Ten or so minutes later, after all the underclasspeople whose names no one could remember had arrived and taken their seats, Tess strode to the front of the room.
“Okay, everyone, shut up! For reasons that will become apparent in due time, this meeting will require utter silence.”
The room went silent, ish.
“Now, I know that last time, basically none of you had any ideas for awareness raising. But I’ve figured out a solution.” Tess was pacing the front of the room, holding a sheet of paper.
A freshperson in a hoodie raised a hand. “Um . . .”
“I said in due time!” Tess thundered, and the freshperson with their hand up shrank back into their hoodie.
“Okay, anyway.” Tess snatched up some chalk from the tray. “I’ve found our solution. It’s going to give us a higher profile in the school at large, it will drive people to our membership ranks in droves, and it will also be very, very fun.”
It was clear that the last part was an order. Satisfied, Tess wrote “Operation BGDP” on the board—except, because she had started too far to the right, it came out more like
O P E R A t i o
n
B G D P
“We’re taking over the Winter Formal,” Tess announced. “It’s going to be different. It’s not going to be a Sadie Hawkins thing anymore, which is, by the way, ridicul—”
“I thought Sadie Hawkins was a feminist,” interrupted Alison, whose name I had remembered from the previous meeting because she was very loud.
“Sadie Hawkins was a person?” said Bryce. He looked, as always, very sleepy under all his ear piercings.
“Are you stupid, Bryce?” said Chihiro of the pink bangs.
“Don’t say stupid, Chihiro,” said Alison. “What I don’t get is why Sadie Hawkins is suddenly ridicul—”
“I always thought it was a made-up name,” Bryce said, sleepily. “Like when you call a smart person Einstein.”
Across the room, Zach the Anarchist was silently losing it behind his hands. I laughed a little, too.
“Can you all just shut up again?” Tess said, her fearless-leader composure wavering just a bit. “Okay, yes, so a Sadie Hawkins dance is technically feminist, but what we really need is a Winter Formal that’s gender-blind. A dance with no expectation of bringing any kind of date unless you want to.”
There were murmurs throughout the room. I had no one in the immediate vicinity to murmur to, but I mentally agreed, because Tess really made it sound awesome. I’d never really liked all the pressure that a Sadie Hawkins dance put on me. Not, of course, that I’d ever actually asked someone. I was dumb, but not that dumb.
“What we need,” Tess went on, “is a dance that doesn’t presume anything. A dance that invites people to be their true selves. A dance”—she paused and took a dramatic inhale through the nose—“that celebrates who we are, exactly, specifically, and for real.”
The murmuring stopped. Tess swiveled her head from one side of the club to the other, waiting for a standing ovation or tears of joy or something, but it was clearly taking most of us a little too long to get there.
Tall Zach craned his neck at the board, raising a tentative hand. “What does that acr—”
“Operation Big Gay Dance Party,” Tess answered. “OBGDP for short. It’s like . . . like one of those old-fashioned debut balls, where everyone officially enters society or whatever. But with no mandatory gender performativity.”
“You mean”—Zach the Anarchist paused, like he wasn’t sure if he was actually going to say what he was about to say—“a coming-out party?”
Apparently Tess did mean, because no sooner had he said it than Tess, clearly delighted, beamed—or, well, beamed with her mouth clamped firmly shut so we couldn’t see her teeth—and pointed right at the stripes and stars on Zach the Anarchist’s T-shirt.
“Ding ding ding!” she cried. “We have a winner!”
The murmuring started again, but it sounded like a generally positive murmuring. Tess licked her lips and raised her hands for quiet.
“Now, of course, no one has to do or say anything they’re not comfortable with,” she said. “But if you want to say something, and especially if you feel like the announcement is long overdue, particularly to your irritatingly inquisitive family, as some of us do . . .” She gave a tiny shrug. “This is it. Your big, sparkly, celebratory chance.”
“Hmmm.” Next to me, Tall Zach was considering, which for him meant literally rubbing his chin pensively. But then he nodded. “I like it! I wish I’d had a big dance party when I came out.”
