by Renée Watson
Chelsea yells, “This is a nonviolent protest. We are just doing what this school has taught us to do. And we didn’t mean for the custodians to have to clean them up. We’re sorry about that. They were supposed to stay on the seats so people could read them and make up their own resolutions too. It was supposed to keep the dialogue going,” she says, looking at me for backup.
I say, “Ms. Lucas, when are we supposed to use the education we have? When we graduate, when we’re old? What is the point of learning if everything we learn is theory only? All through our schooling we learn about how Martin Luther King Jr. was only fifteen when he graduated high school, eighteen when he preached his first sermon. Ruby Bridges was only six years old when she stood up against segregation. These are the stories you all teach us over and over—that young people can make a difference. But now that we are trying to do something, to stand up for what we believe, you all want to shut us up, shut us down.”
“Jasmine, Chelsea.” Ms. Lucas’s voice cracks a bit. “I really hoped you’d be able to see both sides of this. I am not against you. And frankly, I don’t think Principal Hayes is. Yes, he could handle things differently, but he’s not against you.”
I walk to the door. “Come on, Chelsea.”
“One more thing,” Ms. Lucas starts, holding up a sheet of paper she must have taken notes on, “we’ve put you both in the Justice by the Numbers club . . . uh, it meets in room 203.”
“What? We have to switch clubs . . . again?” Chelsea asks.
“Every student is required to be in a club. You all know that. And rather than picking your own clubs, Principal Hayes and I agreed that we should assign you a club that we think you would both like,” she finishes, her voice dropping a bit.
“But this is the club we want,” I say.
“I’m so sorry it ended like this,” Ms. Lucas says, and it’s clear that’s the last thing she is going to say. Our club is over.
Chelsea looks at me with hesitation but picks up her bag and walks out.
“Ms. Lucas, thank you for all your help. I know you’re just doing your job,” I say.
We walk out of the classroom, heading to our lockers. I grab Chelsea’s arm, walk her in the other direction. “Where are we going?”
“The only place where our voices aren’t silenced.”
When we get to Word Up, Leidy looks at us with curious eyes. “No school today?” she asks, looking at the clock.
“We left early,” I say.
“Humph.” Leidy steps from behind the cash register. “You two might be the only girls I know who skip school to come to a bookstore.” She laughs and gives us each a hug. “Why the long faces?”
Chelsea tells Leidy what’s been going on at school. After Leidy is all caught up, I say, “So that’s why we’re here. We need a new headquarters for Write Like a Girl.”
Chelsea looks at me like she is just now catching on. “Yes, and we want to open it up to the community, to the other students who come to the open mic. Get them involved too.”
Leidy walks over to a bookshelf and pulls a book out. “I’ve been waiting to give this to you two.” She hands me a workbook titled Teens Taking Action Big and Small.
Chelsea and I walk to the back of the store, where there are worn armchairs and a small coffee table. We sit and look through the book. “This. Is. Amazing,” Chelsea says.
“It is indeed,” Leidy says. “This workbook has a hundred and one things young people can do to raise awareness about social issues they care about. Some of them you’ve already done.” Then Leidy says, “Some of them could have been more thoughtful, though—”
Before she says more, I admit that we shouldn’t have dumped all those statements in the gym. “We should apologize to the custodians,” I tell Chelsea.
Leidy says, “That sounds like a good plan. You’re learning how to do this. Your intentions are good, but there’s a lot for you two to learn.”
“So does this mean you’ll be our headquarters?” I ask.
“Well, I’m surprised you even thought you needed to ask,” Leidy says. She grabs a folding chair; it creaks as she opens it. As she sits down she says, “But let me just say this one thing.” And Chelsea and I look at each other, because we know Leidy never just says one thing. “You two need to understand that there’s nothing glamorous about this. If you’re doing it to get popular or to get a guy to like you, or to get back at your principal, you’re in it for the wrong reason. This has to be about bringing women’s voices to the forefront. This has to be about speaking up and not allowing your voices to be silenced.” Leidy is talking to us like she is making a speech.
