“A VIOLATION OF RULE 16”
by Suzanne Young
THE LIGHTS IN the hallway between English class and the principal’s office flicker above me. They’ve been in need of replacing for at least three months, and I once asked Mrs. Greer, my English teacher, why it hasn’t been done yet. She told me some excuse about how the fixtures were outdated and the bulbs were special order. I feel like that sums up my entire school district—out-of-date and waiting for replacement.
I pull open the office door and walk into the lobby, warm air blowing over my pale skin. The woman behind the desk frowns when she sees me, but it’s not because she doesn’t like me. In fact, Mrs. Patron is one of the coolest adults at this school. She has a superstraight bob and a killer collection of silk scarves. And like me, she thinks this rule is bullshit. She nods for me to go in.
I pause at the entrance of Mr. Jones’s office and then knock on the open door. He looks up from his desk and immediately sighs when he realizes it’s me. His agitated reaction stings a bit, but I go to sit down when he waves me in.
Mr. Jones is in his fifties, black with a shaved head and a crisp gray suit. He keeps his beard neatly trimmed; his desk is immaculate. I often joke that he seems like someone who uses a ton of hand sanitizer. And to support my theory, his office always smells a bit like rubbing alcohol.
“Ms. Banks,” he says in his deep voice. “Lucinda.”
“You know this is bullshit,” I say, and he closes his eyes.
Mr. Jones has been my principal for my entire career here at Heritage High—he’s exceedingly patient, even when I’m not the most tactful.
“If you could please watch your language,” he says, and motions for me to start over. I take a steadying breath, trying to temper down my annoyance, and smile politely.
“Well,” I say, my voice strained. “Mrs. Montgomery marked my card and sent me to you. Violation of rule sixteen.” I cross my heel over my thigh so he can see the black leggings. I also tug on the hem of my T-shirt, which is long enough to cover my ass.
Mr. Jones tightens his jaw, but doesn’t say anything at first. He opens his desk drawer, takes out a pen, and outstretches his hand for my card so he can initial that I was here.
He writes on the card, and then lifts his eyes to mine before handing it back. “This is the fourth time this month,” he says.
“To be fair,” I reply. “I dispute every instance. Two weeks ago I was in here for a bra strap. It’s bad enough that I have to wear a bra at all, but then . . . as if that layer plus a layer of clothing isn’t enough barrier between boys and my breasts, they can’t bear to see a quarter-inch strap that is nowhere near my boob?”
Mr. Jones shakes his head, looking down at his desk. He’s heard my arguments before, but I don’t let up.
“Then last week,” I continue, “I was here for a bare shoulder. Okay, I wore a strapless bra so there would be no straps. I wore a tank top underneath a tank top so there’d be no skin showing under my armpit. But even that wasn’t enough. Because boys can see one inch of my shoulder blade?” I ask. “This is Phoenix; it was a hundred and twelve outside. At what point do the rules address male behavior? At what point are they responsible for their damn selves?”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “But four marks equal in-school suspension for the rest of the day.”
I swear, my blood turns to lava, and I feel my entire face heat up, my cheeks burning.
“I don’t get to go back to class? Let me ask you, Mr. Jones,” I say, slamming both feet down on his carpeted floor. “How many boys have you brought in here this month? If they’re so distracted by the mere outline of my calves, then I’m sorry—they’re the ones with the problem.”
“It’s the rule,” Mr. Jones says. “Rule sixteen, and you know it.”
“Like I said, it’s bullshit.”
“Don’t make it two days, Lucinda.”
“Did you ever think that Mrs. Montgomery is the problem?” I ask. “I mean, besides our poor boys who can’t control themselves, apparently. No, Mrs. Montgomery looks for a reason to send me out. She’s obsessed with the dress code—why? Why does she get off on it?”
“Nobody’s . . . getting off,” Mr. Jones says. “She’s following the rules.”
