Our shirts are a hit. There are nearly thirty of us who show up in all the different designs. I wear Maxine Hong Kingston, and Jasmine wears Ruby Dee. Isaac and Nadine got some of the people from their clubs to wear them, and then Mia got the entire girls varsity basketball team to come in rocking our Woman Warrior T-shirts. I watch them all walk in together—a whole mix of the women on their shirts—and see the surprised look on the security guard’s face.
“These look nice,” Ms. Sanchez says, eyeing all the designs as we walk in. She stops me to admire the quote on the back. “Wow, I love these! Where did they come from?” she asks.
“We designed them,” I say. “Well, I mean, a bunch of us did. Isaac, Jasmine, and Nadine—we all figured it was about time people celebrated revolutionary women,” I finish.
“You kids did this, huh? I love it. Let me get three of the Sandra Cisneros shirts, please. For my granddaughters. They know how radical I am. They will love these. You have to teach ’em when they’re young,” she says. “We came here from the Dominican Republic, and once you arrive, they try to take all your history away from you. Whitewash it all. Maybe put Julia Alvarez on the next batch.”
“We’re on it,” I say, unloading three shirts for her right then and there.
Who knew Ms. Sanchez was so political. And by second period, I am getting text message requests for shirt sizes and styles. We beg Ms. Lucas to use her classroom, and then we post on her bulletin board that we’ll be selling some of our shirts, and if we run out, or need different sizes, then we’re taking any future orders during lunch. We get to the room to set up—unfolding the shirts that Jasmine and I packed up in our backpacks in neat piles. We each brought twenty-five shirts in all different sizes to make sure we had a variety for everyone. We didn’t know if people would want them or not, but we wanted to be prepared. As soon as the bell rings, kids come filing in and we don’t stop the whole time. We sell all fifty shirts. Lots of folks love the women we have chosen, but others come in with special requests: Shakira, Tina Charles (from one of Mia’s teammates), Gloria Steinem, bell hooks, Gloria E. Anzaldúa. And then there are requests for everyday women warriors. They tell us stories about women who make life better—moms who wake up early to make sausage and eggs for their kids, and aunts who show up to school plays and make clothes, sisters who help with algebra homework. When Meg and her best friend, Michelle, walk in to buy a shirt, I know the mood in school has lifted.
“Can I get two shirts? Uh, the bright yellow one and the hot pink one . . . the one you’re wearing.”
“All sold out,” Jasmine says, not looking up.
“But we could take an order,” I add, nudging Jasmine while in my mind trying to figure out why Michelle would even want to be a part of our movement. “This is Audre Lorde, and I’m wearing Maxine Hong Kingston. If you don’t know them, you should totally look them up,” I say.
“These are . . . I really like the shirts,” Meg says, pulling her wallet out of her bag. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. We really were just joking.”
“Thanks for that,” I say.
Jasmine doesn’t say anything at first, then as Meg walks away she calls out, “If you’re going to wear these shirts, you really should look up these women. You could learn something.”
By the end of lunch, Ms. Lucas is as excited as we are. “I’m just overwhelmed . . . ,” she says. “Did you hear how many people shared stories about the strong women who make them who they are?”
I take out a sheet of paper before we leave and write: To join the revolution, visit Write Like a Girl, and jot down the website for our blog before pinning it to the bulletin board.
“You can’t use the word ‘revolution,’ ” Ms. Lucas says, eyeing the paper over my shoulder.
“But that’s what it is. You saw how many people showed up here today, right?”
“Listen, I am here for you all, since I am your advisor, but ‘join the revolution’ is very different from ‘join the conversation.’ Let’s get back to the dialogue, and everything will be fine.” She finishes packing up her room and walks out with us. “Let’s keep it all on the up-and-up.”
“Okay,” I say, frustrated that I can’t change her mind. “I gotta run to my locker before my next class. Maybe we can talk about this later?” I add. Ms. Lucas nods as I rush out.
