9

FRANCIA, WHOM I’VE BARELY TALKED TO SINCE WE HAD COOKING class together in freshman year, is leaning over my desk in the minutes before English Lit starts on Wednesday.

“I’m sure he’d be happy to talk to you, if you want me to ask him,” she tells me, referring to a great-uncle of hers who had a heart transplant in 1978.

1978.

My mother was barely even alive then, let alone me. I’m guessing the procedure has changed a teensy bit since. Also, Anatomy might not be my strongest subject, but even I know that a heart is not a bladder is not a kidney is not a liver. Pretty sure the operations differ a smidgen.

I usually pride myself on my witty comebacks, but I’m finding out fast that everything’s different when the subject matter is so intensely personal.

Instead, I fumble an answer. “Um, thanks, but, uh, there’s a private Facebook group of people who’ve had liver transplants, so I can, um, find lots of people to talk to there.”

This is true. I even went so far as to request membership just after I got home from the hospital, before I changed my mind and decided being on there would not fit in well with my plan for keeping the darkness away, which consists of one step only: don’t even look sideways at the darkness.

Of course, Francia doesn’t need that extra info.

Bryan tips his desk on two legs to lean closer to us. “I saw this one episode of Grey’s Anatomy where the guy has this liver condition, right? And—”

My friend Jemima turns around in her seat. “I never would have pegged you for a Grey’s Anatomy fan, Ty.”

“Shut up. I have sisters, okay?”

“No shame. Guys should be more in touch with their sensitive side,” she replies. “So, which is it: McDreamy or McSteamy?”

Jemima winks at me, and I reply with a grateful smile. I don’t know whether she jumped in specifically to save me or is simply gleeful about the chance to give Bryan crap, but man, I wish there were a thousand Jemimas to follow me around school and run interference.

Those few hours of relief with Will Saturday night are already a distant memory. I know my classmates are (mostly) well-meaning and sympathetic and curious, but it’s been two and a half solid days of questions and anecdotes, and it doesn’t seem to be easing up at all.

What might be worse are the conversations that stop the minute I come into sight.

Or the people I’ve known forever who suddenly can’t seem to make eye contact with me. Like they’re worried I’m contagious or something. Or as if I’m somehow to blame that they have to feel uncomfortable for the five seconds it takes them to pass me in the hallway.

How am I supposed to remain calm and optimistic when the entire world is conspiring against my plan to get through this the one way I can envision being able to handle it?

“I’ve been bingeing reruns of that show! McDreamy gives me life,” Francia says. “What about you, Amelia?”

Sibby’s books hit the desk next to mine with a loud CLAP! “McDreamy’s a pig. All men are pigs. Screw the whole lot of them.”

Bryan opens his mouth to mount a defense and Sibby snaps “Get stuffed!” before he can utter a word.

He and Jemima exchange glances, then turn around in their chairs just as the bell rings. Our teacher isn’t in the room yet though, and I continue to stare at Sibby.

“What?” she asks, busying herself searching for a pencil in the black hole of her backpack.

I dangle an extra of mine in her face. “Uh . . . ? What do you mean ‘what’? Spill! What happened to bring on the mood?”

Please don’t let it be worry about me. Please don’t let it be worry about me.

Things between us are mostly back to normal, I guess, although I still can’t bring myself to share my real feelings about the assembly, partly because it doesn’t seem worth getting into a big thing with her when I know at least some of my feelings about her role in it are irrational, and partly because it would mean reliving that afternoon. No thanks.

She swivels to face me, snatches the pencil from my fingers, and whispers, “It’s that creeper Dormer. He gave me detention last period because my shorts are ‘inappropriate.’”

I peek under her desk. Her shorts are noteworthy only for the fact that she’s wearing them in March. In Boston. The freakish warm spell Alex talked about has miraculously made its way north to us this week and it has everyone dreaming of spring. I’m the one always cranking up the thermostat and even I couldn’t resist wearing my favorite lightweight tee, bright orange with a tiny print of girls in sunglasses riding Vespas. While it’s not bare legs weather per se, try telling that to an Australian beach bum.

“How are they inappropriate?”

“Oh, he reminded me coolly of the fingertips rule in the dress code, before telling me they were ‘a distraction to my classmates’ and giving me detention. Classmates, my arse. Perverted jerk.”

