My Claudia. The closest thing I have to a sister. The girl I’ve spent countless hours with collapsing in giggles and screaming in laughter and whispering in hushed voices about our hopes and our dreams and our very worst fears.
“How did you get away?” I ask.
Claudia closes her eyes. “I didn’t. He just stopped, eventually. And he, like, walked off.” Her brown eyes open, and she looks at me again. “And you know what was so creepy? While he was messing with me, he had this look on his face. This dead look. Like I could have been anyone. Or anything.”
I slide my hands around Claudia’s again and squeeze them.
“That’s not even the end of it,” Claudia says. She sniffles.
I stare at Claudia. “Oh my God, did he come back?”
Claudia shakes her head. “No, it’s not that,” she says. “I went to see Mr. Shelly.”
Mr. Shelly, one of the assistant principals. The one who got all over Jana Sykes for her dress-code violation. Principal Wilson’s right-hand man.
“And what happened?” I have an awful sense of what the answer will be.
“Well, I went into his office,” Claudia says. “I still can’t believe I did that. Maybe I was just operating on autopilot, I don’t know. But I went in there and I told him, well … I didn’t go into the details, exactly. I just told him Mitchell had done the bump ’n’ grab game to me and it upset me.”
“Did you call it that? I mean, like, use that term? The bump ’n’ grab game?”
Claudia nods.
“And he, like, knew what it meant?”
Claudia nods again. “Oh, yeah, you could totally tell he knew what it meant. I think they all know. I think they know it goes on and that’s what those guys call it and nobody cares.” Her voice is flat.
“So what happened after you told?” I ask Claudia.
Claudia twists up her mouth into a frown.
“He looked at me and told me that Mitchell was probably just joking and that I should take the break to relax and forget about it,” Claudia answers. She’s not crying anymore. She’s just still. Mad. “And then he said I should probably take it as a compliment.”
“Holy shit,” I say.
We just sit there for a moment in silence. My mind can’t help but pull back my memories of last night—of kissing Seth, of talking to him and just enjoying being with him. And now this. From so wonderful to so horrible in less than twelve hours. From drooling over an Amazing Boy to fuming over an Asshole Boy overnight.
“Did you tell your parents?” I ask.
Claudia shakes her head again. “No. When I was upset last night I just told them I wasn’t feeling well. My mom would flip out and my dad would … I don’t know what he would do, to be honest.”
“You don’t think he would want to murder Mitchell?”
Claudia shrugs, uncertain. “Maybe. I don’t know. He loves the East Rockport Pirates. He used to play defensive end.”
I want to tell Claudia she has to be wrong, that there’s no way her dad would choose to support some small-town football team over his own daughter. But how can I even know I’m right?
“I’m tired of talking,” Claudia says all of a sudden. “I just want to lie here and not think about anything.” She flops back on my bed and stares at the ceiling. “But I feel bad. I should be asking you about your date.”
I give her a gentle push. “Stop apologizing. Whatever. I can tell you about it later.”
Claudia looks up at me and gives me a soft smile. The first one she’s had since she walked into my bedroom.
“Just tell me if he kissed you. And if he was nice.”
I grin. “Yes,” I say. “And yes.”
Claudia smiles a little bigger now. “Good,” she says. “That helps.”
I crawl off my bed so I can play a song for Claudia. It’s another one by Bikini Kill, but it’s one of their few slow ones. It’s called “Feels Blind” and something about the way Kathleen Hanna’s voice cries out—demanding to be heard as she sings about women and hurting and hunger and pain—makes me want to cry each time I hear it. But cry in a way that makes me feel good, like I’m confessing a scary secret. Or abandoning the heaviest load.
As the song plays, I can feel the drums thud in my chest, and I slide back into my bed and lie down next to Claudia. She’s still staring at my bedroom ceiling, but I can tell she’s listening.
“This song,” she says, “it’s pretty great.”
