It has been three days since the almost kiss with Ronald and have to say I'm handling it better than expected. Admittedly, I haven't said more than ten words to him, but it has not been for lack of trying. I am up-to-my-elbows—deep in decorating committee duties.
When the secretary calls for me to report to the Deputy Principal's office at half past three pm, I am more shocked than nervous.
Some of the sophomores in the back row loudly whisper, "Ooohh, she's in trouble," and I have to remind myself for the twentieth time in the last hour that teachers don't give the middle finger to their students. No matter how tempting.
"That will be all today," I say, placing the cap back on my pink marker. "I expect you to read and make a summary on chapter 3. That'll be all,"
I exit the classroom and hurriedly make my way to the Administration block, taking advantage of the empty hallways.
Once there, I knock on Ronald's door and hear his consent.
I walk in but choose to stand awkwardly by the door.
I am suddenly nervous and I can't tell if it's because he narrowed his eyes at me the moment I entered his office.
"You could have just texted, you know," I tell him.
He raises his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Yes, his eyes are definitely narrowed.
"You've been quite busy," he says. "Apparently," he adds with a tone of bitterness.
I convince myself not to shrink back at his tone of voice.
"Well…" I say awkwardly. "Did you need something?"
Oh, if looks could kill.
"A message from the Principal," he says. "He requests that you remind the students not to dress inappropriately and to bar any inappropriately dressed students from the dance,"
I blink. "Okay. Any guidelines on what's not appropriate?" I ask.
He glances at me, then at the chair across from him twice until I get the message.
I plop myself of the chair across him and he slides over a sheet of paper.
I pick up the sheet and skim through it, letting out a low whistle in the end. "They are not going to like this,"
"They don't have a choice, do they?" He asks dryly.
I roll my eyes thinking, 'people in power'.
The atmosphere feels charged with hostility and I am close to squirming in my seat.
"Is that all?" I ask, ready to make a break for it.
His face falls momentarily, as if in disappointment then goes back to hatefully blank so fast I feel as if I imagined it.
"Yes," he says, his voice ice cold. "That's all,"
"Okay," I mumble and get up from my chair.
My hand touches the door knob when I think, 'Screw it' and turn back around, immediately regretting the idea but going through with it nonetheless.
"Have you watched Vampire Diaries lately?" I ask.
"No," he says. "I've been quite busy,"
I notice the jab but push through anyway.
"Good. We're on the same page then," I say. "I get out at eight tonight. We can watch an episode or two over pizza or, you know, something healthier," I continue.
The bell rings. I need to make copies of the 'inappropriate clothing' list and distribute them among the students to share to their peers.
"If you're okay with that," I add.
He should really say something, I think. This is getting awkward.
I'm about to cut my losses and open the door when he says, "See you at eight,"
I glance back at him, smile and rush out to make copies of the sheet at the secretary's desk.
When I arrive at the social hall, Nisha, the chair of the decorating committee rushes to me in a panic.
"Where have you been?" She cries. "Andrea and Eduard completely RUINED the banner, we're lacking twenty balloons and I'm pretty sure Patric is high right now," she points at a curly haired boy sitting at the far corner of the hall with his legs crossed and his eyes closed.
I place my hands on Nisha's shoulders in an effort to calm her. "Calm down, Nisha. Breathe in," I instruct. She breathes in. "Then out,"
Once she's visibly calmer, I let her go.
"Sorry, Miss K. I'm just on edge here. Also, it's not like you to be late," she says.
"About that…" I say nervously.
Nisha's eyes widen in panic. "Oh no. Please tell me they're not cancelling the dance!"
"Not at all, calm down," I tell her.
I briefly muse over how many times I've had to use the phrase on her.
"But…" she prompts.
"But. The Principal has umm…requested that…this really wasn't my idea, by the way," I add.
Nisha groans impatiently. I hand her a copy of the 'Inappropriate clothing' list.
"Jeans," she reads aloud. "Canvas, sportswear, backless dresses…What am I reading?"
"That's a list of inappropriate dressing. Stuff you can't wear to the dance," I tell her.
Her eyes widen even more as she skims down the list.
"No dresses or skirts above knee length, no tight-fitting dresses…what is this, a nunnery?" She yells in outrage. "I won't go for it! I refuse to be controlled by a bunch of misogynistic a-" she stops herself. I suspect she was about to say assholes but remembered she was in the presence of a teacher. "No."
I wince. "I'm under instructions to bar anyone who refuses to comply from the dance,"
"No! No! No!" Nisha exclaims, stomping her foot in rage.
