Moxie: A Novel Page 5

  “The girls of Moxie are tired?” he asks. “Maybe they should take a nap then.” The guys sitting next to him respond with a chorus of heh-hehs.

  I glance over at Mr. Davies, who seems to sort of startle awake at his desk. He glances at the clock.

  “Okay, hey, y’all … you can chat for the last few minutes of class, but keep it down, please.”

  Great. Now the hounds have really been released.

  “Okay, wait a minute, listen to this,” Mitchell continues as most of the class shift in their seats, leaning in toward him. Even Seth is looking over his shoulder, his dark eyes taking in the goon in the back row. Maybe not turning around actually makes me look suspicious. I crane my neck and see Mitchell’s eyes skimming the pages of Moxie. My pages.

  “Are you tired of a certain group of male students telling you to ‘Make me a sandwich!’ when you voice an opinion in class?” he reads, then looks up, his grin spreading wide like he’s just been named All-American. “Hey, that’s me!” He shrugs his shoulders all guilty-as-charged. Sorry not sorry!

  “Wait, read that one,” says Alex Adams, another football player in the back row. He points a finger at Moxie and smacks at it once, then twice, enjoying himself. “Read that last part.”

  I’m trying to keep my face normal and neutral, but I’m pushing my feet into the bottom of my shoes so hard one of them squeaks against the tiled floor.

  “Okay, let me,” Mitchell agrees. “It says, ‘Are you tired of the football team getting tons of attention and getting away with anything they want?’” Mitchell laughs out loud like he’s just read the Earth is flat or time travel exists. (Actually, Mitchell might be dense enough to think those things are true.) “Is this thing serious? They’re pissed we’re doing our job and winning football games? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was supposed to lose so a bunch of girls don’t feel all sad and shit.”

  Cackle cackle, heh-heh, belchy, burpy dumb-boy noises follow, but the truth is some of the other kids in the class are smiling and laughing, too. Even some of the girls.

  Mitchell leans forward in his seat, looking toward Lucy, who is packing her stuff inside her backpack. She stares up at the clock like she’s willing it to speed up.

  “Hey, new girl,” he says in the general direction of Lucy’s back. “New girl, turn around, I have a question for you.”

  Lucy’s shoulders sink just a bit. But she turns around.

  “Yeah?” she says.

  “You write this?” Mitchell asks, waving Moxie around between his fingers.

  Lucy waits a beat longer than she needs to before offering a cold and clipped, “No,” and then turns around to continue packing up.

  “There were copies in all the girls’ bathrooms this morning,” someone says. Mitchell shrugs again, his gaze on Lucy. It lingers for too long.

  “Whatever, it’s a bunch of shit,” Mitchell mutters under his breath. He crumples Moxie in his quarterback hands and tosses it toward the front of the room where it bounces off the whiteboard.

  “Please, let’s use the trash can,” Mr. Davies says, coming to life briefly.

  The bell rings at last, and I catch Seth making a break for the door, not looking back.

  In the crowded hallway, I find myself bumping up against Lucy. She has her eyes fixed forward, her mouth a firm line.

  “Hey,” I say, my voice low. “I have an extra copy of that thing if you want it. My locker’s right there.”

  Lucy turns, surprised, her eyebrows popping up.

  “Yeah?” she asks.

  “Sure.”

  She stands off to the side as I fiddle with my combination, and once I find the one copy of Moxie I saved, I hand it to her.

  “Thanks,” she says, grinning. “This thing is so cool.”

  “Yeah, it is pretty interesting,” I answer.

  “I didn’t make it, you know,” she says. “Do you know who did?”

  I shake my head no. If I speak she’ll know I’m lying.

  “That Mitchell guy is a complete asshole,” Lucy says, and when she says it I find my eyes darting up and down the hall, double-checking that Mitchell isn’t nearby. It pisses me off that my first reaction is to make sure he can’t hear us, but I don’t want to get caught by him and become the next brunt of his jokes. He scares me too much.

  “He can kind of do whatever he wants around here,” I offer, my voice quieter than it needs to be.

