Margie Kelly Breaks the Dress Code

by Bridget Farr

  A pile of clothes teeters on the small stool and a few pairs of pants hang by the door. We’re supposed to be shopping for clothes to replace the ones that are too short for school, but Dad told me I could get some other things if they “felt right.” He said he had too much work to come with us (of course he did), so he gave me his credit card, which is tucked safely in the kitten wallet he got me for my birthday, right next to my school ID and a twenty-dollar bill I don’t remember getting.

  Boom, boom. Grandma’s back. I spot her navy pumps under the door.

  “Get goin’, Margaret. We can’t be here all day.”

  “Just a minute.”

  She rattles the handle. “I found some nice tops for you. Good for school. Good for church. And on clearance.”

  “Okay, I’ll be out in a second. Go sit in the waiting area, please.”

  She huffs before heading back down the hall, and I scramble into a high-low skirt with blue polka dots and a floral print. It even comes with a built-in belt. Looking at myself in the mirror, I realize I’d probably love it if I was fully choosing it and not being forced to wear it because of the stupid dress code. I leave my white T-shirt on and head to where Grandma is waiting. I find her talking to a young salesperson behind the counter.

  “This is ridiculous,” she says, shoving a hideous sweater toward the woman’s face. “Fifty-four dollars for a sweater for a little girl? She won’t even wear it the next year. Who has money like this?”

  “Grandma!” I yell, hoping to distract her with my outfit.

  “It’s not even nice fabric. Look at this.” She moves the cardigan closer to the salesperson, who is backing up while still managing to smile. “This won’t last one wash!”

  I walk over and pat her arm. “Grandma, how about this one?”

  She turns, her lips immediately pursing, highlighting the wrinkles around her mouth.

  “That isn’t a real belt.”

  I sigh. “Ignore that right now. Look at the skirt.”

  We haven’t agreed on a single item yet. Everything is too expensive or too casual. Too ripped or too embellished. Dad can afford to buy me clothes that aren’t on sale sometimes, but he doesn’t think we should spend money when we don’t have to. That’s careless. I’m not trying to buy expensive clothes, but Grandma thinks anything that’s not on triple clearance is luxurious. Even though she hasn’t seen the price, I can guess what she’ll dislike about this one.

  “Why is it uneven like that? The front is so short and showing your legs.” Grandma leans forward to touch the edge of the skirt, running the fabric through her hands.

  “It’s the style, Grandma. Didn’t you see Taylor Swift wearing one last week? And the front is long enough, anyway.”

  “Looks short to me.”

  “It’s not,” I say, lifting the edge of the skirt and turning to point to the tiny blue line four inches above my knee. “I marked it this morning so I would know.”

  “Still…” She circles me, her arms crossed over her navy cardigan and embroidered white blouse. “That belt is plastic.”

  “I know! It’s just fashion.”

  “I think we can find something nicer, maybe like that dress I gave you.”

  I head back toward the dressing room. “I can’t wear a dress like that to school. I need skirts and shorts, Grandma. That’s literally why we’re here.”

  “You just try on the dress.”

  “Grandma, I don’t—”

  “It’s so lovely.”

  “Fine!” I say, marching back to the dressing room. The door locked when I left, so I slide under the gap. I pull off the skirt and stick it in my keep pile, though I doubt I’ll get out of here with anything that costs more than two dollars.

  I groan before pulling Grandma’s dress off the hanger, hoping we can get this over with and I can spend the rest of the day in my room on Netflix or studying my Quiz Bowl cards. The dress is too tight around my waist, and I can’t get it zipped all the way up, but I have to show her. Looking like a vanilla cupcake, I sneak out to the mirrors hoping no one from school sees me. Thankfully Grandma is waiting in an overstuffed chair, digging for something in her purse.

  “Here,” I say when I get to her, holding my arms out so she can get the full effect.

  “No, no!” she says instantly. “That neck is too low for a young girl.”

  “You picked it!”

  She struggles to scoot forward in the overstuffed chair. “Let me see closer.” She squints her eyes at me, before shaking her head. “We’ll find something better.”