My jaw drops open. “I’m sorry, what? He said that to you?”

She nods and her shoulders slump. Which is just . . . no. No way am I going to let her feel crappy over this ignoramus’s comments.

“WTF, Sib!”

Mrs. Aguilar enters the room and calls everyone’s attention to the front. “I know this change of temperature makes graduation feel all that much closer, but you’re still mine for the next few months, so I trust you’re all up to date on your Anna Karenina annotating. Bitter Russian winters are the perfect antidote to this cheerful spring weather, don’t you think?”

Sliding a blank sheet of paper from my binder, I write in all caps:

WE ARE FIGHTING THIS!!!!!!!!!

I angle it toward Sibby, who reads it and shrugs. I can guess how she’s probably feeling: embarrassed and icky. She’s likely still in shock. But that’s gonna fade fast and when it does, I’ll be ready and waiting to match an anger that’s going to be epic.

Mrs. Aguilar clears her throat significantly and I glance up to find her eyes on me, so I spend the rest of class pretending to focus on her. But I smile inside when, in the edges of my vision, Sibby’s posture transitions from slumped to sharp and her foot goes from still to jiggling.

And I scheme.

My motives are pure, but I’d be lying if I said I don’t also welcome any opportunity to be consumed by something that has nothing to do with livers or prognoses or intrusive questions. It’s different from the flirty fun I had with Will; it’s the “take charge and handle shit” attitude I love and miss about being on the derby track—the one I thought I could recapture at the assembly.

That plan turned out to be . . . misguided. But this?

This I can slay!

I’m actually a little surprised we haven’t had occasion to take on the dress code before the bitter end of senior year, but I’m all for getting it in under the gun. The minute the bell rings, I bolt from my seat and grab Sibby’s arm.

“I have a plan. Come with me.”

I’m reassured she’s hit outrage level when she doesn’t utter a peep of protest.

“Where are we going?” is all she asks, followed by, “Am I gonna miss Spanish?”

“Art room and yes,” I answer, tugging her into the hallway.

“Don’t you have Anatomy now? Isn’t that your hardest class?”

“I would rather fail Anatomy than fail my best friend.”

“How noble. You’re not gonna be saying that when Amherst pulls your early admission.” She gives me a look. “Also, you’re full of crap.”

I stick out my tongue as I dodge a locker door that swings open. “Okay, fine, I might not be heartbroken about missing Anatomy, but I can also be incensed on your behalf, can’t I?”

“Which is why I love you so much. Hey, do you reckon Rindge is obligated to report any disciplinary action they take against me to Tufts, even this long after I submitted my application? If this one detention means I won’t get my fair go with them, that’d be crap.”

I pick up my pace, dodging a cluster of kids huddled around a cell phone. “I don’t know, but it’s not gonna reach that point, Sib, I promise.”

She nods and quickens her pace to match mine.

We luck out to find the art room empty and a sign on the door instructing all students to meet behind the gym for outdoor classes today. Miss Leekley (“But you guys should call me Skye”) is the kind of person you’d expect to live in one of those hipster tiny houses and uses words like “chakra” and “aura,” so I’m not surprised she’d want to be one with nature on the first nice day of the year.

“Grab some markers,” I tell Sibby. “If you can find fabric ones, all the better, but otherwise any will do.”

I cross the room to the wall of cabinets in the back and yank open the far right one, where I know I’ll find a bin of extra-large men’s white T-shirts, which Miss Leekley keeps on hand for students who find themselves in need of makeshift smocks. I pull a bunch from the pile and shake them out, looking for those with the fewest wrinkles. When I have two viable candidates, I present them to Sibby.

“Voilà.”

“Okay, I’m all in for this, whatever it is, but . . . what is it?” she asks.

This, dearest Sib, is a chance for us to take on the world on equal terms, instead of that lopsided dynamic at the assembly. A chance to get back to our regular relationship, with zero conflicted feelings.

I spread a shirt on the paint-speckled table in the center of the room and uncap a marker. It’s green-apple scented, which reminds me of the one I drew at the bakery on Saturday and makes me smile. Well, that plus my scheme. I’m not going for aesthetics, but I have to confess my hand lettering skills come in handy as I shape the words WHY ARE YOU STARING AT MY LEGS ANYWAY? down the front of the shirt in loopy letters.

