“That would be awesome,” Piper said. “Then our work is done here. Or not done. You know what I mean.”
“How are you going to see to it that we don’t get suspended or worse?” I asked.
Both Ms. Russo and Edith let a few beats pass before answering, which made me even more concerned.
“We have people on the inside, as you know,” Edith finally said.
“And I have every confidence that that particular person will be very effective,” Ms. Russo said.
I knew who they meant and mouthed “Mrs. Percy” to Kate and Piper.
“People do say she pretty much runs the school,” Piper said.
“She’s impressive in her influence, to be sure,” Edith said.
“Can you guarantee us that she will smooth things over with Principal F. so that nothing happens to us? That’s what I’m looking for,” I said.
“Ah, youth,” Edith said. “I wish I could give you a gold-standard guarantee, but I can’t. What I can say is that it feels like a risk worth taking.”
“Think of the brave women who’ve come before you. No one just handed women the right to vote, remember?” Ms. Russo said.
Oh, great. Now she’s comparing us to Susan B. Anthony.
“I’m up for an adventure,” Piper said.
“And I think, you know, it will all work out,” Kate said. She looked at me, since I was the only one who needed convincing.
I felt surrounded and I gave in by simply lifting my palms skyward as if to say “I have no argument left.” Well, I did have one argument but I wasn’t going to share it since it was, simply “I’m chicken.”
Ms. Russo explained that they’d planned a meeting with Principal Finklestein to discuss the matter. They’d bring along Mrs. Percy so she could push our case.
“I do wonder what he’s going to say,” Kate said.
But Kate said her worries had given way to her feeling that this was the right decision.
“We’re doing something good here. Maybe not, like, heroic, but important at Margaret Simon Middle School,” she said.
“Right-o,” Edith said. “You girls should discuss how you’d like us to proceed.”
“I think we should be at the meeting,” Piper said.
“I agree one hundred percent,” Ms. Russo said. “This is a girls’ movement. You should do some of the talking.”
Gulp. This is not what I’d imagined. Sitting in the principal’s office and admitting that we’d been carrying on with the PLS all along, and that we now planned to reveal ourselves to the whole school?
Kate read the look on my face and suggested that just us girls talk and get back to the grown-ups about what to do next about the meeting.
“Great,” Ms. Russo said. “Oh, and I have some exciting news. I’ve nominated you three to speak at the national Tomorrow’s Leaders Today conference.”
I had heard about this conference, but until now, I had known only total brainiacs to attend. You know, eighth-graders who already know which college they’re going to and expect to be president of the United States someday.
“You’re going to talk about the Pink Locker Society and how other girls can form a group like this at their school,” Ms. Russo said.
“So it’s already decided?” I asked.
“Well, the committee was very impressed when I described your work,” Ms. Russo said. “There’s even interest in having a session for boys. Wouldn’t it be incredible to create Blue Locker Societies, too?”
“What about Principal F.?” I asked.
“By the time of the conference, the PLS will be out in the open, right?” Ms. Russo said.
By this point, Kate and I were speechless. But Piper leaned over the table, with interest, toward the speakerphone.
“Where is this conference?” she asked.
Ms. Russo answered with three of the most exciting words I’d ever heard.
New. York. City.
Of course we wanted to go, even if it meant we’d have to work on a session about Blue Locker Societies. Having the chance to stay in a hotel and explore the coolest city in the world was just too amazing to pass up.
Six
It was normal for my parents to know very little about what I was thinking. I mean, I was getting older and it was my life and all. But I was sort of reaching a point where there was too much they didn’t know. I was constantly thinking about the Pink Locker Society and the New York City trip. None of us had told our parents we restarted the PLS, so we couldn’t spill the beans yet about the trip. And, of course, our parents would have to say okay and sign the permission form. That meant the two topics that were most on my mind—that I’d most like to discuss—were completely unavailable for dinnertime discussion. When my parents asked, “What’s new with you?” I froze.
I started to feel confined by how much they didn’t know. And as plans unfolded for taking the Pink Locker Society public, it seemed high time to tell them.
I picked a time when I thought they’d be most understanding. It was Sunday afternoon and I had just folded a load of laundry. I delivered the items like a mailman to our bedrooms and other spots in the house as appropriate. I brought the empty basket downstairs to where they were sitting together, reading the Sunday paper and drinking coffee.
“Okay, I have something to say.”
They both looked up. My dad peeked at me over the sports page.
“Well, remember the Pink Locker Society?”
They nodded and looked at each other.
“The Web site, the whole Principal Finklestein fiasco?” Dad asked.
Having the principal show up at your house after school was definitely quite a fiasco.
“Yeah, that’s it. Well, it’s still going,” I said.
“Okay, and who’s running it now?” Mom asked.
“I am,” I answered hesitantly. “Me and Kate and Piper. And sometimes Bet.”
My parents shared a look of surprise and then looked back at me.
“How long has this been going on?” Dad asked.
“Since not long after we were supposed to have shut it down. When we got the laptop back.”
“I knew this would happen,” Mom said, resting her folded newspaper on her belly. “You girls are going to be in a heap of trouble if the principal finds out.”
