Girls in Charge Page 7

  “What is all this about? We haven’t even covered the nineteen eighties yet.”

  Bet handed Principal F. a yellowed piece of paper that was curled at the edges.

  “If you are familiar with the school’s archived files, you’ll recognize this document.”

  Principal F. put on his narrow reading glasses and looked over the document.

  “What our principal is looking at is the original sanctioning paperwork for the Pink Locker Ladies. It’s dated 1961.”

  “What is it?” people were murmuring in the audience. Piper reached down and grabbed my knee. I reached over and grabbed Kate’s forearm. In a flash, our brains did the same little sashay. If this was the sanctioning document for the Pink Locker Ladies (aka the Pink Locker Society), then the PLS has always been a sanctioned group. And if that’s true, then the very reason we were not allowed to go on the NYC trip was melting away like a popsicle in July.

  “This document would have been in force in nineteen seventy-six, when the PLS was forced to shut down. And it would have remained in force through this school year when the Pink Locker Society made a long-overdue return to Margaret Simon Middle School,” Bet said.

  “Well, I would have to take a closer look at this, verify that it’s not forged or being misinterpreted,” Principal F. said

  “But if it checks out, then the PLS is a sanctioned group and no one can be punished for being in it, right?”

  “Well, technically that would be correct, but…”

  “In fact, the sanctioning document would require Margaret Simon to offer this activity, right?” Bet said.

  “I would have to consult the by-laws. It would probably depend on whether there was a teacher-advisor available to sponsor the group and several other technical details, details an eighth-grader—even one as bright as you, Bet—wouldn’t be able to decipher.”

  “Agreed,” Bet said. “Which is why I consulted the school board’s attorney and she was able to verify everything I’ve said.”

  Principal F. adjusted himself in his seat and sat up straighter.

  “Well, Ms. O’Connor knows her stuff, I suppose. Far be it from me to argue with the school board, some of whom are here today to celebrate my anniversary,” Principal F. said, making a lame wave over to the right side of the auditorium.

  The audience members were quieter now, not understanding exactly what was going on, but seeing that an eighth-grader had the principal on the ropes about something.

  “Oh yes, right. We can continue this discussion off-line—and preferably before everyone departs for New York tomorrow,” Bet said.

  With just the mention of New York, cheers and whoops went up and the audience took on the manners of escaped farm animals.

  “Um, excuse me. Hello? We’re not done.”

  The crowd settled down only somewhat while Bet explained that we’d be ending the program with a song. She introduced the Margaret Simon Jazz Band and then led a rendition of “Happy Anniversary,” sung to the tune of “Happy Birthday.”

  When it was over, Principal F. stood and bowed with his palms pressed together. The heavy velvet curtain closed and students jumped to their seats and headed for the exits.

  “Did that just happen?” Piper said at a volume high enough to cause people three rows away to turn around.

  “I think we are going to New York,” Kate said.

  “I don’t know,” I said, afraid to give into my barely contained joy.

  “Well, here’s how we find out for sure,” Piper said. “To the principal’s office! Allons-y!” (French for “Let’s go!”)

  Twenty-five

  We approached the front desk of the school office, but there was no one there to wait on us. We stood there, in total stillness, until we heard shreds of conversation coming from the principal’s office. It was Principal F. and a female voice. I feared it was Bet, getting in major trouble. Maybe now she would be kept home from the New York trip, too? But soon we figured out the voice belonged to Mrs. Percy.

  We didn’t move a muscle and tried hard to decipher the wa-womp-womp-womp of it all. Occasionally, we could decipher a phrase but not the thread of what they were talking about.

  “… after all these years…”

  “… without merit…”

  “… once in a lifetime…”

  “… highlight of my career…”

  Then the door opened and Principal F. stood and faced us.

  “So you’re here already. We were just going to call for you.”

  He motioned for us to join Mrs. Percy in his office. I found a seat and held on to both armrests. What could possibly happen next? I feared further punishment, an inquisition or an accusation that we had put Bet up to this.

