Moxie: Chapters 12–17

It’s gone down like this before—these weird, cavalier explosions of dress code “checks” on girls by the administration that evaporate into nothing after a few days—but I’d like to think Moxie had something to do with it this time.

All of us peer down at the billowing clouds of smoke enveloping the entrance where the football team is about to make their appearance.

The pirate is pretending to slice the bobcat’s neck with a sword as the bobcat writhes around in mock terror.

His jowls quiver a little as he speaks in his thick Texas twang, and he brushes right past me as he enters the office, zooming by like I’m a mosquito or fly.

I scowl at his back and revel in the tiny rush it gives me.

I thought I’d have at least an hour or two of getting-ready time in which to practice expressions and witty repartee in the bathroom mirror with my music blaring in the background.

I shake my head no and bristle a bit at her description of me.

I head to my room to contemplate outfits, trying to shake off the awkwardness between us.

The tinny sound of some band I don’t recognize but that sounds pretty catchy starts to spill out of the speakers.

“You must miss it, I guess?” I ask. “Austin, I mean.”
“That’s an understatement,” Seth says.

“I mean, it gets shown and stuff. I think they’re big names in the world of abstract textile art, which is, unbelievably, a world. People pay a lot of money for it. But to be honest, to me it just looks like a bunch of bedsheets folded weird.”

“Damn,” I reply, my small-town instincts kicking in, ready to express dismay anytime the home team loses.

“Yeah?” she asks. Her voice is hopeful but her eyes seem skeptical.

Lucy and I make plans to get to the cafeteria right at the start of lunch, and we commandeer the table in the corner that student groups often use for fund-raisers.

“I mean, you guys need new uniforms, right?”
Amaya nods vigorously, her mouth full of lemon bar.

The few weeks between Thanksgiving and winter break are just, I don’t know, such an exercise in futility. No one wants to be at school, and that includes the teachers.

A few boys did it—boys like Mitchell and Jason and their buddies—and then it started to spread like a match to dry kindling, with so many boys playing along that making it down a hallway was like picking your way through a minefield.

“I can’t wait for Friday. I need a vacation from this retrograde nightmare.”

I catch a glimpse of a few girls preening at the sinks.

I think I’m breathing, but I’m not sure. I’m glad my mother isn’t looking at me or she’d wonder why I’ve gone catatonic.

It sounds all romantic and gorgeous to live by the beach, but the Gulf Coast isn’t exactly a bastion of moonlit walks on white sand.

“Just that she wasn’t the most fiscally responsible governor..."

But my mother just laughs at me like I’m some kid, which rankles me a little.

Slap, slap, slap. I like how loud each slap sounds, my hand making the metal locker reverberate each time I put up a new sticker.

But Marisela just fishes into the pocket of her jeans, digs out a sticker, and ceremoniously pushes it on him.

“Girls, to say I’m angry would be an understatement,” he begins. “I’m livid. There are stickers all over boys’ lockers and reports that girls are placing stickers on boys’ shirts.”

"For what?" Lucy asks, and the tiny little tremor in her voice tells me that her level of bravado has fallen a notch or two.

“I should probably make some more guy friends around here. Maybe start brushing up on my obscure baseball stats so I fit in more with the guys I eat lunch with.”

I reach out tentatively and stroke the top of Lucy’s dark curls.

“But I’m scared. I definitely think the administration is going to be keeping a super close eye on all us girls. I don’t know. I hate to say it, but I really do think Moxie should take a hiatus.”