I run upstairs to the third floor to grab my textbook before STEAM. I’ve been reading a ton of tech blogs, and I can’t wait to bring some of my newfound poems to class. I only have a few minutes before the lunch bell rings, so when I see Jacob Rizer near his locker, I almost turn around and leave my poems, but he stops me.
“Chelsea Spencer—poet, activist, T-shirt designer—she does it all,” he finishes, starting to laugh.
“Did you wanna buy a shirt? Because we actually SOLD OUT. Too bad you missed your chance,” I say.
“Oh, I probably still have a chance,” Jacob says, and I take a step back. If he’s flirting with me, and I think he is, then he’s doing it in a creepy way. I give him a look and open up my locker.
“Whatever,” I say.
“So you miss us in poetry club?” he asks, pushing his shoulder up against mine for a quick second. It’s not too hard, but it’s definitely uncomfortable, and way closer than he’s ever gotten to me. Jacob was always such a jerk in class, and now I’m wondering if he was acting like a kid—like how my dad once told me when a boy really likes you they’re mean to you.
“Nope, I’m pretty good where I am, thanks,” I say, and move to grab the book inside my locker and get out of the hallway, which is still empty since lunch hasn’t let out yet.
“Come on, admit it, you miss me just a little, right?”
“Oh yeah, I really miss all the times you talked over me in class, and when you’d make fun of what I said . . . yup, I really miss that.”
“Ah, I knew you missed me. But I guess now you’re too busy writing your sweet little poems about how hard the world is for girls. Poor little girl,” he says, and pats me on the head like I’m a puppy or some small animal.
I don’t know what it is, but something snaps in me, and I shove him off me, hard.
“Jeez, Spencer, you can’t even take a little joke?”
“It’s not funny,” I say, “and don’t touch me.” Tears come to my eyes.
“Yeah, everyone is right about you and Jasmine. Always taking everything so seriously. And always making it about you.”
“Shut up,” I say, struggling to find a better comeback, but mostly just trying to walk away. I shut the locker door.
“Don’t worry, I won’t bother you anymore.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying to push past him. He’s standing so close to me that it’s hard for me to move away.
“You can go ahead and keep working on the next Feminist Manifesta,” Jacob says, starting to laugh again, and as soon as I turn around, he slaps me . . . on my butt . . . right there in the empty hallway, with no one around to witness. I don’t even turn around. My whole body feels like it’s burning, like I’m on fire, and I can’t catch my breath, and the tears are coming down for real now. I keep walking faster and faster.
“It was a joke, Spencer. A JOKE. Come on, lighten up,” he calls after me.
I make it as far as the bathroom at the end of the hall before I’m behind one of the stalls trying to control my sobbing. I lean against the door and start to take deep breaths. I know what I have to do, and I take a few more minutes before pulling myself together. When the end-of-lunch bell rings, I walk down the stairs and straight for Principal Hayes’s office.
“May I help you?” his secretary, Ms. Potts, asks.
“I’d like to speak to Principal Hayes, please. It’s important.”
“And remind me of your name, dear.”
“Chelsea Spencer.”
“Oh, yes, I have been hearing your name quite a bit,” she says, smiling, “and reading that very smart blog of yours and Jasmine Gray’s. Very smart indeed.” She nods in my direction like she’s in on a secret with me and lets Principal Hayes know that a student is here to see him.
“Well, to what do I owe the honor?” Principal Hayes says, standing in his doorway.
“I, um, I just wanted to talk to you about an incident,” I say.
“Okay, I’m all ears,” he says, “and Ms. Potts, could you go ahead and set up that conference call for me—it’s in about ten minutes.”
“Oh, um, well, it’s uh, I would like some time to talk, because it was a pretty big deal,” I say.
“I’ll decide on that,” he answers. “Because, Chelsea, you understand that there have been several issues that you’ve been involved in lately, correct?”
