Sway

by M. F. Lorson

  Rachel rolled her eyes. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe you do care about what people think of you? That maybe that is completely normal?”

  I let out a deep sigh, scooping my uniform under my arm. “Right now, I only care what Christopher thinks about me, and if there is even the tiniest possibility that doing this changes his perspective, then it is worth the risk.”

  Rachel pursed her lips together, squeezing her eyes shut in a pained expression. “I get that I can’t stop you, but as your best friend, I strongly advise you to stop yourself.”

  I didn’t look at Rachel as I left the room. I knew if I waited even a moment more I was liable to change my mind.

  When I entered the common room, Lydia, Christopher, and a few others were already at one of the long study tables. There were skirts, trousers, and blouses laid out in front of them. True to her word, the girl from sewing class had brought a handful of fabric scissors. I looked down at the uniform wadded under my arm and murmured a quiet apology before tossing it on the table in front of me.

  Lydia smiled, offering a kind hello. I wished she wasn’t so nice then I could hate her the way I was supposed to. Hate was so much easier to feel than sad.

  Christopher looked up from his project. Lifting his chin in that stereotypical fashion that all men did when they wanted to seem cool and aloof. If it were a couple of weeks ago, this might have reduced me to tears, today I was just happy to be acknowledged at all. It didn’t feel good being ignored by Christopher, and this last week he had pretty much perfected it.

  Christopher grabbed a pair of scissors off the table and handed them to me. I tried to keep my hands from shaking as I grabbed a hold of the slick silver handle. I was nervous for a lot of reasons, but one of them was definitely facing Christopher for the first time since we exited the van. I scanned the table around me to see what the others were doing. Henrietta took her wool pleated skirt and made a four inch high incision every inch or so around the hemline.

  “I’m planning to tie them like one of those no-sew blankets,” she said, catching me looking.

  “Cool.” I answered, though I didn’t think anything about this plan was cool. I stared at the uniform in front of me. I didn’t know why altering it bothered me so much. It was only a uniform. I had three others just like it waiting in my closet. Yet for some reason, I really, really did not want to destroy it. I still thought that we ought to be able to wear our own clothes more often and that it was unfair to force everyone to represent the school when they didn’t want to, but I also sort of loved the black and silver attire. Most of my best memories took place in a Shelfbrooke uniform.

  I felt like I was about to cut up my communion dress, but Christopher was looking at me, challenging me to be bold, and I wanted him to see that I too could do the unexpected.

  I gripped the scissors tight and slit my skirt all the way from the bottom hem to mid thigh. The fabric zipped with ease beneath the weight of the scissors. I remembered my mother scolding me for using her good sewing scissors to cut paper. I tried not to think about what kind of scolding she would have given me for my actions today.

  When it was finished, my uniform looked like a punk rock cosplay of Sailor Moon. If it weren’t so against the rules, I might have even liked the look.

  Christopher smiled as I held up my newly sleeveless blouse and then quickly shifted his eyes elsewhere as if even thinking I did something cool was crossing an invisible line in which one side was Pro-Anne, and the other, the side where he belonged, was decidedly opposite.

  When everyone had finished doctoring their uniforms, we headed back to our rooms to change and pick up the picket signs we made in Cassius Society. Rachel erupted into a fit of giggles when I emerged from behind my bed all plaid and jagged edges.

  “Awe, you’re not ready yet,” she joked. “Why don’t you go ask Lydia if you can borrow one of those dog collar necklaces she’s so fond of?”

  “Very funny,” I growled, smoothing what was left of my skirt. “Are you coming with?”

  “Where to?”

  I straightened my spine. “To Kellylynch Hall. We will be picketing there,” I said, attempting to sound committed and not ridiculous. A difficult task considering how I was dressed with the “Fascism Thy Name is Dress code” sign clutched in my left hand.

  “Oh, I have no intention of missing the show,” said Rachel, grabbing her grey peacoat from the closet. “Let’s hear it,” she whispered, as we filtered out of Stratford Hall and into the chilly February air.

  “Hear what?”

  “Your club chant. Come on. I know you have one.”

  Usually, when Cassius Society was out protesting something dumb, we had a field day making fun of their rhymtastic chants. Now that I had helped draft the thing, I was less inclined to share.

  “You’ll just have to wait.”

  “Fine,” droned Rachel as she slid her arm into the crook of mine. Together we wound through the cobblestone paths that connected one academic building to another. I felt the weight of dozens of eyes looking me up and down. There were other Cassius members out in the quad, but they were used to the attention, whereas I felt like a two-headed dog. Even if they weren’t staring at me, I was paranoid that they were.

  The Cassius Society was already assembling on the steps of the great hall. It was cold, far too cold to be standing outside in torn up tights and no jacket, but everyone had left their coats back at the dorms. It would be a chicken move to leave mine on, so I took a deep breath and peeled off my outer layer. I looked for Christopher as I gently handed my coat to Rachel and walked my sign into the small crowd. He stood at the top of the stairs, his wavy blond hair still intact, much to my relief.

  Rachel watched, a mixture of both horror and amusement on her face as I thrust my fist in the air and began chanting.