“It was seventh grade,” I pointed out.
“And you did make the announcement at your bar mitzvah,” Zach the Anarchist said. “So you kind of did get a party.”
Tall Zach considered. “I guess. But telling everyone I liked boys was a last-minute addition. Otherwise the DJ wouldn’t have looked so surprised when I grabbed the microphone.”
“Right. See, this is different,” Tess said. “This is about creating an occasion with a specific intention. Taking something that can be terrible and ugly and hard and making sure that it’s joyful.” Now she pointed at me. “Nattie. Remember the Menarche Madness party I threw you in middle school?”
Of course I did. After my first period had ruined an otherwise enjoyable McCullough-Schwartz camping trip, the only reason my seventh-grade spring break didn’t totally suck was because Tess threw me a surprise transition-to-womanhood party. There had been a game of pin the tail on the tampon. But now was not the time to revisit that particular block of memory lane.
“Tess,” I hissed. Hopefully she wouldn’t bring up the red velvet cupcakes. I glanced around nervously—and right at, of all people, Zach the Anarchist.
But he just shrugged. “Two moms and a sister, remember? Girls bleed, I get it.”
“Some girls bleed,” corrected Alison. “Not all.” I held my breath, waiting for her to say something about how terrible Tess’s idea was, but she didn’t. She actually kind of smiled, kind of. “Anyway, I think the dance sounds fun.”
Next to her, Chihiro nodded vigorously, her bangs falling in and out of her eyes. Next to her, Bryce yawned and gave a thumbs-up.
“Yeah,” he said. “Samesies.”
“Great,” said Tess. “Perfect. Excellent. Because the good news is I already floated it with a student council member and they said I can make a case at their meeting today, which I have to be at in”—she glanced at the clock—“ten minutes.”
“Good news?” said Zach the Anarchist. “What’s the bad news?”
“Hang on.” Tall Zach put down his Capri Sun, crestfallen. “You asked them without asking us first?”
“Sorry, events chair. I had to go over your head for the sake of expediency,” Tess said. Tall Zach slurped his Capri Sun and said nothing. “And it’s not exactly bad bad news,” she went on. “The problem is, if we want to cosponsor the dance, we actually have to sponsor it. In a monetary sense,” she said. “Student council has asked us to put up a third of the budget for the formal, which is”—she glanced at a printout—“two thousand bucks.”
The room went dead quiet.
“Two thousand?” I said.
“That has to be wrong,” Zach the Anarchist said.
“Okay, one, don’t second-guess me,” Tess said. “And two, it’s not.” She thrust her printout into Zach’s hands, and I got up to peer over his shoulder. Whoever had kept the accounts for student council last year was freakishly obsessive, putting in cost breakdowns right down to which color of paper streamer cost more. And after decorations, refreshments, and rental of the elegant multipurpose event space in the Wister Racquet Club, the total cost was just over six thousand dollars.
“You aren’t going to make us chip in, are you?” Across the room Alison narrowed her eyes. “Because—”
“Of course not.” Tess nodded crisply at me. “We’re going to fund-raise. Right, treasurer?”
“Uh . . .” Suddenly, I coul
d see the whites of everyone’s eyes, especially Alison’s and very especially Zach the Anarchist’s, which made me feel very hot and uncomfortable. Public speaking was probably my number one fear, right after private speaking. Especially private speaking behind rock clubs with guys who play guitar.
“Uh,” I said again. “Yeah. Yes. We’re going to have . . . a bake sale?”
It was an obvious answer, and kind of a stupid one. But it was better than frozen car washes or auctioning off our supply of white T-shirts or everyone staring at me for any longer.
“A bake sale,” Alison repeated. “To make two thousand dollars.”
“Sure,” Zach the Anarchist answered, blessedly. “I can make something. And so can anyone else who wants to. I mean, we’ve all got flour and eggs and stuff at home.”
“Yeah. That could work.” Tess looked at me with an expression that was something like, Right, treasurer?
