Everyone in our circle had various states of worry on our faces, including Angelle. It was bad enough for Mrs. Turner to go to the diocese, which ruled the Catholic high schools in town like a vague, shadowy force that nobody really understood, but “someone even bigger” could mean anything. It didn’t seem logical to me that anyone outside our school would be swayed by a few rumors, but, unlike Sister Catherine, Mrs. Bonnecaze had folded when she talked to Mrs. Turner. Our fate would likely be determined by whether that “someone even bigger” was more like Sister Catherine or more like Mrs. Bonnecaze.
“What are we going to do?” Sara asked nervously. It was a question we all must have been thinking. And the problem was, there wasn’t any easy answer. “If we stick to our homecoming plans, she’s really going to hate us.”
“And if we don’t, we’re back to where we started,” Helen said. The certainty in her voice surprised me. “I know it’s not fair to ask everyone to keep going with everything when you could end up with the same punishment as me—or worse—but what’s the point if Mrs. Turner wins? We can’t give up now.”
Melissa, Sara, and I nodded and murmured our agreement, but Angelle just sat there as uncomfortable as ever. She’d never been my first choice for the homecoming court scheme, and I was glad that she had decided to warn us about Mrs. Turner, but something about her—eyes downcast, that leg vibrating with the frequency of a jackhammer—told me that she wasn’t all-in. Now that she’d warned us, and we’d decided to keep going, she could just as easily flip on us.
“How about you, Angelle?” Melissa had picked up on her hesitation, too.
Angelle glanced to the left, avoiding Melissa’s gaze.
“I don’t know,” she said. “This is so easy for y’all. I want to help Helen, but... I don’t know.”
“Are you serious, Angelle?” My words punched the air. “None—NONE—of this is ‘easy’ for any of us. Do you know how hard it was to find slogans that we all agreed on? Or that wouldn’t get us kicked out of school? Or how hard it was to get people to care? And Helen’s right—in the end, if we give up now, we’re basically saying, ‘Oh, sucks to be you! Enjoy being ostracized!’”
It was possibly the angriest motivational speech anyone had ever given in the history of motivational speeches. Angelle looked like she might cry, and I felt the tiniest bit of guilt at the tone—but not the content—of what I’d said. I didn’t want to bully her into joining us, but I did want her to see how hard it had been to get to where we were.
“You’re right,” Angelle said, looking at her lap. “But I’m not you. Look, I promise I’m not going to tell on you to Mrs. Bonnecaze or Mrs. Turner or anyone else. But I can’t do it. I can’t disrupt homecoming. I don’t see how it will help anything.”
So we’d lost one. She’d been the weakest link all along, for sure. But a worry crept into my mind. If Angelle was feeling this way, who was to say that her nerves wouldn’t spread through the rest of our recruits? I knew Sara and Melissa would stick it out, but what about Cady Jenson, or all those seniors we didn’t know?
* * *
As the freshmen and sophomores filed into the gym, I tried to imitate Sara’s perfect posture. Maybe that would help me focus on the results. I was suddenly nervous about the outcome in a way that pushed away all my worries about Mrs. Turner and replaced them with more trivial ones. I felt like I was in a lose-lose situation here—either I’d win, and I’d have to parade around in front of everyone at two events, or I’d lose, and Leah would smirk at me for the rest of the week while reminding me she’d be at the dance with Kyle.
I looked out over the crowd of freshmen and sophomores already on the bleachers. From here, they made up a faceless sea, with a few signs held up here and there. I spotted one for Sara and noticed that Wisteria was holding one of the flyers Kyle had made with my face on it, mounted on a fluorescent orange posterboard. A surprising feeling of thankfulness ran through me—Wisteria barely knew me, but she’d been genuinely supportive from the beginning. Even if I didn’t want to win a spot on the court, it was nice to have her in the audience cheering me on.