  Ain’t no power like the power of the people,

  Cause the power of the people don’t stop! (Say what?)

  After twenty freezing cold minutes, Professor Crick had finally had enough.

  “To demonstrate your beliefs is your right. To disturb my class is not. Everyone back to their rooms or you can march straight into the dean’s office for what I suspect will not be a warning for most of you.” The others grumbled as we disassembled, but I was relieved. Another five minutes and I would have been a popsicle. And since Christopher wasn’t likely to love me as an inanimate object, Mr. Crick’s arrival could not have been more timely.

  It wasn’t until I began fastening my coat, my fingers numb from the cold, that I realized Lydia was not among us.

  I turned to Christopher, his arms were hugged tight to his chest as he rubbed what was left of his Shelfbrooke blazer to keep warm.

  “Where is your girlfriend?” I asked.

  “I was wondering the same thing,” he said, squinting down from two steps up. “She said to meet her here, but the last time I saw her was this morning in the common room.”

  My teeth chattered from the cold, little puffs of icy air slipped from my lips as I spoke.

  “Skipping a demonstration doesn’t feel like a very Lydia sort of thing to do.”

  Christopher looked out across campus. “I’m not sure I know what is or isn’t a Lydia sort of thing.”

  I fought off the urge to glob onto his train of thought. It would have been a great time to plant little seeds of doubt about their relationship. I could push that lever he was already holding until he pulled the trigger and ended things. But I bit my tongue, remembering my promise to Lydia. Christopher was mine first, but he was hers now. I had to remember that. Even if doing so felt like death by a thousand papercuts.

  Later that day, after classes had wrapped, we all learned why Lydia and a select few other members of the Cassius Society had been absent from the morning’s demonstration.

  Each Tuesday at four, the linens crew wheeled plastic laundry corrals up and down the halls of our dorm. Our uniforms left us stuffed into laundry bags each weekend and came back in white canvas tote
s, our room numbers embroidered near the top. The student staffer who wheeled today’s cart wore a smirk of satisfaction and a silly shredded uniform like my own.

  Rachel shrieked when she opened our bag. “Are you kidding me?”

  My mouth dropped open when she pulled out her plaid skirt, now covered in blotchy orange spots. “Ruin your own uniform if you want to. My parents are going to have a cow!”

  “I—I didn’t have anything to do with this,” I stammered, staring at the growing pile of ruin as Rachel continued to pull things out one garment at a time.

  “Maybe not,” said Rachel scowling at her skirt. “But this is obviously Cassius Society, and you clearly participated in this morning’s protest.” She looked up at me, her eyes full of worry. “Anne, you’re gonna get in so much trouble.”

  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than our room phone began buzzing away, the number to the dean’s office streamed across the caller ID, like red, white and blue cop lights in the rearview mirror.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “I guess you were smart not to participate,” I said to Ashley as I chomped down my third antacid of the hour. There were exactly thirty minutes before my appointment with the dean, and every second that passed, I grew more nervous.

  “I don’t want to say I told you so, but I really, really, told you so.”

  “You also told me to win back your brother with whatever means possible.”

  Ashley gave me a half smile. “I told you to use your magic and to be yourself. Last time I checked, you weren’t the kind of girl who follows the other lemmings off the cliff.”

  I felt my shoulders slump. My whole motivation for joining the Cassius Society was to prove to Christopher that I could think for myself. That I wasn’t swayed by everyone around me. In the end, I had done exactly what he hated. I ignored my inner voice in an effort to do what I thought someone else wanted me to do. The irony was, this time, he was the one I was trying to impress.

  “I screwed it up,” I lamented. “My magic sucks.”

  Ashley slung an arm around my shoulder. “There is still time to make it right. If...”

  “If what?” I asked, anxious for some insider information. I had resolved myself to the fact that I couldn’t be with Christopher, but I still wanted his respect.

  “If you don’t both end up expelled,” she said, her bottom lip jutting out in a pout.

  My stomach felt like a cement mixer. If Christopher got expelled, then all of this was for nothing.

  “Do you think he knew?” I asked.

  Ashley bit the corner of her bottom lip. “My brother can be incredibly stupid, but even he must realize that doing what they did would be a financial burden on our parents. I just can’t see him doing that. Maybe Lydia doesn’t mind writing a check for a couple thousand dollars worth of uniforms, but that is a heck of a lot more than Christopher has squirreled away.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by a quiet knock at my open door. We both turned to see Lydia leaning against the frame. It wasn’t the rolling suitcase beside her that let us know she was leaving Shelfbrooke. It was her outfit, a long black tunic over galaxy tights. Her hair was loose of its usual braids hung around her shoulders. She was here to say goodbye, but she looked happy, even beneath her somber expression.

  Beside me, Ashley balled her hands into fists at her side. I knew she wanted to hate Lydia for getting her brother into trouble, but what was the point of holding a grudge when this was likely the last time we would see each other?

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” she barked. “We are a part of Cassius Society too. We have a right to know when we are about to be implemented in something stupid!” Ashley spit the words out with so much malice that I found myself inching away from her, unsure what the conversation might escalate into.