“Yes,” I answer, refusing to say correct, and feeling like I’m being talked down to for the second time today. He waits, looking from me to Ms. Potts, who is watching, trying to pretend she isn’t paying attention, even though it’s obvious that she is.
“Okay, well, I need to report that Jacob Rizer smacked me.”
“He smacked you? Jacob Rizer? Our senior class president, National Honor Society member, Jacob Rizer smacked you today?”
“On my butt,” I add, trying to keep it clean but hoping to get Principal Hayes to understand what actually happened.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, it happened, just now in the hallway upstairs. I was at my locker, and he came over and was asking all these questions and getting really close to me, and he just, oh, and he also patted my head too.”
“I see,” he says. “Well, I cannot imagine Jacob would ever do such a thing, but . . .”
“But he did. I am telling you right now that he did.”
“And I appreciate that. Who else was in the hallway with you?” he asks.
I don’t even want to think about why he’s asking.
“No one,” I say.
“And why were you both in the hallway during lunch?” he asks.
“Because Jasmine and I were selling shirts, and . . .”
“That’s one of the problems right there,” he starts. “Neither of you asked me if you could do that. You and Jasmine think you are above the rules, but you cannot sell your shirts on our property during school time to make a profit.”
“But the National Honor Society and the cheerleading team and the basketball team sell stuff all the time to support their clubs, so what’s the difference?” I ask.
“The difference is that it was approved by me, and it was clear what they were raising money for. There are protocols that you and Jasmine don’t seem to understand,” he says, obviously frustrated with me.
“Okay, well, that’s really not the point. The point is that he physically put his hands on my body, and I feel like we need to do something about it,” I say.
Ms. Potts interrupts. “It’s true. I have seen that young man be a bit handsy with young women in the hallways.”
“Uh, thank you, Ms. Potts. I will handle this, and could you please call up my conference? Chelsea, I hear your complaint loud and clear, and appreciate you coming to me with this.”
“Right, because you said you didn’t want any more drama online, and so I figured I needed to come right to you with this. So here I am.”
“Yes, agreed. And thank you. And I will certainly be talking to Jacob to get his side of the story as well,” Principal Hayes finishes as he starts walking back into his office.
“His side of the story? What? His side of the story is that he smacked my butt and patted my head, as if he had ANY right to touch my body however he wanted,” I say, not moving anywhere.
“Allegedly,” Principal Hayes says, and it’s that word that tells me the fight is bigger than this moment, bigger than me, or Principal Hayes or Jacob Rizer. It’s bigger because not enough men listen to women, or believe women, or honor what we have to say. Ms. Potts is looking down at her desk. I don’t want to cry in front of them, so I gather my book bag and turn to walk out.
“Not even a thank-you?” Principal Hayes calls after me.
“Allegedly: used to convey that something is claimed to be the case or have taken place, although there is no proof,” I read from my phone, while taking a massive bite of a bacon cheeseburger, and coating the fries with our favorite ketchup and hot sauce mix.
“I cannot believe he did that,” Jasmine says, shock in her face. “And I can’t believe Principal Hayes just brushed it off. It’s as if we’re moving backward, you know?”
“Yup, exactly, and I feel like he did it on purpose, just to prove a point. And I would’ve gone to Ms. Lucas, but I feel like maybe she’s not all about it either, and I didn’t go to anybody else because I just don’t even have the energy. I don’t wanna go through a whole he said, she said. Why should I have to do that?”
“You shouldn’t. And it makes me feel bad for our teachers, who have to deal with him every day. He’s so cocky too, like he always knows everything. Ms. Lucas has to deal with Principal Hayes, and you know when you went to see him, he was already mad at us for wearing those shirts today.”
“And for selling them. He told me all about that. Do we need more food? Wings? Cheese fries?” I ask. “I’m starving.” We are sitting in The Uptown. It’s our favorite diner, and right on the corner of Wadsworth and Broadway, so it’s one of the best meeting spots.