“To make two thousand dollars in the next month and a half . . . ,” I said slowly, taking a deep breath. Doing math on my feet was not my strong suit. Actually, doing math on any part of my body was not my strong suit, but when Zach the Anarchist abdicated the treasurer’s office because he was too busy being Mia’s boyfriend, I’d been a good sport. “Assuming we had one bake sale a week, which seems reasonable, and there are eight weeks left until break—”
“Nine,” Zach the Anarchist said.
“Approximately eight weeks,” I continued, “we’d have to take in . . .” Two thousand divided by two was one thousand, and half of nine was four and a half, so a thousand dollars over four and a half weeks was something like . . .
“Four hundred dollars a week,” I said, and frowned. “That sounds like a lot.”
“Two hundred and fifty,” Zach the Anarchist said.
“That doesn’t sound that bad,” Tess said. “I mean, the Upper School is, what, like four hundred kids? I bet we can convince half of them to pony up a buck for a cookie.”
“Or brownie,” I said.
“I’m vegan,” Alison said, as if that had anything to do with anything.
“Can you bake for us, Zach?” Tess said.
“Sort of?” said Tall Zach. “I mean, I guess I can try.”
“Other Zach.”
“Sure,” said Zach the Anarchist.
“And a couple other people?”
Hands went up. Tess turned to me.
“I’ll supervise,” I said. I could cook about as well as I could do math.
“Then it’s official. Operation Bake Sale will officially fund Operation Big Gay Dance Party.” Tess smacked her hand against the desk like a makeshift gavel. “Someone get on the school intranet and sign up for tabling space in the cafeteria before it gets taken by something useless like animal rights.”
“On it,” peeped Endsignal. A few keyboard clicks later, he frowned. “Um, the only slot available is on Tuesdays.”
“Tuesday is tomorrow,” Alison pointed out.
“Yes, duh. Glad you know the days of the week.” Tess rolled her eyes. “That’s why I called this meeting today. Everyone needs to bring in stuff to sell tomorrow. Also, two people have to be staffing the table at all times because it’s school policy so that no one makes off with the cashbox.”
She flourished a sheet of paper and wrote down “Loyal Conscripted OWPALGBTQIA Baked-Goods Purveyors” on the top, then set it on Dr. Frobisher’s desk. No one moved.
“So sign up!”
Everyone looked paralyzed. Tess wilted.
“Events chair?” She looked desperately at Tall Zach. “Back me up, here.”
Tall Zach leaped up, scrawled his name on the sheet, and then settled back into the desk next to mine.
“Come on, guys,” he said. “Do it for the team.”
“Do you, ah, know how to bake, Zach?” asked Zach the Anarchist.
“I’ll have you know, Other Zach, that I make really good Rice Krispies treats, because I use Fruity Pebbles.”
“Well, I’ll have you know that technically, there is no actual baking involved in making Rice Krispies treats,” Zach the Anarchist said. “Just melting and mixing.”
“Technically, there are also Rice Krispies,” I said. “I mean, not to split hairs or anything.”
“But Fruity Pebbles Treats are all rainbowy. Hey, wait, that’s perfect for us!” Tall Zach laughed, and I giggled a little, too. From behind us, Endsignal popped up without a word and neatly printed his name next to Zach’s. He was halfway back to his laptop when Tess wheeled on him.
“You. What are you contributing?” Tess said.
“I was just going to volunteer,” Endsignal said, but Tess shook her head.
“Nope. Nope. I need everyone to pull their full weight and bring something in.”
“He’s helping me with the fruity treats,” Tall Zach offered. He threw a look back at Endsignal, who blushed furiously, but didn’t stop him.
“Okay. Fine. Work in teams if you have to.” Tess nodded smartly. “So we’ve got fruity treats. What else?”
“Me and Chihiro are going to be a team so that there’s actually something vegan we can eat,” Alison declared.
“I’m not a vegan,” Chihiro mumbled.
“Whatever. You don’t eat gluten,” Alison said.
“That’s not the same thing!”
“Great,” Tess said. “No animal products or wheat. I’m sure it’ll be a runaway success.”
“I’ll make lemon squares,” Bryce said. “I mean, my mom will, but whatever.”