  “I’ve figured that out,” Lucy says, arching one eyebrow. “Anyway, thanks for this.” She tucks Moxie inside a notebook. “Hey, what’s your name again?”

  “Vivian,” I tell her. “People call me Viv.”

  “Right, I thought so. You never really talk in class, so I wasn’t sure.”

  I shrug, not sure how to respond at first. “I don’t think talking in that class gets you anywhere,” I finally manage.

  “Seriously,” she says. “Anyway, I’m Lucy. And as that asshole pointed out, I’m new this year.”

  I smile and nod. “Yeah, I know.” I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to say. In East Rockport I run into so few new people.

  Lucy smiles back, but when I don’t say anything else, she offers me a little half wave and starts off down the hall. I raise a hand goodbye, and it’s not until she’s filtered through the crowd that I realize I could have asked her where she was from or why her family moved here. I could even have asked her if she was planning on coloring stars and hearts on her hands this Friday as Moxie instructed.

  I stare down at my own bare hands and realize I need to answer that same question for myself.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I always push the cart when my mom and I go grocery shopping so my mom can focus on the list—written on paper, of course. It’s been that way since I was in middle school.

  “Black beans or refried?” she asks me, examining the canned goods in front of her.

  “Refried.”

  “Black beans are healthier.”

  “Refried.”

  My mother shoots me a look, but she gives in.

  We almost always go shopping on Thursday nights if she’s not working. My mom can’t handle the craziness of the store on the weekends, and it’s a ritual we have together. But as I push the cart, trying to overcorrect its sticky rear left wheel, I find myself looking at my hands gripping the cart’s handle instead of talking to my mom.

  My hands don’t have a single birthmark or freckle on them. My fingernails are naked—painting them always feels like a hassle. I try to imagine stars and hearts scrawled on these hands tomorrow. I try to imagine what it might feel like to walk the halls of East Rockport like that. My heart beats quickly, but I’m not sure if it’s out of excitement or anxiety. I picture everyone looking at me and all my friends asking me questions. I clench my hands into fists and take a deep breath.

  “Okay, let’s head to frozen foods,” my mom says. She’s different from Meemaw and Grandpa in a lot of ways—except for a Stouffer’s addiction. I follow her, pushing the cart.

  All week I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m doing. The truth is, since Monday morning everything has been pretty much … exactly the same. The biggest development was probably me giving Lucy my extra copy of Moxie. Claudia never mentioned it again, and Mitchell didn’t even bother making fun of it after that one time in Mr. Davies’s class—at least that I know of. I’ve wanted to mention it at lunch with Sara and Claudia and the other girls, but I’m worried that talking about it too much might make me look suspicious even though me being the creator of Moxie is about as likely as me visiting the International Space Station or inventing the cure for cancer in my chem class. At least that’s what the people who know me would say.

  I’m not sure if I expected anything to come of it. Maybe it’s all over now. Maybe making Moxie was just a way to vent.

  Sure, Vivian, but why did you include that thing about the hearts and stars if you didn’t want it to go anywhere?

  I grimace, trying to ignore the question, but that�
�s impossible. Because somewhere inside I do want the Moxie zines to go somewhere. I know I do. I’m just not sure I want to commit to being the one to take them there. Wherever there is.

  I scowl at the can of refried beans as I keep pushing the cart forward. It would be easier to just think about Seth, but I haven’t even seen him this week except for in Mr. Davies’s class. He walks in at the bell and leaves at the bell, and he never talks. Just takes notes and sits there all mysterious. Yesterday he wore a shirt that said Black Flag on it, and I spent the night listening to their song “Rise Above” on my phone. It made my toes curl and my chest ache, but in a good way.

  I shiver through the frozen foods section as my mom tosses in a few boxes of lasagna and Salisbury steak. Finally, we make it through checkout, and I help unload the bags into our Honda. I’m making sure a carton of eggs isn’t placed too precariously in the backseat when I hear a male voice behind me.

  “Lisa?”

  There’s a pause, and then I hear my mom, her voice all tinkly and light. “Oh! John, hey. How are you?”

