I stare at the clothes. I stare so long my eyes start to water, but I refuse to blink. “You have got to be kidding me,” I say in a low voice. “Have either of you ever read The Scarlet Letter? Why not just put a big A on my chest?”
Mrs. Montgomery’s smile fades, and Mr. Jones adjusts the button on his suit jacket.
“Now, Lucinda,” he says. “This is the compromise. Sending you home isn’t the answer. And perhaps in-school suspension isn’t the answer either. But you don’t get rewarded for violating the rules.”
I turn to him fiercely, shocked he’d believe this nonsense. But his expression makes me think he’s reciting Mrs. Montgomery’s explanation. I look at her.
“You want to shame me,” I say. “That’s why you’re doing this.”
“Shame, Lucinda,” she says patronizingly, “is a way of learning from bad behaviors. If you willfully disregard the rules, there must be a punishment.”
“You’re psychotic,” I growl.
“Hey, hey,” Mr. Jones says, stepping in front of me. “Let’s not . . . Let’s all just take a moment. What Mrs. Montgomery is suggesting is a tactic other schools use as well. You’ll cover your current outfit with the provided school clothing. End of the day, you drop them back off. It’s not difficult. And you get to stay in class.”
“I’m going to sue you,” I say to both of them. Although for what, I don’t know. And how, I couldn’t say. But this feels so egregious, so goddamn dismaying, that it’s all I can do to not burst into tears and run out into the hallway.
“The school makes the rules, Lucinda,” Mrs. Montgomery says. “Either follow them or don’t, but you have to learn that violating the rules has consequences.”
Her blue eyes trail over me, and it’s like I can see her hatred. Resentment. No one has ever looked at me the way she does right now—like I’m beneath her. Like I’m the problem of an entire generation. Who knows—maybe she had some repressive, fucked-up childhood. Or maybe her husband is the force behind this. Whatever reason, Mrs. Montgomery is using me to prove her moral superiority. And I won’t be a symbol for her misguided leadership.
“No,” I say simply, and turn to Mr. Jones. “Yeah, no. I won’t wear that.”
“Then I’m sorry, Lucinda,” he says, sounding like he means that. “You’re suspended indefinitely pending a board review.”
My mouth falls open. And I’ll be honest—in that moment I want to burn the entire place to the ground.
* * *
“Is that how you ended up here?” Georgia asked, interrupting Lucinda. “You burned down your high school?”
“No,” Lucinda responded. And then in a lower voice, added, “Not the entire high school.”
* * *
“I’d like to go back to in-school suspension until my mother can pick me up,” I say, my voice shaky. If they think I’m going to put on a uniform that’s intended to shame me, embarrass me— Well, I’d rather stand here naked.
Mrs. Montgomery looks over at Mr. Jones, clearly annoyed. But Mr. Jones ignores her and motions for me to wait in the hallway. I don’t say a word to my teacher and walk out the door.
I rest against the light blue wall, wrapping my arms around myself. In the quiet of the hallway, this uncomfortable feeling slides over me. It takes me a moment to process it, and I realize that I feel violated. The way Mrs. Montgomery wants to hold me up for ridicule, like putting me on a pillory for people to throw food at. Inviting people to hurl insults at me. Inviting them to mock me.
Tears well up in my eyes, and for a second I wish I wasn’t a girl. Constantly judged and objectified. I’m fucking sick of it. I just wish . . .
I sniffle and look down at the shiny white floor. It wouldn’t matter what I wish. My crime is being female in a place that values male education over mine. And I hate them. I hate them all for making me regret even one second of being who I am. I hate the way they’ve made me feel outnumbered and helpless.
There’s a tickle on my cheek as a tear slides down, and I wipe it roughly with my palm. I clear my throat, hearing the soft murmur of conversation float out from the room. My sorrow passes, and I’m instead filled with rage. The injustice of it all physically hurts me. Bakes me from the inside. Tears me open.
I don’t wait for Mr. Jones. My phone is in my backpack in the in-school suspension room, and I need to call my parents. I need them to know what the school plans to do. They’ll fight for me.
