Dress Coded: List 2

She walks and talks that way because she has CP, short for cerebral palsy.

I pull the goggles off and glare at him.

I knew it would be cold and rainy, but I wanted to wear shorts anyway, because I’m determined to get dress coded before the end of middle school.

Megan and I FaceTimed last night for about three hours. That’s how long it took her to explain tectonic plates to me.

She points to the tiny pimples dotting her forehead and nose. “It’s like a topographical map.”

“Don’t worry. I have the embroidered...pouch my granny made me.”

Before the tree house was a recording studio for podcasts, it was:
1. A grotto for mermaids and mermen. Piles of seashells. Buckets of sand from our old sand table. Fabric in shades of blue hanging everywhere.

2. A fairy house. Shimmer fabric in shades of pink, yellow, and green. Tissue-paper flowers.

When he started, he followed the student handbook like it was the United States Constitution. Not even—the Constitution is open to interpretation. He followed it like it was some sort of fascism manual.

I feel like middle school has changed Mary Kate, like she’s not the same petrified girl from the first day.

“Yuck. Your hand is clammy.”

“Don’t let it bother you. Nick is just being Nick,” Navya says.
“Obviously,” I say. “He’s irrelevant.”

And the notoriously cruel tear ducts betray me.

It’s a list of over seventy words. Seventy horrible, hurtful, cruel words Nick has used to make fun of Megan’s cerebral palsy.

He’s always on the lookout for phones and other contraband.

Megan smiles defiantly.

This girl is a human rocket ship, soaring through debris on her way to the stars.

My words are stuck there, in my throat, like a congealed truth ball.

You can see the evidence on Instagram and decide for yourself if I was dressed inappropriately.

“What are you doing?” I say, acting groggy, like he woke me up.

I bend down and study the bird. It’s a female cardinal.

Dad lumbers downstairs (he’s always so loud on the stairs, even in socks), and I hear Mom shut Danny’s squeaky door most of the way.

Tibby sits up on my bed and wags his tail, obliviously happy that Danny’s giving us attention.

Every parade I’ve been in since Daisies has involved an uncomfortable outfit: Girl Scout uniform, junior band uniform, and now the sweltering Fisher Middle School band uniform, made of lizard skin and fire embers. It’s hot. And it’s only going to get hotter.

And we got on our hands and knees and dug and planted and tilled and watered until our garden grew.

Sleeping alone in a guest room with grimy teeth, because I forgot my toothbrush, was not what I had in mind.

Back when our tree house was a keep, Will’s birthmark was the mark of a prince chosen by the goddess tribunal.

Couchman gets on the loudspeaker and tells everyone the skies are looking ominous and they've changed the watch to a warning, so they’re going to implement the tornado protocol.

Couchman gets on the loudspeaker and tells everyone the skies are looking ominous and they've changed the watch to a warning, so they’re going to implement the tornado protocol.

The halls flood with teachers asking one another “What’s the tornado protocol again?”

He turns, still smirking, adjusts the red baseball cap sticking out of his back pocket, and saunters toward the office.