And honestly…
Here goes Jemima Kincaid baring her soul…
I couldn’t imagine a girl chairman.
Let me explain.
The senior class wanted a good leader: intelligent, likable. And it was hard for a girl to seem both. For a brief time in maybe fifth or sixth grade, before anyone had figured out the code, there were smart girls who were popular and popular girls who were smart. But then you had to choose your dominant wing. Fast. You chose your friends; you chose who you dated, and whether you dated. You chose your clothing. Did you raise your hand in class? Did you volunteer to do the torque problem on the whiteboard? When you got specially recommended for the Model UN conference, did you go? Did you join Social Comm or Quiz Team?
I’m not saying the popular girls weren’t smart—look at Gennifer—but they weren’t known for it. If you were a girl, you couldn’t have two reputations at once.
The chairman needed both. There was a spark you got when you were both beloved and respected, when you were popular and you deserved it, intelligent and you knew it, clap your hands. Call it whatever you want—mojo, moxie, charisma, that je ne sais quoi—the chairman had to have that spark.
Example:
Town Meetings can be extremely boring, because when certain teachers get a captive audience, they take monotony to heights heretofore unreached by mankind. (Humankind. You know what I mean.) As Triumvirate, we did our best to combat the boredom. At homecoming, when the Spirit Week themes were announced, Andy disappeared while we were talking about Twin Day and Hat Day and Nineties Day, and right as Gennifer said, “Thursday will be Pajama Day,” he strolled back onstage. In a rainbow-unicorn onesie. The auditorium exploded. Everyone was screaming and laughing, and Andy started doing this floaty, New Agey dance—it was dreadful—and everyone got even more hype, and Gennifer and I just stood back and laughed and laughed. Finally Mr. Duffey walked over and said, “That’s enough.”
Andy straightened. He said into the mike, “Yeah, so wear your favorite pj’s on Thursday! But just like mine…”
Everyone was already smiling at the punch line.
“They’ve got to be something you actually wear to bed.”
He was Chawton’s darling.
That never could have happened if he hadn’t been a guy.
For one, girls aren’t allowed to wear onesies to school. They’re deemed immodest. Because, you know, distracting female bodies pose a huge educational barrier for the poor boys. And if a girl had done that zany dance, either it’d have been sexualized or it’d have been stupid, depending on the girl. “She’s hot,” people would say. Or “She’s weird.” That morning, leaving Town Meeting, everyone was jostling one another, still in high spirits. “Andy is so out there.” Voices dripping with admiration. “He’s such a…” They couldn’t even finish. No words. Shake head. Smile, smile, smile.
What they meant, of course, was this:
Andy Monroe is so, so freaking cool.
Right after that dance—still in the onesie!—he tapped the mike and said, “Next announcement. The Service Club is hosting a winter-coat drive on behalf of the Coalition for the Homeless.”
A girl wouldn’t be allowed to bridge both worlds, the silly and the sober. To be taken seriously, she’d have to act serious, and her seriousness would make her unelectable—just as a lack of seriousness would. It was a quintessential catch-22, and we couldn’t even call it out, because it sounded like an excuse. Well, I could be that cool, if I were a guy….
We couldn’t say it, but we felt it. We felt it as surely as we felt the weight of our bodies, because, like gravity, it was a truth about how it worked, this world we knew. Girls didn’t even consider running for Chawton School chairman because, as girls, we knew, we knew deep in our bones, that we would always lose.
* * *
—
“Hey, guys,” said Andy. “I’ve got a few announcements about Jamboree.”
There was a whoop. Mr. Duffey tensed his lips. Earlier he had told us that we needed to cut down on unnecessary audience interaction, since Town Meeting had been getting lengthier all year. Unsurprising, given that the longer it dragged out, the shorter third period was.
“Juniors,” said Andy, “start thinking about next year’s Chawton School chairman position. Anyone can run, of course. Applications are in Ms. Edison’s room, and soon you’ll start campaigning, debating, bribing, all that good stuff. The election will be held at Jamboree.”
Andy’s pants looked good. From, um, the rear.
“An announcement for juniors and seniors only”—a boo from the freshmen and sophomores, who had recently figured out the cut-third-period-short thing and adopted it with the zeal of youth—“but with Jamboree comes prom. You probably think I’m about to tell you the theme’s something dumb like Hawaiian Hoopla or Ivy League Gala.” Everyone laughed but Gennifer. “Nope. This year it’ll be called the Last Chance Dance. Juniors, you’re invited, of course. But there’s something special for seniors.”
He explained the rules: go to the website, enter names, get matched. Even from the stage, I could sense the excitement sweeping the auditorium. The whispers. The giggles. The knowing looks. Everyone was eyeing the crushes they’d had all along, while also trying not to be obvious about eyeing them, while also trying to see who they were getting eyed by. “Nobody’ll know if you don’t get matched,” said Andy, “because it’s all private. But to better your chances of a match, I’d suggest putting anyone you’d even consider getting with. Lower those standards.” Everyone laughed.
“They love our idea!” Gennifer whispered to me.
“Cool idea, right?” said Andy, right on cue. “Gotta say, I want to take credit, but it was one hundred percent the brainchild of Jemima Kincaid.”
That was a surprise.
“So when you get with the guy-slash-girl of your dreams? Thank her.”
Credit! I’d never expected credit. I blushed and tried not to grin too hard. Gennifer grabbed Andy’s arm when he sat down between us. “You forgot to tell them when chairman applications are due,” she said, and I knew she was jealous.
Mr. Duffey started a long spiel about lunch cleanup. “Thanks,” I whispered to Andy.
“You deserve some acclaim,” he said.
“It was a group decision.”
“You want me to go correct the record?”
I giggled. Yep. Straight-up giggled. “That’s okay.”