  I slide out of the car to see my mom facing a guy around her age. He’s wearing green scrubs and a loose-fitting gray hoodie, and his face is covered in a red, scruffy beard. My mother’s face looks all lit up, like this guy is handing her a big Lotto check instead of just saying hi.

  “Getting your grocery shopping done?” scruffy redhead dude asks.

  “Trying to,” my mom answers, her voice still a little off somehow.

  “You’re on tomorrow morning, right?” he asks.

  “Yes,” my mother answers, rolling her eyes. This whole interaction seems like it could have taken place in the East Rockport High cafeteria, and my hope that the adult world is nothing like high school crumbles a bit as I lean back against my mom’s car in the HEB parking lot. Why is my mom behaving like a teenager? Who is this weird guy with a red beard?

  “By the way, this is my daughter, Viv,” my mother says, nodding her head toward me and smiling. I raise a hand and smile slightly.

  “Nice to meet you, Viv,” redhead dude says. “I’m John. Your mom and I work together.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I answer on autopilot, eyeing him carefully. My mom has never mentioned any guy at work.

  “Well, we’d better get going,” my mom says, even though she barely makes a move.

  John smiles and nods, and finally after way too long my mother and I get in the car and she starts up the engine, but I notice a big blue-and-white DELOBE bumper sticker on the back of John’s SUV as he pulls out of the lot.

  “Gross, he voted for Delobe,” I announce, my voice louder than normal. I know I sound childish, but this John guy weirds me out.

  “Oh, Delobe was a moderate, really,” my mom answers, an absentminded grin on her face.

  “Mom, he ran for mayor as a Republican,” I say, irritated. “You said you’d never vote for a Republican even if your life depended on it.”

  My mom shrugs and pulls our car out of the HEB lot. “It’s Texas, Vivvy. Sometimes a moderate Republican is the best we’re going to get. At least he’s pro marriage equality.”

  I can’t believe her dreamy, distracted mood—she’s not even listening to me—so I shut my mouth and lean my head against the cool glass of the passenger window, frowning at my reflection. When I was in middle school, my mom dated this guy named Matt that she met through a friend of hers. It went far enough that Matt would come over to watch movies with my mom and me and go on walks with us around our neighborhood and take my mom out to dinner while I spent the evening at Meemaw and Grandpa’s. Matt liked orange Tic Tacs and had a mutt named Grover that smelled like lavender dog shampoo.

  He was nice enough, I guess, but when he was around it always felt like I was waiting for him to leave. I didn’t understand why we needed him. After all, it had been two people for as long as I could remember. Me and Mom had always been just fine.

  Then, out of nowhere a few months later, Matt stopped coming over. Mom told me they moved in different directions, and from the way my mom spent several nights on the phone with a friend or two of hers, her face twisted into a scowl and her voice lowered to a whisper, I guessed I shouldn’t ask any questions. After that, Mom never acted like she had any use for any guy in her life except for Grandpa.

  And now there’s this Republican-loving John dude with hair the color of a navel orange making my mom do a tinkly laugh, and all I can think is how disappointed I am that my mom could like a guy like that.

  At home, my mom and I unpack the groceries, making the same light, easy talk we’ve been making for years.

  “Tell me I didn’t forget olive oil.”

  “Where should I put the potatoes again?”

  “I’m going to dig into this ice cream tonight, damn it.”

  After that’s done, my mom collapses onto the couch to watch television and I disappear into a hot shower, letting the streams of steaming hot water drum onto my head. Once I put on my old Runaways T-shirt and sweats, I dig through my collection of pens and markers and Sharpies on my desk. I pluck out one black Sharpie and uncap it, pressing the tip against my index finger a few times to make sure it works. The tiny, scattered black dots look like renegade freckles popping up out of nowhere. My heart beats hard under my rib cage. I imagine myself walking into school tomorrow, the only girl with her hands marked. How fast could I wash them clean so I wouldn’t stick out?

  I swallow hard and place the marker on my nightstand like an alarm clock before I slide into bed. I reach for my headphones and start playing Bikini Kill.

