“Well, good luck.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how dorky
I sound.
But Daisy does not seem to notice. “If you’re still here when I’m done, we could
walk to school together.”
“That would be amaz—I mean, sure.”
Rory and Phil show up. I am about to explain that I want to wait for Daisy when she
taps my elbow. It takes me a few seconds to figure out why she looks
different, but
then I realize she has put on makeup. Her lips are bright red, and her eyes are rimmed
in black pencil.
So that’s what she was doing in the bathroom.
I notice Daisy noticing me noticing her. “My parents,” she says. She shrugs, and
I spot the second bra strap. “They think I’m too young for makeup. They’re almost
as bad as the Germinator.”
Rory slaps his thigh. “Germinator,” he says. “That’s a good one.”
As we walk down Monkland Avenue, Rory inserts himself next to Daisy. This bugs me.
Daisy is my friend. If it were not for me, Rory would never be talking to her.
“Hey, Daisy!” Rowena is heading toward us. “Cool outfit! I never would’ve thought
of putting pink and orange together, but it works.”
“You know me and bright colors,” Daisy tells Rowena. “I can’t resist them.”
Then
she introduces me to Rowena, and I introduce Rory and Phil.
“What you said yesterday at the assembly was cool,” Phil tells Rowena. “I never thought
about it before, but dress codes are kind of sexist.”
You would think Rowena would like that comment, but she rolls her eyes. “Kind of
sexist?” she says. “Dress codes are not
kind of
sexist. They’re
totally
sexist. Is
anyone telling
you
not to show your cleavage?”
Phil takes a step away from Rowena, as if she is a snake spitting venom. “This may
be a technicality,” he says, “but guys don’t
have
cleavage.”
Rory wants in on the conversation. “Unless you mean butt cleavage.” He laughs at
his own joke. “What I don’t understand,” he says to Rowena, “is that you’re dressed
kind of”—he pauses to find the right word—“plain.”
Rory has a point. Rowena may be against the dress code, but Germinato would not have
a problem with her clothes. She is wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting
jeans.
Rowena rolls her eyes at him too. “You’re missing the point. It shouldn’t matter
how
a girl dresses. It’s her choice. It’s a guy’s problem if he gets distracted by
a girl’s midriff or her cleavage.”
When she says that, I can’t help sneaking a peek at Daisy’s midriff. “It
is
kind
of distracting…” I didn’t mean to say the words out loud, but it’s too late to take
them back.
Rowena shakes her head, but Daisy bursts into laughter, which makes me laugh too.
“Relax,” Daisy tells Rowena. “Eric and I have known each other forever. It’s not
like he sees me as some kind of object.”
“She’s right.” I hope I sound convincing. And because I feel Rowena watching me,
I add, “Girls are not objects.”
“If you really mean that,” Rowena says, “you know what you should do?”
“What?”
I can tell from the creases in Rowena’s forehead that she is hatching a plan.
“You should run for the Student Life Committee.”
Which is how I end up in front of Miss Aubin’s desk. When I tell her my name, she
closes her eyes. I get the feeling she is sorting through the files in her brain.
She opens her eyes. “Eric Myles. You’re one of the boys from O’Donovan, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Grown-up women like being called
ma’am
.
Miss Aubin removes her glasses and peers up at me. “So how are you liking Marie Gérin-Lajoie
High School so far?”
“I’m liking it. Quite a bit, actually. It’s a lot bigger than O’Donovan. Plus it’s
got girls.” I should probably not have mentioned the girls.
The corners of Miss Aubin’s thin lips rise a little. “Girls,” she says. “Of course.
I hope they’re not causing you to be too
distracted
.” If she was not the Germinator’s
assistant, I’d guess she was making a joke.
“Uh, well, a little.” Something in the way Miss Aubin watches my face when I speak
makes me want to be honest with her.
“That’s perfectly normal,” she says. “You’ll need some time to adjust to being in
a coed school. Now, how I can help you today, Eric?”
“I’m thinking about applying for the Student Life Committee. The Germ—”
I catch myself.
Is it my imagination, or does Miss Aubin nearly smile again? “I mean, Mr. Germinato
said we should come to you for further information.”
Now Miss Aubin smiles for real. “It’s wonderful that you want to get involved, Eric.”