“Listen, we had to skip lunch for the cause, and I’m thinking we have a lot more to do now,” Jasmine says, taking a bite of her BLT. “And yes, more food is a must, but I’m thinking we save some room for dessert. Chocolate cake would go so well with this meal.”
Jasmine takes her sweater off, revealing the slightly off-the-shoulder look that Nadine designed. Nadine cut the sides and added an extra panel from one of the other shirts, so it’s fitted and includes colors from the others. She also opened the collar, so it falls off the left side just a little.
“That shirt looks so good,” I say, looking down at my plain shirt, which looks pretty dumpy in comparison. “Maybe I’ll see if Nadine can fix mine up.”
Jasmine gives me a look.
“What? I can’t have a cute shirt too?”
“Chelsea, you can have all the cute shirts in all the cute stores, okay? Forever 21 should be called Forever Extra-Small, and Urban Outfitters? And Uniqlo? And Rubies and Jeans? Please. You can have all the cute shirts in the world. Leave Nadine to help me!” She laughs.
“You’re right. I didn’t think about that. Look, I’m really sorry. I messed up something that was supposed to be a big group action.”
“Don’t worry. It was still a big group action, and it worked. I mean, you definitely messed it up, yes, but thanks for saying that. And besides, I do look really good in this shirt,” Jasmine says.
We both bust out laughing.
Then Jasmine says, “But next time?”
“I know, I know. I’ll get all the right sizes next time,” I say. We order a chocolate cake with a side of vanilla ice cream.
“I still can’t believe what happened with Jacob,” Jasmine says, shaking her head, “or with Principal Hayes.”
“Me neither, and after it, I just kept thinking: Am I making too big a deal of this, or was it me that provoked it, and then I was pissed at myself for even thinking that. How could I think that?” I ask.
“Because this is complicated,” Jasmine says. “And it just shows us that we need to do more.”
Nadine and Isaac walk in. “It’s sooooo cold out there,” Nadine says, squeezing next to me in the booth, leaving Isaac to awkwardly sit next to Jasmine without getting all up on her. It’s awesome to watch. They both order coffee and load it up with cream and sugar. “Today rocked,” Nadine says, hugging my shoulders.
“Yeah, y’all made everybody start talking,” Isaac says. “And I’m really feeling this new design on the shirt,” he says, eyeing Jasmine.
“It looks so cool, right?” I ask.
Isaac blushes then changes the focus off Jasmine. “My dad asked me to make a bunch for our family reunion, with all the women’s faces from the Rodriguez family.”
“Oh, I love that,” Jasmine says.
“So then what’s next?” he asks, eyeing both of us.
“We’re figuring it out. Something really big has to happen,” Jasmine says. We tell Nadine and Isaac about Jacob.
“Are you gonna fight it?” Nadine asks.
“Yeah, I’m gonna fight it with you all, with something we decide to do. I don’t want to have to bring a teacher into it, and I definitely don’t want to talk about it with Jacob Rizer—he’s just gonna totally deny it anyway,” I say.
“Yeah, something’s gotta change here. But if I were you, I totally wouldn’t let Jacob off the hook,” Isaac adds.
“You’re right,” I say, sitting back. “I know you’re right. We gotta come up with something. What. Is. Next?”
“We can wear the shirts to the next open mic at Word Up. Maybe poets from the other schools will want to get some,” Jasmine says. “Chelsea, before you perform your poem, you can talk about why we made these shirts.”
I tell her, “You can talk about the shirts, too, after you perform one of your poems.”
“Yeah,” Isaac says. “You’ve been writing a lot lately. I want to hear some of your words.”
Jasmine doesn’t say yes to our idea, but she doesn’t say no either.
Nadine says, “I can film the performance so you two can post it online. This can be our next action.”
“And we need a statement or a list of demands. What was that you said earlier, Chelsea?” Jasmine asks. “Something about listening to women, and . . .” Jasmine grabs a pen and motions me to start talking. We spend the whole afternoon coming up with a plan.