Below the underclassmen, the juniors and seniors crawled over the lower seats. They were clearly more invested in the whole process. Some of them carried posterboard signs supporting one of the four juniors—Leah, Melissa, Angelle, and Missy Bordelon. The seniors took extra time to spread out across the space left at the bottom of the bleachers, high-fiving their friends and shouting out the names of the senior girls nominated for the court. There were eight of them, so that meant a lot of shouting. I only knew Jamie Taylor, so I’d voted for her for homecoming queen.
Sister Catherine stood in front of a microphone, a large red envelope in her hands. Her tidy gray veil hid her severe gray hair—which we’d all seen once when she substituted for the gym teacher—and her crisp white shirt shone with starchy saintliness, while her straight blue skirt, all business and modesty, landed right below her knees. She signaled to one of the members of AV club, and the PA system popped to life.
“First, we would like to thank all of these girls for their clean campaigns.” She looked across our row. From what I remembered, she hadn’t said anything like that last year, but after Mrs. Turner’s outburst, it didn’t surprise me. The campaigning blitz hadn’t featured a single violation of anyone’s photo.
“Unfortunately,” she continued, “I can’t say the same for some of you out there.”
A collective sound of protest-ish murmuring spread out from the bleachers. Freshmen turned toward each other, looking panicked. Everybody else looked confused. I could see Trip Wilson smacking Sean’s arm to get his attention.
“Someone has violated a large portion of the ballots,” Sister Catherine explained. “When the student council convened to count the votes, they discovered that only a small percentage of the usual number of ballots was in the box. After an exhaustive search, the missing ballots were found in a trash can in the lunchroom, with what appeared to be red Kool-Aid poured over them. Needless to say, they were not in any shape to be counted.”
In the bleachers, two junior guys I didn’t know high-fived each other, then continued with an elaborate secret handshake. It seemed unlikely that they’d done it, though. No one would be obvious enough to give away their participation in whatever had been done to the ballots.
“This act shows a remarkable amount of disrespect to the girls here. It’s unclear if the culprits intended to target any particular girls, but that is beside the point. They all deserve better than this.” She paused for a moment, then declared, “As a result, we have decided that the entire group of nominees will participate in homecoming court this year.”
The mass murmur in the bleachers returned, this time turning into a near roar. I could hear various girls near me exhale. Sara let out a burst of loud, sighing relief, Leah a slow hiss.
Sister Catherine added her own sibilant shhh to the mix, a percussive sound that popped in the microphone.
“We do not have time to redo the entire vote, as the student council has already spent enough time outside class today,” she said firmly. “However, we will redo the vote for the homecoming queen tomorrow morning, which will then be announced at the game.” Her expression turned even more stern. “Please don’t take this as a signal to commit further vandalism against the homecoming court. These girls worked very hard on their campaigns and deserve your recognition.”
She waited for people to applaud. A lot of people were still confused, though, and only a smattering of claps drifted from the bleachers.
“Finally, we will catch the students who committed this act against these lovely young ladies,” Sister Catherine added. “And they will be suitably punished.”
Funny how no one had said that about Helen’s locker. I guess getting back to normal with the homecoming court was more important to the school than giving any sort of justice to my sister.
33
On Wednesday morning, Mrs. Turner’s bright and evil voice crackled over the intercom for a school-wide announcement during first period. “I’m pleased to announce that Principal Richard and I have arranged for some important visitors to address the student body today. We will hold a special assembly during third period for the entire school in order to call special attention to the issues surrounding the homecoming court. We invite all members of the court to sit in the front when you arrive in the gym. I look forward to seeing you all there!”
A mix of rage and fear surged through me at the sound of Mrs. Turner’s cheerful “I look forward to seeing you all there!” To be fair, the rage overwhelmed the fear, but I’d been waiting for her to get back at us since she’d threatened me in her office. Sister Catherine’s solution to the vote tampering couldn’t have pleased her—or perhaps it had, in a perverse way that had spurred her to action. She probably blamed us for destroying the ballots, too.