With a quick look at the open door, I back away until I jog down the hallway, heading to the cafeteria and the in-school suspension room.
Cece is at her desk, her elbow on the top, her chin in her palm. She straightens as I walk in, probably noticing that I’m upset. She reaches across the aisle and slaps Jameson’s shoulder to get his attention. When he turns to her, she nods at me.
I go over to Shelly’s desk, and she seems curious about what went down with me and Mr. Jones, but she doesn’t ask. “I’m going home,” I tell her.
“They’re sending you home?” Cece yells from her desk.
“Yeah,” I respond. “Indefinitely.”
I turn to Shelly and ask her if I can collect my things. She agrees, and I see a bit of sympathy in her eyes. Does she know that I’ve been humiliated? Can she see it on my face?
I get to my desk, and Jameson is staring at me wide-eyed, his normally cool demeanor faltering.
“He fucking suspended you?” he whispers fiercely.
“I guess,” I say, and Jameson leans back in his seat, his brow furrowed. “Does it still count if I took off before Mr. Jones could call home?” I ask.
“Uh, yes,” Jameson says. “That’s still suspending.”
“Well, damn.” I smile at him, even though I’m furious. Hurt. But now I have the chance to make this right. Okay, maybe not right. But I have the chance to get revenge.
“I’ll call you later,” I tell Jameson, and bend down to pick up my backpack. I glance at Cece. “Try to sneak out,” I tell her. “I need your help with something near the art room.”
“On it,” Cece says with a smile.
I loop my backpack over my shoulder, and head down the aisle. I need to get out of here before Mr. Jones comes looking for me.
I take the back stairs, waiting near the door to the second floor until the bell rings. I walk into the corridor just as students begin to flood the hall, and I slip into the stream of them, trying not to draw attention to myself.
When I get to the art room, I check to make sure Mr. Jones and Mrs. Montgomery are gone. Then I go inside and close the door behind me. There aren’t any classes in here in the mornings, since the art teacher who helps with the fashion design elective does half days at another campus.
My gaze falls on the screen-printed sweatshirt, still waiting on the table, and I feel sick all over again. It couldn’t be a mistake the way she had the words placed so boldly over the breasts, the word “Violation” darker than the others.
And fuck her because it worked—she shamed me. Even though I’m not wrong, I feel embarrassed. My nose burns as tears gather again, but there is a rattle on the door, and I quickly duck down. Cece pops her head in the window, and I go over to let her in.
She checks me over, but doesn’t mention that I’m about to cry. Instead, she looks fierce. She waves a pass she got from the office, one that excuses her from in-school while she meets with her counselor. Fortunately, the branches of high school government don’t interact so they’ll never know if she doesn’t show.
“So what’s this about?” Cece asks. “Why did they suspend you?”
I pick up the sweatshirt and hold it up. Cece’s eyes widen.
“That for you?” she asks. “You’re not wearing that.”
“It’s for all of us,” I say. “You know, if we dare to show our shoulders, bra straps, outlines of our legs, and whatever body part they outlaw next year. Maybe ankles? But instead of talking to Lance Duncan and his leering eyes and grope-y fingers, they pull me into the office. They suspend me.” Th
e tears well up again, but this time they’re from anger. “And I’m sick of it,” I say.
“Then what are we going to do about it?” Cece asks.
I shake my head, unsure. “What can we do?” I ask. “What rights do we even have?”
Cece bites one of her long fingernails, thinking it over. “We should walk out,” she says. “All the girls should walk out.”
“That sort of goes toward them denying our education, though,” I say, slumping onto the table. “We need something bigger. I want to . . .” I pause because even I realize the violence in the words. “I want to ruin them,” I say in a quiet voice.
I look up at Cece, and she seems surprised but not entirely opposed.
“What do you suggest?” she asks.
I glance around the room, see balls of newspaper coated in polyurethane, the beginnings of some art project. I see more paper and glue next to it. I look at Cece.