“The rules?” I repeat. “Why doesn’t someone send Miss Heely down, then? Her pants are so tight you can see when she has a wedgie. Or how about Mr. Rentry? He smells awful, and I personally find that distracting. But no,” I say, standing, “it’s only the teenage girls who get sent down here. Ridiculed. Controlled. And if you can’t see that—”
“Lucinda,” Mr. Jones says, his temperament cold now that I’ve criticized his staff. “That’s two days. Head there now.”
Two days of in-school suspension? I should have probably stopped arguing, but I guess part of me didn’t expect him to go through with it. I think I might cry. Instead, I stand straighter.
“I’m disappointed in you,” I tell my principal, my voice shaking. And then I turn around and walk out.
* * *
I used to be an A student. Seriously—straight As in every subject, excelling in math. But this year the new governing board added Rule 16 to our handbook. We don’t have uniforms; this is a public charter school. We’ve been nationally recognized for our excellence in academics. We won a grant for our outstanding work with girls in STEM. Hell, we were progressive.
The new governing board is made up of four old-ass men and one mother of six. I only know this because my own mother goes to the meetings and comes home fuming mad.
“They’re trying to erase science!” she yelled one night, slamming her purse on the kitchen table. My mother’s a nurse, and she’s fiercely protective of her research hospital.
My father told her to calm down; they couldn’t actually erase science. But every meeting his attempts to console her worry became less and less convincing.
I’ve heard them talking after I’ve gone to my room, and something my mother said stuck with me. “They’re doing this because the girls are outshining the boys,” she murmured. “I swear they’re trying to take us back to the fifties.”
I expected to hear my father immediately refute her claim, but instead, in a quiet voice, he said, “I think you’re right.”
So meaning to or not, my parents have fed my feeling of injustice. The girls here are excelling, and that scares the people in charge. They’re trying to control us. They’re putting the responsibility of male learning on us. They refuse to confront the actual problems.
And sure, I’ve read the dress code. But like I told Mr. Jones, it’s bullshit. And I won’t follow it.
* * *
The in-school suspension room is a small, block-walled room with no windows. It’s off the cafeteria, so we can hear the students during lunch hour, laughing and having fun while we sit in silence. That’s part of the psychological punishment: we’re not allowed to work on anything. We can’t read, write, or do our homework. We have to sit there.
In my opinion the school shouldn’t get paid a fucking dime from the government when a student goes into that miserable room. They’re not providing an education—in fact, they’re withholding it. Why should they get paid for that?
I walk in, and Shelly—a staff member—glances up to see me. She shifts her lips to the side in an expression of concern and holds out her hand for my behavior card. She’s tiny, known for wearing sneakers with everything. Even dresses. Like now, she’s wearing a blue-checked dress with a pair of Converse.
I stop at her desk in the front of the room while she checks over my card. I causally glance around to see who’s here to share hell with me.
The view is underwhelming at first. Michael Bellagio—a rich kid with an affinity for getting high in the parking lot before school—and Doug Wilkerson—a guy from my English class. Doug was sent out yesterday for calling Mrs. Montgomery a bitch when she wouldn’t accept his tardy pass.
And there’s Cece Garcia, who I pretty much grew up with. Her mother is from Mexico, and Mrs. Garcia babysat me when we first moved into our neighborhood. Cece nods a hello at me, and I roll my eyes to let her know just how shitty I think our situation is.
“Here you go,” Shelly says, handing back my card. I look down at it, disgusted by the red box filled in next to today’s date. Like I’m so awful that I don’t deserve to be in class.
I’ll admit, it hurts my feelings. This year—my senior year—I have become a solid C student thanks to missing out on class time.
“Sit where you want, Lucinda,” Shelly says. She picks up her copy of The Awakening, pulls her leg underneath her, and leans back in her chair to read silently.
I sit next to Cece. Her heavily lined eyes slide over to me, and I pinch the fabric of my leggings and let them snap back. She snorts a laugh.
“I didn’t turn in my homework assignment,” she whispers. “Never mind I got a hundred on the last quiz.”
“In-school for homework?” I ask.
