Sources Say
Page 9
“Traitor!” the redhead said, and Emmie transitioned through a dozen shades of red. Angeline actually felt a little sorry for her.
“I should say something,” Angeline whispered to Maxine.
“Do that. After you win the primary.”
Angeline hesitated.
“What?” Maxine said. “You want to win, don’t you? Here’s your chance.”
Angeline thought of Leo, and a knot tightened in the pit of her stomach.
But Leo was gone.
Evelyn’s Epic Everyday was here.
Angeline pictured a million, two, five million subscribers. And she pictured all of them hitting a thumbs-up beside her name.
She elongated her neck. “We can’t just wait. We can’t sit back and let our fates be determined by those who are not us—those who don’t care as much as we do. Which is why, if I’m elected student council president, I’m going to . . . to . . .” Angeline’s eyes flickered to Emmie, and she thought back to what Emmie had said about the power of the masses. And giving them a voice. “To create a system for you to voice your concerns—”
“This isn’t the time or place for primary speeches,” Emmie said, a vein pulsing in her neck.
“Didn’t seem to bother you the other day,” Angeline shot back. “Or is vegan bacon more concerning than the objectification of women? Than having a voice? Than . . .” Her mind seized on the question she’d just answered for her loyal Ask an Angel viewers. “Than ensuring justice?”
Justice . . . sure, but what really engaged was a rallying cry. #femaleempowerment, right?
Angeline swiveled her head to ensure everyone got a glimpse of her good side. “But to have justice, we must have accountability. And accountability starts with us. Bras were strewn all over the school, and we Instagrammed it. A few decried the spirit week cupcake stunt, but one defaced shirt sold on eBay for two hundred dollars. We need to stop. We need to demand responsibility. And we need to advocate for ourselves, every day, right here. One way we can do that is with a peer jury system where students investigate and determine consequences for acts like these committed by their classmates. We need more stringent guidelines for behaviors and sanctions for infringements—ones we collectively agree on. We create an environment where these Frankengirls won’t happen again because they won’t be tolerated, period. Because we know we must answer to one another as fellow citizens of this school.” She wet her lips. “Hashtag #MoreThanOurParts.”
Silence, and then a resounding “More Than Our Parts” echoed through the cafeteria.
Tad planted himself in front of Leo. “You seriously letting this chick lead a witch hunt, Torres? Your balls still tucked in a little velvet pouch in her purse? Or are they in your mommy’s? Or do they share ’em like a custody agreement?”
Leo’s eyes coldcocked Tad, but his hands remained pressed flat against the table.
“More can’t dos, like, seriously?” Josh said. “Man, already I can’t even wear a baseball cap.”
“Abomination,” Tad said, staring at Leo.
The redhead who yelled “traitor” set her sights on Tad. She pointed to his feet, which wore the newest, flashiest sneaker named after a player on the Boston Celtics.
“And you shouldn’t be wearing those,” the girl said. “They cost more than my car.”
Tad snickered. “Remind me not to hitch a ride.”
The girl remained unflustered, like she’d been waiting for this moment a long time. “They foster a divisive environment. We’re here to learn, aren’t we? Not to flash our credit cards. The dress code should have limits.”
Extreme? Probably. But more agreement than Angeline would have expected rolled through the cafeteria. And so, even though it went against every pricey parka, every strappy sandal, and every prepaid prom limo offer that she’d used her talent—not a trust fund—to acquire, she said, “Damn straight. Ultra expensive clothes and shoes and limos to prom single out those whose parents don’t work in tech.” Beside her, Maxine muttered a “Jugular, huh?” but the nods and fist pumps encouraged Angeline. “School should be a safe space where what we have and wear doesn’t create a hierarchy. It’s hard enough, isn’t it? So let our peers at it—figuring out what stays and what goes. From thousand-dollar backpacks to—”
“Dried fruit in the vending machine!” Natalie cried.
“And apples!” Lush Curls said.
“Why not?” Angeline said, surprised that healthy snacks trumped Leo’s smoldering eyes and great hair.
Emmie once again tried to insert herself. “Those are all things to be taken up, but there is already a system in place to do so. Suggestions made to the appropriate teacher liaison using the forms readily available in the front office are filtered through to the administration and brought up—”
“In about a thousand years,” Angeline said. “Screw bureaucracy. We form the world we want by taking action. Ourselves. We bring change. We. Bring. It.”
Tad scoffed. “By ramming things down our throats, more like it. What about you, Torres? Political dynasty offering us the same load of crap?”
Tad pounded his fist against the table, egging Leo to climb up. But Leo’s fear of heights meant even a step stool offered a challenge.
He took a stand but kept his feet firmly on the ground. “What am I offering? One thing that’s easy to comprehend. Stop telling us what to do. We’re here, expected to get top grades, lead our teams to state, drive a car, hell, vote for president. And yet we can’t be trusted to wear whatever we want to school? Because a hat or a plaid shirt tied around your waist is distracting? We should be able to wear whatever we want.”
“Got my vote, hundred percent,” Josh said.
