Margie Kelly Breaks the Dress Code

by Bridget Farr

  “Get out of my way!” Daniela yells to some really tall boys who are playing keep-away with a bag of potato chips. “What happened, Margie? Where did you go? I saw you with Ms. Scott and…”

  Daniela looks down at the gym shorts, her thick, black eyebrows raised. She touches my shoulder. “Did you get your… you know? I might have a jacket you could wrap around your waist.”

  “No,” I say shrugging off her hand, even though it did feel nice. Daniela and I have been best friends ever since we ended up in the same second-grade class at Greenlawn Elementary and the same First Communion group at Saint Mark’s. She’s the only person who can calm me down, because unlike me, she never panics. When we’re getting crushed at summer league softball, she can still throw the perfect pitch. She got left in the museum bathroom on our fourth-grade field trip, and she didn’t cry or start running after the bus. She just went to the front desk and had them call the school. She even knew the number. She stresses about her grades, and she’s obsessed with Quiz Bowl, but for all other situations, she’s like the perfect firefighter or paramedic.

  Daniela leans in to whisper, “Did you have an accident?”

  “No! Gross! I’m not a little kid!” We’re blocking the hallway, so I pull her toward the lockers.

  “Then what happened?”

  “My skirt was out of dress code. Didn’t you see Ms. Scott measuring me?”

  “Yeah, but she made you change? On the first day? That’s so harsh. Can your dad bring you some other clothes?”

  “He’s in Chicago again! He doesn’t get back until tonight.”

  “Oh,” she says, grabbing my hand. Daniela knows how much I hate having my dad gone all the time. “I’m so sorry. Your skirt wasn’t even that short.”

  “Short enough to get me dress coded on my first day of school.” Tonight I’ll have to research any other violations in the student handbook Dad supposedly has. It’s probably somewhere in the desk drawer where he crams all the bank notices and school flyers. Who knows what other social-life bombs are waiting for me?

  “You better go to class,” I tell her. “You’ll be late.”

  “I’ll walk you to yours; I don’t want you to be alone.”

  Daniela wouldn’t care if she was wearing dorky shorts on her first day. People always assume things about her anyway—that she’s not as smart because she speaks Spanish, that she loves soccer because she’s Mexican—so she doesn’t care about anyone’s opinions. Except for her parents. I wish I were that brave.

  “I have a pass. Just go.”

  “Are you sure? I can come with you.”

  I shake my head, letting go of her hand. “I’ll be okay.”

  I start walking toward the staircase that I think—hope—takes me to my math class.

  “Don’t forget to meet me outside the eighth-grade building after school,” Daniela calls. “Quiz Bowl tryouts.”

  I freeze. This can’t be happening. “It’s not today. Not till Wednesday.”

  Daniela shakes her head. “They read an announcement in first period. It got moved to today. The teacher, Mr. Shao, has an appointment or something.”

  Daniela and I have been waiting for Quiz Bowl tryouts since the beginning of fifth grade. Our social studies and math teacher, Ms. Mackenzie, is a trivia champion, and we always did our own competition at the end of every unit. Daniela and I aced all the in-class competitions. Ms. Mackenzie called us the Queens of Quiz. Wednesday we were going to show up and shock everyone that sixth graders could be the best. Even though Daniela spent the summer with her abuela in Ojinaga, Mexico, we still texted or called almost every day so we could work through all the middle school question packets and even one of the high school sets. I had the perfect outfit (blue jean shorts, polka-dot top) picked out for Wednesday’s tryout.

  This can’t be happening. I can’t be the Quiz Bowl Queen when I’m dressed like a joker.

  “Don’t worry. It’s going to be great,” Daniela yells as the bell begins to ring. “Maybe you can change back into your real clothes before tryouts. See you at lunch!”

  My gym shorts and I slink down the hallway, hoping a seat will be left in the back of every class.

