Bad Girls, Bad Girls, Whatcha Gonna Do?

by Cynthia Voigt

  “I didn’t want to miss the game. Jeez, Mee-shelle, I thought you were such a sports person.” But Louis took the paper, and maybe took the bait, too, because he looked carefully at her corrections. The thing about non-literal magic feathers was that you couldn’t see Dumbo wrapping his trunk around them and starting to flap his ears. You could only hope.

  Margalo was glaring at her, but Mikey didn’t care. Her idea was: Louis would probably believe her before he’d believe Margalo, because he knew for sure how much Mikey had never thought much of him. Whereas Margalo was always harder to figure out.

  When Louis had finished the three problems and shoved the paper across the table to Mikey, Margalo looked up from the papers he had shoved at her and said, “This is exactly what I meant. Exactly right. Now, think about who is in each of these scenes—”

  “Do nonhumans count?” Louis asked. “Like, what about that deer the ants eat, is the deer a character in the scene?”

  “You’re getting ahead of me.”

  “I am?”

  “Can you slow down a little?”

  “Sure,” Louis announced. “But I’m including the ants as characters,” he told her. “And the deer, no matter what you say, and I can prove it too. Because they’re there.” He jabbed his finger onto his paper with lists on it.

  “These problems are all correct.” Mikey passed his paper back to him.

  “You don’t sound surprised.”

  “Why should I be surprised?”

  “I told you he was smart enough,” Margalo said to Mikey, as if Louis was invisible.

  “I never said he wasn’t,” Mikey played along. “I just said he wasn’t going to do the work.”

  “I don’t have time to sit here and listen to you two arguing,” Louis said to them. “I’ve got better things to do than—Can we just get to work? Because if you think I’m going to go without any lunch, you’ve got another think coming.”

  So they all got a chance to have lunch. When Mikey and Margalo sat down at their table, Cassie announced that, after all, she did want to help with calling the lines at the next day’s match. “Because even if it’s not going to change anything, sometimes the only thing worth doing is the right thing. The same time as Tuesday? The same outfit?”

  “Yes,” Mikey said. And then—because if she hadn’t, it would have been breaking a habit she’d gotten used to, as unnerving as forgetting to brush your teeth—she added, “Today’s day thirty-two.”

  “But I’m not calling any away matches. I’m not spending hours trapped on a bus filled with people having school spirit.”

  “That’s up to you,” Mikey said.

  “Robredo’s going to be chewing nails over this,” Cassie added.

  Mikey reassured her, “It’s totally my responsibility.”

  “Believe me, I’ve already figured that out.” Cassie grinned.

  Then, passing Mikey in the hallway on the way to class, Tan turned back to say, “I’ll be there for the lines tomorrow.” So the numbers were mounting.

  Her anxiety should be mounting too, Mikey knew, since she had no idea what Mr. Robredo would do when she directly and personally disobeyed him. She would guess suspension, if she had to make a guess. She didn’t mind suspension. If she didn’t have to be at school, she could go downtown to Margalo’s restaurant and apply for a job, so it wouldn’t be entirely wasted time. But there was missing the work with Louis, for one problem, and for a bigger problem there was whether she would go ahead and call the lines for a third time when she got back to school from however many days of suspension Mr. Robredo gave to her.

  Mikey thought probably she would.

  Margalo had a slightly different point of view. “It’s turning into a no-win situation, like the cold war. All it can do is escalate,” she said to Mikey at lunch on Friday.

  “Day thirty-one, it’s already day thirty-one,” Mikey answered. “The year is really almost over.”

  “Or it’s like Thomas More in A Man for All Seasons,” said Hadrian. “They cut off his head because he wouldn’t compromise his principles.”

  “What kind of principles would be worth getting your head cut off over?” Jace wondered.

  “Religious,” Hadrian told him. “Personal integrity. Afterwards they mounted his head on a stake on the walls of the Tower of London.”