“Want to help me build a girl?” I ask.
She snorts a laugh. “Only if I get to do her makeup.” And she comes over to the table, and we get to work.
* * *
When Cece and I finish with the project, it’s close to lunchtime—which is perfect. We stuffed the clothes with the coated newspaper, like a Halloween scarecrow, making sure to fill out the female form. Over the chest of the sweatshirt, we changed the words. It now reads “Rule 16: A Violation of Our Dignity.”
Now I just need to get to the cafeteria and put it on display.
“I think we should call her Barbara,” Cece says, gazing down at the stuffed clothing. I look over at her, crinkling my nose.
“What the fuck?”
She shrugs. “It’s what I called my first Barbie,” she says. “She had, like, three houses, a Jeep, and she got to wear whatever she wanted. Barbara was fierce.”
“Oh my God, I love you,” I say with a laugh, but then notice the time. “You should get back to the in-school room before Shelly gets worried,” I say.
“It’s fine,” Cece replies. “I’ll tell her I had a lot of shit to talk through.” She leans in to give me a quick hug good-bye. “Just hurry up and get out of there,” she adds. “They can’t prove it was you if they don’t see you.” She smiles reassuringly even though she knows I’m busted already. My indefinite suspension may never be lifted.
And I’m not sorry. I won’t be used as an excuse for bad male behavior again. I won’t be used by Mrs. Montgomery to explain her fanatical view about my role in society.
I’m worth more than that.
“Be careful,” Cece warns, and then grabs her pass off the table and leaves.
I see a lighter on the teacher’s desk, and I shove it into my pocket. I check the time on the wall clock and realize I only have a few minutes before lunch starts. I gather up our creation—Barbara—trying to balance both halves of the body and make sure the hallway is clear before sneaking down the back stairs.
The cafeteria is empty, although there’s a flurry of movement in the food line where the cooks are getting everything set out. I look cautiously at the in-school room, but the door is closed. No one sees me.
I set the body parts on the floor, grab a chair, and drag it to the center of the room. It’s in full view of the entire place, and I set Barbara on the chair, sitting her up like she’s a person. The words are visible, and as I take a step back to admire my work, I’m struck again with the feeling of humiliation.
It’s shocking now that I see it. They wanted this to be me. They thought I deserved this because I wore leggings and a long shirt. This is what they would have done if they could have.
I know part of me is being irrational; that’s the thing—I know it. But I can’t stop the impulses. They’ve broken me—Mrs. Montgomery, the school board, all of them. And now I want to break them.
The bell rings, startling me. I quickly move behind a pole, not completely hidden from view but not obviously connected with Barbara. I watch as students walk in, some with crumpled brown paper bags. All of them stop to look, to read the sweat suit.
The guys laugh, mostly—their brows pull together with confusion. But it’s the faces of the other girls, the way they read the words with alarm and then anger. They see the original intention of the suit. And when that anger passes, they nod their heads in agreement. Rule 16 is a violation. And we all feel it.
A crowd has formed around Barbara, and for a moment, I feel vindicated, even if they don’t know it was me. I even start to smile. The bell rings, but no one is eating lunch. The door to the in-school suspension room opens, and Shelly and the students come out to see what’s going on.
My heart starts to beat faster. There’s a booming voice, and we all look over to see Mr. Jones marching over from the entrance, asking what’s going on.
He comes to a stop in front of Barbara. There are a few laughs, and some of the students get out of his way and go to sit down. I watch my principal read the words, seeing when he realizes it doesn’t say what he thought it would.
Mr. Jones spins around, searching, until he finally finds me standing next to the pole. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. Montgomery and another teacher enter the cafeteria.
I step out from my hiding spot, and stand next to my project. In my pocket my fingers touch the lighter that I grabbed from the art room.
“What is this?” Mrs. Montgomery yells shrilly. “This is destruction of school property.” She points to Barbara and then looks to Mr. Jones for backup.
I’m sure he will, but I don’t wait to be proven right. I’m well past that.