She hands me two sheets of paper. “The first is a questionnaire. The second outlines
what is expected in the essay. Basically, you should explain your motivation.” Miss
Aubin rests her chin on her hand. “Why do you want to run for the Student Life Committee?”
At first I think Miss Aubin is only explaining how to write the essay, but then I
realize she really wants to know.
“To tell you the truth, I was talking with a couple of my friends.” Is it too soon,
I wonder, to call Daisy and Rowena my friends? “About how I’m opposed to the way
the dress code works. And one of them suggested I run for the Student Life Committee—”
Miss Aubin does not let me finish my sentence. She tilts her head to the side to
check that the door to the Germinator’s office is closed. He must be in there trying
on baseball caps. “Eric, if I may give you a word of advice, don’t mention the dress
code.” Then she lowers her voice. “Mr. Germinato reads all of the essays. You could
mention recycling though. He likes that.”
“Great. Thanks for the advice,” I say. “Also, what did you call the school earlier?
I thought everyone calls it Lajoie High School or just Lajoie.”
Miss Aubin walks me out to the hallway. She stops in front of the portrait of the
woman with her hair in a bun. “That’s Marie Gérin-Lajoie. The school was named after
her,” she says. I notice a gold plaque at the bottom of the frame. It says
Marie
Gérin-Lajoie, 1867–1945
. The way Miss Aubin is gazing at the painting, you would
think Marie was
her grandmother. “She was a fascinating woman,” Miss Aubin says,
and I’m not sure if she is talking to herself or to me. “Ahead of her time.”
It’s not until I am on my way to class that I realize I could have made Miss Aubin’s
day by asking her what made Marie Gérin-Lajoie so fascinating to her.
As I walk into the classroom, something else occurs to me. Miss Aubin’s bra strap
was showing.
So far, Life Sciences is my favorite class. The teacher, Mr. Farrell, is cool, and
there are three times as many girls as guys in the class. Rory noticed that on the
first day. “I’d say our odds are pretty good,” he said. He wasn’t talking about blackjack.
Daisy and Rowena are sitting at the back. Rory has already grabbed the desk
next
to Daisy’s. Because I spent most of recess with Miss Aubin, I have to take the only
empty desk in the middle of the front row.
We are doing a unit on baboons. We have already learned that there are five species
of baboons that live in Africa and southwestern Arabia. They have long muzzles and
sharp teeth, and their predators include crocodiles, lions and sometimes humans.
“Today you’ll be taking notes on the baboon life cycle,” Mr. Farrell explains. He
tells us how in the wild, baboons live to be about thirty. In captivity, they can
live up to forty-five years.
“Yeah, but who wants to live in captivity?” Rory calls out.
Another teacher might get ticked off at someone calling out, but not Mr. Farrell.
He steps away from the whiteboard and asks whether anyone else wants to contribute
to the discussion.
Rowena’s hand shoots up. “We all live in captivity,” she says with a sigh. “I don’t
mean to depress you guys, but we’re trapped in this building until the bell goes
at 3:15 pm.”
Mr. Farrell chuckles. “Four fifteen, in my case. I’m supervising in the detention
room.”
Now Rory’s hand shoots up. “Should we write that down in our notes?” he asks. Even
Mr. Farrell chuckles at that as he turns back to the whiteboard.
“Between the ages of four and five, female baboons reach menarche.” Mr. Farrell is
looking around the class. I can tell he wants to know if we are familiar with the
word. I think I know what it means, but because it’s embarrassing, I pretend to study
my notes.
“
Menarche
,” Mr. Farrell says, “refers to menstruation. Like human females, female
baboons get a monthly period.”
There’s some giggling, and someone whispers something about baboon-sized sanitary
napkins. “There’s no need to be embarrassed,” Mr. Farrell says. “Menstruation is
perfectly natural. There would not be baboons—or humans, for that matter—without
it.
“Male baboons take a little longer to mature than the females do,” Mr. Farrell continues.
“Another parallel to the human life cycle—and something I am sure some of you have
noticed.”
The girl next to me nods.
Mr. Farrell writes the words
reproductive signaling
on the whiteboard. It turns
out that to signal her fertility, the female baboon wags (Mr. Farrell does not say
wags
—he says
presents
) her swollen rump in front of the male baboon’s face.