She smiles. “In-school for pointing out that Randall didn’t do his homework either, but he got excused because he had a game. Last I checked, basketball wasn’t a required course.”
“Yeah, not yet,” I say, sinking down in my seat.
I hate this place. I long for my freshman year, when we organized pep rallies and dances, guys and girls together, as if we were the same species. Something the administration clearly doesn’t consider to be the case now that my boobs have gotten bigger.
There’s movement from the door, and I look up and see Jameson Merrick walk in. He has brown hair, blue eyes, and seriously wrinkled cargo shorts. We’ve been hanging out for the past six months; nothing confirmed. He’s cool, though.
I kind of love him.
Jameson winks at me and goes to Shelly, who seems surprised to see him.
“Jameson,” she says. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs, pulling one of those boyish smiles that everyone likes. “Got in trouble,” he says innocently. “I set the bunnies free in agriculture class. Didn’t know they could hop so damn fast.”
I actually laugh out loud and then quickly cover my mouth when Shelly gives me a stern look. She checks Jameson’s card, her expression somewhere between disappointment and amusement. She eventually sighs, marks it in pen, and tells him to have a seat.
Jameson comes to sit directly in front of me, nodding a hello to Cece. I can smell his shampoo and see the ends of his hair are still damp from showering. He turns, glancing back at me.
“Are you in here because of me?” I ask quietly.
“I wasn’t going to let you serve time alone. I tried to call you this morning. Brian Sokolowski texted me to say Montgomery was waiting for you in the hall before class. She got a vendetta or what? When did you piss in her houseplants?”
I laugh, and we all immediately lower our heads so Shelly won’t separate us. When it’s clear, I lean in, and so do Cece and Jameson. “See?” I tell them. “I knew she was being unfair. But Mr. Jones won’t listen to me. Why is Mrs. Montgomery obsessed with how I dress?”
“I heard her husband was behind the school board vote,” Cece says. “He campaigned for one of those old dudes. Part of the same cult, maybe?”
“Or they could be from an alternate universe where all the men are terrible,” Jameson adds.
“That’s an alternate universe?” I ask, and then grin when he looks over at me.
“You’re so funny, Lucinda,” he whispers, narrowing his eyes playfully. “I wonder if that’s why Mrs. Montgomery doesn’t like you. Just too damn funny.”
Truth is, I don’t know why Mrs. Montgomery hates me, singles me out. I’ve never done anything to her; I just dress how I want. Be an individual. I’m not even rude to her face—and believe me, that takes a significant effort. Yet she acts like I’m openly defiant. But it’s her bad attitude that makes me have to prove a point. I can’t . . . fold. Let her win when she’s wrong.
“Listen,” I say to Cece and Jameson. “We have to destroy Rule sixteen. It is legitimately preventing my education. Who knows? I could have been valedictorian.”
Jameson smiles at this and murmurs something like “You still can be,” when another person walks in the door. I’m surprised to see it’s Mr. Jones.
He smiles politely at Shelly, who quickly closes her book and stands. Mr. Jones looks around until he finds me. “Lucinda,” he says, waving me forward.
My cheeks immediately heat up, and I’m concerned what this means. I shouldn’t have said “bullshit” in front of him. I toughen up, though—straight back, tight jaw, and get up from my desk.
As I pass by Jameson, he reaches out to touch my hand, just a gentle reminder that he’s with me.
* * *
I’ve known Jameson Merrick since middle school, and I hope it’s not shallow to say I didn’t really think of him in a romantic way until he got superhot. He was always my friend, though. I still think about the first time I realized I liked him. We’d been out at a party, and after a drink—just one—he came back to my house to watch some YouTube videos. We sat in my basement, laughing. Cringing at people making fools of themselves. And at one point . . . I just looked over at him and thought he was so damn cute.