“Yeah, it is,” I say, and I scoot closer and loop my fingers through hers, and I squeeze her hand hard and I hope she feels in her heart that the squeeze means I’ll be there for her. Always.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I smooth out the pages of Moxie’s next issue on the couch. The glow of the Christmas tree in the corner of our den casts a soft golden light over the pages.
“Looks cool,” Seth says.
“Did I show you what I’m putting inside each one?” I ask, handing him a stack of round, palm-sized stickers.
“Badass,” Seth answers, flipping one around in his hands. “As long as one doesn’t end up on my locker.”
I raise an eyebrow, and my heart starts to race. “Definitely not.”
“Like definitely not? Or…?” At this Seth leans in toward me, his grin growing. He kisses my neck, just under my ear, and I catch my breath because it feels so good. Then he’s kissing my mouth, pressing into me, the warmth of his chest against mine. He smells like spearmint. I can feel our bodies start to shift down into the soft couch cushions.
“Wait,” I say, pushing him back a little, “don’t squish Moxie.” I take the issue and toss it on the coffee table. “It’s my favorite issue so far.”
“Mine, too,” says Seth.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he answers, grinning. “Now where were we?” Seth says, like a guy in a cheesy movie, and we both start laughing before we start kissing, letting ourselves melt into the couch.
But soon the hoot, hoot of our owl-shaped kitchen clock reminds us that Seth has to leave. My mom will be home from work soon, and even though she knows that Seth and I have been hanging out almost every day over break, I don’t think she’d be too jazzed to see us kissing on the couch.
Or does what we were doing constitute making out?
Either way, it would be best if my mother didn’t see it.
“I wish you didn’t have to go,” I say. My lips sting, but in a good way.
“Me, too, but I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” Seth says, and somehow we stand up and make it to the back door. Seth kisses me one more time before ducking out and walking down the block to where his car is parked, out of sight and sound of Meemaw and Grandpa next door. I touch my fingers to my mouth as he walks off, like by pressing my lips I can make what just happened even more real in my mind.
I have a boyfriend. An actual boyfriend.
Grinning to myself, I head back to the den and scoop up all the copies of Moxie and the stickers I ordered online using the Visa gift card Meemaw and Grandpa gave me for Christmas (along with new socks, a set of fancy pens, and a book of recipes for cakes and cookies—Meemaw is pinning a lot on that Magic Squares incident). I tuck the zines and stickers into my backpack as my mom walks in.
“Hey, sweets,” she says.
“Hey,” I say, kissing her on the cheek.
“You okay? Ready to venture back to school tomorrow?”
I roll my eyes. “As ready as I’ll ever be. You okay?”
My mom sighs and drags her hands through her hair. As she pulls it up off her face, she looks younger for the tiniest second. Then she lets her hair drop, and she’s Mom again.
“I just had a little, I don’t know … argument, I guess … with John. He just worked my nerves a little is all.” She pulls a pint of ice cream out of the freezer and my heart flutters a little. I shouldn’t be glad that my mom is upset with John, but I can’t help it.
“What happened?” I ask, hoping that my voice is full of enough real-soundin
g concern.
She shrugs and carefully peels back the lid of some Rocky Road. “Just this argument about politics. He said he didn’t think Ann Richards was that great of a governor.”
I stare at her, confused.
“Ann Richards, sweetie. I’ve told you about her. She was the governor of Texas back in the ’90s and she was super tough and super smart.” She taps her finger on the bright pink refrigerator magnet that reads, “Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did—just backward and in high heels.”
“Ann loved quoting that line,” my mother tells me, smiling faintly.
“Oh yeah,” I say. I like hearing about tough ladies, but I’m anxious to make my mother relive something negative about John. “So what did John say?”
“Just that she wasn’t the most fiscally responsible governor, which is bullshit, really.” She takes another bite of ice cream and puts the pint back in the freezer, dumping the spoon in the kitchen sink without rinsing it. Then she looks up at the ceiling and sighs.
“Well, whatever, he’s wrong,” I say. “Ann Richards was awesome.”