I don’t mean to interrupt, but I have to ask, “Why can’t this be about proving a point to Principal Hayes?”
Chelsea agrees. “That’s like the main reason we want to do this.”
“It has to be bigger than your anger or disappointment at one or two people. This isn’t only personal. This is about every girl, everywhere. And if you make it only about your school, your club, you keep it small.”
The door dings, announcing a customer. Leidy walks to the front of the store, leaving Chelsea and me looking through the book. Just before she greets the customer, she says, “If you just make it about you and not us, what are you really fighting for?”
Too bad Leidy doesn’t work at Amsterdam Heights.
Chelsea and I decide not to go back to school. We’ve already missed most of the day. “So where should we go now?” Chelsea asks.
I shrug.
“We clearly don’t know how to skip class.” Chelsea laughs.
My phone buzzes. It’s Isaac:
Where are you?
“Ooh, he’s checking up on his girl,” Chelsea teases. When I don’t respond, Chelsea keeps it going. “Okay, so back to Valentine’s Day. It’s a few weeks away, so we’ve got to make plans. What do you think Isaac is going to get you? You’re not a roses and chocolates girl, I hope he knows that.” Chelsea barely takes a breath. “James would definitely get me roses and chocolates. He’s totally that guy who’d show up with balloons that are puke pink and fire red. Two colors I hate, by the way. If he asks you, tell him I’d much rather—”
“They’re going to meet us at Harlem Shake in thirty minutes,” I say.
“Huh? Wait, what?”
“I’ve been texting Isaac, and I asked him if he wanted to get something to eat. I told him to bring James.”
Chelsea grabs my phone and looks through the messages. “Are you serious right now? A double date?”
“Harlem Shake, Chels. Don’t push it. It’s just—”
“It’s totally a double date,” Chelsea says. “I mean, we got them to take us out on a double date and it’s not even Valentine’s Day.”
“Chelsea.”
“We gotta get there first so we can choose the best seats and already be sitting at the table when they come.”
“You’re joking, right?”
Chelsea doesn’t answer my question. “I need to change. James can’t see me in this.”
“He just saw you at school.”
“Yeah, but that was school. This is a date.”
I just keep walking, heading toward the train.
“I know, I know. I shouldn’t be worried about if what I have on is something a guy would like. What matters is if I like it. I know, I know. But it’s James Bradford. This is, this is—”
“It’s Harlem Shake,” I remind her. “Look, if we make this a big deal, they will be freaked out. We just have to act like we’re eating in the cafeteria. Like it’s nothing that they are coming all the way to Harlem to see us.” When I say this, my stomach flips and I realize how nervous I am even though I’ve had meals with Isaac before. Even though we’ve been to Harlem Shake countless times. Maybe it’s because Chelsea and James will be with us. Maybe it’s because I do want to spend time with Isaac and not just as friends. I don’t let myself think about it because we’ve been friends for so long maybe that’s all we’re suppos
ed to be. Maybe things would change too much if we tried a relationship.
When Chelsea and I get off the train, Harlem welcomes us like only Harlem can. As soon as we walk up the steps we hear drumming, and two men are standing at the top of the entrance handing out flyers. We keep walking, but the tourists next to us take them. We walk from the C Train on 125th and St. Nicholas to Lenox Avenue. On the way, we pass Lane Bryant, and I see that they are having a sale. “Let’s come back after we eat,” I say to Chelsea.
At the corner of 125th and Lenox, a group of men are standing near the entrance of the Whole Foods passing out pamphlets and preaching about Jesus being the white man’s savior. We turn right and walk one block to Harlem Shake. As soon as we go in Chelsea says, “I am ordering a burger, fries, and shake. No girly eating, whatever that means. I know they have vegan burgers and turkey burgers and ‘I’m on a diet’ burgers, but I want beef today. I’m hungry.”
I laugh.
“What?”
“I love you, Chels.”
