Two days later, the temperature plummets. The trees outside are still leafy, but some of the leaves are beginning to turn yellow or red.
The mood at school is different too. We spend longer at our lockers, stuffing hats and mitts into the sleeves of our jackets. The corridor smells like mothballs. Most of us are still wearing runners, but some of the girls are in high boots. It’s hard to imagine that soon we’ll need winter boots, and the snow will be as high as the schoolyard fence.
The only person wearing shorts today is an eleventh-grade boy with hairy legs. Maybe all that hair acts as insulation.
I am going to miss the warm weather. In a few weeks it will be too cold to play basketball or baseball outside. And I may have to wait till spring to see Daisy’s legs and midriff again.
Just as that thought is going through my head, Daisy breezes by. “Did you see Rowena?” she asks me.
I figure the fact that Daisy has spoken to me is a sign I have been forgiven for turning her in to Germinato. “Nope,” I tell her.
Daisy takes off her pea jacket and stuffs it in her locker. She is wearing a black top that goes to her waist and black leggings. They give me a perfect view of Daisy’s legs.
Maybe I’ll be able to handle the cold weather after all.
Rowena shows up next. She is wearing baggy camo pants. I look down the hallway and notice a few other girls in leggings. The rest of the girls are in jeans or sweats. Maybe now that the cold weather is on its way, we can forget the dress code for a while. And the Student Life Committee won’t have to do Germinato’s dirty work.
“Hey, I haven’t seen those leggings before,” Rowena says to Daisy. “Are they new?”
“Yeah,” Daisy says. “I bought them with my babysitting money. They’re made of breathable bamboo—and they’re super comfortable.” Daisy flexes one leg to demonstrate. “D’you like my new leggings?” she asks me.
“Oh yeah.” And because I worry I sounded like some kind of pervert, I add, “They make you look like a gymnast—or a ballerina.”
I’m not used to complimenting girls. But I think I’m getting better at it, because Daisy laughs and does a pirouette.
I don’t know if it’s Daisy’s legs or her grapefruity smell or the fact that she is talking to me again, but my math textbook slips out of my hands. When I reach for it, I lose my footing. Next thing I know, I am sprawled on the floor like a bug on its back.
While Daisy and Rowena are helping me up, Germinato comes marching down the hallway. He stops in front of us and shakes his head in disapproval.
“Let me guess!” he says, eyeing Daisy’s outfit. “You were distracted!”
I stumble to my feet and wipe some dirt off my sleeve. “N-no, sir, I swear it wasn’t that. I dropped my notebook, and I—”
Rowena clears her throat—something about the way she does it reminds me of how Germinato clears his throat before he makes a speech. “I’d like to point out that Daisy’s outfit is not in violation of the Lajoie High School dress code—” Rowena pauses before adding the word, “Sir.”
“She’s right,” Daisy says. “My midriff isn’t showing, and neither are my bra straps. And my legs are completely covered. Leggings have been a stylish fashion trend since the early 2000s, sir.” I am afraid Daisy may do another pirouette. I am grateful she has the good sense not to.
All Germinato says is, “Hmmm,” but what he does next worries me—he whips a small notebook and pencil out of his front pocket and jots something down. I can’t tell what he is writing, but I notice he underlines it twice.
Rowena imitates Germinato when he’s out of earshot. “Hmmm.”
In Life Sciences class, Germinato’s voice crackles over the PA system.
Mr. Farrell raises one finger in the air so we will know to pay attention.
“Good morning, students,” Germinato says. “I want to let you all know that there has been an addendum to the Lajoie High School dress code. As of tomorrow, leggings are strictly forbidden. Thank you and enjoy the rest of your day.”
The girl next to me isn’t too happy. “My mom just bought me three new pairs of leggings,” she mutters to herself.
Rowena groans. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard,” she calls from the back of the classroom. “A person can’t just go around making up rules whenever he wants to.”
Mr. Farrell raises his finger in the air again. “That’s where you’re wrong, Rowena. A person can go around making up rules whenever he wants to—if he’s the principal.”