  Chapter 3

  Quiz Bowl captains Marcus and Mikey hover over their friend Sean, who is setting out the buzzer system in Mr. Shao’s freezing classroom. In front of them are two rectangular tables in face-off position. Together Marcus and Mikey stand like twin guardians of the Greek gods on Mount Olympus, ready to decide who’s worthy and who’s not. Black identical twins, the brothers share the same athletic arms bursting from their green Live Oak Middle School polos, and the same haircuts—short on the sides with tight curls on top. Both have perfect smiles and the kind of eyes you could get lost in. Yes, they’re that cute. Only Mikey’s glasses set them apart. I’ve been in middle school all of eight hours, and already I know they’re the popular boys. Nerds and athletes. Marcus has a girlfriend. Mikey has tons of people gushing over him at lunch. Everyone at school knows them and loves them and wants to be them. And they are the captains, the Kings of Quiz Bowl.

  But Daniela and I are here, too. Hopefully, there’s room for two sets of royalty.

  We’re the only sixth-grade girls in the room. Two of only three girls, when you count eighth grader Jamiya, but she doesn’t talk to us. Probably because she’s already on the team. Or because we’re sixth graders. Maybe because I look like a dork since I wasn’t allowed to change. Jamiya’s wearing black high-rise jeans (in dress code), a T-shirt with pink hands making a peace sign (also dress code), and her natural hair pulled into a puff at the top of her head. Her fingers fly as she taps on her phone and occasionally makes fun of the boys. She’s the team’s social media manager, and I’ve read all her perfect Instagram posts from last season. She’s funny and smart and a great photographer, somehow making buzzer systems and question packets look cool. She clearly doesn’t mind that she’s one of the few girls here.

  Daniela and I wait along the wall, leaning against posters of American history that were probably printed before I was born and faded school projects that have been hanging for years. Four boys from sixth grade and two from seventh are also here to try out.

  “I wasn’t expecting it to be all boys, but at least it’s not all white kids,” Daniela whispers.

  I scan the room, noticing that the group is more diverse than I saw on last year’s Instagram posts. Maybe the new coach, Mr. Shao, had something to do with it. We watch Sean rush around, running a hand through his unruly red curls as he untangles the buzzer system. Any moment we’ll be moving on to round two of the tryouts, and I’m sure everyone is doing exactly what I am: trying to churn up some confidence by reviewing all the facts I learned this summer.

  For round one, we took a twenty-five-question multiple-choice test. The seventh and eighth graders already on the team joked around, sitting on top of the desks and rocking them back and forth as they talked about some app I’ve never heard of. They should have been quiet while we were testing, but it didn’t matter. I only missed three questions. I think.

  “You better get movin’ since you’ve only got twenty minutes left,” Mr. Shao calls from across the room. His desk is a mess: papers piled as high as his computer screen and an old banana peel on top of one stack. You’d think that as the Quiz Bowl adviser, he would be one of those adults who wished they were back in middle school, so they could still be on the debate team or standing on the stage at nationals answering the final question, but Mr. Shao doesn’t seem to care about Quiz Bowl. He introduced himself when we got here, but then went straight to his desk where he’s been ever since. He seems more like a babysitter than a coach.

  Finally, Sean untangles the last cord and nods to the Kings. Marcus looks down at the stack of tests on Mr. Shao’s podium.

  “We’re doing five to a team instead of the normal four so we can get through everyone. Make a name tag when you sit down, and be sure we can read it. Mikey, you lead this team…” He pauses to assess t
he group. “Boy in the meme shirt, seventh graders, and girl with the braid. Take a seat at Table One.”

  I tap Daniela’s hand, and she squeezes mine back. “Queens of Quiz,” she whispers, and I smile, knowing we got this. Hoping we do. She waves as she picks up her backpack and sits at Table One.

  “Jamiya, you’ll be the moderator. I’ll take notes. Elman, you lead the other team. Dress Code Girl”—my cheeks flame as the older kids snicker; thankfully the sixth graders are too worried about their performance to comment—“the rest of you, Table Two. Obviously.”

  We all move to the table, but no one takes a seat. Who sits where? Of course, Elman takes the middle seat as temporary captain, but the three other sixth-grade boys and I just hover, not knowing where to sit.

  “You,” Marcus says, pointing to a boy in a black hoodie I recognize from visual media. “Next to Elman. You in the Cowboys jersey, next to him. You two can sit at the other end.”