“She most certainly was, baby,” my mother agrees.
“So what does that mean for you and John?” There’s a hopeful catch in my voice, and I wonder if my mom picks up on it.
But my mother just laughs at me like I’m some kid, which rankles me a little. “Oh, sweetie, John and I are fine,” she says. “Adults can disagree about politics sometimes. I mean, he didn’t say she belonged in the kitchen barefoot and pregnant or anything.”
I shrug. “I guess. But doesn’t someone’s politics reveal, like, a lot about them?”
My mother grins. “Sure, yes. I taught you that. But reasonable adults can disagree about certain things. John grew up in a very conservative home. He didn’t even go to public school until he was a teenager, so he’s had different life experiences and that’s influenced his views in some ways. Not liking Ann Richards’s financial policies doesn’t make John evil.”
“Okay,” I say. “As long as you don’t forget you’re right and he’s wrong.”
My mother smiles. “I won’t forget. Now get to bed. It’s late.”
As I slide under the sheets, I think about the copies of Moxie sitting in my backpack and Seth’s mouth on mine and how cool Seth is about Moxie. I’m sure if Seth knows who Ann Richards is, he loves her. And if he doesn’t know who she is, I’m convinced he would love her the minute I told him all about her.
* * *
It feels so good to tag Mitchell’s locker first. Ten stickers. For each one I slap on, I think about Claudia. I think about how humiliated and angry and hurt she was in that empty hallway. I think about Mr. Shelly telling her to forget about it. I think about Mitchell’s ruddy face and dead eyes. I think about his daddy letting him do anything he wants.
Slap, slap, slap. I like how loud each slap sounds, my hand making the metal locker reverberate each time I put up a new sticker.
Then I step back and admire my work. I realize my cheeks hurt from smiling.
Mitchell Wilson gets to read that he’s an asshole ten times today. Hopefully more.
As the sun starts to stream in the hallway windows, I tag a few more lockers of the boys I know play the bump ’n’ grab game. Once, I hear the sound of a janitor coming around the corner, and I duck into an empty classroom. I hold my breath as he walks by, the keys around his waist jingle jangling. His heavy steps are inches away, but he doesn’t find me. If he did, I’d be quick with an excuse. I’d smile and come up with something. Because nothing is stopping me today. Especially not some guy.
By the time first period starts, zines and stickers have been distributed throughout all the girls’ bathrooms on the first floor and most of the bathrooms on the second floor. By the time I head to history class, everyone is buzzing about it. I catch Jason Garza scowling and trying to peel the sticker on his locker off with his fingers, but he’s having trouble.
When I ordered stickers, I made sure to order the kind with the “high bond label.”
I smirk to myself.
“Please tell me you saw these?” Sara asks me as I walk into class. I catch Claudia reading the latest issue, a few stickers in her hand.
“Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it?” I say.
Sara nods, a smile spreading across her face. “It’s brilliant.”
“Hey, Claudia,” I say, and when she looks up at me, I tell her Mitchell Wilson’s locker is already covered in stickers.
“Seriously?” she asks, her eyes brightening.
“Seriously,” I tell her. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t add another one. Ask to go to the bathroom during class and do it.”
Claudia’s eyebrows rise at my boldness. “Maybe,” she says. She tucks the zine and the stickers into her backpack, but halfway through Mrs. Robbins’s dull lecture on something dull, Claudia raises her hand and asks to be excused. When she comes back, she winks at me.
That wink is worth everything. All the time spent making Moxie. All my Christmas money spent on stickers. Claudia’s wink is worth all of that and then some.
All day long, the stickers spread like a contagious rash, black dots spilling out everywhere, more and more each class period. Girls are smart about how they do it, and the teachers are too dense to catch on. Bathroom breaks, trips to the nurse, requests for a drink at the water fountain. All provide opportunity to duck out and tag some boy’s locker when no one is looking. After each bell rings, it’s like the stickers have been breeding because there are more and more greeting us each time.
Moxie is winning.
