Girls in Charge (3 page)

My mother, placing a hand on her belly, said that she couldn't argue against the Pink Locker Society.

“It's a good concept,” she said. “I've never had a quarrel with that. Girls need help, and why not get it from other girls?”

But—and this was a pretty serious but—she and Dad wanted to talk with Ms. Russo. I know they wanted to see if my story checked out.

This was perfectly fine with me because then Ms. Russo could break the news to them about New York City. And once she did that, I could start talking nonstop about NYC and what we'd do there and where we'd stay and how we'd eat the best pizza on earth and see the city lights twinkle like diamonds as we trotted through Central Park by horse-drawn carriage.

 

Seven

Bet still had her weekly show on Margaret Simon Middle School TV. But it was not the hard-hitting kind of journalism she had in mind when she was awarded the honor in the fall. Principal Finklestein had had weekly flip-outs when her shows featured important topics like the Pink Locker Society and the fairness of the annual Backward Dance. So now we had been broadcasting Bet's real shows on the Pink Locker Society Web site, which allowed her to report on hard-hitting topics like bullying and the Fat or Not–list incident.

When it came to being on MSTV, Principal Finklestein had pretty much ordered Bet to stick to bland topics, such as study skills, lunch-table etiquette, and the history of the Margaret Simon Middle School flower garden. But she was awarded one big story: She got to announce the destination for this year's eighth-grade trip.

As the time of announcement neared, everyone was buzzing with guesses. Some were far-fetched like Hawaii or Antarctica. But we all really knew it would be somewhere that could be easily reached from where we lived. It couldn't be too far or too expensive, but previous classes had gone to lots of cool places, including Boston and Washington, D.C.

We grilled Bet at lunch on Friday, the day of her weekly broadcast, but she wouldn't give us even a hint.

“It's a city, is all I'll say,” Bet said.

“Oh, thanks, that narrows it down,” Piper said.

“You'll just have to wait,” Bet said.

“What if we give you an even better story, will you tell us then?” Piper said.

I shot Piper a look that said “What are you doing?”

“Oh, come on, Jem. You know we're going to tell her anyway.”

“It is a pretty good story,” Kate said with a mischievous grin.

“Tell us,
s'il vous plaît
!” Piper pleaded
en Francais
.

“It has to do with your favorite person, Principal Finklestein,” I said.

“And your real favorite people, us, the Pink Locker Society,” Kate said.

“Okay. I'll give you a hint,” Bet said. “New Amsterdam.”

She ran off to prepare for the afternoon and her broadcast while the rest of us shook our heads. Did that mean we were going to New Amsterdam? Because none of us had ever heard of it.

That afternoon, during last period, the eighth grade was more polite than usual during Bet's broadcast. I mean, they paid more attention back when she did serious stuff. But these days, most people just talked or doodled during her shows. But the classroom was quiet, waiting for the news. Eighth-grade trips were legendary. Traveling together and staying overnight was just so grown-up, and the potential freedom—even with chaperones—was tantalizing.

Bet sat behind her anchor desk and spun a globe.

“Where will it be, eighth grade?”

“I'm crossing my fingers for Paris,” Piper whispered to me.

We watched Bet halt the spinning Earth and the camera followed her finger to the east coast of the United States—no big surprise. Then the lens zeroed in to show that she was pointing at New York.

Cheers erupted in our classroom and could be heard echoing down the hall. People hugged and jumped up and down until Mr. Ford asked us to “kindly return to your seats.” But even he high-fived a few of us and revealed he'd be going as a chaperone. I was thinking about the Tomorrow's Leaders Today conference. Did that mean I'd be going to New York City twice?

The rest of the class was buzzing noisily about their big-city plans when Mr. Ford approached my desk.

“You can thank Ms. Russo for that,” he said confidentially.

“What?”

“Well, the class trip was supposed to be to Williamsburg, Virginia, but Jane found out it conflicted with your conference. She convinced the trip committee to go to New York instead. You'll be able to do both.”