Sibby grins. “Ah. Got it!”

“We need something about the dress code for the back.”

“VIVE LA RÉVOLUTION?”

I wrinkle my nose and she tries again. “DOWN WITH PERVERTS?”

This time I hold my fingers an inch apart. “Maybe a teensy bit much?”

“Not where Dormer’s concerned. Right then, have a go at OUR DRESS CODE NEEDS RE-CODING.”

“Perfect! You’re brilliant!” I block out the letters, then hand the tee to her with a triumphant smile. She drops her backpack and tugs it on over her outfit. My girl is tiny; it hangs almost to her knees. While she models, I write the same message in strawberry-scented marker on the other smock and pull it on. I’m not nearly as short and the skirts I favor are all vintage, which means they tend to run longer, so I have to roll my waistband several times to make my hem disappear underneath. When we’re situated, Sibby and I clutch hands and giggle.

“Should I ditch my tights?” I ask. “Before you answer, I’m gonna mention that I haven’t shaved my legs in a couple of days.”

Sibby backs up and assesses me. “Nah, you look like an adorable chicken with the white shirt and bright yellow legs.”

I sigh in mock despair. “No one ever said revolutions were glamorous.”

Sibby snips a few fashionable little triangles out of our necklines, then drops the scissors into a bucket, where they hit the base with a clink. “Shall we go take on the patriarchy?”

I throw a fist in the air in solidarity. “Down with the patriarchy!”

It feels good. I feel good.

This is what I thought last Friday’s assembly could give me—that sense of purpose that drives me. I love challenges and targets and feeling like there’s a force pushing me on. I actually felt a tiny bit let down when I got into Amherst early admission because so much of my high school career up until then had been focused on building an impressive transcript for my college application and I wouldn’t have that to occupy me anymore. I adore that pre-scrimmage derby locker room talk where we get each other pumped up beyond belief and fill our chests with fierce desire and motivation.

Obviously the assembly didn’t go as planned.

And other than that doomed attempt, my only task lately has been waiting. Waiting for the call telling me they’ve found me a liver. Waiting for temperatures to be consistently warm enough to begin my mural. Waiting for high school to end so my future can begin.

Waiting to see if I get to have a future.

I brush that last thought away as fast as it forms.

Taking on the school’s antiquated dress code policy can be my new purpose. I feel it! A gift to future generations of Rindge students!

Sibby heads for the door, but I grab her arm. “Hold on. Always come to battle armed with facts, right? We need ammunition,” I say.

It may have been tough to recite the organ donation statistics at the assembly, but I can’t deny: cold, hard figures have the ability to sway hearts and minds.

She tugs off her smock and tucks it into her backpack. “Definitely. Okay, we hit the library through the end of this period, conquer the internet, then storm the halls between bells when we’ll get maximum exposure.”

I gesture to her legs. “No pun intended?” I couldn’t call myself Jeff Linehan’s daughter with my head held high if I let such an easy one pass me by.

Sibby groans appreciation, but then I catch her exhale.

“What?” I ask, trying to interpret the expression on her face.

She shakes her head and fixes her attention on tightening her backpack strap. “This coming weekend is when we were supposed to be driving to DC for the climate change march, you know.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes jump to mine. “No! I wasn’t reminding you to make you feel guilty. For fuck’s sake, it’s not like you had any say in the matter, Lia! I was trying to say that I’m happy we’re doing something like this. Together, I mean. It’s seemed a bit like you—yeah, nah, that’s it. Just . . . I’m happy.”

I press my lips together with relief and nod several times. “Same.”

“Well, c’mon then!” She gestures for me to shove my own smock-slash-protest-piece into my purse and links her arms through mine as we exit the art room.

While I would never wish detention on Sibby, I don’t know why I didn’t think of something like this sooner. I’d been praying for the next drama to pull everyone’s attention off my BA; it should have occurred to me to create it myself. The attention will still be on me, but not as Amelia Linehan, Dying Girl.

Amelia Linehan, Sexist-Dress-Code Slayer, has a far, far better ring to it.

I am very okay with that kind of notoriety.

In fact, it gives me life.

We wait just inside the double doors of the library for a good ten seconds after the next bell rings, allowing the hallways to fill, before we simultaneously burst through them like the warrior goddesses we are.