And when he turned to me, I think maybe he thought the same thing about me. I’m not ashamed to admit that I asked him if he wanted to hook up. He gave me a resounding yes, and leaned in and kissed me. We’ve pretty much been together ever since. Neither of us were virgins, although I’m the only one whose past has ever been brought up in the locker room. Jameson punched a dude for calling me a slut, which was nice of him. I would have happily done the punching myself if Dickhead McBryant had said it to my face. But he hadn’t.
Just like the school, he judged me. Locker-room talk and unfair dress codes—symptoms of the same problem. Both spearheaded by assholes.
Jameson and I don’t talk about our relationship. We don’t brag about it. We’re just . . . together. And, yeah, I kind of love him. And he kind of loves me, too.
* * *
“So what’s this about?” I ask Mr. Jones as we turn down the arts-and-sciences hallway on the second floor. There’s a flurry of movement; several students from the agriculture department running around, frazzled and concerned. One of the girls protectively holds a fluffy white bunny. I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said—missing class time,” Mr. Jones says. “Mrs. Montgomery has come up with a solution.”
I furrow my brow, not willing to trust the suggestion of my persecutor. Mr. Jones motions to the small room at the end of the hall—the room they use for the fashion design elective.
“What are we doing in here?” I ask. We walk inside the room, and I immediately see Mrs. Montgomery, her arms crossed over her chest, a smug smile on her face. I have a visceral reaction, and my fists clench.
“Lucinda,” she says. I don’t respond and turn to Mr. Jones.
“This isn’t my class. I want my classwork.”
Mr. Jones gives me a look, like he wishes I were someone else entirely, and nods to my teacher. “This is what Mrs. Montgomery has suggested as an alternative,” he says.
Confused, I look at her just as she pulls a shirt off the screen printer. It’s gray, and across the chest in black are the words “Violation of Rule 16.” Next to the printer is a pair of oversize sweatpants with the words on them as well.
I stare at the clothes. I stare so long my eyes start to water, but I refuse to blink. “You have got to be kidding me,” I say in a low voice. “Have either of you ever read The Scarlet Letter? Why not just put a big A on my chest?”
Mrs. Montgomery’s smile fades, and Mr. Jones adjusts the button on his suit jacket.
“Now, Lucinda,” he says. “This is the compromise. Sending you home isn’t the answer. And perhaps in-school suspension isn’t the answer either. But you don’t get rewarded for violating the rules.”
I turn to him fiercely, shocked he’d believe this nonsense. But his expression makes me think he’s reciting Mrs. Montgomery’s explanation. I look at her.
“You want to shame me,” I say. “That’s why you’re doing this.”
“Shame, Lucinda,” she says patronizingly, “is a way of learning from bad behaviors. If you willfully disregard the rules, there must be a punishment.”
“You’re psychotic,” I growl.
“Hey, hey,” Mr. Jones says, stepping in front of me. “Let’s not . . . Let’s all just take a moment. What Mrs. Montgomery is suggesting is a tactic other schools use as well. You’ll cover your current outfit with the provided school clothing. End of the day, you drop them back off. It’s not difficult. And you get to stay in class.”
“I’m going to sue you,” I say to both of them. Although for what, I don’t know. And how, I couldn’t say. But this feels so egregious, so goddamn dismaying, that it’s all I can do to not burst into tears and run out into the hallway.
“The school makes the rules, Lucinda,” Mrs. Montgomery says. “Either follow them or don’t, but you have to learn that violating the rules has consequences.”
Her blue eyes trail over me, and it’s like I can see her hatred. Resentment. No one has ever looked at me the way she does right now—like I’m beneath her. Like I’m the problem of an entire generation. Who knows—maybe she had some repressive, fucked-up childhood. Or maybe her husband is the force behind this. Whatever reason, Mrs. Montgomery is using me to prove her moral superiority. And I won’t be a symbol for her misguided leadership.
“No,” I say simply, and turn to Mr. Jones. “Yeah, no. I won’t wear that.”
“Then I’m sorry, Lucinda,” he says, sounding like he means that. “You’re suspended indefinitely pending a board review.”
