Leggings Revolt
Monique Polak
orca currents
O R C A B O O K P U B L I S H E R S
Copyright © 2016 Monique Polak
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Polak, Monique, author
Leggings revolt / Monique Polak.
(Orca currents)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4598-1189-8 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1190-4 (pdf).—
ISBN 978-1-4598-1191-1 (epub)
I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents
PS8631.O43L44 2016 jC813'.6 C2015-904524-X
C2015-904525-8
First published in the United States, 2016
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015946397
Summary: In this high-interest novel for young readers, Eric and his friends learn about gender equality when they attend a new high school with a strict dress code.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover photography by Getty Images
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
www.orcabook.com
19 18 17 16 • 4 3 2 1
For Carolyn Pye,
librarian extraordinaire.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
The first thing I notice when we walk into Lajoie High School is the smell. It’s a mix of citrus and vanilla, with a hint of—what is that smell? Fresh laundry. It’s definitely fresh laundry. If a guy could get drunk off smells, I’d be out cold on the floor.
Rory punches my arm. “I think we’re gonna like it here. A lot,” he says. At first I think Rory has noticed the smell too. But then I realize he is eyeing a tall girl with wavy blond hair.
At the top of the stairs is an oil painting of a woman with a serious face and dark hair pulled back in a bun. Next to her is a poster with a floor map of the school.
Phil studies the map. “The gym is that way,” he says, pointing left.
From kindergarten through grade six, Rory, Phil and I went to O’Donovan Academy, an all-boys school. The corridors there smelled of armpits and unwashed gym socks.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” It is Mr. Germinato, the principal. We met him at the open house last year.
“Good morning, sir,” the three of us say at the same time.
Germinato smiles without showing his teeth. He is standing outside his office. Because the door is half-open, I notice a wall full of baseball caps.
I have heard of people who collect rare stamps and coins. But a baseball cap collection? That’s a new one.
“That’s quite a collection of baseball caps you’ve got in there,” I say.
Germinato swallows his smile. “I don’t collect baseball caps,” he says. “I confiscate them.”
“I, uh, I see,” I tell him. “Well, have a nice day…sir.”
The three of us make a sharp left, and I nearly crash into the most gorgeous girl I have ever seen. She has pale skin and shiny black hair, and she smells like grapefruit, only sweeter. She is walking with another girl, a redhead with freckles over her nose and cheeks. Their arms are looped together.
I mean to say, Excuse me, but what comes out is, “Wow!”
The two girls sail past us, giggling. Rory and I whip our heads around for another look.
The two girls spin around. They must have known we were checking them out.
I feel my cheeks heat up.
“Eric? You’re Eric, aren’t you?” the gorgeous girl asks.
I look left, then right. She must be talking to some other Eric. One who is taller and smoother with girls than I am. And yet, there is something familiar about her voice. Something angelic.
Rory answers for me. “Yeah, his name’s Eric.” Then he puffs out his chest. Rory started weight lifting over the summer, and he is always looking for opportunities to show off his pecs. “I’m Rory, and this is Phil. What are your na—”
But the girls turn away before Rory can finish his sentence. They have joined up with another pair of girls, and they are all hugging and making squealing sounds.
“How do you know her?” Rory asks me.
“I, uh, I’m not sure.”
Rory sighs. “How could you forget a girl who looks like that?”
“There’s more to life than girls,” Phil tells him.
“Yeah, like what?” Rory asks.
I can’t think of anything else myself, but Phil can. “There’s education,” he says. “Friendship. Artistic endeavors.”
Rory rolls his eyes. “I’ve got one friend who can’t remember a gorgeous girl. And another one who uses words like artistic endeavors. I hate to break it to you losers, but I may need to widen my social circle.”
When Rory says the word circle, it comes to me.
When I was in third grade, my mom was concerned I wasn’t reading at the right level. So she signed me up for Reading Circle at the neighborhood library. At first I put up a fight, but then I got into it. Not only because of the books, which were cool, but because of the other kids in the circle. One was this girl named Daisy. She and her family had just moved to Montreal from China. Daisy loved to draw. And there was something angelic about her voice.
That gorgeous girl with the pale skin and shiny black hair?