There are some curious glances to start, but once we twirl to allow both sides of our shirts to be seen, our mandate becomes clear.

“You go, girls!” a boy calls.

“Shake it, sisters!” a girl from my French class last year says.

I relish the attention.

Two girls step in front of us to act as bodyguards, parting the crowds so our two-person parade can sashay down the hallways unimpeded. One of them starts a chant of “Down with sexist standards!” that quickly catches on and bounces off the walls.

Sibby and I make eye contact and her grin is every bit as wide as mine. We skip up to the first landing of the stairwell. But perched at the top is Mr. Dormer himself.

“Do you two need an escort to the administration wing or can I trust you to find your own way there? Immediately.”

Sibby fixes a death glare on him, so I answer for both of us.

“We’re good solo,” I say, giving him my most angelic smile.

No big deal. All part of the plan.

I do miss the energy, though, once we’re in the hushed cocoon of the waiting area outside Principal Kurjakovic’s office, where we fidget in too-straight chairs well into the next class period, before she ushers us inside.

“Have a seat, girls,” she says, waving at the couch along one wall. I move aside a needlepoint pillow that reads I AM SILENTLY CORRECTING YOUR GRAMMAR and plop down. My shirt rides up and exposes the bottom hem of my skirt and I have to fight my instinct to pull them both down. Instead, I let them creep higher. Sibby balances on the edge of the cushion beside me.

We’ve planned ahead of time to let Kurjakovic steer the conversation to start, so she’ll think she holds the power. She must be onto us, though, because she simply leans back in her chair, waiting for one of us to speak.

Our game of chicken goes on for a good twenty seconds before she finally breaks down and asks, “Why don’t you tell me what led to all of this?”

Her hand swishes through the air to indicate our shirts.

“Total humiliation,” Sibby responds, and the principal’s eyebrows rise. “It’s utter embarrassment to have a male teacher give you detention and say that your shorts are distracting to your classmates because they’re riding too high on your thighs. And it makes me wonder: Why was Mr. Dormer looking and where must his thoughts have gone for him to come to that conclusion? It’s totally inappropriate.”

I’m so proud of Sibby for getting all that out in a strong, clear voice.

Kurjakovic’s face turns a little green and I almost giggle. I’m sure she’s imagining how tiny Sibby’s sweet, round face would play to cameras if we were to take this issue to the court of public opinion.

To her credit, Mrs. K recovers fast and her tone is measured when she says, “I’m hopeful Mr. Dormer didn’t intend his remarks to be interpreted this way, which, of course, I’ll clarify when I meet with him about this. In his defense, though, all of our teachers, male and female, are tasked with noting dress code violations, and in this instance the rule does say ‘hemlines of skirts and shorts must reach to the fingertips of the wearer’s extended arms.’ It doesn’t appear that yours do, Sibilla.”

My turn to join in. “Maybe you haven’t logged much time recently in stores selling clothes for girls our age, but we spent last class period online at H&M and Forever 21, and of the two hundred and seventy-one pairs of shorts they were selling, only four would pass the fingertip test.”

“And those four were pretty heinous,” Sibby adds.

Our principal stifles a cough that might have been covering a laugh, and I rush to continue. “Let’s be honest, the policy only really applies to girls. No one cares how guys wear their shorts. The implication is that shorter hemlines on girls would create a distraction in the learning environment. We should call it what it really is: you people are worried about guys getting turned on. How about instead of policing our outfits, you spend that energy telling guys they need to stop seeing their classmates as sex objects just because we choose to wear shorts, because sometimes when it’s hot outside we’d be more comfortable that way. Simple as that. My legs are for walking, not gawking.”

I reach the end of my argument on the last air in my lungs and inhale deeply as Sibby bumps my thigh in celebration.

“We should have gone with that last line for our T-shirts!” Sibby whispers out of the corner of her mouth, and my lips twitch in reply.

I haven’t felt this energized since my last derby game, when I broke through the pack and began racking up points. I try not to bounce in my seat, but adrenaline is flowing now and I have missed adrenaline. How I’ve missed adrenaline!

Mrs. K rubs her forehead with two fingers, like she’s trying to soothe away a headache that just formed.

I am completely on board with being her headache.