  “After considerable thought and the careful examination of new evidence, I am going to take back the penalty we had discussed,” Principal F. said.

  It was expressed in gobbledygook language, but the smile on Mrs. Percy’s face said it all.

  “And along with that, girls, the PLS can come into the light as an organization,” she said.

  “Yes, well, nineteen sixty-one was a full ten years before I arrived at Margaret Simon so I can hardly be held accountable for this … this record-keeping error,” Principal F. said.

  “Certainly not,” Mrs. Percy said, and then gave us a wink.

  “I didn’t fully realize the scope of the work being done,” Principal F. continued. “Or that the Tomorrow’s Leaders Today committee planned to honor your group, and by extension”—he cleared his throat—“Margaret Simon Middle School.”

  “Lots to discuss, girls,” Mrs. Percy said. “But the first order of business is that you need to go home and pack. Bus leaves at seven thirty tomorrow morning.”

  We made a move toward the door, but Principal F. stopped us.

  “And Jemma,” Principal F. said, “in your presentation to the Tomorrow’s Leaders Today group, please acknowledge both me and the president of our school board in your opening remarks.”

  “Acknowledge you for what?” Piper said.

  “For working through some difficult logistics so that the Pink Locker Society can continue its work and become a model for middle schools across the nation, and even the globe.”

  “But-but, you didn’t help us at all,” I said, surprised to hear what I was thinking come spilling out of my mouth.

  “I would disagree. I verified that the sanctioning document is genuine, which clears the way for your future success. You literally couldn’t have done it without me.”

  And before we could say any more, he said he had an important call to make, shuffled us out of his office, and closed the door.

  Twenty-six

  Woo-hoo! We needed to immediately tell our parents and start packing. And I needed to find Forrest and start working on our presentation. But at the very top of our to-do list was to find Bet and thank her. So immediately after school, the three of us walked over to her house. We linked arms and walked three astride down the sidewalk on that warm May afternoon. Forget the packing, forget the presentation, we had to find our girl! Funny that none of us even knew her before school had started in September. I had had no intention of making any new friends this year, but I had made a bunch.

  I was even friendly with some seventh- and sixth-graders. Yes, they were younger, but I started to realize how the years make less of a difference the older you get. Clem’s sister, Mimi, was a special friend—and a running buddy. Shannon Andersen, too, was popular in the same way Kate was, just for being friendly and easygoing with lots of people. She and I just “clicked,” and I was sorry I’d be leaving her when I went off to high school.

  But among all my new friends, Bet was at the top of the list. How many cups of tea had we shared at Lucky’s? And how many hours had she listened to me analyze Forrest, and later, Jake? Many hours, too, I was a sounding board for her frustrations about boys and her run-ins with Principal F. over what she could report on for her You Bet! videocast.

  �
�Bet!” we called out when she came out on the porch. Then we applauded and cheered her as if she had just hit a home run, which in a way she had.

  “You guys are too much,” she said, accepting our hugs.

  We pulled her along with us to Main Street for celebratory ice cream cones. On the way, we asked her how she had unearthed the document. She explained that she requested and received permission from the school board to go through the archives.

  “I said it was for a special school project. Four days in a dusty back room, but it paid off,” Bet said. “Not only did I find the PLS document, I found source documents for about ten other stories.”

  “But will you be able to broadcast any of them?” Kate asked. “I mean, the school year is almost over and Principal F. hasn’t been too supportive.”

  “So true,” Bet said. “But I’ve applied to Charter High School and they have a special journalism program, so I’m hoping I’ll be able to do what I want, finally.”

  We ordered our cones—mint chocolate chip for me, mango for Piper, vanilla frozen yogurt for Kate, and chocolate truffle for Bet. Outside, we found an umbrella table and started talking—all at once—about New York City. Though we were plenty loud, anyone passing by would have had the same trouble we did, just hours ago, when we heard only fragments from behind the closed door of the principal’s office.