We sit down and wait for James and Isaac. Harlem Shake looks like a vintage seventies diner. The walls are covered with photos of celebrities who also love burgers and shakes. The Wall of Fro is my favorite. It showcases local customers and the different sizes and shapes of their Afros. I also like the bathroom walls. They are wallpapered with JET Magazine covers. Yearly the customers vote on a new Mr. or Miss Harlem Shake from the community. Every few seconds, Isaac texts me his status. Just got off the train and Walking over now and Just passed Whole Foods. When they come in, the four of us hug each other. When Isaac lets me out of his embrace, he says, “I was worried about you.”
“Worried?”
“Well, yeah. I thought maybe you left school because you were, I don’t know, upset or something. A lot has happened recently, and I just . . . never mind—”
I take Isaac’s hand. “Thank you.”
He holds my hand tight, and I don’t let go. Just let it stay in his palm, let my hand warm his because he has just come in from January’s bitter cold. We walk over to the line, still holding hands. Chelsea looks over at me, her eyes bulging out, mouth bursting with a smile. The four of us order.
We get burgers, fries, and shakes.
After we finish eating, we stay a while and keep talking. We’ve seen customers go in and out and in and out, ordering, eating their food, and leaving, and still we are here. Chelsea is in the middle of telling us what movie she wants to see this weekend when James’s phone buzzes. He looks at it and quickly puts it away. “We should go,” James says. “I haven’t seen it yet.”
Chelsea kicks me under the table.
James’s phone buzzes again. This time he keys a text and sends it.
Part of me wants to say to James, Great—it’s a date. Let’s all go. But the other part of me wants to say, Who are you texting? Is it Meg? I couldn’t do that to Chelsea, though, so I just sit and watch them flirt with each other and make plans to see a movie this weekend.
James gets up from the table, announcing that he needs to go. We all agree that we’ve stayed way longer than any of us planned. We dump the remnants of lunch into the trash and walk outside. It is colder now that the sun has set. It is only five o’clock, but it is dark. And all of a sudden I miss my dad, because winter was his favorite season and he would love a night like this. No rain or snow, just pure cold and dark sky.
“See you tomorrow,” Chelsea says as she hugs me. She whispers in my ear, “Should I ask him to walk with me? Clear your throat for yes, don’t do anything if no.”
I let go of her and clear my throat. So she doesn’t have to ask, I say, “James, which way are you going?”
“Back to the C,” he says.
“Oh, so is Chels.”
Chelsea smiles. “I guess we can walk together,” she says.
The two of them leave, and Isaac says, “Walk, train, or bus?”
“Let’s walk,” I say. Because Dad would have walked.
We are silent for the first block, pressing through the crowds on 125th, but once we get to 127th and it’s quieter, Isaac says, “I didn’t mean to assume that you were still grieving. I just know it took me a while to get used to my mom not being here. When I didn’t see you or Chelsea, I figured you were having a hard day.”
“I appreciated you asking,” I say. “You’re right. It comes and goes, the sadness,” I tell him.
I am about to cross the street just when a car speeds through the red light. Isaac throws his arm out to keep me back on the curb. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine.”
Isaac takes my hand. I hold on to him and think about how I never want to let him go.
It’s the night before Valentine’s Day, and I’m spending it at Word Up with Chelsea for our weekly Write Like a Girl meet up. We have about eight girls who come consistently, but on some nights we have more. Leidy has decorated the store with quotes about love. Some hang from the ceiling, and there are a few taped in the window. She has set up a long folding table for us to sit around. There’s something about having us all face-to-face, in one room and not just talking on social media that makes Write Like a Girl feel even more important. So many of us have stories to tell about sexual harassment and getting catcalled on the way to school. Girls have talked about teachers making sexist comments in math and science, and how some of our parents just don’t seem to understand where we’re coming from.
The best thing about our in-person meet ups is that it’s inspired girls to start clubs at their own schools. Three girls from the Incarnation School and two from George Washington have started Friday Lunch-Ins at their schools, and they have conversations over lunch about all the issues that have been on our minds.
