senior named Elsa, smiling on her way out of the library. “If it happens.”
I smile back, gulping when she’s out of earshot. “If it happens?”
“That was brutal, right?” Leah shakes her head. “Annette’s talking out of her ass.”
“And Lucy,” adds Selene. “I had no idea that was an actual rumor. Did you?”
I shrug. Mortified, mystified. And super paranoid too.
The library starts to clear out, most notably Elise from church, tightening her cardigan around her chest as she walks quickly past me. Elise who told everyone my mom’s name; who’s been casually scanning my locker for guns ever since. Now she’s using her cable-knit sweater as a bulletproof vest.
“Do people really hate the mural?” I ask dismally.
“Of course not,” Leah says.
“Then who are Annette’s quote-unquote constituents?”
“Not me,” Selene promises. “But people must be listening to her and, like, talking to her, for once. I bet it’s totally going to her head.”
“And since when is Colonel Sanders pretending he doesn’t know about the mural? I’m sure Donnelly talked to him about it. I mean, didn’t he?”
The girls shrug.
Maybe I look as sick as I feel, because Gabby pats my shoulder. “Don’t sweat it. Me and my dick flowers are going to paint the shit out of that mural. Okay?”
Leah bursts out laughing. I know some kind of lighthearted reaction is expected of me too, so I give them what little delight I can muster. “Right.”
I sink back into my seat, beside a sympathetic Selene, surrounded by all my sketchbooks and biographies and colored pencils.
What was I doing before all this? Oh, yeah. I look back at the drawing in my sketchbook—the one Tim and Brandon found so hilarious. A little girl, kneeling beside a broken heart. I try to steady my hand and let the voices in my head slip away. Deep breath in … this is about more than crabby Annette and her fascist agenda. Deep breath out … she can’t bully me, I won’t let her.
Steadying my trembling hand, I pick up the lightest blue in the pack and use it to color in the tears on her cheek.
31
The library drama blows over.
Just kidding. It completely doesn’t.
Two days later, I’m called into Colonel Chickenhead’s office, and when I get there, he and Mr. Donnelly are both standing like FBI agents, rigid suits and even more rigid looks on their pale faces. Donnelly doesn’t need to say “bad news” for me to know that it is cataclysmic.
“Oh, God,” I gasp. “Is it my grandparents? Are they okay?”
“No. I mean, yes!” Mr. Donnelly sputters, his eyes instantly enormous. “I’m sure they’re totally fine. It’s nothing like that. Um—” He pauses, shamefaced as he glances at Dr. Sanders.
“Take a seat,” Sanders says. “How are you?”
“Fine?” I say, but I’m wracking my brain now. “Is this about the lockdown drill? It didn’t upset me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He seems blank at first. “Oh. No, not that. Mr. Donnelly and I would like to have a word with you about this mural project you’ve proposed.”
My heart speeds up. “What do you mean?”
“Unfortunately, you’ve hit a bump in the road.” His unibrow pinches. “There have been several complaints lodged— among both staff and students—and the school board feels it would be best to view both sides of the argument.”
“Wait, teachers are against this thing?”
My mind goes straight to Mr. Gonzales, burly and insecure and threatened by my girly disobedience. Maybe even Coach Fishkin, who I can totally picture having a cabinet of rifles in his basement.
Sanders won’t answer my question, but he says, “There’s going to be a hearing.”
Accidental Page 18