  “No,” I say, already walking back toward the dressing room. “I don’t want to shop anymore. I’ll tell Dad I want to order online.” That’s what I should have done in the first place. I’ll just wear what I have for now.

  When I come out from the dressing room, Grandma Colleen is standing by the counter with a bag. Oh no. What did she buy? Dad’s credit card is safe in my wallet.

  “I got you these,” she says, pulling out a pair of brown corduroy pants I definitely did not try on. “They were on sale. And these.” Out come a plastic pack of lace-trimmed underwear. “Some new panties.” Oh my gosh, I have to get her out of here.

  “Let’s go!” I sigh, hoping she doesn’t find any more hideous items before we escape the mall. Have a fun day shopping, Dad said. Yeah. Right.

  I never break rules. I never get up to sharpen my pencil in class without raising my hand. I make a list of even the smallest sins when I go to reconciliation at church, not forgetting a single jealous thought or eye roll at Dad. In first grade I peed my pants because my teacher said we couldn’t use the bathroom during an assembly. I do what I’m told.

  Until today.

  On Monday morning when I look through my freshly folded piles of school-appropriate pants and skirts, including the hideous brown corduroy pants Grandma bought me, I make the decision to break the rules. It’s been a week since my perfect skirt got swapped for the awful gym shorts, and I am not going to follow the dress code anymore when it only applies to girls. In school, they’re always teaching us about freedom and fairness, and the dress code is not fair. I know Mom would never make me wear clothes I hate just to meet stupid standards. So I put on the gold-sequined miniskirt I wore for school pictures last year. Yes, “mini” is in its name. Yes, it is out of dress code. Yes, I’m wearing it anyway. Even if it means I get suspended.

  Although I was able to sneak out to the bus without Dad or Grandma noticing my outfit, Daniela gives me quite the look when I walk into first period. “You’re wearing your picture day skirt?”

  “Yes, I am,” I say as I grab a warm-up slip from the shelf by the door. Ms. Scott is back by her desk talking to a boy. My heart races, but I stay calm. I wore this skirt for a reason. I review the speech I’ve been rehearsing all morning, in the mirror while I brushed my hair, in the bathroom before class, where I practiced one final time.

  “You know it’s out of…,” Daniela asks, and I nod.

  “I know. I’m making a statement.”

  She laughs. “Okaaaay.” She knows my history. In fourth grade, I was a vegetarian for four days after we visited an urban farm, but then I couldn’t say no to chili and cinnamon roll day at school. I’ve not been great at making a statement. Until today.

  Today, if Ms. Scott calls me behind her desk with the ruler in hand, I’m going to speak up. I won’t stand silently like last time, trying not to cry, like it was my fault for wearing the perfect first-day-of-school skirt. No. I know exactly what I’ll say.

  Ms. Scott, I appreciate all you do as our teacher. Always start with a compliment.

  But it is unfair that you are dress coding me for this skirt when you haven’t dress coded the boys in our class for the same thing.

  Then, a specific example. Just last week, you did not dress code Dylan for his blue shorts, even though they were out of compliance.

  And then the finale. Boys and girls should have the same rights, so I demand that you treat me fairly and all
ow me to wear this skirt.

  It’s perfect, just like a speech should be.

  The school bell rings and Ms. Scott claps her hands. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Today’s warm-up: If you could travel back in time, where would you go and what would you do? You have four minutes. Thanks for writing silently.” She presses a finger to her lips and starts the timer.

  I always know when I would go back. The year Mom got sick. She was thirty-four, and I was almost two, and I’m always disappointed I don’t remember her. The information I have is more like an encyclopedia entry: Madeline Rose Kelly. Social worker and activist. Graduated college in her home state of Virginia. Allergic to bees. Stories Dad told me have turned into memories, but they’re not really mine, like his photos that he’s added to my scrapbook. My time travel also coincides with me somehow discovering a cure for cancer. Or at least getting her to a doctor sooner. I know I ought to use my one chance to prevent the Holocaust or stop 9/11, but honestly, I just want my mom.

  “Margaret Kelly, will you please join me back at my desk.”