“Susan B. Anthony got in a lot of trouble, too. And now she’s a hero. She’s on a coin, right?”
I was stammering here, making a comparison I didn’t exactly buy myself.
“I’m not sure what Susan B. Anthony has to do with your particular situation,” Mom said, narrowing her eyes.
“I have to agree it doesn’t explain your being dishonest with us,” Dad said.
I closed my eyes, praying that some kind of convincing explanation would come flying out of my mouth. To my shock, it did. It wasn’t pure accident, though. I dug deep for the truest, true feeling I had about the whole situation.
“I’m proud of how we’ve helped girls,” I said. “It’s the only important thing I’ve really done in my whole life.”
My parents both smiled at this, and I spotted the early signs of me winning them over. Then I told them how we answer questions from girls every week who have all sorts of problems.
“They are so happy we answer their questions even when we don’t have easy answers, like when it’s about bullying or someone’s parents getting divorced,” I continued.
“Where is all this going on?” my mother asked.
“In the school basement, in study hall.”
“Is it safe down there?” my mother asked.
I thought about the dark, the dust, and the churning furnace, but told her it was fine.
“It’s … noble, yes. Certainly sounds so, but I’m still not over your going against the explicit orders from Prinicpal Finklestein,” Mom said.
Though I was still nervous myself, I explained how we were going public with help from Ms. Russo, Edith, and Mrs. Percy.
My mother, placing a hand
on her belly, said that she couldn’t argue against the Pink Locker Society.
“It’s a good concept,” she said. “I’ve never had a quarrel with that. Girls need help, and why not get it from other girls?”
But—and this was a pretty serious but—she and Dad wanted to talk with Ms. Russo. I know they wanted to see if my story checked out.
This was perfectly fine with me because then Ms. Russo could break the news to them about New York City. And once she did that, I could start talking nonstop about NYC and what we’d do there and where we’d stay and how we’d eat the best pizza on earth and see the city lights twinkle like diamonds as we trotted through Central Park by horse-drawn carriage.
Seven
Bet still had her weekly show on Margaret Simon Middle School TV. But it was not the hard-hitting kind of journalism she had in mind when she was awarded the honor in the fall. Principal Finklestein had had weekly flip-outs when her shows featured important topics like the Pink Locker Society and the fairness of the annual Backward Dance. So now we had been broadcasting Bet’s real shows on the Pink Locker Society Web site, which allowed her to report on hard-hitting topics like bullying and the Fat or Not–list incident.
When it came to being on MSTV, Principal Finklestein had pretty much ordered Bet to stick to bland topics, such as study skills, lunch-table etiquette, and the history of the Margaret Simon Middle School flower garden. But she was awarded one big story: She got to announce the destination for this year’s eighth-grade trip.
As the time of announcement neared, everyone was buzzing with guesses. Some were far-fetched like Hawaii or Antarctica. But we all really knew it would be somewhere that could be easily reached from where we lived. It couldn’t be too far or too expensive, but previous classes had gone to lots of cool places, including Boston and Washington, D.C.
We grilled Bet at lunch on Friday, the day of her weekly broadcast, but she wouldn’t give us even a hint.
“It’s a city, is all I’ll say,” Bet said.
“Oh, thanks, that narrows it down,” Piper said.
“You’ll just have to wait,” Bet said.
“What if we give you an even better story, will you tell us then?” Piper said.
I shot Piper a look that said “What are you doing?”
“Oh, come on, Jem. You know we’re going to tell her anyway.”
“It is a pretty good story,” Kate said with a mischievous grin.
“Tell us, s’il vous plaît!” Piper pleaded en Francais.
“It has to do with your favorite person, Principal Finklestein,” I said.
“And your real favorite people, us, the Pink Locker Society,” Kate said.
“Okay. I’ll give you a hint,” Bet said. “New Amsterdam.”
She ran off to prepare for the afternoon and her broadcast while the rest of us shook our heads. Did that mean we were going to New Amsterdam? Because none of us had ever heard of it.
That afternoon, during last period, the eighth grade was more polite than usual during Bet’s broadcast. I mean, they paid more attention back when she did serious stuff. But these days, most people just talked or doodled during her shows. But the classroom was quiet, waiting for the news. Eighth-grade trips were legendary. Traveling together and staying overnight was just so grown-up, and the potential freedom—even with chaperones—was tantalizing.
Bet sat behind her anchor desk and spun a globe.
“Where will it be, eighth grade?”
“I’m crossing my fingers for Paris,” Piper whispered to me.
We watched Bet halt the spinning Earth and the camera followed her finger to the east coast of the United States—no big surprise. Then the lens zeroed in to show that she was pointing at New York.
Cheers erupted in our classroom and could be heard echoing down the hall. People hugged and jumped up and down until Mr. Ford asked us to “kindly return to your seats.” But even he high-fived a few of us and revealed he’d be going as a chaperone. I was thinking about the Tomorrow’s Leaders Today conference. Did that mean I’d be going to New York City twice?
The rest of the class was buzzing noisily about their big-city plans when Mr. Ford approached my desk.