  Lydia twirled a long black coil around her fingers, looking down as if inspecting her split ends was suddenly crucial.

  “If I had told you,” said Lydia. “Then you would have had to make a choice. Either tattle, which I did not want you to do.” Ashley shook her head. “Or participate, which I also did not want you to do.” At that last part, she looked up to meet Ashley’s eyes. “Don’t you see? This way, when Dean Thomas asks if you were involved, you won’t have to lie. You didn’t know any of the details. You still don’t know any of the details.”

  “And Christopher?” asked Ashley, the angry red patches on her cheeks beginning to recede.

  Lydia flinched. “I lied to him,” she admitted. “About when we were doing it.”

  “Why?” asked Ashley, but we both knew why.

  “I like him. I really like him. I didn’t want him to lose his opportunity to play lacrosse in the spring over a relationship that isn’t…”

  “Isn’t what?” I asked softly.

  “I’m not blind,” answered Lydia, looking me in the eye. “He doesn’t like me the way he likes you.”

  I looked down at my shoes. What did you say in a moment like that? Thank you was too cocky, and no, you’re wrong didn’t work either. Because it was acting like what she felt didn’t matter.

  “What happens now?” I asked, anxious to shift the topic.

  Lydia took a deep breath before wrapping her hand around the handle of her suitcase.

  “I head home, hopefully to attend some local school full of juvenile delinquents like myself, but most likely, I end up in another plaid skirt somewhere closer to home.”

  I couldn’t stop a laugh from bubbling up, picturing Lydia wreaking havoc somewhere else.

  “We’re going to miss you,” said Rachel, popping in and eyeing Lydia’s suitcase. “Who else will keep that candle of terror burning in the faculty’s eyes?”

  A smile stretched across Lydia’s face as she reached out to pull us all into a group hug. I could never have imagined this moment a few weeks ago.

  Yet suddenly, I couldn't imagine school without her. Lydia wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, smudging her heavy black eyeliner as she pulled back from the group.

  “I broke it off with Chris by the way,” she said, noting my shocked expression.

  “Not my type, it turns out. Too pretty. Too nice. Too well adjusted. You know how that can be.”

  “Totally,” said Rachel, a little twinkle in her eye. “If only there were someone else here to help him heal his broken heart.”

  “If only….” said Lydia, a smile playing at the corner of her lips.

  The three of us watched as she wheeled her bag down the hall for the last time. It wasn’t until the door closed behind her that I realized she had jacked my snowglobe.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I arrived outside of the dean’s office ten minutes before my appointment. I tried not to feel judged as I took a seat on one of three chairs outside of his office, but Ms. Bev looking over her glasses at me every thirty seconds, wasn’t helping. I had only ever been to the dean’s office once before, but I quickly remembered how paper thin the walls were when I heard Dean Thomas’s angry voice telling whomever he was with that they were on their absolute and final last chance.

  Henrietta burst out of his office and toward the exit. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, but at least she wasn’t being expelled. There was still hope that not everyone in Cassius Society was going to suffer the same fate as Lydia. Still, I didn’t like seeing her that way. If the tough ones were crying, what chance did I have?

  The dean poked his head around the door, noting my presence.

  “Send her in,” he ordered Ms. Bev, as if he couldn’t just tilt his head down and tell me himself. I briefly fantasized about turning and sprinting in the other direction, but that would only prolong the inevitable. I slowly rose from my chair and stepped inside the doorframe.

  “Come in, please,” he said, motioning for me to come further into the room. He stood tall with all of his weight on his heels, in that imposing way that men sometimes do, as he directed me to take a seat at his large mahogany desk.

  I flinc
hed as he closed the frosted glass door behind him. I knew he wasn’t going to be unreasonable, it was my first offense after all, but that didn’t calm my nerves. I was no Lydia. I didn’t know what I was supposed to say to defend myself. Part of me agreed that I deserved to be punished. Just because I wasn’t part of the laundry room sabotage didn’t mean I hadn’t intentionally damaged school property.

  Dean Thomas took a seat across from me. He was not a big man, 5’11 at most, but something about sitting across from him, his elbows propped on the table in front of us, made me feel like a little girl and not the near adult that I knew I was.

  “I have to say, I was surprised to see your name on the list of students involved in today’s shenanigans.”

  I looked down at the desk in front of me. How was I supposed to respond to that? Truth be told, I was just as surprised myself. In my three years at Shelfbrooke, I had never done anything that even resembled causing trouble.

  “Ms. Bennet, you are going to have to talk for this meeting to be effective.”

  I lifted my eyes from the table to his face. Dean Thomas had never been my enemy, but then again, I had never done anything to cause him to dislike me before.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, making a conscious effort to keep the warble out of my voice.

  Dean Thomas let out a deep sigh. “You are sorry. Never in the history of the world has a phrase been overused more than ‘I’m sorry.’ Don't say you’re sorry. You’re not sorry. You made a choice. ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t make a choice better.”

  I gave a small shrug. “I guess I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  The dean pushed away from his desk and wandered over to the large picture window behind him. “I’m much more interested in your why than your sorry,” he said, examining the campus below.