  I look over at the tiny blond boy beside me, his enormous backpack folding him over like a turtle. He pauses, and I rush to take the seat next to the captain. I also grab the blue marker for my name tag before someone else can snatch it.

  Once we’re all seated, Marcus explains the rules for today’s tryouts: Jamiya will read as many questions as she can before 5:15 PM, when after-school clubs end. Like normal Quiz Bowl, there will be toss-up questions that we answer by ourselves, and if we get those correct, bonus questions where we confer as a team. Normally, if we answer a toss-up question before the power mark, we get fifteen points. Then, ten points after that and ten points for all bonus questions. But no one is keeping score today; it doesn’t matter who wins. Instead, Marcus will be taking notes on the questions we individually answer right. And the ones we answer wrong. “Don’t be wrong,” he says with a grin. I take a deep breath, wishing my confidence wasn’t rolled up in my backpack with my perfect first-day skirt.

  Marcus steps between the two tables, grabs a clipboard from the podium, and takes a dramatically long time to stare us down. Then he breaks into an enormous smile: “Let’s quiz.”

  Jamiya’s practiced voice reads out the first question: “This emperor became infamous—”

  Mikey slams on his buzzer, the center light glowing red. “Nero.”

  “Are you sure?” Marcus asks. “You think there’s only one infamous emperor in history?” He’s the only one allowed to question Mikey. Only a king can challenge a king.

  “I wouldn’t have said ‘Nero’ if I wasn’t sure.”

  Marcus turns to Jamiya for confirmation. “Correct. Nero. Fifteen points,” she says.

  Marcus frowns and Mikey slaps his hand on the table, hooting with laughter. “These questions are from last year’s national championship. I memorized them all.”

  The seventh and eighth graders already on the team start murmuring, and Mikey stops them with a hand. “Don’t worry. I won’t answer any more.”

  Jamiya playfully hits his shoulder before reading more questions. José on Daniela’s team incorrectly answers a toss-up about U-boats, but no one on our team knows it either and the question goes dead. Then, we have to work out a computation on the back of old history worksheets. I hit my buzzer but get beaten by Daniela. I’m okay with that. Mostly. With every question, Mikey taps his hand on the table within seconds of Jamiya’s first words, a signal to us all that he knows more than we ever could. Thankfully, I answer a toss-up about Dobby from Harry Potter, but Xavier beside me gets the next one about the constellation Orion.

  “You’ve got five minutes, and those buzzers better be put away,” Mr. Shao calls from his desk, a napkin tucked into his shirt as he eats a burrito I didn’t hear him microwave.

  I need more time! I only answered one right!

  “Go ahead and do their bonus questions,” Marcus instructs Jamiya. “And then we’ll stop.”

  “This is a bonus question for Team Two,” Jamiya says, and we all lean forward, even though our captain will have to make our final answer. “To describe the pilgrims in his narrative collection of poems, this author employs physiognomy to…” She slows over the pronunciation, which gives me just enough time to realize I 100 percent know this answer. I don’t bother to listen to the rest; I can see Dad with his copy of The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, the one he got in college when he was still an English major. He has a really old copy he got from one of his professors, and when I was little, I thought it was a hundred years old because of its faded green fabric and pressed letters, but really it was just from the seventies.

  “I know this!” I whisper, and Elman puts up a hand to shush me so he can finish listening. We only have five seconds after the question is read to answer.

  “Is it Shakespeare?” Xavier whispers.

  Elman shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s Geoffrey Chaucer!” I say, almost yelling because I’m so excited. “I one hundred percent know this. My dad has—”

  “William Wordsworth!” Elman says, smiling at his wrong answer. Then he pauses. “Maybe it was Shakespeare.”

  “No, it’s not!” I argue, and all the boys look at me. Marcus leans in, too.

  “Are you sure?” asks Eliot, his face shadowed by his hoodie, and I sigh. “Yes.”

  “Team, we need an answer,” Jamiya says, and Elman looks at me. I give him a thumbs-up because yes, I for sure, cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die know this.

  “William Shakespeare,” Elman says, and I can’t stop the “No!” from escaping.