“You can thank Ms. Russo for that,” he said confidentially.
“What?”
“Well, the class trip was supposed to be to Williamsburg, Virginia, but Jane found out it conflicted with your conference. She convinced the trip committee to go to New York instead. You’ll be able to do both.”
Eight
Some days, they shouldn’t call it cross-country practice. They should call it a mud bath. That’s what it was like to run in the wet, soppy springtime. It might have been sunny, but the hint of winter was still in the air. Wherever my sneaker landed, the ground was so wet I kicked up dots of mud on the back of my legs.
That doesn’t sound fun, does it? Well, somehow it still managed to be fun for me. I was getting better at running. I wish I would have tallied up every mile since I started running. Had I run one hundred miles yet, I wondered? When would I run two hundred? Lots of girls say they can’t run.
What they mean is that they can’t run for very long. But here’s a secret. You can run. If I can run, you can run. You start small. You run for a little bit. You run around the block. You walk fast, then you run. And before you know it, it gets easier. You’ve run a mile and you’re done. You didn’t even have to stop.
If you’re like me, you get to one mile and you don’t want to stop. Now, by mile two, I wanted to stop, but even then, I tried to keep going. And I figured maybe someday, I’d be able to just keep going. A marathon is 26.2 miles. Something to shoot for.
So I kept going on that chilly March afternoon. Splish-squelch. I was deep in my running brain, thinking about nothing and everything all at once. Then I saw him: Forrest. Just up ahead, he was carrying his baseball bag and some bases. Baseball season was starting up, so of course I’d be seeing him out here occasionally. Did seeing him mean that I had let myself think about him and I had to switch my bracelet to the other wrist? I hoped not. And what if he stopped me, would that count? Because that is exactly what happened next.
“Hey, Jemma, hold up?”
I slowed to a trot and then walked the last few paces toward him. He was standing there in a hoodie. He dropped his stuff and waited for me. I didn’t even have time to think of how I looked.
“I’m supposed to ask you about this New York thing. Ms. Russo wants me to do something with the Blue Locker Society, whatever that’s supposed to be,” he said.
“Oh? Nobody told me about that.”
“Yeah, I guess we’re supposed to talk or something. At some conference?” Forrest said.
“She wants you to talk to me? Um, okay. When?”
“Monday study hall, at the lockers,” he said. He picked up his bag and hustled down the hill to the baseball diamond.
I watched him go all the way down the hill to the group of players warming up. I remembered Ms. Russo saying something about a Blue Locker Society, but how did Forrest get involved? What were the two of us supposed to discuss?
I was still so stunned it took me a moment to get running again. I knew I’d be calling Kate about this one. But my run wasn’t over so it was just me, the mile ahead, and my thoughts. Enough time to make a decision. It would be all business when I met with Forrest.
* * *
Kate said the Blue Locker Society idea came up because the leaders’ conference is co-ed—both girls and boys.
“And Ms. Russo thinks that it would be good for boys to have a Blue Locker Society,” Kate said.
“They have just as many questions as girls, they just keep quiet about them,” Ms. Russo had told Kate.
Mr. Ford asked for volunteers and Forrest was the only one who said he’d do it, Kate said.
“Uh, okay. I guess I get it.”
Nine
So my Monday meeting with Forrest came and went and I stayed calm the entire time. I didn’t wear anyt
hing special. I didn’t write down what I would say. I just decided I’d answer his questions and be nice, but not flirty-friendly.
It was Forrest who seemed nervous. He was the first one at the lockers and we decided to go to the gym to talk. Otherwise, teachers would snag us for not having hall passes. I, for certain, didn’t want to get caught. Technically, I had never been assigned a study hall room, so we could have our Pink Locker meetings. But today, Kate and Piper were meeting without me.
“What do you want to know?” I asked after we settled into a spot on the bleachers. The gym was empty except for the sixth-grade square dance club.
“Do you remember when we did square dancing in sixth grade?” Forrest said.
I laughed out loud, thinking of that square dance music and all those unusual commands—do si do, allemande left.
“Deadly,” Forrest said. “You have absolutely no control over who is your partner.”
For a moment, I flashed to a time in sixth grade when we were square dance partners.
“But they look like they’re having fun,” I said.
The music stopped and the class was supposed to be realigning their squares. But some couples were swinging their partners, just for the fun of it. Mimi Caritas and her partner were among them.
“Okay, what do you need to know?” I said, turning to face him.
“Know?”
“About the Pink Locker Society or the Blue Locker Society, or whatever this is about.”
“Are you mad?” he asked me.
“What would I be mad about? It’s just that I don’t really understand what all this is about.”
I was unaccustomed to Forrest paying such close attention to my mood.
“Me neither, really,” he said.
“Are you supposed to start a Blue Locker Society here, at Margaret Simon Middle School?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s the idea. Get one going, so we have something to talk about at the conference.”
I asked if he had other guys and if they had any idea how to set up a Web site. He said he was going to make Luke do it with him.
“You should ask Jake to be in it,” I said.
Girls in Charge Page 2
