The Pants Project

by Cat Clarke

  I was shocked to see Maisie sitting with those girls, but at the same time I wasn’t shocked. You know when you’re reading a story or watching a movie and you can tell what’s going to happen next? (Like when a character is really happy, you know something bad is going to happen. Unless it’s right at the end of the book or the movie. People are allowed to be happy—and stay happy—then.) As soon as I knew that Maisie was going to Chelsea’s party, I had a funny feeling. Why else would she be so keen to drop me as a friend? It was obvious that Jade and Chelsea would never be friends with her while she was still friends with me. She’d decided that it was worth dropping me in order to get in with them.

  I sat at my desk while everyone else chattered away. Chelsea’s party was the main topic of conversation. She’d arrived in a limousine, apparently.

  I’ve never been in a limo. I have been in a hearse, though. Before Granddad’s funeral, I snuck into the shiny black car with the coffin inside. There had been something urgent that I’d wanted to say to Granddad, but as soon as I was sitting next to the glossy wooden box with the gleaming gold handles, the urgent thing flew right out of my head. I think that’s when it hit me that he was actually gone. The driver wasn’t too happy when he found me crawling around next to the coffin, but he didn’t tell the moms. He was a pretty cool guy.

  So everyone seemed to be talking about how amazing the party had been. Chelsea and Jade were talking very loudly, probably for my benefit. There was a lot of exaggerated laughter. Maisie’s much quieter laugh mixed in with the other two. I told myself it was fine. It was her loss. I didn’t need her. And anyway, my secret was safer now that I didn’t have a best friend.

  I was relieved when Jacob finally arrived. He stopped to talk to some people on the way over to our desk. It was so easy for him—talking to people, I mean. It was natural. Probably because people actually liked him.

  “Hey.” He slumped down into his chair, dropping his bag on the floor with a thump.

  “Hey.” I noticed he wore a black brace on his right wrist. “Skateboarding injury?”

  Something flickered in his eyes before he coughed and nodded. “Yeah…I was trying a new trick…a kickflip. And I failed epically, obviously.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Nah, it’s not too bad. Mom made me wear this. You know what moms are like. Anyway, did you have a fun weekend?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “Um…if it was, it would be a pretty bad joke, don’t you think? Did you have a fun weekend? Definitely not hilarious. At all.”

  “You know what I’m talking about,” I said, but from the baffled look on his face, it was clear that he didn’t. I tried again, looking over my shoulder before whispering, “The party? The one everyone and their dog was invited to except for me and Marion Meltzer?” Marion walked in at that moment, making a beeline straight for her table, not talking to anyone—standard operating procedure for her.

  “Oh, that? Did you hear about the limo? Who has a pink limo at their twelfth birthday party? Does Chelsea think she’s a Kardashian?”

  I shrugged. “It must have been a decent party, though. I heard there was a DJ from a nightclub in the city.”

  Now it was Jacob’s turn to shrug. “Must be nice if your parents can afford to fork out thousands of dollars just to have some terrible music that makes your ears bleed.”

  “I bet the food was good, though.”

  “Who cares? It’s hardly worth it—going to Chelsea’s party just to get some decent food. You’d be better off going to Red Lobster.”

  “So you didn’t enjoy it then?”

  “Enjoy what?” He tilts his head, looking confused again.

  I couldn’t help myself. I rapped his forehead with my knuckles. “Hello? Is there anyone at home?” It’s something I do to Enzo all the time and he hates it. Jacob didn’t seem to like it any more than Enzo and swatted my hand away.

  “The party. You didn’t enjoy the party.” I said the words slowly, like I was explaining something to Enzo.

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t even go to the stupid party!”

  Oh.

  He told me he’d been invited. Of course he had. Jade had kept pestering him about it, saying the two of them should go together. Even if he’d wanted to go to the party, that would have been enough to put him off for sure. He said he broke the news to Chelsea on Friday afternoon, who responded by saying, “I suppose you’ve got something better to do.”