  It’s time. Ms. Scott waits in her rolling chair, no ruler in her hand, but definitely a dangerous smile. I pause, taking a deep breath. I was ready for this, but suddenly the desire to be a good girl begins crawling its way up my throat. Daniela raises an eyebrow like, “I told you so.”

  Then I remember the tallies. Remember all the boys at school getting what they want: to wear short shorts, to answer all the questions in class, to earn a spot on the Quiz Bowl team. My picture doesn’t have to be like the president’s cabinet, full of men running the show. My life can be more like the Mosuo women. The words of my speech flow through my veins, making their way from my brain to my tongue. I raise my chin, letting my skirt hike up as I walk. There is nothing wrong with my gold-sequined skirt. Nothing.

  I stop opposite Ms. Scott’s desk, and she wiggles her pointer finger for me to come around the side. Her hands rest on top of her pilled, black skirt.

  “It looks like we have a problem.”

  “We do?” I try to sound confident, but my throat catches.

  “I think you know,” she whispers, leaning toward me. “You’re a smart girl.”

  I stand in silence, unable to think of any smart-girl responses.

  “I’m going to go ahead and write a pass to the in-school suspension room since this is your second time out of dress code.”

  “That’s not fair!” I gasp, my anger rising to replace the fear of being in trouble.

  “The first time is a warning,” Ms. Scott says, raising her eyebrows. “But here you are again, out of dress code. I don’t even need to bother measuring this skirt.”

  “Ms. Scott, I appreciate all you do as our teacher—”

  “Focus please,” Ms. Scott yells to the whispering class. She doesn’t look at me as she searches for a functioning pen.

  “But it’s unfair that you’re dress coding me for this skirt”—my voice is soft, softer than I want it to be, but I’m saying it—“when you didn’t dress code the boys.”

  “Are you accusing me of sexism?” Ms. Scott asks, her pen frozen over a behavior slip.

  “I’m just saying that I shouldn’t be getting in trouble if Dylan—”

  “We’re not talking about Dylan. We’re talking about you. You made the choice to focus on fashion instead of your academics. Don’t you want people to notice your brain and not your body?”

  More whispers spring up around us. Ms. Scott turns. “Minds on your own work. We’ll be sharing that warm-up in two minutes.” She turns back to the behavior slip, completely ignoring me. I’m not giving up yet.

  “Last week Dylan was wearing blue shorts, and they were way out of dress code, and you didn’t say anything. What about his shorts being a distraction?” Ms. Scott’s eyes grow to asteroids and steam escapes the top of her head like a solar flare. I continue, though I feel suffocated by her heat. “Boys and girls should have the same—”

  “We are not having this conversation, Ms. Kelly,” Ms. Scott says as she scribbles my name on the slip before checking a box. She hands it to me and I stare at the bright-red check mark next to “Dress Code Violation.” It’s on a list that includes things like “Physical Altercation” and “Rude to Adult.” No way is my sequin skirt equal to fighting.

  “Take this down to the front office. They’ll walk you to in-school suspension. You can try again tomorrow.” Ms. Scott gestures toward the door. For a moment, I feel a spark of the fire I had this morning. Maybe I will.

  Chapter 10

  I’m so bored. When I first got to the in-school suspension room an hour ago I was petrified, waiting for the moment when the suspension monitor, Ms. Padilla, calls Dad. Over an hour of silent sitting has drained all the fear right out of me. The ISS room is bare except for a scattering of desks in uneven rows and one shelf of books that are so tattered and damaged they look a century old. Ms. Padilla sits behind her desk watching the security cameras for the main building hallways and occasionally shouting at the boys to her left to stop talking. In the corner of the room, one kid is working with a tutor, but the rest of us just sit here. Doing nothing. Nothing at all.

  The room is full of the usual suspects—kids with their hoods up and glowers on their faces, a boy I saw jumping off the cafeteria table on the first day—and three other girls. I don’t know why they’re here, but given their shorts and one girl’s tank top, it’s probably dress code. I appear to be the only sixth grader and the only white girl. One girl with long wavy black hair is wearing jean shorts that she might have cut herself. She sits between her friends, her feet up on a desk and toenails peeping out of sandals (also not dress code; only closed-toe shoes allowed). She’s clearly the leader, as the other two seem to wait for her every response.