It’s got to be Daisy.
Chapter Two
“Seventh-graders at the front!” a woman in track pants calls out as we file into the gym.
The three of us find spots on the floor. The eighth-graders are behind us. One of them, a guy with pale, wispy dandelion hair, taps my shoulder and passes me a Handi Wipe.
When I shrug, Dandelion-Hair whispers, “For fighting off germs. I figured since you guys are up front…”
“I get it,” I whisper back, trying not to laugh. “Germinato.”
Germinato walks into the gym, and everyone stops talking, even the teachers. The only sound in the room is the whir of the ceiling fans. Germinato tightens the knot on his tie and tests the microphone by tapping on it. Staticky noise fills the air.
“Good morning,” Germinato says, clearing his throat. “I’d like to begin by welcoming those of you who are new to Lajoie High School.” Is it my imagination, or does he eyeball the three of us? “And to those of you who were here last year, welcome back. I’m going to use this morning’s assembly to review the school rules.”
The rules are the usual blah-blah. No running except for in the gym. Report to the office if you are late for class. If you are late three times, you can expect a detention. Cell phones used during class will be confiscated. Swearing and rude remarks are strictly prohibited.
I scan the gym for Daisy. She must be sitting somewhere up front too.
Someone at the back of the gym coughs. Then someone else sneezes. “Gesundheit,” a voice says.
After two more rounds of coughing and sneezing, I realize it’s a joke. I lean closer to Phil. “Germinato,” I whisper. “Get it?”
If Germinato gets it, he does not let on. He talks right over the coughing and sneezing.
“As you know, there are no uniforms at Lajoie High School.” When Germinato mentions uniforms, I scratch my neck. It’s as if I can still feel the starched white collar of the shirt that was part of the uniform at O’Donovan.
“But we do have a dress code. And we adhere to it. Strictly.” Germinato smiles as he says the word strictly. “This morning I noticed that many of you were dressed in ways that violate the Lajoie High School dress code. Since this is the first week of school, the dress code will not be enforced. However, it will take effect as of next Monday.”
Germinato rattles off the regulations. “No baseball caps. No tops with spaghetti straps. No visible bra straps. No visible midriffs. No shorts or skirts shorter than the reach of your fingertips.” Germinato steps away from the microphone to demonstrate. He extends his arms, tapping the spot on his thighs where his fingertips end. “Basically, nothing that could distract”—he emphasizes the word—“your fellow students at Lajoie High School. Because the focus at Lajoie is neither fashion nor fun. It is”—he pauses—“education.”
A hand flies up into the air at the other side of the gym. “Can I ask a question, sir?” It’s the redhead who was walking with Daisy. Daisy is sitting next to her. I think she’s got a sketchpad on her lap.
Germinato shakes his head. “Not right now. I’ll leave time for questions at the end of my presentation. What I want to discuss next is our Student Life Committee. We need one representative from every grade. If you are interested in serving on this committee, you will have to fill out a form and write an essay outlining your platform. My assistant, Miss Aubin, can provide more details.”
A tall thin woman standing at the side of the gym waves one hand in the air. That must be Miss Aubin.
“Elections for the Student Life Committee will be held at the end of next week,” Germinato says. “You may now proceed to your homerooms.”
“What about the question period?” the redhead calls out.
Germinato checks his watch. “Unfortunately, we’re nearly out of time. But I will take one question.”
The redhead’s arm is raised, but Germinato looks around the gym to see if anyone else has a question.
Nobody does, so he turns back to Daisy’s friend. “All right, Rowena,” he says in a tired voice. “What’s your question?”
Rowena stands up. “Sir,” she says, “the dress-code regulations you mentioned are directed mostly at girls. Except for the baseball caps, which are unisex.”
“Do you have a question, Rowena?” he asks, drumming his fingers on the podium.
“I do have a question,” Rowena says. “Are there any dress-code rules specifically for the male students at Lajoie?”
Germinato tightens his tie again. If he keeps that up, the guy is going to choke. He clears his throat. I think he is buying time while he tries to come up with an answer.
“Well, are there?” Rowena asks.
Germinato sighs into the microphone. “No,” he says. “There are not.” He checks his watch. “I’m afraid we’re out of time. Your homeroom assignments are posted outside the gym.”