  Jacob told me exactly what he’d said to her, “Yeah, I do, actually. My dog’s got a bladder infection and I have to try and get a urine sample from him.”

  Jade hadn’t understood what he was trying to say. “That’s not better than Chelsea’s party.”

  Jacob told me he just smiled and said, “That’s what you think.”

  I wish I’d been there.

  Now I didn’t feel as bad about not going to Chelsea’s party. It sort of felt like Jacob and I were in it together somehow. It was a nice feeling.

  Chapter 17

  The principal has an open-door policy. Sometimes. Every Monday during lunch, any student is allowed to see him about anything at all. I figured that had to be a good sign—that he was willing to listen to the students.

  “COME IN!”

  I had no idea why Mr. Lynch was shouting. His chair was only a couple of feet away from the door, which was wide open. Having an open door is the first (and most important) rule of an open-door policy.

  “Mr. Lynch?”

  “That’s my name, don’t wear it out!” He said, and then he laughed way too loudly.

  I think I was supposed to laugh too, but I didn’t. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. Something really important.”

  His eyes widened at that, but I could tell he was just making fun of me. “Well, in that case, you’d better take a seat.” He gestured to the comfy-looking floral blue chair next to his desk. The chair was wedged between the desk and a gray filing cabinet, and it looked as out of place as I felt. It sagged under my weight, sort of swallowing me up and making me feel small and useless. Mr. Lynch was sitting on a normal office chair, so he was able to look down his pointy nose at me.

  “So. What can I do for you, Miss…?”

  I didn’t mind that Mr. Lynch didn’t know my name. I still found it hard to remember some of the teachers’ names, and he had a lot more names to remember than I did. But I didn’t like the “Miss,” obviously. “Spark. Liv…Olivia Spark, sir.”

  “Spark…” And there was something about the way he said my name that made me wonder if Mrs. McCready had told him about my attempted pants rebellion after all. Or maybe he remembered my name from when Mr. Eccles sent Jade to his office.

  I took my notes out of my bag, feeling my hands shake a little. That wasn’t good. I wanted Mr. Lynch to think I was calm and confident—the kind of person he could do business with.

  “What do we have here, Olivia? This all looks rather interesting, I must say.”

  I smiled as my confidence inflated just a little bit—enough to allow me to start talking. “Well, Mr. Lynch. It’s about the school’s uniform policy. I’m sure you know as well as I do how old-fashioned it is. There was no uniform policy at your last school, was there?”

  He looked at me blankly. I was doing it all wrong, so I tried to start again. “Boys wear pants and I think girls should be allowed to wear pants too.” Not that I’m actually a girl, but that’s another story. It was best to keep things simple. For now.

  “Well,” said Mr. Lynch as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs so that I could see his hairy ankle above his purple socks.

  I wasn’t quite sure what that meant. I couldn’t tell if it was a good “well” or a bad “well.” So I decided it would be best if I just forged ahead and said everything I had to say as quickly a
s possible. I said that skirts weren’t practical, that they were cold in winter (even when you wear itchy, woolly tights), and that last week I’d seen some eighth-grade boys trying to look up a girl’s skirt when she went up the stairs. I didn’t mention that the girl in question was Jade Evans.

  When I’d run out of things to say, and checked my notes for anything I might have missed, I sat back in my chair and waited for Mr. Lynch to speak. He was nodding slowly, like one of those plastic dogs you can stick to the dashboard of your car. Nodding had to be a good sign, right?

  “Well,” he said again. “You’ve clearly done a lot of thinking about this issue, Miss Spark. I’m impressed.” He smiled at me, and I smiled back. This was going better than I’d hoped it would.

  “Does that mean you’ll consider it then? Changing the uniform policy?”

  He was still smiling when he said, “No.”

  “No? I don’t understand. You said you were impressed.”