 

Eight

Some days, they shouldn't call it cross-country practice. They should call it a mud bath. That's what it was like to run in the wet, soppy springtime. It might have been sunny, but the hint of winter was still in the air. Wherever my sneaker landed, the ground was so wet I kicked up dots of mud on the back of my legs.

That doesn't sound fun, does it? Well, somehow it still managed to be fun for me. I was getting better at running. I wish I would have tallied up every mile since I started running. Had I run one hundred miles yet, I wondered? When would I run two hundred? Lots of girls say they can't run.

What they mean is that they can't run for very long. But here's a secret. You
can
run. If I can run, you can run. You start small. You run for a little bit. You run around the block. You walk fast, then you run. And before you know it, it gets easier. You've run a mile and you're done. You didn't even have to stop.

If you're like me, you get to one mile and you don't want to stop. Now, by mile two, I wanted to stop, but even then, I tried to keep going. And I figured maybe someday, I'd be able to just keep going. A marathon is 26.2 miles. Something to shoot for.

So I kept going on that chilly March afternoon.
Splish-squelch
. I was deep in my running brain, thinking about nothing and everything all at once. Then I saw him: Forrest. Just up ahead, he was carrying his baseball bag and some bases. Baseball season was starting up, so of course I'd be seeing him out here occasionally. Did seeing him mean that I had let myself think about him and I had to switch my bracelet to the other wrist? I hoped not. And what if he stopped me, would that count? Because that is exactly what happened next.

“Hey, Jemma, hold up?”

I slowed to a trot and then walked the last few paces toward him. He was standing there in a hoodie. He dropped his stuff and waited for me. I didn't even have time to think of how I looked.

“I'm supposed to ask you about this New York thing. Ms. Russo wants me to do something with the Blue Locker Society, whatever that's supposed to be,” he said.

“Oh? Nobody told me about that.”

“Yeah, I guess we're supposed to talk or something. At some conference?” Forrest said.

“She wants you to talk to me? Um, okay. When?”

“Monday study hall, at the lockers,” he said. He picked up his bag and hustled down the hill to the baseball diamond.

I watched him go all the way down the hill to the group of players warming up. I remembered Ms. Russo saying something about a Blue Locker Society, but how did Forrest get involved? What were the two of us supposed to discuss?

I was still so stunned it took me a moment to get running again. I knew I'd be calling Kate about this one. But my run wasn't over so it was just me, the mile ahead, and my thoughts. Enough time to make a decision. It would be all business when I met with Forrest.

*   *   *

Kate said the Blue Locker Society idea came up because the leaders' conference is co-ed—both girls and boys.

“And Ms. Russo thinks that it would be good for boys to have a Blue Locker Society,” Kate said.

“They have just as many questions as girls, they just keep quiet about them,” Ms. Russo had told Kate.

Mr. Ford asked for volunteers and Forrest was the only one who said he'd do it, Kate said.

“Uh, okay. I guess I get it.”

 

Nine

So my Monday meeting with Forrest came and went and I stayed calm the entire time. I didn't wear anything special. I didn't write down what I would say. I just decided I'd answer his questions and be nice, but not flirty-friendly.

It was Forrest who seemed nervous. He was the first one at the lockers and we decided to go to the gym to talk. Otherwise, teachers would snag us for not having hall passes. I, for certain, didn't want to get caught. Technically, I had never been assigned a study hall room, so we could have our Pink Locker meetings. But today, Kate and Piper were meeting without me.

“What do you want to know?” I asked after we settled into a spot on the bleachers. The gym was empty except for the sixth-grade square dance club.

“Do you remember when we did square dancing in sixth grade?” Forrest said.

I laughed out loud, thinking of that square dance music and all those unusual commands—do si do, allemande left.

“Deadly,” Forrest said. “You have absolutely no control over who is your partner.”