My mouth falls open. And I’ll be honest—in that moment I want to burn the entire place to the ground.
* * *
“Is that how you ended up here?” Georgia asked, interrupting Lucinda. “You burned down your high school?”
“No,” Lucinda responded. And then in a lower voice, added, “Not the entire high school.”
* * *
“I’d like to go back to in-school suspension until my mother can pick me up,” I say, my voice shaky. If they think I’m going to put on a uniform that’s intended to shame me, embarrass me— Well, I’d rather stand here naked.
Mrs. Montgomery looks over at Mr. Jones, clearly annoyed. But Mr. Jones ignores her and motions for me to wait in the hallway. I don’t say a word to my teacher and walk out the door.
I rest against the light blue wall, wrapping my arms around myself. In the quiet of the hallway, this uncomfortable feeling slides over me. It takes me a moment to process it, and I realize that I feel violated. The way Mrs. Montgomery wants to hold me up for ridicule, like putting me on a pillory for people to throw food at. Inviting people to hurl insults at me. Inviting them to mock me.
Tears well up in my eyes, and for a second I wish I wasn’t a girl. Constantly judged and objectified. I’m fucking sick of it. I just wish . . .
I sniffle and look down at the shiny white floor. It wouldn’t matter what I wish. My crime is being female in a place that values male education over mine. And I hate them. I hate them all for making me regret even one second of being who I am. I hate the way they’ve made me feel outnumbered and helpless.
There’s a tickle on my cheek as a tear slides down, and I wipe it roughly with my palm. I clear my throat, hearing the soft murmur of conversation float out from the room. My sorrow passes, and I’m instead filled with rage. The injustice of it all physically hurts me. Bakes me from the inside. Tears me open.
I don’t wait for Mr. Jones. My phone is in my backpack in the in-school suspension room, and I need to call my parents. I need them to know what the school plans to do. They’ll fight for me.
With a quick look at the open door, I back away until I jog down the hallway, heading to the cafeteria and the in-school suspension room.
Cece is at her desk, her elbow on the top, her chin in her palm. She straightens as I walk in, probably noticing that I’m upset. She reaches across the aisle and slaps Jameson’s shoulder to get his attention. When he turns to her, she nods at me.
I go over to Shelly’s desk, and she seems curious about what went down with me and Mr. Jones, but she doesn’t ask. “I’m going home,” I tell her.
“They’re sending you home?” Cece yells from her desk.
“Yeah,” I respond. “Indefinitely.”
I turn to Shelly and ask her if I can collect my things. She agrees, and I see a bit of sympathy in her eyes. Does she know that I’ve been humiliated? Can she see it on my face?
I get to my desk, and Jameson is staring at me wide-eyed, his normally cool demeanor faltering.
“He fucking suspended you?” he whispers fiercely.
“I guess,” I say, and Jameson leans back in his seat, his brow furrowed. “Does it still count if I took off before Mr. Jones could call home?” I ask.
“Uh, yes,” Jameson says. “That’s still suspending.”
“Well, damn.” I smile at him, even though I’m furious. Hurt. But now I have the chance to make this right. Okay, maybe not right. But I have the chance to get revenge.
“I’ll call you later,” I tell Jameson, and bend down to pick up my backpack. I glance at Cece. “Try to sneak out,” I tell her. “I need your help with something near the art room.”
“On it,” Cece says with a smile.
I loop my backpack over my shoulder, and head down the aisle. I need to get out of here before Mr. Jones comes looking for me.
I take the back stairs, waiting near the door to the second floor until the bell rings. I walk into the corridor just as students begin to flood the hall, and I slip into the stream of them, trying not to draw attention to myself.
When I get to the art room, I check to make sure Mr. Jones and Mrs. Montgomery are gone. Then I go inside and close the door behind me. There aren’t any classes in here in the mornings, since the art teacher who helps with the fashion design elective does half days at another campus.
My gaze falls on the screen-printed sweatshirt, still waiting on the table, and I feel sick all over again. It couldn’t be a mistake the way she had the words placed so boldly over the breasts, the word “Violation” darker than the others.