  “And I was. I am. But I’m afraid there are many, many changes that need to be made here at Bankridge. The list is literally as long as my arm.” He held up his arm to demonstrate exactly how long that was. “It’s a question of priorities, Miss Spark. And my number one priority is providing my students with the best possible education.”

  “Oh.”

  “So I’m sure you can appreciate the position I’m in.”

  “But what about the boys who were looking up that girl’s skirt?”

  “Can you tell me their names?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, then I’ll keep a lookout for that in future.”

  Mr. Lynch stood up and gestured toward the door. “So if that’s everything…?” He peered down his nose at me.

  “I…so you’re not even going to consider it?”

  His smile wavered. “I didn’t say that. We may well review the uniform policy in a few years’ time.”

  “But you don’t even need to do anything! Just say that girls can wear pants. All you need to do is mention it in assembly and change it on the website, which I can do for you if you don’t know how. I could even get some posters printed to put around the school to remind everyone.”

  His smile was completely gone now. “Miss Spark, I’m afraid you’ve heard my final word on the matter. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I have other matters to attend to.” He walked over to the door and gestured to it again, just to make sure I knew exactly where it was and how to use it.

  I didn’t move. My legs wouldn’t let me. “But, sir! Please! I can’t…” My voice wobbled so I took a deep gulp of air to try to get it under control. “I can’t bear to wear this stupid thing for much longer. I hate it!” I may have slightly shouted the last part. I didn’t mean to. I never mean to shout. It just sort of happens. It’s like someone uses the remote control to turn up my volume as soon as I actually care about something. And I really, really cared about this—if only I could do a better job of expressing it.

  It was inevitable, really. “I’ll thank you not to raise your voice, young lady,” said Mr. Lynch. I’ve always hated being called “young lady.” It makes me want to smash things.

  I got up from the chair and shoved my notes and papers back into my bag, not bothering to fold them. I swung the bag over my shoulder, narrowly missing a trophy that was on top of the filing cabinet. I briefly considered lobbing the trophy at Mr. Lynch’s head, but with my luck he would end up dead and I would have to go to jail, and that would suck. (Although, with Mr. Lynch dead, there would have to be a new principal and maybe that one would change the stupid uniform policy, which wouldn’t make any difference to me because I would be stuck wearing my prison uniform, whatever that might be.)

  I was ready to leave the room without saying anything else. I was determined not to thank Mr. Lynch. Sometimes you thank people by accident, even though you don’t really mean it. The word just slips out because you’re so used to having to be polite to people. It’s the same with “sorry.” I say that all the time when people barge into me on the street.

  I walked straight past Mr. Lynch without looking up at his silly pointy nose and was out of the room and halfway down the corridor when he called to me. “It can’t be that bad, surely?” I turned to see him leaning on the doorframe. “Wearing a skirt, I mean.”

  I knew what he wanted me to say. He wanted me to say that he was right, and I didn’t mind wearing a skirt. It was just some silly idea I’d had, and I’d probably forget all about it in a few days.

  “Actually, sir, it is that bad. How would you like it?”

  He shook his head. “Now you’re just being silly.”

  I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone else was around and then took a few steps back toward him. “I’m not trying to be silly. You’re saying that you wouldn’t like to wear a skirt, so why should I have to?”

  He was getting annoyed now; I was pushing my luck. “Because you’re a girl!”

  I bet if I told him the truth there and then, he wouldn’t have listened. It’s all about what people can see, isn’t it? And Mr. Lynch didn’t see who I was. He saw a girl.

  “It’s not that simple, sir.” I kept my voice calm, purposely keeping the volume down.

  He sighed so loudly that it was as if someone had punctured him with a needle, letting all the air escape in one big whoosh. “Why do I get the feeling that I haven’t heard the last of this?”

  I nearly smiled then, but I didn’t. I was deadly serious. “Because you haven’t, sir.”