  “Ick,” was Tim’s response, but Cassie said, “Like the hands in a Grünewald crucifixion,” and Casey’s opinion was, “That’s barbaric. Like hanging criminals in cages and letting them starve to death, then letting the bodies rot in the cages until they’re only bones.”

  “Or putting them into jails,” Felix suggested.

  Hadrian continued, “Che Guevara. Martin Luther King Jr. Think of Jesus Christ. People frequently die for their principles. And Socrates.”

  Margalo pointed out, “Mikey’s not going to get assassinated for arranging to have the lines called in a tennis match.”

  “I know that,” Cassie said. “But there’s the ninth-grade equivalent.”

  “Suspension,” Mikey supplied. “I guess they could expel me, and then I guess I’d have to move to Texas to go to school.”

  “A bad idea,” Margalo said, promising, “We could stop them from expelling you, somehow. We could stage a sit-in or take them to court.”

  Casey reminded them, “My father is one of them, don’t forget. He’s not going to agree to expel Mikey about this.”

  “Yeah, but what can one teacher do?”

  Casey continued, “They’re not bad. They really do want us to learn and graduate and succeed in life.”

  “Some of them can be pretty bad,” Cassie maintained. “In it for the power, for example. Or the ego trip. Peter Paul,” she named one.

  Jace quarreled with that. “You just have it in for him because he thinks—”

  “Thinks what?” Cassie demanded. “What does he think? That I’m boring? Talentless? Or does he just think I’m female, which is about as low as you can get on the Art ladder.”

  “Maybe he just doesn’t think you’re any good,” Jace said.

  “Well, it’s mutual,” muttered Cassie. “Not that it matters anymore.”

  Mikey ignored the sweethearts. “This is just making an athletic event go more smoothly. It’s just calling lines for a single match, or a few matches. It’s not—”

  “Don’t you dare say it’s not important,” Margalo warned her.

  When Mikey led her group out onto the tennis courts that afternoon, there were only five of them, Cassie having met up with Mikey at the end of the last class of the day to say that it wasn’t that she didn’t agree, but she didn’t want to become an activist, she didn’t want to start being a member of any group, she didn’t want people thinking they knew what she would do. Mikey nodded and rearranged in her own mind the disposition of her small group for maximum effectiveness. But as the five of them crossed in front of the bleachers, Cassie ran up to join them. “If an artist can’t do what her conscience tells her, she might as well go to work for some Wall Street brokerage house.”

  Mikey just nodded and readjusted her readjustment. She repeated the instructions of Tuesday, again giving them in a loud enough voice so everybody—the home players and the visitors—would hear. “Remember, if you’re not sure it’s out, you call it in.” Then she assigned linespeople to the courts on which singles would be played, since line calls interfered most with those games, where the players lacked partners to correct or corroborate a call. This Harry Truman High School team had some objections. “Hey,” they protested, and, “Hey, man,” and, “What’re you doing?”

  “We’ll call the lines,” Mikey explained.

  “But, hey, that’s not fair. I mean, you’ll call in favor of your own team.”

  “If you don’t trust us, lend us some of your squad to call too.”

  There was discussion about this, then six of the Harry Truman players came forward, and Mikey mixed everybody up and distributed them around the courts. She gave her instru
ction again: “If it’s not clearly out, if there’s any doubt, call it in.”

  “But hey, what if it might be out?”

  “If you’re not sure, it’s not.”

  “Who’re you, the tennis mafia?”

  Mikey liked that idea, but before she could think of a good response, Coach Sandy came storming up.

  “Have you permanently unplugged your memory banks, Elsinger?” Coach Sandy asked. “Off the courts. Now. And take your little friends with you.”

  Mikey would never have just ignored her. That would have been rude, and Mikey wasn’t out to be rude. She was out to be rebellious, maybe, or disobedient; or you could put it another way and say she was out to ensure fair play. You could say that there were just two different points of view here. But that didn’t mean Mikey couldn’t be polite. So she turned around to face the coach and answer her. “No.”

  Then she turned back to her work. “Ira, take the far line of court two, and you”—pointing at an Asian girl with very short dark hair and sweatpants under her tennis shorts—“take the sidelines and the service line.”

