Only Girls Allowed (3 page)

“How you spend your daily study hall can very well determine the course of your entire school year,” he said.

You don't know how right you are, Mr. Ford.

I stopped in the girls' bathroom after class and waited
until 1:33, giving myself a minute to get to my locker and a minute to unlock that funky letters-instead-of-numbers code. S-E-R-V-E. Serve who? Or as Mom would correct me, Serve whom?

The eighth grade locker block was actually a “U.” Piper, Kate, and I were on three different sides of the “U.” My locker was in the middle on the east side, facing the bathrooms; Piper's was in the middle of the west side, near the windows; and Kate's was in the middle of the south side, at the bottom of the “U” near the stairwell. In the long days until today, we wondered if that meant something. If you had looked at it from an aerial photo, we formed a sort of triangle.

At 1:34, I stood in front of my locker practically alone. Everyone else had moved along to study hall or their next class. I pretended to be looking for something until the last straggler left. My face felt funny—quivery—as I examined the combination lock. The alphabet circled the dial.

1:35! I took the dial between my thumb and pointer finger and started spelling. S-E-. . . . This was harder than I thought. Once I put my head in the locker, it blocked most of the light. I found R. . . . Now where was V? Earlier, I did the math to determine how many seconds I had per letter—twelve. I thought that was more than enough, but it wasn't when the clock was ticking. Suddenly, I had big floppy clown hands and I couldn't see. Finally, I found the V. Now on to E. . . .

Ugh! I went past it! Now, I had to start over.
Breathe,
I told myself.
Don't panic.
S-E-R . . . I heard voices from behind my pink locker door—the other girls were already in. . . .

“Miss Colwin,” a voice called from the real-locker side of the world. It was Mr. Ford.

“Is everything all right?”

I spun around, blocking his view of the pink door.

“I'm fine. Good. Great. Thanks. Just looking for something. Going to get a jump on that extra credit you just gave out.”

“Okay,” he said. “Please get moving to study hall, Jemma.”

“On my way!”

I turned around and waited for the sound of him walking away. The pink locker remained shut. I had to start over again and it was now too late. 1:37. Ugh! I had missed my chance. I tried the combination again, but the locker wouldn't budge. I sat down, my back to the pink, and wondered what to do next. I was angry at myself but relieved I didn't have to go in. But I was also worried about (and maybe a little jealous of) my friends.

I felt left out in the same way that I did at the amusement park last summer when everyone else went on the roller coaster. Nothing to do but shuffle my feet until their ride was over and they came spilling down the exit ramp, all laughs and smiles. I pulled out my class schedule and tried to see where my study hall room was. But the computer-generated
schedule was no help. Instead of a room number, it said
. I couldn't go to study hall even if I wanted to.

It was then that I heard a rustling noise behind me. A moment later, Kate opened my pink locker door. It abruptly swung in instead of out and she pulled me in by my forearm.

She whisper-yelled to me, “Watch the step, watch the step!” but it was too late. It was one of those steps that's three or four inches steeper than it should be and throws you off completely. I was in, but I was down on one knee, like I was waiting for someone to say, “On your mark, get set, go!”

Kate pulled me up, reached in to close my real locker door, then closed the pink one behind her. I saw that in her other hand she had her camera. I was very glad she hadn't thought to take a photo of me at this unflattering moment.

Piper dusted me off for dramatic effect and said, “Have a nice trip?”

I wanted to say something clever, but my brain was too busy taking it all in. Kate was doing the same, snapping photos of every angle of the place. We were in what looked like a super-rich old lady's house. My knee hardly hurt because I had fallen onto a soft rose-colored rug with fringe on the ends. There was a living room area filled with formal furniture, needlepoint pillows, lamps with glass domes over them, and lace doilies on the tables. Big sections of the rest of the room were closed off by thick plastic tarps. The place
was clearly under construction, and there was a fine coating of dust on a long table, where twelve people could have sat comfortably for dinner.

A large, boxy pink telephone sat in the center of the table. The earpiece was attached to the phone with a twisty cord, and instead of push buttons, it had a spinny thing, like the phones in old movies. The phone was tethered to a big silver speaker.

Oddly, someone had left us snacks—fresh fruit salad and a glass pitcher of lemonade. A short flight of wooden stairs led to a loft, where I discovered four desks with machines on top of them. Were they sewing machines? I should've worn my glasses.

“I hope they're going to renovate the bathroom next, because it could use an update,” Piper told us, pointing over her shoulder at a closed door. Her mother was a real estate agent, so she knew a lot about the finer touches in bathrooms these days, like granite countertops, dual showers, and soaking tubs. “Very vintage stuff in there. But at least the toilet works.”

“See, I told you this would be good,” Kate said, pinching my arm.

I thought about how people say “pinch me” when they're dreaming. Kate pinched me and I didn't wake up. We were at school, somehow inside the eighth-grade locker block, in a secret room. It was a huge space, big enough to live in. There was even a little kitchen, also mostly hidden behind
a dusty plastic tarp. Even if I ignored the construction work, it was hard to feel at home.

Who lived here? Who might come strolling down from the loft?

Kate spun around and said, “Oh, by the way, you should know we have company.”

I heard water splashing on the other side of the closed door. Then it opened and a girl I never saw before stepped out. She was tiny, perfectly put together, and her shiny black hair was gathered in a pink bow at the nape of her neck. When she saw me, she looked a little startled.

“How many of us will there be, do you think?” she said. “I am Bet. It's a nickname. It means ‘duck' in my country.”

She smiled shyly and spoke perfect English, too perfect to have learned the language in the United States.