Phil raises his hand. “Excuse me, sir, but is this a joke?”
“This is not a joke,” Mr. Farrell answers. “It’s Life Sciences.”
Mr. Farrell goes to the computer on his desk. Thirty seconds later, we are looking
at the hot-pink, swollen rump of a female baboon. Mr. Farrell has projected the image
on the whiteboard. It could be the grossest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Are you saying male baboons think that’s sexy?” Rory asks.
Mr. Farrell nods. “I suppose they do.”
Some of the girls giggle. Other students squirm in their chairs. The girl next to
me covers her eyes.
Mr. Farrell stands perfectly still at the front of the room, without saying anything.
I think he is giving us a moment to settle down.
“Earlier in today’s class, Rowena drew an interesting parallel between the experience
of baboons and our own human experience. She pointed
out that, like baboons who live
in captivity, we too are sometimes restricted in our actions.
“Now, if I may draw your attention back to the screen, can you think of any parallels
between the female baboon’s reproductive signaling and our own society?”
I think I know where Mr. Farrell is going. I raise my hand. “Are you talking about
how girls dress, sir?”
“I’m not talking about how girls dress, Eric. You are,” Mr. Farrell answers.
“Well, uh, I guess some girls dress in a way that is, I mean, could be…meant to attract
guys,” I say.
Mr. Farrell looks at the rest of the class. “Do any of you want to respond to what
Eric just said?”
I should not be surprised that Rowena has a response. “Why do you automatically assume
that how girls dress is about guys? Why can’t a girl’s
clothes be a form of self-expression?
I have a friend who wants to be a fashion designer. Her clothing choices are part
of her identity.”
I know she means Daisy. “Uh, I guess it could be that too,” I say, trying to dig
myself out of the hole I did not realize I was digging.
Mr. Farrell saves me. “Eric and Rowena, you’ve both raised valid points. I think
the lesson for today is that Life Sciences is not only a class you take to pass seventh
grade. The life sciences affect us all. At every moment.”
Rory was not kidding about wanting to widen his social circle.
When Phil and I get to the cafeteria, we hear Rory’s loud laugh from the other end
of the room. He is huddled at a table with his new pals. There is Martie, who trains
at Rory’s gym, and Theo. Rory shares a locker with Theo.
“Should we go over there?” Phil sounds nervous.
“Why not?” I say, though I can think of a few reasons.
“Hey,” Rory says as Phil and I sit down. Rory goes back to his conversation with
Theo and Martie without introducing us. It’s hard to tell what they are talking about.
I hear them mention numbers—eight, seven, seven point five. Rory is good at math,
but I would not have pegged Theo or Martie as the kind of guys who discuss math over
tuna sandwiches. This goes to show how wrong it is to make assumptions about people.
“Are you guys in accelerated math?” I ask Theo and Martie.
Theo grunts. Martie looks at me like I am from Saturn. “What are you talking about?”
he asks.
“Well, I figured…since you’re discussing numbers…”
Rory guffaws. “That’s a good one, little buddy!” I like that Rory has called me
buddy
in front of the other guys, but I wish he had left out the
little
part.
The blonde girl we saw on the first day of school walks past our table. She is wearing
a black T-shirt with red cut-off pants and carrying a tray with salad. Alfalfa must
be her favorite food.
“Seven-point-five,” Theo says.
Rory scratches his head. “Eight.”
Then Martie adds, “Seven. Definitely seven. Not round enough.”
“What’s not round en—” But before the words are out of my mouth, I figure out what
the three of them are discussing. Not math. They are rating girls’ butts on a scale
from one to ten.
My mind flashes on the photo of the female baboon’s swollen rump. I blink to make
the image go away.
Another girl walks by. This one is about a foot shorter than the blond.
Martie uses the back of his hand to wipe tuna off the side of his mouth. “Seven.
Too round.”
Theo sighs as if to say rating girls’ butts takes a lot of effort. “Eight,” he says.
Rory high-fives Theo. “Hey, that’s what I was going to say.” Rory punches my arm.
“So what do you say, Eric?” Then he looks past me at Phil. “What about you?”