  “I’m warning you, Mikey,” Coach Sandy said.

  Mikey turned around to respond politely, “I know.”

  “Your choice,” the coach said, and stormed off back the way she had come, towards the gym.

  Mikey figured it wouldn’t be all that long before Mr. Robredo was out there, and she wondered how that conversation would go, because he was big enough to lift her up bodily and carry her off if he wanted to.

  Or, she thought, picturing it, he could just crowd her off, stepping closer, driving her like cattle. In which case she would have to run, run around the courts, and he would have to run after her if he wanted to catch her.

  She had no good guess about how fast he was.

  But that would seriously disrupt the games, which was the opposite of what she wanted to do. She hoped that when Mr. Robredo got there, the conversation would give her a clue about what to say, how to behave. Because she didn’t have any ideas of her own. Meanwhile, she hustled over to the court where Mark Jacobs was playing singles.

  “Good to see you guys back here,” he greeted them. “Are you ready?” he asked his opponent. “Are all of you ready?” he asked the linespeople. “Then, let’s do it. You spin your racket, I’m calling up.”

  The racket showed down, so Mark got in place to receive the first serve. The match had begun.

  When Margalo and Hadrian arrived at the courts after rehearsal, four games were still in progress.

  Mikey was calling the lines on Court One, a girls’ singles game. Margalo went over to the players’ bench to ask about scores, but instead, looking around, realizing, she asked, “Where’s Coach Sandy?”

  The two boys and one girl sitting there didn’t take their eyes off the court in front of them. “Dunno. She went off a while ago. Move, will you? I can’t see.”

  Hadrian had taken advantage of the change of sides to offer his services and Margalo’s to Mikey, who just pointed to Court Four and said, “When they have a changeover.” But those doubles players didn’t want the lines called. “We’re fine, we’re in the groove,” they said. So Margalo and Hadrian went to sit on the second row of bleachers and watch as the sets were played out.

  One court after another emptied its players and line callers out, and people milled around, watching whatever games were still in progress. Mr. Robredo arrived for the end of the match, showing administrative interest in the sports program, introducing himself to the coach of the opposing team and standing beside her to watch the final game of the final set, with Mikey, Ira, and two strangers calling the lines. At the end, “Good game,” Mr. Robredo said, then turned to the players sitting on the bleachers to say, “Good playing, everyone. Thanks for the match,” he said, shaking the hand of the opposing coach, and then—putting a hand out to grab Mikey’s shoulder as she tried to get past him, going fast, as if he wasn’t there—“I want to talk to you.”

  “Absolutely,” Mikey said. “In a minute,” she said, and turned to finish her own job, telling everybody, “Good work.”

  Mr. Robredo added his thanks, then told them, “You will be doing this for our last two home matches, won’t you? I’m counting on it.” At the expressions on their faces, Trapped! he warned, “Otherwise it would look like you had some hidden agenda here. Is there a hidden agenda?”

  They shook their heads No, they wouldn’t think of it. Sure, they’d call the last two home matches.

  “I’ve been thinking, it probably should be the responsibility of the tennis squad to call lines. As of next year,” Mr. Robredo added.

  Margalo had moved closer to Mikey, showing solidarity. Hadrian had stayed back, showing insecurity. Hadrian wasn’t accustomed to dealing confrontationally with the authorities. But he didn’t scurry off, Margalo noticed, which she noticed the other tennis players and linespeople doing now, gathering up sweaters and knapsacks.

  “Mikey,” said Mr. Robredo. He sounded disappointed but calm. “I told you.”

  Mikey nodded.

  “I should not, however, be surprised,” he continued. “And I’m not.”

  Mikey nodded again.

  “I want you to show up for practice on Monday,” he said then. “Ready to play, will you do that?”

  “All right,” Mikey said, “but—”

  “No questions,” Mr. Robredo said.

  Mikey stopped talking.

  “You’re lucky I’m not suspending you,” he reminded her.