Leo gave a thumbs-up. “This school used to trust us. There was a time we could go off campus and grab a slice of pepperoni from Frank’s Pizza for lunch. We should be able to go where we want.” Agreement spread through the room. “They tell us what clubs we can have, what plays we can put on, what music band performs. Take away our hats, jerseys, our straws. They keep taking, and what are they giving? Nothing but an environment full of pissed-off kids. That’s what makes something like these Frankengirls happen. Pure and simple misplaced frustration. She wants more restrictions? I want less. I want us to be trusted to make our own decisions—all of us, not some elite jury of what surely won’t be all of our peers.”
Emmie stood before them, waving her hand. But this wasn’t class, and there was no teacher to call on her. Angeline and Leo were firmly in charge.
Leo held out his palms to calm the hoots of support, led by Tad. “These photos are unacceptable. But we can’t have a bunch of vigilantes leading the charge.”
Angeline gritted her teeth. They were both spewing BS. She just had to do it better. “And we can’t have the administration enacting a cover-up to save face. This injustice will only be righted by us. We’ll find out who did this together.”
Maxine yelled from beside Angeline. “So vote your conscience! Vote for—”
“For . . . for . . . highlighters!” A breathless Jay Choi hurled himself into the cafeteria. “Who’s . . . with . . . me?” He gasped, coming to stand next to Emmie, whose arms were tightly bound across her chest, but it was too late for both of them.
Angeline and Leo stared at each other across the expanse of the lunchroom table.
Welcome to Acedia’s two-party system.
Acedia Confronts Its Inner Sloth:
Controversy Surrounding Student Council
Unprecedented in Charter School History
A SPECIAL REPORT
Part 2 of 6
In an effort to mirror the inner workings of the national election, first-year government teacher Ms. Jules Lute instituted the Acedia Student Council Presidential Primary. The election to narrow the slate of candidates down to two may have been held during a school-wide assembly in fifth period
, but the results were locked up the previous day when the “Frankengirls” appeared.
Shortly after the images were discovered, Principal Jeffrey Schwartz glossed over the administration’s “active investigation” and made what became seen as a controversial request for students to delete any social media postings depicting the composite photographs. Following this announcement, a spontaneous debate broke out among several of the candidates in the school cafeteria. Speculation as to who was behind the Frankengirls transitioned into a discussion that set each presidential hopeful’s platform in stone and led to frontrunners Quinn, who proposed increased governance by their peers, and Torres, who advocated for trust and a relaxation of the rules.
On the day of the primary, each of the four candidates, which included Jay Choi, freshman, and Emmie Hayes, senior, gave five-minute-long speeches. Ballots were cast, and Quinn and Torres nabbed resounding wins, with Quinn in the lead by a strong twenty-five percentage points.
No one could have predicted then just how far the tentacles of the Acedia Student Council election would reach. Hashtags, angel wings, The Boston Globe, and the halls of Congress were all still to come.
The election engaged students in a way nothing at Acedia had before. Ms. Lute’s government classes had the highest average grades of any course that marking period. A twice-weekly poll, created by Chen, who was also working on a voting app for the wider election, tracked each candidate’s odds of winning. Yet the question remains as to why this election was the one to garner such attention. The facts are clear: Quinn and Torres are popular students at the school, each with visibility beyond its brick walls; their status as a former romantic couple piques a voyeuristic interest; and their campaign platforms embody a conflict core to the national presidential election. And certainly, the provocative nature of the Frankengirls, which only came to be thanks to that summer party at Chen’s, created conditions primed for strong opinions and extreme outrage.
But Goldberg presents another theory as to why the student council election became so renowned: “If you ask me, it’s all because of The Shrieking Violet.”
Click for more: 2 of 6
11
When Cat’s Words Are Read
20 DAYS TO THE ELECTION
The taxidermic bass on the wall above Principal Schwartz’s desk stared at Cat. She tried not to move, even though her feet dangled uncomfortably above the blue carpet tiles. One shift and she feared the thing would come alive, that single glossy black eye the motion-activated trigger for it to break out into song.
“Naturally, we’re investigating,” Principal Schwartz said. His oak desk was barren save for a computer monitor, an inbox with neatly stacked folders, and the metal clipboard that had brought Cat here. “But with no proof of who’s responsible, I’m afraid we can’t take any disciplinary action.”
Cat scooched forward, keeping her eye on the green scales surrounding the fish eye. With her feet firmly planted on the ground, she asked, “Can I . . .”
He frowned. “Go ahead, but no photos.”
Cat rotated the clipboard and scanned the janitor’s cleaning log, which marked when the bathrooms and locker rooms had last been seen free of the Frankengirls photos. She noted the time. “And the two students who first reported the photos in the west corridor bathroom—”
“Ms. Quinn, we’ve been through this. Those boys were cleared.”
“Yes, but how, exactly?” She lifted her notebook. “For the article.”
“We’ve spoken with them, their parents, and their cross-country coach. The students’ early arrival was for extra practice. Nothing more.”
“Right. Speaking of, I was hoping the exterior camera footage might be available?”