She climbs up to the stage and whistles loud enough to catch everyone's attention.
"Listen up, everybody!" She yells. "The system," she makes air quotes for the word 'system'. "Is against us! They just decided that we can't wear what we want! And if we don't agree to their demands, we're banned from the dance!"
I stand back, awkwardly fiddling with the cap of my pen as she stirs up the growing crowd.
"I propose a strike! I will not be party to following the way of the patriarchy! Who's with me?" She says.
My head snaps upwards, as if needing visual confirmation of what she just said.
"Now, hold on a minute," I say, but my voice is drowned by the crowd's chants of "Strike! Strike! Strike!"
Oh shit.
The chants are getting louder and I am on the verge of panic.
I try to follow my own advice to Nisha. Calm down. Deep breaths. Breathe through your nose.
I climb onto the stage and signal for them to stop. Too bad I don't have a cab-whistle like Nisha, it would have been useful right about now. Or maybe not, the crowd is getting too loud.
I raise my hands above my head and touch the tips of my right hand to the palm of my left hand—signalling a stop. I know better than to just add to the noise in the room.
Thankfully, the crowd simmers down a little.
I take a deep breath, mentally preparing an impromptu speech.
"Listen," I say, raising my voice to meet the crowd's chants. "You guys have worked hard on this dance!" I tell them, giving Nisha a look. "Don't let it all go to waste over something that can be discussed in a civil manner,"
"What if they don't listen?" Nisha demands.
"Yeah!" A part of the crowd joins.
"They never listen. Not that you would know," Nisha adds, crudely.
I hold back the urge to tell her that I'm just the messenger.
"Look, I'm not the enemy. No one is," I say, realizing that I had almost shifted blame. "I'm sure there's a more reasonable way to bring your grievances to light instead of destroying all your hard work," I tell them.
Nisha jumps down from the stage and engages in a hushed conversation with her decorating committee before she turns back to me with a smile I can only describe as devilish.
"Don't you worry, Miss K. The dance is still on," she says.
Somehow, I am not relieved by her statement. If anything, I'm more anxious than ever.
Decorations go on as planned though with far more grumbling than the previous days.
Nisha is less chatty with me now, leading me to assume that I am now part of the 'system' (by default) that she despises so much. There is a thin line between rude and unresponsive and she is trying very hard to blur it.
"She'll get over it," Patric says, next to me. I try not to jump out of my skin.
Patric is a pimply sixteen year-old who, from my knowledge, is almost always stoned and is into being Zen. If Rutherford weren't strict on the uniform policy, I imagine he'd be wearing DIY-decorated baggy jeans and tie-dye t-shirts with a durag on top.
"Who?" I ask.
"Nisha," he says. "I know she's got a stick up her ass-"
"Patric!" I chastise.
He grins. "Sorry. I know she's got a stick up her derriere, but she means well,"
I roll my eyes at his change of wording that made no difference.
"She just wants to stick it to the man, you know?"
I spot Ronald by the door and check my watch. It's just fifteen minutes after eight.
I glance around the hall, there only five of us remaining, and Nisha and her group are just sitting in a corner chatting. I don't think of it as chatting, though. I'm pretty sure she's conspiring against 'The Man'.
"You should go on to dinner. Goodnight, Patric," I say. "And thanks,"
"Anytime, Miss K," he says.
I pocket my pink marker and make my way to Ronald.
"Hey you," I say, smiling.
"Hey yourself," he answers.
"I just need to grab my bag and we can head out," I tell him, leading the way to the teachers' lounge.
"So," he says. "What's up with the committee?"
"Oh, they hate me now," I tell him with a fake smile. "It seems 'the system' has been a thorn in their side and now I'm part of the system. Yay."
I flick on the lights. The room is devoid of life except for me and Ronald. I pick up my peach tote from my desk and turn to Ronald.
"Ready to go," I tell him.
He grins at me, and for the hundredth time I think, 'damn, he's handsome'.
"I'm sorry you had to go through that," he says. "I told you the committee would be tough, though,"
I believe his apology is sincere, but I still have to ask. "You didn't set me up to fail, did you?"
He tucks my arm in his. "Maybe I did," he says.
I gasp. "You monster!" I say, slapping his arm lightly.
"Or maybe," he continues, grinning wider. "The decorating committee is chaired by a man-eating harpy,"
I laugh. "Hey, she's not that bad,"
"Now say it like you believe it," he says.