  * * *

  Not one other girl in my first period American history class has anything on her hands. Not Claudia or Sara or anyone. Just me. My marked hands feel like Meemaw’s fine china teacups that she keeps in a glass cabinet and never uses. Like fragile things that don’t belong in a high school and need to be put away, immediately. The heady, dizzy state I was in when I created Moxie disappears, like I’d biked down to U COPY IT in the middle of a dream.

  Of course, Claudia notices my hands. She’s my best friend. She notices when I get my bangs trimmed.

  “Hey, what’s up?” She nods toward my lap, where I have my hands twisted together desperately to cover up the markings I made this morning as the sun was coming up. “You did that thing from the newsletter?”

  Zine, not newsletter, I think to myself, but I just shrug my shoulders.

  “I don’t know. I was bored.” It’s a stupid excuse. For the first time ever, I actually want Mrs. Robbins to walk in and start class on time.

  “I guess I just don’t get it,” Sara says, joining in. “I mean, I thought that thing made some good points, but how is wearing hearts and stars on our hands supposed to change anything?” She eyes my drawings again and my cheeks burn.

  “You’re right, it was stupid,” I say, embarrassed. A lump suddenly fills my throat. If I start crying in front of my friends over this, they’ll know something is up.

  “No, I didn’t mean it like that,” Sara says, her voice soft. “I just meant, like, I think this place is crazy, too, but I don’t think it’s ever going to improve. It was a nice idea or whatever, but … you know.”

  Claudia gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “It only proves you’re super idealistic, just like I thought,” she says. I try to smile back and swallow away any bad feelings.

  Just then, Mrs. Robbins finally walks in, and the first chance I get to be excused to the bathroom, I take it. I make my way down the halls of East Rockport, imagining a time and a place where I’ll be free from the scuffed tiled floors and pep rally banners reading GO PIRATES! and mind-numbing classes that make me feel dumber, not smarter. I just have to hang on until I can get out of here, like my mother. If I only knew where I was going. If only I could be sure I would never come back.

  I push open the heavy door just as a flush echoes from one of the bathroom stalls. I squirt some soap into my palms and start scrubbing my hands in warm water, rubbing at the Sharpie h
earts and stars with my thumbs.

  A stall door opens. I look over my shoulder and see Kiera Daniels make her way to one of the sinks. Kiera and I were friends in fourth and fifth grade, back before that weird time in middle school when the black kids and the white kids and the kids who mostly speak Spanish to each other started sitting at separate tables in the cafeteria. She and I used to trade Diary of a Wimpy Kid books, and once we even tried to make our own, with me writing the story and Kiera drawing the pictures. Now she sits at a table with other black girls and I sit at a table with my friends, and sometimes we nod at each other in the hallway.

  “Hey,” she says as she makes her way over to one of the sinks.

  “Hey,” I say back.

  And then I see them. Stars and hearts. Big ones, too. Fat, bubbly Sharpie hearts and stars all the way up her wrists. Her drawings are detailed. I can see she’s even created tiny planets in between the stars. Kiera was always a good artist.

  Kiera’s hearts and stars say Look at me. Mine just whisper I’m here. But still, she spots them.

  “You read that newsletter?” she asks.

  Zine, not newsletter. But whatever.

  “Yeah, I did,” I answer. And I find myself turning the water off and reaching for a paper towel to dry my hands.

  “Who did it?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. She’s washing her hands carefully, trying not to smudge her hand graffiti.

  “No clue,” I answer, bending over to scratch an imaginary itch on my knee, hoping it provides me enough cover to shield my face while I’m lying. I can feel my cheeks starting to warm.

  “I liked it,” Kiera says. “It said a lot of smart stuff. Things here are fucked up. I mean, my boyfriend is a football player, but still. They are fucked up.” Kiera drops her voice a few notches. “Did you know they get to eat at Giordano’s for free every Saturday? All you can eat?”

  Giordano’s is the tastiest Italian restaurant in all of East Rockport, and it’s my go-to favorite place to order pizza from if Mom says there’s any extra money in our food budget at the end of the week.