  Chapter 18

  It was Thursday afternoon and Enzo and I were having a competition to see how many olives we could stuff into our mouths. It’s not as gross as it sounds. It’s not like we put the olives back in the plastic tubs for people to buy. That would be gross. We usually sneak out into the alley at the back of the shop to see who can spit the olives the furthest. Enzo’s the champion when it comes to spitting. I don’t know why I even bother trying to compete. But when it comes to stuffing olives into our mouths, there’s no beating me.

  The moms and Dante always get onto us when they catch us playing Olive Face, so we have to be careful to only do it when they’re not paying attention. Still, they usually know something’s up when Mr. Kellerman comes in for his weekly tub of lemon olives and there aren’t enough left. It just so happens that lemon olives are the best ones to use for a game of Olive Face. The sourness adds another dimension to the challenge.

  Dante was home sick and Mom was at the dentist getting a root canal. Mamma was busy on the phone in the storeroom. It was my job to alert her if a customer came into the deli.

  We were in the middle of round three. Enzo’s mouth was stuffed full and he was breathing hard through his nose. He looked ridiculous, but I guess I must have looked ridiculous too. I plucked another olive from the tub—the one that would mean I would beat Enzo (again). It was a big one too, just to emphasize my victory.

  I pushed the olive into my mouth just as the bell above the door tinkled. A customer! Enzo and I ducked down beneath the counter, cheeks bulging like hamsters munching on marbles. He pointed at me and then pointed at whoever was now on the other side of the counter. I shook my head, pointing at him. In an unspoken agreement (well, it had to be unspoken), we decided to settle the matter with a speedy game of rock-paper-scissors. I lost.

  I stood up and tried to arrange my mouth in something close to a smile, and then I realized that I knew the customer.

  Jacob was standing on the other side of the counter, looking about as surprised as I felt. “Hi.”

  I held up a finger to indicate for him to wait a second. Then I ducked down again and spat the lemon olives into the bin. Enzo did a little victory dance, which was some feat given that he was still crouching down. Then he spat his olives into the same bucket.

  I stood up again, my cheeks feeling oddly stretched and tingly. “Hi. What are you doing here?”


  Jacob’s face was red, and he was blatantly hiding something behind his back.

  “My mom asked me to get some cheese. She’s in a café down the street. I forgot you said your mom and…mom run a deli.”

  It was painfully obvious that Jacob had been about to say “dad,” but he’d caught himself at the last second.

  “What’s that behind your back?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Show me!”

  It was a walking stick.

  “I never took you for the English-gentleman type! What’s next? A bowler hat? You look so fancy!”

  He didn’t laugh. “It’s my mom’s.” He pulled on the end of the stick and started folding it up. By the time, he was finished, it was barely longer than a pencil.

  “That’s pretty cool. Why does she need a walking stick?”

  “She has this…condition. She doesn’t have to use it very—”

  “Hi! I’m Enzo!” Enzo sprang up from his hiding place, making Jacob jump. That kid always did have impeccable timing.

  Jacob laughed to cover his embarrassment. “It’s nice to meet you, Enzo.”

  “Who are you? Are you Liv’s boyfriend?” Enzo stretched out the word, enjoying himself.

  I kicked him in the shin. Not very hard, but hard enough to (hopefully) stop him from being so annoying. Jacob just laughed and said, “No, we’re just friends.”

  That was weird. Good weird though. I suppose we were friends. I’d found a real-live actual friend at Bankridge Middle School without even noticing.

  We let Jacob come behind the counter to get a better look at the cheese choices. Enzo recommended the gruyère, and I recommended the taleggio. Jacob hemmed and hawed before deciding he’d take some of both (even though his mom had asked him to get Monterey Jack). Enzo ran to get Mamma to slice the cheese. We weren’t allowed to use the cheese slicer, even though I’d promised to stop joking about slicing off Enzo’s fingers.