And fuck her because it worked—she shamed me. Even though I’m not wrong, I feel embarrassed. My nose burns as tears gather again, but there is a rattle on the door, and I quickly duck down. Cece pops her head in the window, and I go over to let her in.
She checks me over, but doesn’t mention that I’m about to cry. Instead, she looks fierce. She waves a pass she got from the office, one that excuses her from in-school while she meets with her counselor. Fortunately, the branches of high school government don’t interact so they’ll never know if she doesn’t show.
“So what’s this about?” Cece asks. “Why did they suspend you?”
I pick up the sweatshirt and hold it up. Cece’s eyes widen.
“That for you?” she asks. “You’re not wearing that.”
“It’s for all of us,” I say. “You know, if we dare to show our shoulders, bra straps, outlines of our legs, and whatever body part they outlaw next year. Maybe ankles? But instead of talking to Lance Duncan and his leering eyes and grope-y fingers, they pull me into the office. They suspend me.” The tears well up again, but this time they’re from anger. “And I’m sick of it,” I say.
“Then what are we going to do about it?” Cece asks.
I shake my head, unsure. “What can we do?” I ask. “What rights do we even have?”
Cece bites one of her long fingernails, thinking it over. “We should walk out,” she says. “All the girls should walk out.”
“That sort of goes toward them denying our education, though,” I say, slumping onto the table. “We need something bigger. I want to . . .” I pause because even I realize the violence in the words. “I want to ruin them,” I say in a quiet voice.
I look up at Cece, and she seems surprised but not entirely opposed.
“What do you suggest?” she asks.
I glance around the room, see balls of newspaper coated in polyurethane, the beginnings of some art project. I see more paper and glue next to it. I look at Cece.
“Want to help me build a girl?” I ask.
She snorts a laugh. “Only if I get to do her makeup.” And she comes over to the table, and we get to work.
* * *
When Cece and I finish with the project, it’s close to lunchtime—which is perfect. We stuffed the clothes with the coated newspaper, like a Halloween scarecrow, making sure to fill out the female form. Over the chest of the sweatshirt, we changed the words. It now reads “Rule 16: A Violation of Our Dignity.”
Now I just need to get to the cafeteria and put it on display.
“I think we should call her Barbara,” Cece says, gazing down at the stuffed clothing. I look over at her, crinkling my nose.
“What the fuck?”
She shrugs. “It’s what I called my first Barbie,” she says. “She had, like, three houses, a Jeep, and she got to wear whatever she wanted. Barbara was fierce.”
“Oh my God, I love you,” I say with a laugh, but then notice the time. “You should get back to the in-school room before Shelly gets worried,” I say.
“It’s fine,” Cece replies. “I’ll tell her I had a lot of shit to talk through.” She leans in to give me a quick hug good-bye. “Just hurry up and get out of there,” she adds. “They can’t prove it was you if they don’t see you.” She smiles reassuringly even though she knows I’m busted already. My indefinite suspension may never be lifted.
And I’m not sorry. I won’t be used as an excuse for bad male behavior again. I won’t be used by Mrs. Montgomery to explain her fanatical view about my role in society.
I’m worth more than that.
“Be careful,” Cece warns, and then grabs her pass off the table and leaves.
I see a lighter on the teacher’s desk, and I shove it into my pocket. I check the time on the wall clock and realize I only have a few minutes before lunch starts. I gather up our creation—Barbara—trying to balance both halves of the body and make sure the hallway is clear before sneaking down the back stairs.
The cafeteria is empty, although there’s a flurry of movement in the food line where the cooks are getting everything set out. I look cautiously at the in-school room, but the door is closed. No one sees me.
I set the body parts on the floor, grab a chair, and drag it to the center of the room. It’s in full view of the entire place, and I set Barbara on the chair, sitting her up like she’s a person. The words are visible, and as I take a step back to admire my work, I’m struck again with the feeling of humiliation.