“Look, Amelia,” she says, “I know these have been trying times for you lately and I’m willing to excuse some acting out as a result, as I can appreciate something of this nature might be a welcome distraction for you.”

My first response is a flash of indignant anger. But as the rest of her words sink in, I shrink back into the cushions, because even after my amazing soapbox speech she’s smacking me in the face with the very thing I’ve been trying so hard to avoid: pity.

“Um, excuse me, but I’m not sick, so what’s your brush-off for me?” Sibby interjects, before I can quiet my swirling thoughts enough to formulate a response. My heart squeezes with love for her. Why was I upset with Sibby again?

Kurjakovic leans back in her chair and tents her fingers. “What I was about to say is that I don’t intend to discipline either of you for the scene you caused this afternoon, nor will I expect you to serve detention for the code violation, Sibilla. I won’t be calling your parents either.”

Sibby snorts. “I’m fairly certain my mum would be happy to hear from you about this. She’d applaud our initiative. Lia’s too.”

Damn straight they would.

Mrs. K studies us both for a long minute. “As do I. I know you probably see administrators as the enemy, so maybe you’ll be surprised to learn this argument against our dress code is precisely what I represented to the board at our meeting earlier this year. Happily, they concur and are in the process of rewriting it, to go into effect this fall. A bit too late for either of you to enjoy, I’m afraid.”

This news completes my deflation. I’m airless.

It should be a good thing; the dress code is changing. A mere two hours ago I didn’t even know I cared about fighting the dress code, and as it turns out, I really do. But an hour ago I had a sense of purpose again, an actual goal to work toward. And now I’m back at square one.

People will talk about our hallway parade for the rest of today, maybe even into tomorrow, but once word gets around that it was a nonissue we were fighting, everyone’s attention will swing back to my BA, and I will have nothing to do with my time and energy beyond fielding all their questions. Lose, lose.

Sibby looks between Kurjakovic and me, also at a loss for words. Finally she manages, “Well, that’s a dazzler. You were two steps ahead of us.”

Our principal’s smile is conspiratorial. “Essentially my job description, girls.”

“Right, so then I guess . . .” Sibby trails off, wiping her hand on the sides of her T-shirt and earning a green marker blotch on her palm as a result.

“You’re both free to go,” Kurjakovic answers, nodding to the door. “And rest assured I’ll be speaking with Mr. Dormer.”

“Okay.” Sibby stands and holds out her clean hand for me. I allow her to pull me off the couch, still a bit shell-shocked at how this all went down and very much at a loss for what to do next.

“Enjoy the weather today, you two,” Kurjakovic offers in closing as we file out of her office.

We have to wait in line to get a late pass signed, and Sibby grins at me. “That was amazing, yeah? I mean, I never knew Mrs. K was such an ally. I was ready to burn it all to the ground, I really was, but I’m psyched we don’t have to, because we’re already going to have a ton on our plate organizing Prom with a Purpose. I already talked to the dance planning committee and they’re on board with the theme change, after I said we’d take care of all the signage and lining up volunteers for the donor registration part. But I don’t want to stop there. I was thinking we could go really big and create materials as we go along that we could share with other schools around the country so they could mimic our efforts, and maybe build a website to host everything, but then we’re gonna need to fund-raise so we can buy a domain and—”

She stops when she runs out of breath abruptly.

I avoid her eyes. “Um, wow, Sib. That’s— I—”

“Step forward, girls,” the admin calls.

“To be continued,” Sibby whispers, her smile easy and unconcerned.

I know I need to woman up before Sibby gets too carried away with this Prom with a Purpose stuff, but I also don’t want to have to explain to her why I don’t want to do it. The thing is, I want her to know why already because she knows me. Maybe that’s not a fair expectation, but . . .

We collect our passes, and I notice Sibby is handed an additional sheet of paper.

“What’s that?” I ask as we turn to leave.

Sibby glances at the slip. “Oh, whoa. They’re letting me count the hours from the assembly and donor drive last week toward the community service hours we need to graduate!”

Before I can react, we’re seized upon by a waiting photographer from yearbook as we exit the main office. He turns me around to get the back of my shirt alongside the front of Sibby’s and I’m grateful to be saved from having to force a smile.

Because, great.

I am now an actual charity case.