And I started Moxie.
And then, on my way to English, my face glowing and my heart racing with pride, Marisela Perez does something magical.
Tim Fitzpatrick—a true asshole sophomore boy who thinks he’s hot shit because he plays varsity basketball—decides to bump ’n’ grab Marisela as we head to lunch. He gooses Marisela around the waist with his thick, clumsy fingers.
“Wait a minute,” Marisela says, grabbing Tim’s shoulder, her voice sticky sweet. “I have something for you.” Dumb Tim falls for it. He holds still and stares at Marisela, like he’s expecting a blow job right there in the hallway.
But Marisela just fishes into the pocket of her jeans, digs out a sticker, and ceremoniously pushes it on him. Right on his chest. She presses down hard enough that Tim actually mutters, “Ouch!” to which Marisela rolls her eyes and walks off, leaving Tim staring at his chest, angrily picking at the sticker that won’t budge.
Lucy, who is standing next to me and witnesses the event, grips my arm and squeals as if she’s in middle school and her favorite boy band member just strolled by.
“It’s like I’m living in a feminist fantasy,” Lucy says. “But it can’t be a complete fantasy because Roxane Gay isn’t here.”
I grin and make a note to look up Roxane Gay later, and Lucy and I keep walking toward class when we spot Seth at the door of the classroom. Lucy eyes me pointedly and heads inside.
“Hey,” he says, giving me a quick peck on the lips. I’m greeting my boyfriend in the hallway in front of everyone. It makes me feel, like, twenty-five.
“Hey,” I say.
“The stickers are all over the place,” he says, his voice low. “It’s so cool.”
“Thanks,” I say, grinning at him. “It’s catching on even more than I thought it would.”
“You’re such a rebel, Vivian Carter,” Seth says, arching an eyebrow, and I feel like a firework.
In English, Mitchell Wilson and his crew scowl and stew in the back row, and when Mr. Davies picks Lucy to pass back the last round of grammar quizzes at the end of class, Mitchell sees it as a perfect opportunity to be an even bigger dick than usual.
“Hey,” he says, eyeing Lucy as she slides his paper on his desk. It has a 75 on it, circled in red. He probably did worse, but Mr. Davies likes football players.
“What?” Lucy says, her voice sharp.
“You’re in that Moxie
club, aren’t you?” His beady eyes are staring her down, daring her to say yes. I imagine him groping Claudia in that hallway by the locker room, and I think I have enough anger in me to toss my desk over my head and aim it right for Mitchell.
“There’s no Moxie club,” Lucy says, turning her back on him. She hands out the last few papers and sits down in front of me.
“Yeah, fucking right there’s no Moxie club,” Mitchell says, raising his voice from the back row.
“Students, language,” Mr. Davies mutters from his desk, like all of us have been cursing a blue streak, not just Mitchell. He goes back to shifting papers around in an endless circle on his desk.
Lucy doesn’t turn around, but I can hear Mitchell’s weaselly voice snaking through the room, threatening everyone with his particular brand of poison.
“You did that queer-ass bake sale for the girls’ soccer team,” he says. “You organized it. I saw you.”
Out of the side of my eyes, I catch Seth watching the exchange. I notice Lucy’s shoulders hunch up closer to her ears, like she’s trying to protect herself. My heart is hammering, and I’m trying to figure out what to do. I glance at the clock. Five minutes left.
“You and your little man-hating, lesbo baking club,” Mitchell continues under his breath.
My stomach churns. I want to smack Mitchell Wilson. I want to punch him right in the face.
I clench my fist. I shut my eyes for a moment.
Suddenly my hand is stretching out, up into the sky.
“Um, Mr. Davies?” I never talk in class. Ever. It’s like when you hear your voice on a recording and it sounds totally bizarre to your ears, like it can’t actually be you. That’s what it’s like to hear my voice out loud in a classroom.
“Yes, Viv?” Mr. Davies says, looking at me, surprised.
Moxie: A Novel Page 15