“I can do cheesecake,” piped up a girl from the back row.
“I’ll make brownies!”
“I can bring a box of Oreos!”
“Great, great, whatever,” Tess said, glancing at the clock and brandishing the pen. “Look, I have to run to convince the student council to stop being heteronormative, so Nattie is hereby in charge of making sure you all get signed up. Meeting adjourned!”
She plunked down the sign-up sheet and scooped up her bag from the desk at my right as the room came to life again, everyone filing forward to scribble down names of various baked offerings.
“Uh?” I said to Tess’s back as she strode out into the hall. Then again, I could probably handle a sign-up sheet. I waited as the room slowly emptied out, until no one was left but me, the Zachs, and a few underclasspeople. Tall Zach grabbed the sign-up sheet and studied it.
“Ooh, someone’s making baklava?”
“That’s ambitious,” Zach the Anarchist said, taking the sheet from him.
“That’s mine,” I said, taking the sheet from him. I wrote my name down beneath all the other contributors and paused.
“What are you making, Nattie?” Tall Zach said.
“Uh,” I said. I wasn’t sure what I was going to make, nor was I fully confident in my baking ability. “To be decided.”
I folded the sheet in half and turned to unzip my backpack.
“Hang on,” Zach the Anarchist said, taking the sheet back. “I haven’t put on my contribution yet.”
He flattened the piece of paper onto his desk and wrote out something in all caps, angular and slanting to the right, then pushed the paper back to me.
ZACH WEST—COOKIES.
“Well, it’s always nice to see couple of straight kids working a queer bake sale,” Tall Zach said, and then laughed. “I mean, not like a couple couple. You know what I meant.”
“Excuse us.” Alison and Chihiro paused their quickly escalating argument over the relative cruelty of honey as a sweetener for banana bread to shove past us. Zach the Anarchist smiled and shook his head, and I felt myself start to smile again.
“Don’t start,” he said, eyes flashing. “Vegans are vicious.”
“To me?” I put a hand on my chest like I was going to swoon. “Humans are animals, too.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
I fake-groaned, folded the student-council-budget spreadsheets in half, and chucked them toward the recycling bin. Zach looked from the bin to me and shook hi
s head again.
“You keep careful records.”
“I have them saved, somewhere,” I said. “Whatever.”
“How did you become treasurer again?”
“Abdication,” I answered, “of our resident math genius, to canoodle with his girlfriend.”
Zach stiffened.
“I mean, um, ex-girlfriend,” I said quickly. “I mean . . . never mind.”
Shoot. I had totally forgotten about my dumb, mean, not-at-all-reassuring comment about Mia and her boobs at Moonpenny’s. A glob of guilt stuck in my gut, and I got even guiltier when I realized I’d totally forgotten to bring Zach’s flannel in for him.
“Zach,” I said, but he was already out the door, leaving me alone with Endsignal and the bake sale sign-ups and the terrible ache of knowing I had just used a stupid word like canoodle to describe the author of Zach the Anarchist’s heartbreak. Why couldn’t I stop being so mean about this?
I stared down hard at the list of names, then looked back up just in time to see Endsignal unplug his laptop. The purple website was still on its screen. Somehow, crazily, I’d actually forgotten about the whole Sebastian thing for almost twenty straight minutes. But now that I’d remembered, I wasn’t exactly going to forget.
“Uh, Endsignal?”
Endsignal stopped, power cord in hand.
“Can you email me that music blog thing?” I said. “Just to . . . um, just to see.”
“Sure.” Endsignal pushed the screen back into place and copy-pasted into an email.
“Thanks.” I took a step toward the door, but couldn’t quite leave. The sound of the opening guitar lick was still ringing in my head, and I got the feeling it wasn’t going anywhere. “Is that site a big deal?”
“Um, not really? I mean, mostly for music geeks and stuff.” Endsignal pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Are you okay? You look kind of . . . different. From before.”
“Fine!” I said. “Just . . . thinking about the bake sale. Thanks for the link! See you tomorrow!”
Who's That Girl Page 8