  “Incorrect,” Jamiya says, and the boys at Table One start howling, making jokes about Elman as he tries to recover.

  “Okay, folks, it’s almost five o’clock. Start packing up!” Mr. Shao shouts from his desk, leaning over to flick the lights on and off.

  “Decent work,” Marcus says, still clutching his clipboard. “We’ll post the new team roster tomorrow.”

  As we pack up, I wait for Elman to apologize and say I was right, but the older kids leave the room laughing and joking and don’t even bother to show us sixth graders out.

  Daniela comes over to my table and tugs one of my curls. “You knew that one!”

  “I know.”

  “This has not been your day,” she says, pulling out a bag of Skittles and offering me a few.

  Tomorrow has to be better. Maybe I can just pretend my second day of middle school is my first and forget this day ever happened.

  Chapter 4

  “Next,” Dad calls out from the living room where he and Grandma Colleen are waiting like judges on a TV talent show.

  “Hold on!” I yell from my bedroom as I struggle with the button on an old denim skirt. It doesn’t really fit anymore, but as soon as Dad got in from Chicago, he dug out the student handbook and said I needed to try on all my skirts and shorts. I knew I grew over the summer, but who would have thought three-quarters of an inch could do so much damage to my wardrobe?

  I wasn’t going to tell Dad anything—not about the skirt, not about Quiz Bowl tryouts—but Nurse Angela left him a voice mail this morning. He thinks the whole dress code thing is ridiculous—draconian middle school rules—but that’s only because I didn’t tell him about Ms. Scott measuring me in front of the class. Or the humiliating shorts. It’s all too embarrassing to talk about, even with Dad.

  After the Quiz Bowl tryout, I changed back into my skirt in the eighth-grade bathroom and shoved the stinky, parachute gym shorts into the bottom of my backpack. I’m supposed to wash and return them, but Grandma Colleen does all the laundry, and I don’t want her asking questions. She used to work at a hotel in Houston, so she inspects all our clothes like a detective looking for evidence. Apparently when Dad was young, she would bring home clothes from the lost and found for him and his brother, Jeremy. She’d wash them in superhot water and then present them as new, but Dad was afraid every time he wore them, just waiting for some kid to point and say, “Hey! That’s my jacket!” I could wash the shorts myself, but Grandma’s room is right next to the washer
and dryer. I’ll probably just throw them away, since there’s no way the school cares about those dingy, old gym shorts.

  So Dad knows the skirt was too short, but he thinks I just got a reminder and then spent the day skipping through middle school like the perfect first-day kid in her perfect first-day skirt. When he texted me at lunch to see how things were going, I sent a smiley face emoji. Since I’m an only child, he talks to me as a real human being and not “just a kid”: he doesn’t pry into my business unless I’m being suspicious. Or crying. He always asks a bajillion questions when I’m crying.

  Dad wonders why the school spends time on such trivial things as measuring clothes when American students are thirtieth in the world in math and refugees are still risking their lives in inflatable boats. He believes in girl power and even took me to the Women’s March last year, but that didn’t stop him from beginning his own measuring mission to confirm my clothes were no more than four inches above the knee. Dad is willing to follow rules even if he doesn’t like them.

  “Margie, hurry up, we still need to eat dinner, and it’s getting late!”

  I sigh, leaving the button only halfway through the buttonhole, and trudge to the living room. Dad and Grandma Colleen sit on the edge of the couch, our old burgundy and navy pillows slouched behind them. Grandma is sipping tea from one of the fancy teacups she brought with her when she moved in last year after her cataract surgery.

  I didn’t think she’d stay forever. Grandma certainly didn’t. She’s always been independent, ever since she flew over from Skibbereen, County Cork, Ireland, when she was nineteen to live with cousins in New Jersey. She raised Dad and Uncle Jeremy by herself in Houston after Grandpa Teddy died of a heart attack when Dad was in middle school. Since I’ve known her, she’s loved living by herself with her little potted plants in old coffee cans that covered every counter in her house and her stacks of celebrity magazines that she scoured while sitting on the porch. She loved her scrappy little dog, Milton. She had to give him to her neighbor since Dad is allergic.