  One of her friends has jean shorts that don’t actually look too short, but she is wearing a black tank top with thin (but not spaghetti) straps. She sits up super straight, like she’s ready for a job interview, as she reads a library book. The other wears blue gym shorts that look like the extra-extra-small pair Nurse Angela offered me on my first dress code violation. She’s wearing a Live Oak volleyball T-shirt with a giant ball in the middle. I bet no one on the team cares about her shorts. The girls whisper to each other in Spanish, and Daniela would be proud that I can understand a little bit of their conversation: something about lunch and a car and maybe an apple but also maybe a squirrel. Probably not a squirrel.

  The leader stretches over her desk, her long arms flopping over the front, her hair creating a veil over her face.

  “Gloria Cardenas,” Ms. Padilla calls, and the leader lifts her head, looking through the veil of her hair. “Gloria, now!”

  Gloria peels herself from behind the desk, her legs sticking to the plastic chair in the hot room. She takes her time walking.

  “Who are we calling this time, Gloria?” Ms. Padilla asks, her fingers clacking on the computer keys.

  “Call who you want. You know my mom works.”

  “Aren’t you tired of spending your days in here?”

  Gloria sighs. “You all put me in here. I’m fine with what I’m wearing.”

  Ms. Padilla shakes her head. “You know you can’t wear those shorts to school. This isn’t the beach.”

  “No offense, Miss, but it’s ninety-five degrees outside. Seems beachy to me.”

  Good point. It is hot. Really hot. And what does it matter if her legs are showing?

  “You’re not going to be ready for high school if you spend your entire year in here,” Ms. Padilla says, and Gloria snorts.

  “Just because my shorts are tiny doesn’t mean my brain is.”

  Ms. Padilla sighs, and Gloria walks back to her desk. She is so impressive. She wasn’t like me this morning with Ms. Scott, my voice barely a whisper as I asked her for fair treatment like Oliver Twist asking for more gruel. Please, sir, may I wear my shiny skirt? Even with a prepared speech, I still couldn’t get it out. But Gloria is bold. The right things po
pped out of her mouth without hesitation. I wouldn’t be able to think of anything clever that fast. My brain isn’t packed with cool responses; I’ve only stored random Quiz Bowl facts.

  The fluorescent lights flicker.

  “Margaret Kelly,” Ms. Padilla reads from my pass.

  I raise my hand.

  She clicks a few things on her computer screen. “Let’s call your dad.”

  He is going to be so mad. I’ve only gotten grounded twice in my life. Once for stealing candy and another time for making a scene at our neighbor’s birthday party. I really wanted the purple goggles that came out of the mermaid piñata, but some little kid’s mom grabbed them and I had a meltdown. Grounded in elementary school meant no TV and no going to Daniela’s house. Grounded in middle school probably means no phone. Ugh.

  Ms. Padilla eats a potato chip while the phone rings. And rings. A click. Hooray for voice mail and Dad being too busy to answer his phone! Normally I hate when he’s too busy at work to answer my texts right away. For once, I’m grateful for his stupid Chicago job.

  “Good morning, this is Ms. Padilla from Live Oak Middle School. I’m calling to let you know that your daughter, Margaret, will be serving in-school suspension until you can come bring her a change of clothes. This is her second dress code violation.”

  She gives him the number to call her back.

  “I guess you’ll just have to wait,” Ms. Padilla says. “You can go back to your seat.”

  I trudge back to my empty desk, filled with the weight of my failure and the fear of Dad showing up. Then I do something I would never ever do before I became a girl who broke the rules. I put my head down on my desk.

  “Pobrecita,” one of the girls whispers to her friends. “Quizás, es su primera vez.”

  I lift my eyes to see the girl in the Live Oak soccer T-shirt watching me. “Si es mi primera vez en… detención,” I say, “pero no mi primero… dress code violation.”