For a moment, I flashed to a time in sixth grade when we were square dance partners.

“But they look like they're having fun,” I said.

The music stopped and the class was supposed to be realigning their squares. But some couples were swinging their partners, just for the fun of it. Mimi Caritas and her partner were among them.

“Okay, what do you need to know?” I said, turning to face him.

“Know?”

“About the Pink Locker Society or the Blue Locker Society, or whatever this is about.”

“Are you mad?” he asked me.

“What would I be mad about? It's just that I don't really understand what all this is about.”

I was unaccustomed to Forrest paying such close attention to my mood.

“Me neither, really,” he said.

“Are you supposed to start a Blue Locker Society here, at Margaret Simon Middle School?”

“Yeah, I guess that's the idea. Get one going, so we have something to talk about at the conference.”

I asked if he had other guys and if they had any idea how to set up a Web site. He said he was going to make Luke do it with him.

“You should ask Jake to be in it,” I said.

“Why? Is he your boyfriend or something?”

“No. He's just a good guy and would do it, probably,” I said.

“Everybody knows he likes you.”

“Whatever. Moving on, what about setting up a Web site? Do you know how to do it?”

“We'll figure it out.”

“And how will you let boys know that it exists? So they send in questions?”

Forrest shrugged. “They'll figure it out, I guess.”

We talked some more and I told him about our PLS schedule and how we meet every school day. I talked about how we decide which questions to answer and what had been difficult so far.

“Mr. Ford said we can meet in the football coach's office during study hall. It's empty all afternoon,” Forrest said.

I told him how a set place to meet was important and how we were finally back in our plush offices, after a stint in the basement.

“I remember going in that office with you,” Forrest said.

“Yeah, that was forever ago,” I said nonchalantly.

I wanted him to get that I was over him. Even though the getting over part was still in progress. I looked down at my bracelet. I tried to think of any neutral subject, anything other than my endless crush on him.

“Did I tell you my mom's having a baby?”

“Yes. You told me on New Year's Eve, remember?”

Great, from one uncomfortable subject to an even more uncomfortable subject—the night I stopped being his pretend girlfriend. I looked over at the clock above the gym door and pretended I had to get going, even though study hall was far from over.

“Okay, Forrest. Good luck with this. If you have other questions, you can ask Kate or Piper, too. They know just as much as me.”

I had done it. I nearly pumped my fist in victory once I was outside the gym and out of sight. I spent time with Forrest and I didn't become a pile of mush. I didn't analyze his every word and I walked out first. I couldn't believe it: Was I finally over the biggest crush of my entire life?

 

Ten

When you add something new to a Web site, you can put it in big flashing letters so everyone immediately sees it. Or you can just put it off in its own little corner and see what happens. With the Period Predictor, we launched it big on www.pinklockersociety.org. We placed a grabby headline on the front page of the Web site, promising girls: “Get an answer—FINALLY—and FAST!”

Click on the button and girls could answer a short quiz and receive an estimate of when their first period would arrive. I was proud of how I based it on the real medical knowledge I now possessed. Developing from a girl into a woman happens in stages, I now knew. You don't go to bed flat-chested and wake up the next day with grown-up boobs. I had seen that in myself. It takes a while—like two years—for things to progress. And that was a key to our Period Predictor. Basically, you plug in the date you got your first bra and we add twenty-four to thirty months to that.
Voilà!
We have your answer.

I could hardly wait for the fan mail to start pouring in. Was there nothing the Internet couldn't do? What I didn't reveal was that I was the original test case. I put my information in and learned that I would be getting my period on March 21. Now that was just three days away! I could hardly wait. I carried my supplies with me every day to school. I was ready, ready to finally be growing up in that very clear and obvious way.

“Great news, Jemma,” Kate said during the next Pink Locker Society meeting. “More than one hundred girls have already downloaded the Period Predictor. You are revolutionizing puberty!” she said.

“
We
are,” I insisted, not wanting to take all the credit.