“So Kincaid does want something besides academic glory.”
That was the time for a witty riposte, but my mind went blank. I gave him the slit-eyed look, the one that’s like, I am so annoyed at you! Not! Tee-hee!
Andy turned to gaze diligently at Mr. Duffey. He seemed to be concentrating hard.
Me? I was not concentrating. Not in the slightest.
Because Andy’s knee was touching mine.
It was probably accidental. We were in folding chairs, and Andy’s not a small person—he’s six-one or six-two, with muscular lacrosse quads, and I, I mean, I’m not your petite pint-sized cutie pie either. Lots of leg and not a lot of space is what I’m trying to say. It was an accident. Right?
No. He had to have noticed. The pressure was not incidental. Was it a subtle hint that I move over, à la the classic airplane-armrest situation? But he was in my territory.
If it had been anyone else, I thought, I’d have just moved my leg. Like when you realize that the chair you’re bumping is actually someone’s foot. You’re like, Oops, let me awkwardly withdraw, let’s pretend this never happened, cool.
But I didn’t want this to have never happened.
My knee liked it. I liked it. Despite his khakis, despite my tights, the contact was sending my stomach into flutters, my breath into quivers. All I wanted was for Town Meeting to last all third period. Or all day. Or forever. Keep talking, Mr. Duffey. Please, explain to us how to deal with lunch detritus. What can be composted? What can be recycled? What, alas, must be placed in the trash? Go into detail. Wax eloquent. Don’t stop.
* * *
—
We had Latin class right after. The class was small, a dozen or so, the survivors of the four-year forced march across the Alps of Latin grammar. It was the one class Jiyoon and I had together. Juniors could only take Latin IV if they were super good at Latin (Jiyoon Kim) or if they’d gone to a classical elementary school that had pounded so much Latin into their still-developing brains that it actually would have been embarrassing for them to be on level, despite the fact that they still translated more like a trouser-wearing Gallic barbarian than a properly togate Roman (Mack Monroe).
“Jemima!” Victoria said when I walked in. I jumped. Victoria Heinle was not known to speak to me. “I just wanted to say, I love your idea for the dance!”
“Oh,” I said. “Thanks!”
“Same,” said Lacey.
“We’re already talking about who we’re going to put,” said Larchmont. “There’s really no limit?”
“Nope,” I said. “Like Andy said, put a lot.”
“But not too many,” Victoria told Larchmont and Lacey. “You don’t want to be a skank.”
“Well—” I started, but Mrs. Burke cut me off.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “the bell will ring imminently.” It rang. We instantly fell silent and opened our books. Mrs. Burke taught at Ansel Academy for Girls before the merge, and she’s been at Chawton ever since. She is an institution: a purple-spectacled, maroon-lipsticked, bejeweled, brilliant, borderline-terrifying institution.
“Miss Kim,” she said, “translate. Start at line forty-seven.”
“ ‘But what does it matter to me that Troy has fallen,’ ” said Jiyoon, “ ‘if I’m still waiting, waiting just as I was while Troy stood?’ ”
“Hmm,” Mrs. Burke said, which is what she says when she has no corrections. “Ovid’s Penelope, eternally waiting. The plight of women in the ancient world. And in the modern world as well, of course.”
Victoria waved her hand in the air. “Not with the new prom system,” she said.
“Wishful thinking, Miss Heinle,” said Mrs. Burke. “Mr. Monroe, translate the next four lines.”
“Wishful thinking?” I said, feeling defensive. “It’s going to change—”
“And tuck in your shirt,” Mrs. Burke added to Mack.
“Yes, Mrs. Burke,” Mack said, shoving in his shirttail in a literally half-assed way. “But I think Jemima has something to say.” Mack’s translation must have been particularly shitty, because he usually did everything possible to avoid listening to me talk.
“She sure does,” I said before Mrs. Burke could tell him she didn’t have time for Miss Kincaid’s irrelevant observations. “I just think the new prom system makes it so girls don’t have to wait around for guys to ask them out. It gives girls choice. And power.”
“Your naivete is amusing,” said Mrs. Burke without a trace of amusement. “This so-called new system will have zero effect on the gender dynamics at this school.”
“Wait and see,” I said.
“I will,” said Mrs. Burke. “The outer trappings may have changed, but we live within a patriarchy as solid and as implacable as that of Ovid’s day. Or, for that matter, of Penelope’s. Now translate, Mr. Monroe.”
“I agree with Jemima,” said Mack. What? This was unprecedented. Probably he hadn’t even done the translation. “Girls have just as much power as guys now.”
“That’s not at all what—” I said.
“Ancient ladies, sure, they couldn’t vote or stuff. But modern girls have it pretty good. They can vote and own stuff and work and run for president.”
I was waving my hand so hard I was creating a breeze. So were Jiyoon and Victoria and Larchmont.
“Nowadays girls have it better than guys in a lot of ways,” said Mack. “At least girls aren’t accused of sexual assault all the time.”
“Maybe guys should stop assaulting us, then,” Jiyoon snapped, and pandemonium broke loose. Mrs. Burke struck her ruler on her desk. No one listened. She struck it again.
“Quiet!”
We settled down, which is a testament to the fear Mrs. Burke inspires. In her ponderous old-lady voice she said, “The level of critical thought and insight present in this room is truly abysmal.”
Cool. Thanks.
“You are wrong, Mr. Monroe, and you are wrong, Miss Kincaid, and I would wager that every one of you who so impolitely shouted a hasty opinion is wrong as well. I suggest you garner more life experience before expressing such generalizations on the fortunes and misfortunes of women.” She lifted her penciled eyebrows to survey the class. “Any questions? Or shall we proceed with our work?”
I considered saying something, but I didn’t dare. Neither did anyone else. She’d subdued us as surely as Caesar had those Gauls.