  “Breakfast at Tiffany’s…”

  “Top of the Rock…”

  “… One hundred and two stories high…”

  “Trip of a lifetime…”

  Back at home, we pledged to not text each other for at least an hour so we could pack and prepare. Mrs. Percy had already called my parents with the good news. I walked in my room to find my suitcase with wheels and stacks of fresh laundry waiting to be packed. The clothing issue kept me up half the night. I needed a comfortable—yet stylish—outfit for the bus ride there. Then I needed something more professional-looking for our Tomorrow’s Leaders Today conference. And finally, to fill in, I had to pack a bunch of city-ready clothes for all the sightseeing we’d be doing.

  “Don’t overpack, Jemma. You always do,” my mother bellowed from outside my closed room door.

  Just a few nights before, I had helped her pack her own suitcase for the hospital.

  “I have to be ready at a moment’s notice now,” she had said.

  I almost cried—tears of sadness, happiness, both?—when I saw her carefully tuck in two little come-home-from-the-hospital outfits. Both had yellow ducks on them since we still didn’t know whether I was getting brothers, sisters, or one of each. This was really happening, though. Very soon, I’d be a big sister.

  “You have to text me if anything happens,” I ordered my dad.

  “I will, Jem. But your mom’s not due for a few more weeks,” he said.

  New York. Graduation. Two new siblings. It was a lot to handle in such a short time. I packed until the wee hours. When I was finally done, I couldn’t have stuffed another item, even the thinnest sock, into my suitcase. I didn’t realize until we were on the bus, pointed toward New York, that I hadn’t packed any period supplies of any kind.

  Twenty-seven

  Waiting in line to board the bus, some people chatted up a storm. Others cocooned themselves into their iPods, an attempt to look cool and deal with being overtired. Me? I ping-ponged between two boys. First off, I had to confront the Jake situation. He brightened in a way that nearly broke my heart when he saw me through the glass of his window seat.

  “Jemma! I thought you couldn’t go?” Jake said out the open bus window.

  “It got all worked out,” I said, and smiled.

  “Excellent,” he said. “I’ll save you a seat.”

  “Um, no. Don’t, Jake. I, um, already promised Kate.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll come and say hi when you get on.”

  I nodded and started to think of the uncomfortable conversation ahead of me/us. I was just about to lean confidentially in and tell Kate what I was about to do, when someone tapped my shoulder.

  “Jemma! Where’ve you been?” Forrest asked.

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “We have got to do that presentation thing. I mean, I have index cards, but I think we’re supposed to talk for fifteen minutes.”

  “Yeah, we should probably have some visuals, too. Slides.”

  “We’ll have to do it tonight—at the hotel. I guess,” he said.

  “Right. It’ll be fine. It’s not till tomorrow. I have my laptop.”

  “Cool,” Forrest said. “Where are you sitting on the bus? Want me to save you and Kate a seat?”

  “Sure, that’d be great.”

  Once boarded, with all our luggage stored and tagged, I felt like I could fall asleep and stay asleep until the city skyline was in view. Instead, I gathered my courage and walked down the narrow bus aisle to where Jake was sitting, a Yankees cap perched on his head.

  “Hey,” he said.

  We arranged for some seat switching so I could sit down next to him.

  “Hey,” he said again, once we were all arranged.

  I stared at the green vinyl seat in front of me, wondering how anyone begins a conversation like this. I knew he’d be upset, yet I felt so honestly that it had nothing to do with him. That is, he didn’t do anything wrong and there was nothing wrong with him. In fact, there was a lot right with him. But, bottom line, I knew I should like him more—and in that way—if I was going to be his girlfriend. Call it chemistry, a spark. But whatever you call it, I didn’t “have it” for Jake.

  “You are such a nice guy, Jake. Such a good friend,” I began.

  “You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?” he said. “Right here, right now.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and started to cry.