  Mikey didn’t nod.

  And Mr. Robredo—after waiting briefly for a reaction—asked her, “How many weeks is it?”

  This was unexpected. Mikey hesitated, then, “Six,” she told him. “As of Monday.”

  “That’s thirty days,” Mr. Robredo said.

  “Yes,” Mikey agreed.

  Margalo was having a pretty good time watching this conversation. She was having a pretty hard time not laughing.

  “Although,” Mr. Robredo said thoughtfully, “if you factor in that the last week is only four days because one is an in-service day for teachers so they can get their exams corrected and final grades calculated, and if you remember that there are three exam days and that attendance on the final day of school is optional, for those who want to find out right away what grades they’re getting—Adjusting for that, it’s effectively only five weeks as of Monday. Which is twenty-five days. How are you handling Memorial Day?” With that question he turned on his heel and strode away.

  – 24 –

  Back to Normal—Wherever That Is

  On Monday, Mikey and Margalo finished quickly with Louis, praised his work—which was, in fact, perfectly acceptable—and then negotiated a Wednesday deadline for his next assignments. Louis fled the library feeling as if he had won a great victory and maybe even pulled the wool over their eyes. “You think you’re so smart but you’re not as smart as you think,” was his parting blow.

  They didn’t try to contradict him and have the last word. They had their own purpose for Louis, which came under the heading of They Said It Couldn’t Be Done. “Do you think he’ll pass these courses?” Margalo asked Mikey.

  “If he doesn’t pass Math he’ll hear from me. I don’t know about English.”

  “Miss Marshall is being generous, letting him make up assignments from the fall and winter. I tried to warn her not to expect him to thank her.”

  “How about answering the question?” Mikey asked.

  “Well, yes, he could pass English. He should.”

  They were satisfied and entirely pleased with themselves as they went outside to eat lunch in the sunlight. Most of the school felt the same way that early May day, so all the tables were occupied, and the wall, too. They had to sit cross-legged on a cement sidewalk, sandwiches and fruit, cookies and cake, boxes of juice and milk set out on paper napkins in front of them.

  “This is week six,” Mikey announced. “Day thirty. It’s really getting on down there. According to the way Mr
. Robredo counts”—she liked remembering this—“it’s actually week five. Day twenty-five. Actually, day twenty-four, because of Memorial Day.”

  “He’s right, you know. Exam period isn’t like school.” Margalo was having peanut-butter-and-jelly for about the twelfth straight day, and she was pretty tired of it.

  “I brought you a piece of cake.” Mikey passed over a thick wedge of chocolate cake with chocolate icing and a pink candy rose.

  “Is this a birthday cake?”

  “It was Katherine’s birthday Saturday.”

  “She had a party? Why didn’t you ask me?”

  “You were baby-sitting.”

  “You could have asked anyway.”

  “There were balloons and hats, even though it was only us.” Mikey had an entirely thick sandwich, thick slices of wheat bread with thick slabs of white cheese and chunky golden chutney. “Presents, too. The boys each gave her a water pistol.”

  “She wanted two water pistols?”

  “No, they did. We gave her an electric juicer, one of the small ones, for orange juice and grapefruit juice. She always drinks juice at breakfast and now she can have really fresh juice, which is always better than packaged.”

  “That’s not an awfully personal present for your fiancée,” Margalo observed.

  “I think Dad has something else. Something private. Maybe a watch?”

  Margalo gave Mikey the beady eye, Who do you think you are deceiving? then she made her countersuggestion. “A nightgown.” Something in Mikey’s face made her counter-countersuggest, “Probably a watch, that’s a traditional important gift, or maybe books she’ll like. A cookbook?”

  “I know they’re doing it,” Mikey said. “Having sex. I’m not stupid, I just—I think it’s private to them.”

  Margalo wouldn’t quarrel about that. “Agreed. One hundred percent agreed. And I don’t want them speculating about my private life either.”

  “You don’t have one, do you?”

  “Sooner or later we probably will,” Margalo said. “We’re not entirely abnormal.”