As we pile out of the gym, Dandelion-Hair is walking in front of us. He nudges the guy next to him, and I hear him ask, “So who do you think is the hottest girl at Lajoie?”
The guy turns to the left, then to the right, scanning the gym. “It’s hard to decide,” he says. “This place is full of hot girls.”
“I know how you feel.” I blurt the words out without meaning to.
Dandelion-Hair turns to face me. “Let me guess,” he says. “You’re a new arrival from an all-boys school.”
I nod. “Yup. O’Donovan.”
“Well, then,” he says, “you’ve just died and gone to heaven.”
Chapter Three
I am waiting for Rory and Phil outside the Villa Maria metro station when I get a whiff of grapefruit. Daisy is walking up to me. She is wearing an orange top and pink shorts. I cannot help noticing that one of her bra straps is showing.
“Hey, Eric,” she says.
“Daisy.” My voice squeaks when I say her name. She can probably tell that I have no experience talking to girls. “It’s been years. How ya doing? D’you still like to draw?”
“I’m okay. And yeah, I still draw—fashion sketches mostly. But hey, I’m kind of in a hurry. I need to use the washroom.” She pats her backpack. I blush because I think she is telling me she is having a female issue. Why else would she need to use the bathroom at a metro station? Everyone knows they are the grossest bathrooms in the city.
“Well, good luck.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how dorky I sound.
But Daisy does not seem to notice. “If you’re still here when I’m done, we could walk to school together.”
“That would be amaz—I mean, sure.”
Rory and Phil show up. I am about to explain that I want to wait for Daisy when she taps my elbow. It takes me a few seconds to figure out why she looks different, but then I realize she has put on makeup. Her lips are bright red, and her eyes are rimmed in black pencil.
So that’s what she was doing in the bathroom.
I notice Daisy noticing me noticing her. “My parents,” she says. She shrugs, and I spot the second bra strap. “They think I’m too young for makeup. They’re almost as bad as the Germinator.”
Rory slaps his thigh. “Germinator,” he says. “That’s a good one.”
As we walk down Monkland Avenue, Rory inserts himself next to Daisy. This bugs me. Daisy is my friend. If it were not for me, Rory would never be talking to her.
“Hey, Daisy!” Rowena is heading toward us. “Cool outfit! I never would’ve thought of putting pink and orange together, but it works.”
“You know me and bright colors,” Daisy tells Rowena. “I can’t resist them.” Then she introd
uces me to Rowena, and I introduce Rory and Phil.
“What you said yesterday at the assembly was cool,” Phil tells Rowena. “I never thought about it before, but dress codes are kind of sexist.”
You would think Rowena would like that comment, but she rolls her eyes. “Kind of sexist?” she says. “Dress codes are not kind of sexist. They’re totally sexist. Is anyone telling you not to show your cleavage?”
Phil takes a step away from Rowena, as if she is a snake spitting venom. “This may be a technicality,” he says, “but guys don’t have cleavage.”
Rory wants in on the conversation. “Unless you mean butt cleavage.” He laughs at his own joke. “What I don’t understand,” he says to Rowena, “is that you’re dressed kind of”—he pauses to find the right word—“plain.”
Rory has a point. Rowena may be against the dress code, but Germinato would not have a problem with her clothes. She is wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting jeans.
Rowena rolls her eyes at him too. “You’re missing the point. It shouldn’t matter how a girl dresses. It’s her choice. It’s a guy’s problem if he gets distracted by a girl’s midriff or her cleavage.”
When she says that, I can’t help sneaking a peek at Daisy’s midriff. “It is kind of distracting…” I didn’t mean to say the words out loud, but it’s too late to take them back.
Rowena shakes her head, but Daisy bursts into laughter, which makes me laugh too. “Relax,” Daisy tells Rowena. “Eric and I have known each other forever. It’s not like he sees me as some kind of object.”
“She’s right.” I hope I sound convincing. And because I feel Rowena watching me, I add, “Girls are not objects.”
“If you really mean that,” Rowena says, “you know what you should do?”
“What?”
I can tell from the creases in Rowena’s forehead that she is hatching a plan.
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