  “Why are you crying? I’m the one who’s getting dumped.”

  “I’m just sad ’cause I know how it feels,” I said.

  “Yeah, okay. Don’t cry. People are looking,” Jake said.

  I wiped my face with the back of my hand.

  “Honestly, Jake. I don’t know what I am doing half the time.”

  “I know,” Jake said. “It’s cute.”

  “See what I mean? You were mad for half a second and you’re right back to being nice again.”

  Jake sat back in his seat and smiled, but not exactly happily, at the seat back in front of us both.

  “I could list, like, five girls who like you, you know,” I said.

  “That doesn’t help, but thanks,” Jake said.

  And with that I stood up and stumble-bumbled back to my seat. I gave Kate the recap and quickly fell asleep leaning against her shoulder.

  Twenty-eight

  Kate let me sleep until the bus stopped in front of our hotel. She gently shook my shoulder and I emerged from my sleepy fog.

  “We’re here, Jem,” Kate said.

  Almost everyone else was up and gathering their things. I did the same. Kate handed me my purse and I stepped down the bus steps onto the hotel’s curved driveway. We filed inside through an enormous revolving door. The hotel lobby seemed like an airport concourse, with just as many comings and goings. People checking in, luggage carts whizzing by, three restaurants within view, escalators going up, and three different banks of elevators. The hotel was so huge that it wasn’t like there was one elevator that went to every floor. There were fifteen elevators and they all served different floors. You had to pick the right one.

  Ms. Russo stood in the lobby with a MARGARET SIMON MIDDLE SCHOOL sign attached to a tall pole. We all gathered around and Mr. Ford used a bullhorn to direct us to the next step—getting our room keys and getting settled in. Then after lunch we were going to the Statue of Liberty and the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, followed by dinner in Chinatown. The nighttime hours were “on your own,” but that meant on your own along with your chaperone—one adult for every four students.

  The throng of us ran for the escalators and elevators as soon as we were dismissed. Hu
rray for us, we got on the right elevators—the one for floors 18–26. It zipped us up to the twenty-first floor so fast that my ears popped. Trailed by our chaperone, Mrs. Pinsky (and her zebra-striped luggage), we found our room down a long hallway. We had scored the ultimate in field-trip luck. Our request that we all be together was granted and our fourth member was Bet.

  We had two rooms, with a door that linked them. The rooms were sleek and modern, not unlike the decor in our Pink Locker Society office. But they were also compact and space-efficient. A curved desk fit just-so near the window, and the two beds were high and thick with fluffy white bedding. The bathroom was modern with a tall curving faucet for the sink and outfitted with organic fig shampoo and cherry blossom soap.

  “J’adore the view!” said Piper as she flung the curtains open a little wider on Fifty-third Street below. “Mom, what’s the French word for view?” Piper asked.

  “La vue, I think,” said Mrs. Pinsky. She had set her zebra suitcase up on the luggage rack and was now browsing the hotel’s spa menu.

  I wished that my bedroom window back home opened up to a view like this. Everything about New York was bigger and more fascinating than anywhere else, especially home. If you haven’t been there, go as quickly as you can! And yes, it is as unbelievable as it looks on TV. If I lived in New York City, I’d never, ever get bored. How could you?

  I guess the nap on the bus had done me good. I was sad about Jake—sad because I knew I hurt his feelings. But I was also majorly relieved that I had taken care of that unfinished business. It was beyond good to see so many new things. There was no end to the distractions—people, buildings, taxicabs, street vendors, different smells, and store windows. For at least an hour, I completely forgot about my mom back home about to have twins. When I texted her, she answered right back: still pregnant, have fun.

  As our group walked to find some lunch—pizza, of course—I couldn’t help but daydream. What would life would be like if I moved to New York City and went to high school there? There was something about the place that just begged you to leave everything behind and start fresh, become a New Yorker. Which—funnily enough—was the theme of the afternoon.