Liz Reinhardt - Rebels Like Us

I straighten and face the glass doors that lead to my possible doom. It’s not like I’m unused to principals’ offices. I love learning, but the rigidness of school grates on me. It was a problem even in my free-spirited Quaker school.

My easygoing Dominican father gave me his killer dance moves and quick smile, but I inherited my socially blunt mother’s explosive Irish temper. I plod to the line of plastic chairs—the hallmark of the naughty corner outside every principal’s office from Brooklyn to Backassward, Georgia—and announce my presence to a secretary, who shakes her head like she already knows my verdict.

Clearly guilty. Guillotine for me.

“Agnes Pujols?” a voice of manly authority bellows.

“Agnes Murphy-Pujols,” I correct before looking up at the voice’s owner.

“Excuse me?” A balding man at least seven feet tall with the crooked nose of a hawk glares down at me.

“My last name. It’s hyphenated. Murphy-Pujols.” We exchange a long, bristling stare, and I remember Doyle’s whisper outside Mr. Webster’s classroom. “Sir.”

“Come into my office, Ms. Murphy-Pujols.” My principal holds out his arm like he’s some overlord, el Matatan, inviting me in for war talks.

I force one foot in front of the other and realize, with a sinking heart, that I’m treading toward my scholastic doom. I’m not afraid to admit I’m scared. I went to a Quaker school for my entire life. Quakers are people known for friendship and brotherly love. I’m now walking into a disciplinary office in a state that was founded as a penal colony.

Coño, this doesn’t bode well.

FIVE

He busies himself with a thousand minute tasks while I sit and stare, the most basic technique in the campaign of intimidation meant to subdue me. I’m used to authority figures looking over their glasses, sighing, and telling me how disappointed they are. Armstrong is introducing a whole new set of tactics, but I’m nothing if not adaptable.

I just need to remember my sirs.

“Agnes, this is your...second day at Ebenezer High.” His mouth sours.

“Yes...sir,” I say, even if it makes the hair on my arms stand on end to say it.

“And I assume you got the student handbook when you registered.” He folds his hands, desperate prayer-style. On his left ring finger he wears a plain gold wedding band. On his right he wears what looks like a huge class ring, with a sparkling ruby and a screaming eagle etched into the gold.

“Sure did, sir.” I keep my voice chipper enough to set his teeth on edge. I got the fat packet in the mail, pulled out the few necessary papers, and forgot the rest.

“Then you know we have rules here at Ebenezer. I know you don’t come from around here, so you may not realize that we take pride in being the best high school in the area.” His smile is smug.

I put a tight lid on the snort that nearly bursts out of my nose. Best high school in this area isn’t saying much. The abysmal testing rates were one of the things I threw in Mom’s face. She begged me to consider private schools, but I figured if I was going to have my life fall apart for a few months, I’d do it without the additional torture of a tartan skirt and knee-highs, thank you very much.

“No, I’m not from around here,” I agree, zero hesitation. “And I understand that there are rules, but where I come from I guess we’re a little more direct. So when I said what I did to Ansley—”

“Ansley Strickland has nothing to do with this situation, Agnes,” Mr. Armstrong cuts in too quickly, his tone testy. I clap my mouth shut while he lies to my face. “Several of your teachers mentioned dress-code violations. I sense that there may also be an attitude problem.”

“Dress code?” I echo.

Which teachers? Why didn’t they tell me? My brain whirs, searching for answers, and then it all snaps together. This is like some John Grisham novel where they can’t get the guys on murder, so they finger them for a million counts of petty mail fraud.

He can’t let me know Ansley tattled, so he’s going to invent other trumped-up charges.

“First of all, there’s the problem of your piercing. The rule book clearly states two holes in each ear is the maximum allowed, and any other piercings are prohibited.” He glares at the tiny diamond stud I’ve had on the side of my nose since I was a sophomore. I got it the day Ollie got her Monroe piercing and the studs we chose wound up so small, it was a pretty underwhelming rebellion. “It’s also been reported you have a tattoo.” In front of him is a paper that maps out a never-ending bulleted list.

“My tattoo?” I squawk the words like a repeating parrot, even though I clearly heard Captain Buzzkill the first time.

I do have a tattoo... A red A in fancy cursive, my own scarlet letter. On the back of my neck. Considering my bob grew out and my thick, curly hair now reaches my shoulders, no one would have seen that tattoo.

Except that I do tend to pull my hair up when I’m busy with classwork. Like Hemingway notes. But a person would have to be sitting behind me to notice.

Huh, isn’t it funny that Ansley happens to sit right behind me?

“That tattoo is covered by my hair—” I begin to object, totally losing my cool, but my new principal’s face is bland as he interrupts me.

“I’m glad you mentioned your hair. I hope that color is some kind of washout, Agnes—”

“This color cost a small fortune and was put in by one of the hair technicians who worked on What Not to Wear—”

“Speaking of ‘what not to wear,’ as a young lady trying to make positive first impressions in a new school, you may want to reconsider your wardrobe choices.”

I yanked on this particular T-shirt this morning because my sunburn made my back and shoulders a tight, itchy swath of irritated skin. I dripped as much aloe as I could on it after sobbing through an icy shower. My choice in clothes was completely comfort based: Ollie and I organized a breast cancer 5k freshman year and completed it in our Save the Tatas shirts, and I’ve worn mine so many times since then, it’s now tissue-weight cotton that doesn’t cling or rub. Perfect for sunburned skin. And to raise awareness for breast cancer, of course.

Because who wouldn’t want to save tatas? A man who’s willing to play head games on a high school level would clearly be adverse to tata saving. Jerkwad.

Make that Principal Jerkwad, sir.

“I’ll give you to the end of the week to sort your issues out, Agnes. We’re not looking to pick on you here at Ebenezer High. We want to help you fit in and have a positive experience. Welcome to our school.”

He says those last four words without a trace of irony. And just like that, I’m dismissed back into the cold halls of Ebenezer High, the school I thought I could take on. Now I realize those movies about clique-run, autocratic high schools that treasure conformity and beat down the slightest rebellion get made because those high schools exist, and the rebels survive to tell the tale on the big screen.

I think I’ve just become the president of Ebenezer’s goddamn Breakfast Club.

Which is fine, except for the fact that I might also be the sole member.

I look at my pass and realize the secretary scribbled the time illegibly and a person could read the minute spot as a twenty or as a fifty. Which means I can hole up for half an hour and still use my pass.

Gone are the days when an understanding school counselor I’d known most of my young life would pull me into a cozy office, hear me out, and help me smooth things over. I’m on my own here. And with a so-obvious target on my back, I’ll have to keep my eyes wide-open or I’ll wind up smiling at a cheering crowd while buckets of pig blood get dumped over me.