It’s shocking now that I see it. They wanted this to be me. They thought I deserved this because I wore leggings and a long shirt. This is what they would have done if they could have.
I know part of me is being irrational; that’s the thing—I know it. But I can’t stop the impulses. They’ve broken me—Mrs. Montgomery, the school board, all of them. And now I want to break them.
The bell rings, startling me. I quickly move behind a pole, not completely hidden from view but not obviously connected with Barbara. I watch as students walk in, some with crumpled brown paper bags. All of them stop to look, to read the sweat suit.
The guys laugh, mostly—their brows pull together with confusion. But it’s the faces of the other girls, the way they read the words with alarm and then anger. They see the original intention of the suit. And when that anger passes, they nod their heads in agreement. Rule 16 is a violation. And we all feel it.
A crowd has formed around Barbara, and for a moment, I feel vindicated, even if they don’t know it was me. I even start to smile. The bell rings, but no one is eating lunch. The door to the in-school suspension room opens, and Shelly and the students come out to see what’s going on.
My heart starts to beat faster. There’s a booming voice, and we all look over to see Mr. Jones marching over from the entrance, asking what’s going on.
He comes to a stop in front of Barbara. There are a few laughs, and some of the students get out of his way and go to sit down. I watch my principal read the words, seeing when he realizes it doesn’t say what he thought it would.
Mr. Jones spins around, searching, until he finally finds me standing next to the pole. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. Montgomery and another teacher enter the cafeteria.
I step out from my hiding spot, and stand next to my project. In my pocket my fingers touch the lighter that I grabbed from the art room.
“What is this?” Mrs. Montgomery yells shrilly. “This is destruction of school property.” She points to Barbara and then looks to Mr. Jones for backup.
I’m sure he will, but I don’t wait to be proven right. I’m well past that.
I glance across the room and find Jameson standing with Cece, watching it all unfold. He’s clearly worried, but then, as if saying the point is bigger than me and maybe I should see this through. I smile at him and take out the lighter.
And I don’t know what I’m going to do next, but I look at Mrs. Montgomery and . . . maybe part of me is hoping she’ll make this right. She’ll admit she was wrong. Instead, she glances from me to the lighter.
“You have no respect for yourself,” she says, her eyes narrowed. “At least have respect for your classmates.”
With a flash of anger followed by an eerie calm, I look directly at her. “That’s the thing, Mrs. Montgomery,” I say. “I’m doing this for all of us.”
I flick the lighter and hold the flame to the newspaper.
To be honest, I expected a slow burn that could have easily been stomped out. A scorch or two on the floor that would serve as a reminder of the time I burned Barbara and her violation suit. But that’s not what happened.
The polyurethane-soaked paper inside the suit goes up in a whoosh—the flames at least six feet high. The material of the sweat suit melts away like wet cotton candy, and it is a raging inferno of Barbara.
I drop the lighter and fall back a step, the heat singing the hair on my arms. The fire alarm sounds, and the students run from the cafeteria. I notice Jameson running toward the fire—toward me—just as the overhead sprinklers all burst and begin to rain down throughout the school.
Smoke, screaming, and a rush for the door. It is complete mayhem.
Mr. Jones does his best to get students toward the exit, but Mrs. Montgomery is gone. Figures she wouldn’t help. The water is freezing cold, but it feels nice on my arm, where I’m sure I’ve been burned by the flames.
Jameson calls my name, but before I respond, Mr. Jones grabs me by the shoulders.
“The police are on their way, Ms. Banks,” he says through clenched teeth. The sheer terror on his face is almost enough to make me feel sorry for what I’ve done. But in the end my principal didn’t have my back. I’m more disappointed than anything. So, no. I’m not sorry. And I tell him so.
And as he roughly leads me through the raining water toward the exit door—sirens already sounding in the distance—I pass by Jameson.
He watches me with shiny eyes, and just as I pass, Jameson whispers, “You’re my fucking hero, Lucinda Banks.”