“I’m afraid not. We have a duty to ensure the privacy of our students and employees. I can assure you—and you can assure your readers—that no viable suspects entered the premises overnight.” He stood. “Now, considering I agreed to this on a Saturday, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
Cat held up one finger, pretending to need more time to scribble down notes as she formulated what would become the backbone of her story. “While finding the perpetrator is important, this incident has prompted reactions from the student council candidates. They have differing views regarding discipline and justice. Considering Slothy and ‘cupcake’ being written on cheerleader uniforms and the full history of attacks and pranks going unpunished, has this made the administration consider changes?”
Principal Schwartz lifted a Yeti cooler and a tackle box out from under his desk. “No.”
“Right, then.” Cat forced herself not to smile as she slid off her chair. She ducked below the fish and hightailed it out of his office, adrenaline quickening her pulse, for that “no” perfectly set up what came next.
* * *
Cat didn’t know where to look: the indigo of the Atlantic Ocean framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows in Maxine’s living room; the three-foot-wide compass chandelier; the whitewashed rafters from which rustic kayak paddles hung. All deserved her attention, and yet her eyes couldn’t stop jumping from Natalie’s right leg to Maxine’s torso to Dipti’s left clavicle to Riley’s nose to Sonya’s left hand to Angeline’s boobs.
All of the Frankengirls—all of the actual girls labeled in the Frankengirls photographs—surrounded Cat.
“No? That’s what he said?” Maxine perched herself on the edge of her white linen sectional, which made the sofa in Cat’s apartment feel like it belonged in a dollhouse. “Is Schwartz living in a different decade? Just because this is high school, this stuff can’t just be allowed to go on.”
Dipti, whose long, dark hair was pulled back into a bun, said, “I’m grounded for the entire semester. My parents thought I was bowling. Bowling? Like it’s my fault they’re gullible?”
“I got kicked out of regionals!” Tamara said. “Disqualified from the pageant because of ‘inappropriate conduct.’ My hand”—she held up her right hand and waved like the queen of England—“was holding a tequila shot.”
Riley hopped up from her center couch seat to nab some of the spotlight. “Tequila, honey, and Dr Pepper. For accuracy.” She looked at Cat, who tried not to grimace.
“I lost my car for two months,” Maxine said. “My parents would have never found out about the party otherwise.”
“Not fair” and “Can’t keep brushing us under the rug” and more came from the girls’ lips. They wanted to tell their story of injustice. And they chose to tell it to Cat. The number of views on that online article she’d written must have shown them how relevant The Red and Blue could be.
Out of the corner of Cat’s eye, she saw Angeline sitting just back from Maxine’s gleaming white surfboard on the bottom step of the staircase that led to the second floor, letting the focus be on everyone but her. Smart campaign strategy. These girls would leave here and tell their friends how Angeline supported but didn’t outshine them. Her sister was always thinking about herself, even when she appeared not to be.
With the next pause in conversation, Cat asked the question that would allow the girls to directly respond to Principal Schwartz’s “no.” “Does this make anyone feel uncomfortable in school?”
Every hand shot up. Cat lifted the newspaper’s camera and clicked.
* * *
Cat sat at the lunch table two days later ignoring her grilled cheese and holding her newspaper in her hand. The last copy. In the entire school. Maybe even in town.
Grady had swung by the grocery store that morning and said the stack there was gone too. Every copy of the latest Red and Blue had been snatched up.
Her words were being read. Read by actual people.
A tingle traveled from the crown of her head all the way to her toes. Then she got back to business, grabbing her notebook and compiling her to-do list: increase the print run, pitch more advertisers, recruit another writer—at least one.
She smoothed the front of the newspaper and slipped the issue between two plastic sheets in her portfolio, which thankfully had room for many more. Because this was bigger than just one story. The tentacles of the Frankengirls reached in all directions, and Cat would cover them all.
And the Fit to Print judges would get the chance to see it.
Cat grabbed her phone and plugged in the Fit to Print website.
She clicked through until she found the application. Her heart beat faster with each empty box she completed until she reached “Apply.” She tapped the button, and that was it. The Red and Blue was officially entered for the Fit to Print award.
She exhaled a long breath.
“Is this seat taken?”
Cat looked up to see Emmie Hayes in a blue cardigan and pressed khakis holding a tray.
“Sure. I mean, no, it’s free. I mean, sit, please.”
Emmie lowered herself into the seat. “Great issue. Definite keepsake material.”
Cat’s face grew hot. “The plastic’s maybe a bit much, but I picked up the habit from my grams.”
Her grandmother had kept a scrapbook of every one of Gramps’s stories from the small paper in upstate New York where he started to the Portland Sun in Maine to The Boston Globe and even an article or two in The New Yorker.
“You should be proud of it.” Emmie squirted hand sanitizer into her palm. “You’re a decent writer.”
“Decent”?
“But the way you construct a story, it’s engaging. You really bring everything to life. Impressive.”
“Impressive” was better.
“You really think so?” Cat asked.
Emmie scooped up lettuce and nodded.