I glance across the room and find Jameson standing with Cece, watching it all unfold. He’s clearly worried, but then, as if saying the point is bigger than me and maybe I should see this through. I smile at him and take out the lighter.
And I don’t know what I’m going to do next, but I look at Mrs. Montgomery and . . . maybe part of me is hoping she’ll make this right. She’ll admit she was wrong. Instead, she glances from me to the lighter.
“You have no respect for yourself,” she says, her eyes narrowed. “At least have respect for your classmates.”
With a flash of anger followed by an eerie calm, I look directly at her. “That’s the thing, Mrs. Montgomery,” I say. “I’m doing this for all of us.”
I flick the lighter and hold the flame to the newspaper.
To be honest, I expected a slow burn that could have easily been stomped out. A scorch or two on the floor that would serve as a reminder of the time I burned Barbara and her violation suit. But that’s not what happened.
The polyurethane-soaked paper inside the suit goes up in a whoosh—the flames at least six feet high. The material of the sweat suit melts away like wet cotton candy, and it is a raging inferno of Barbara.
I drop the lighter and fall back a step, the heat singing the hair on my arms. The fire alarm sounds, and the students run from the cafeteria. I notice Jameson running toward the fire—toward me—just as the overhead sprinklers all burst and begin to rain down throughout the school.
Smoke, screaming, and a rush for the door. It is complete mayhem.
Mr. Jones does his best to get students toward the exit, but Mrs. Montgomery is gone. Figures she wouldn’t help. The water is freezing cold, but it feels nice on my arm, where I’m sure I’ve been burned by the flames.
Jameson calls my name, but before I respond, Mr. Jones grabs me by the shoulders.
“The police are on their way, Ms. Banks,” he says through clenched teeth. The sheer terror on his face is almost enough to make me feel sorry for what I’ve done. But in the end my principal didn’t have my back. I’m more disappointed than anything. So, no. I’m not sorry. And I tell him so.
And as he roughly leads me through the raining water toward the exit door—sirens already sounding in the distance—I pass by Jameson.
He watches me with shiny eyes, and just as I pass, Jameson whispers, “You’re my fucking hero, Lucinda Banks.”
“So that’s how you ended up here??
?? Jenna asked.
“Yep. Arrested and charged. My mom had a lawyer-friend who negotiated a compromise: this place.”
“And did they change the dress code after that?”
“Nope,” Lucinda said, the injustice still burning. “Now they all wear uniforms.”
“How come you didn’t burn the Bend down over these nasty-ass uniforms?” Jackie asked.
“Because we all have to wear them and not just the girls,” Sunday said. “That was the point of the story, right?”
We’d gone back to carrying Georgia when the crutches had begun to hurt her arms and shoulders, but we’d made good progress. Jaila and Jenna seemed to think we were on the right track and might actually make it back to camp by nightfall. I wasn’t as confident, but I also didn’t give a shit. I had everything I needed right there in those woods.
“I don’t know,” Georgia said. “You didn’t have to set the dummy on fire.”
Lucinda opened her mouth to speak, but Tino cut her off. “I get it,” he said. “If you don’t show them how far you’re willing to go, they’ll never take you seriously.” He was the last person anyone had expected to defend Lucinda, but there it was. “I mean, look at all of us, stuck in this shit hole camp for whatever. Doug and our parents and our teachers—they think we’re probably nothing but a bunch of animals, but we showed them who we really are. We showed them that they can’t ignore us.”
Jaila stopped to take a drink from her canteen. We’d had the chance to refill an hour back, but the day was getting hotter, and I hoped I wouldn’t run out. “I don’t see how being sent to prison camp is anything other than being shipped out of sight and out of mind.”
“And,” Sunday added, “I’m not sure anything we did is worth being proud of.”
“You didn’t turn in that boy when you could have,” Tino said. “And I bet the next school Lucinda goes to won’t try to stick her in a uniform.”
Cody stood beside Georgia, grinning. “Mike probably won’t ever mess with me again.”
“See?” Tino said. “It’s about respect.”