An hour later, still filled with rage, I joined the rest of the homecoming court in the gym, where we sat in two rows of folding chairs in front of everyone else in the bleachers. Sister Catherine paced back and forth across the gym floor, her hands twisting with worry. When I saw her, I worried, too, because Sister Catherine usually treated Mrs. Turner with a barely masked annoyance. Whomever Mrs. Turner had invited must be someone of real consequence.
Mr. Richard walked into the gym, followed by Mrs. Turner, a nun I didn’t know, and a man I did. The nun wore a long white habit that looked much more old-fashioned than Sister Catherine’s knee-length A-line skirt and short veil. Her long veil surrounded a moon-round face. It was hard to tell from her clean-scrubbed, ruddy complexion if she was thirty-five or sixty-five, in the way that almost all nuns looked ageless. She had to be some sort of higher authority, though, because old-fashioned, fancy-nun appearances usually only occurred at graduation.
The man who followed behind the nun was Louis Bettencourt. He had no business at our school, at least in my opinion. He wasn’t a teacher, or someone from the Catholic diocese that oversaw our school. He was the local representative to our state legislature, and he wasn’t a normal politician—not that Louisiana had those anyway. Our current governor, Edwin Edwards, had been elected over a KKK grand wizard based on the slogan “Vote for the crook. It’s important.” Bettencourt had been the one who invited Operation Rescue to town after his abortion ban was vetoed by the previous governor. His whole reason for existing was to fight abortion.
Two seats down, Melissa had to be seething. But I didn’t know what Helen was thinking, up in her position in the bleachers. She’d met Bettencourt last year, when he came to talk to her middle school’s pro-life club. They’d taken a picture together—a crowded jumble of kids and Bettencourt that made the middle school newsletter. In the photo, Representative Bettencourt looked like a gray-haired clone of a younger Ronald Reagan, with a swept-up pompadour and political grin. Helen had flanked him on one side, gazelle-like and taller than he was after her last growth spurt, and her eighth-grade homeroom teacher and sponsor of the pro-life club leaned in on the other. I turned around to try to find Helen in the bleachers, to see if I could read something of her opinion, but it was impossible to find her in the crowd.
Principal Richard shuffled up to the microphone, his face beading with sweat above his mustache. Whether it was from nerves or the early-October heat wave baking them on the walk from his office was hard to say. “Ladies and—” He winced as a squeal of feedback burst from the microphone. He glared at the AV club guy monitoring it, then turned back to us.
“Ladies and gentlemen, today Mrs. Turner and I have arranged to bring in two special guests—Sister Bernadette from the diocesan school board, and State Representative Louis Bettencourt, who, as you may remember, gave our school the generous donation of the land on which it is built.”
Oh, I didn’t know that he was Mr. Swampland. Interesting. At least it explained a little about why he was here, other than his political alignment with our school’s pro-life policy. “As Mrs. Turner was thoughtful enough to arrange for these guests, she will provide a brief introduction,” Mr. Richard said. “But first, I want to assure you all that the homecoming game and dance will go on as planned, as long as there are no further indications of protest, either from students or outside organizations.”
My ears perked up, and I looked around for Melissa to see if she’d heard this. Next to me, Cady elbowed my arm to get my attention, because she’d heard it, too. “Outside organizations”—that was something new.
“And, finally, as Sister Catherine noted in a faculty meeting yesterday, much of this controversy emerged from the sense of protecting a student,” he continued. “Whether or not that student did anything wrong is irrelevant. We do not support vigilante justice in any form, either pro or con.”
Typical Principal Richard doublespeak. He didn’t want to get stuck on either side of the issue, but it wasn’t out of ambivalence about the issue itself. It was just that he didn’t want to be seen as taking a side.
He nodded to Mrs. Turner, who smiled like she was on the homecoming court herself as she clacked to the microphone in her signature kitten heels. Today’s were leopard print, which stood out against her forest green pantsuit. Aside from the heels, the rest of the outfit was a level of formality above what any teacher normally wore. She was putting in an effort to impress.