“Bet is from Thailand,” Piper said. “Her family just moved here this year.”

Bet and I said hello, and then we had one of those moments where there was so much to say that no one said anything. We dug into the fruit salad, poured lemonade, and finally made some small talk.

“Good cantaloupe,” was all I could contribute.

To make conversation, Bet pointed out her locker door. On this side of the world, it had her name written on it, like a movie star's door—Bet Hirujadanpholdoi.

I wanted to turn around and see mine, but the phone on the meeting table rang. Bet let out a squeal and her hands flew up to her face.

“What do we do?” I shrieked, as it rang an old-fashioned-sounding
ring-ring-ring.

“Pick up,” Piper said.

“Pick up, but be polite,” Kate added.

I picked up the heavy pink earpiece and said, “Hello?”

“Hello, dear!” a kindly woman's voice called out. “Can you hear me okay? Flick the silver switch on the phone, please.”

I snapped the silver toggle to the right, and the woman's voice filled the room. The sound quality was scratchy, like when you're ordering something from a drive-thru. She sounded a little like my Great-Aunt Agnes.

“Let me first say welcome—welcome to you girls. I know this is a little disorienting. Believe me, I know. But this is going to be an important day for all of you!”

She went on to say we four had been selected by “members emeritus” of the Pink Locker Society, formerly the Pink Locker Ladies. This secret organization was dedicated to serving the girls of Margaret Simon Middle School—and had been “since forever,” she said.

“Girls,
emeritus
means past, as in golden oldies,” she said.

Whoa. We were shocked. A secret society operating in our boring school? I wanted to know more, much more. Like who were last year's society members? They would be in high school now, but at least we could ask them what was up with all of this. But when I asked about last year's
group, the woman on the other end of the phone didn't answer.

“Well, there was a . . . an unfortunate interruption in our history. There hasn't been a PLS since the 1970s. Can you hold on a minute?”

Before we could say OK, we heard the woman murmuring to someone else. It seemed like a long time before she got back on the line.

“Well, where were we? You girls have been selected to restart our chapter. This has been years in the making!” she said.

Seeing as we didn't know what she was talking about, we didn't know what to do next. Should we applaud, yell hooray!, or just keep quiet in the hope that she would start making sense? The four of us stayed silent, hoping to hear more.

“Does anyone here know about the PLS?” the woman said.

Kate raised her hand, like she expected to be called on.

“Anyone?” called the voice on the phone, unable to see Kate's raised hand.

I nudged Kate, and she said, “Me.”

“That must be Kate,” said the voice.

“Kate has been selected for the PLS through one of our most interesting channels. She is what we call a ‘legacy'—someone in her family was a Pinky! And now Kate can carry on the noble tradition.”

“What the heck does that mean?” Piper asked, her mouth full of grapes.

“Of course, of course you want to know,” the woman said. “The PLS serves middle-school girls in need. We have a network of members both current—which means you four—and a number of women throughout the decades. It's a vast network to support you in your work.”

Piper looked at me the same way she looked at me earlier today when our English teacher wrote “iambic pentameter” on the board. Kate pursed her lips like she does when she's trying to keep a secret. I gave her a what-gives? sort of look, but she said nothing.

“What is this ‘work' of which you speak?” Bet asked in a small voice.

“Sorry, dear. I didn't quite catch that,” the voice said.

“I think we—I mean, everyone but Kate—are still a little confused,” I told the phone voice.

“Oh, yes, of course!” the woman said. “So little to say, so much time. I mean . . . nevermind . . . reverse that. The Pink Locker Ladies—I mean the Pink Locker Society—performs a valuable service here at Margaret Simon. Any girl who has a problem or question can get it answered quickly, accurately, and with the kindness we have built our history upon!”

Kate stayed quiet, but Piper and I kept asking away.

“What kind of questions?” Piper asked.

“That's what you're going to find out once they start
writing in. In my day, it was a lot about growing into a woman—changing bodies and so forth. Some things change, but I suspect that as long as there are girls, they will want to know about PBBs.”

Even Kate was mystified.

“PBBs?”

“Oh, sorry, dear. That's periods, bras, and boys. Nothing draws a crowd of girls better than those topics.”

Piper laughed out loud, and Bet's hands flew to her face again. Kate shot me a look and smiled. PBBs were the topics we discussed 99 percent of the time. But none of us, except maybe Piper, would have considered herself an expert.

“How are we going to help them? Take appointments like a doctor?” Piper asked. “I would look really good in a white doctor's coat.”

“Oh, no, dear. We give advice confidentially. Back in the day, girls would drop off their questions in little wooden boxes hidden around the school. But today, I'm proud to announce, we're launching
PinkLockerSociety.org
—an Internet Web site! Isn't technology just marvelous? I e-mail my grandchildren all the time. And have you girls ever seen the YouTube?”

“Yes, we know all about YouTube,” I said, smirking a little. “So how will the Web site help girls?”

“Girls will e-mail in their questions, and you'll put the answers up on
PinkLockerSociety.org
. In fact, we've
already been spreading the word in a rather sneaky way. A few of us former Pinkies have slipped pink bookmarks in certain books in the school library. You know, the ones that girls check out most often? The bookmarks tell them about the Web site and this fabulous new service—well, it's actually an old service being delivered in a new way.”

“You just went into the school library, and no one noticed? Isn't that trespassing?” Piper asked.

“Well, let's just say we have some former Pinkies on the inside. That's how we managed to get the pink locker doors installed and see that you four didn't get assigned a study hall room. It's great to have Pinkies in high places!”