Chelsea and I rush to get everything set up before everyone gets here. She sets down a tub of markers while I spread out scrapbooking paper, picking out colors that I think will work well for our activity.
Leidy sees all the art supplies and says, “Wow, you all have really turned this bookstore into an art studio. What do you have planned for tonight?”
I tell Leidy our plan. “We’re making Alternative Valentine’s Day Lists.”
“What does that mean?”
“Like this.” I hand her my example.
Leidy reads it out loud, “Not Your Typical Love Poems: An Alternative Valentine’s Day Reading List.” She hands the cardstock back to me. “You two are full of good ideas.”
“Isaac and Nadine helped too,” I say. I explain the process for the making of the lists, telling her, “We’re going to ask the group to come up with reading lists, music playlists, and movies.”
Chelsea says, “We’ll make them tonight and give them out tomorrow instead of handing out Valentine’s Day cards. Not that there’s anything wrong with celebrating Valentine’s Day.” She looks at me when she says this, because she’s obsessed with Isaac and me and has a bet with Nadine to see if Isaac is going to make some kind of big gesture on Valentine’s Day. Chelsea thinks he’s going to go all out and profess his love for me. Nadine thinks he’ll be more subtle but will definitely make it clear that he wants to date me.
Leidy walks to her supply closet and comes back holding a bowl of chocolates. “It’s not too cliché to offer these tonight, is it?” She sets the bowl down.
Chelsea says, “Leidy, chocolate is never, ever cliché.” She takes a piece of candy out of the bowl and unwraps it.
Once everyone arrives we get to making our Alternative Valentine’s Day Lists. Nadine hooks her phone up to Leidy’s speakers, and for the next two hours we create, decorating each one in our styles so they are one of a kind, like Valentines. Every now and then we have to look at a book to get a title just right or look up who actually sings a particular song. Leidy lets us photocopy our lists so each school represented here has plenty to give out tomorrow.
At the end of our time together, Chelsea says, “Don’t forget to take pictures if you hang these up.”
“And ask people to
hold them up and take a picture of them,” I say.
Chelsea finishes, “Don’t forget to use our hashtag, #WriteLikeAGirl.”
Chelsea walks me to the train station, which means she wants to talk about something. We’re just blocks from her house, so walking with me takes her way out of her way to get home. “You okay?” I ask.
“Uh, yeah. Why?”
I don’t answer her, just give her time to tell me what she needs to tell me.
“I kind of feel like a hypocrite,” Chelsea says.
We walk against the wind. It pushes us forward, rumbles in my ears.
“Here I am leading a whole group of girls in an alternative V-Day activity when really, I keep wanting to check my phone to see if James has sent a text. I don’t even want a gift from him or anything. I really don’t. But, I mean, well, I kind of want him to . . . I want him to say something to me.” The wind blows stronger, and Chelsea pulls her hood tighter. “This sucks. I suck.”
“You do not! You just, you like him.”
“Yeah, but I shouldn’t, right?”
“I don’t think it’s about if you should or shouldn’t like him. The only thing I think is that you should love yourself more than you like him,” I tell her. “Love yourself enough to walk away from him if he doesn’t treat you with respect. And him flirting with you while having a girlfriend is—”
“Disrespectful. To her and to me.”
“He just needs to make up his mind,” I say.
“And I need to make up mine.”
We get to the entrance of the subway and stand to the side so we’re not in the way. Chelsea says, “I’ve got some serious thinking to do.”
I hug her, head underground. Just as I reach the last step, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Isaac: want to hang out after school tomorrow?
Me: sure
I think about Chelsea and Nadine, wonder which one of them is right.
Not Your Typical Love Poems: An Alternative Valentine’s Day Reading List
by Jasmine Gray
1.“Poetry Should Ride the Bus” by Ruth Forman. A poem about loving the simple things, about finding beauty in ordinary places. In this poem poetry plays “hopscotch in a polka dot dress” and sings “red revolution love songs.” Here’s to loving everyday people doing ordinary things.