“In light of recent activities meant to harm the integrity of the homecoming court as well as a certain...guerilla campaign that violates our pro-life policy, I reached out to the two esteemed individuals who are here with us today.” Mrs. Turner stood on her toes to reach the microphone, instead of lowering it to her height. “This school has always prioritized its pro-life policy. Our students have introduced right-to-life bills at the model legislature at the state capitol, raised funds for Operation Rescue’s efforts last summer, and participated in vigils for life. But some among you—” She paused dramatically as she scanned the audience, all while still on her tippy-toes. Normally, I wouldn’t be able to take her seriously, except for the fact that she was using the school’s pro-life policies as a cudgel.
Her gaze settled on me, and then on Melissa. “Some among you have violated that policy in ways that illustrate a callous disregard not only for the life of the unborn, but for your fellow students, as well.” A disregard for our fellow students? My hands curled into fists. It wasn’t like I could punch her, but I really, really wanted to. Her hypocrisy had no bounds. “Recently, with the homecoming vote being spoiled, that disregard has only increased.”
Again, she looked pointedly at Melissa and me. I glared back. She clearly thought we had been the ones to sabotage the vote, but I wasn’t going to shrink from her dirty looks.
Behind Mrs. Turner, Sister Bernadette coughed pointedly. The nun looked bored at Mrs. Turner’s bloviating speech, though she likely wasn’t in disagreement with its principles. Mrs. Turner glanced back at the nun apologetically, and then returned her focus to us.
“And that,” she said, “is why Principal Richard has invited Sister Bernadette today.” Mrs. Turner looked at an index card in her hand. “She is our diocese’s vice superintendent and has served as a Catholic liaison for the Louisiana Right to Life committee as well as...” Mrs. Turner squinted at the card in front of her. “As well as the Committee to Abolish the Death Penalty. Hmm. Please give her a warm welcome!”
Sister Bernadette moved toward the microphone with the great purpose of a visiting foreign dignitary, her long habit sweeping gracefully across the floor. As she passed them, she nodded slowly at Principal Richard and Representative Bettencourt.
“Young ladies and young gentlemen, I am very sad to be here under such difficult circumstances,” she said in the rounded, imperious tones of an upper-crust Southern drawl. “I do not wish to take more of your time than necessary, as your studies are important. I have spoken with Sister Catherine and Principa
l Richard about the situation, and I would like you to know that they have my full support. I have personally examined the homecoming court’s campaign materials and found nothing troubling, so I do not wish to paint these innocent girls as culprits. However, as representatives of the school, they must be held to a higher standard, and rest assured, there will be consequences if these protests continue to violate diocesan school policy.”
On that ominous note, Sister Bernadette made the sign of the cross and stepped away from the microphone. What did any of this mean? We were considered innocent for now, but if we stepped out of line, we’d face consequences? I was confused, and judging by the hum of the people behind me, so was everyone else. I saw Sister Bernadette exchange the tiniest of bowing nods with Sister Catherine, but that only confused me more because I couldn’t tell if it was a good look or a bad look. Mostly, it was an obscure nun look, with slightly raised eyebrows that clearly had some meaning between them, but not to me.
Mrs. Turner rushed back to the microphone, like she was afraid someone else might take her place.
“And now we have the st-state representative, Louis Bettencourt!” It sounded like she had been going to say, “star of our show,” but recovered with “state representative.” I tried looking back to the bleachers again to see if I could spot Helen, but I couldn’t really identify anyone I knew that far back in the sea of faces. “Representative Bettencourt is a longtime advocate for life in our state. He helped secure the votes to override Governor Roemer’s veto of our state’s strong pro-life law, and, in order to show our city’s support for that law, he brought in Operation Rescue to protest. Although the federal courts have unfairly decided that the law is unconstitutional, defying all principles of state’s rights—” she sounded incensed, but quickly regained her composure “—Representative Bettencourt has persevered, organizing locally and nationally on behalf of the unborn.” Mrs. Turner clasped her hands together with joy, unintentionally crunching the index card in her hand. “And we are just so honored to have him here today!”
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