Just lizzie, p.6
Just Lizzie, page 6
“What’s ‘dynamic simulation’?” Alexa asks, flipping ahead to the last page—or maybe that’s not Alexa. It might be Melissa, her sister.
“Good question,” Ms. Ardvinson says. “For our last class, we’ll be collaborating with the Wendover Police to bring in a trained officer for you to practice with in a simulated scenario.”
Sarah Nan leans in to whisper to me, “That is way messed up.”
When I looked up the course online, I saw those words, dynamic simulation, in the catalog description, but I didn’t think that could possibly mean what it sounded like. Maybe this whole thing was a mistake.
One of the other girls raises her hand. “Won’t that, like, hurt him?”
“He will be very thoroughly padded,” Ms. Ardvinson says. “In all areas.”
Kendall snorts.
“I know it can be scary to imagine,” Ms. Ardvinson says. “One objective of the simulation is, in fact, to create a real sense of fear.”
“You want us to be afraid?” Sarah Nan asks.
“The typical fear response is fight, flight, or freeze. With this class, we want you to know your own fear response, and then internalize the experience of escaping a threatening situation while in an adrenalized state. You learn that you can do it, and more importantly, your body learns that you can do it.”
I don’t need this class to teach me that my fear response is freeze. How do I know my body will do anything different after ten classes? What if I just freeze again?
“December is a long way away,” Ms. Ardvinson continues. “It’s my job to prepare you before then, which I promise I’ll do.”
I look up, surprised. The Aardvark never talks that way in PE class—like she’s actually supporting us in something we don’t know how to do. When it was chin-up time, she sent us straight to the bar, no pep talk.
“Now,” Ms. Ardvinson says, “before we go any further, let’s do a quick warm-up run: four laps around the building. Everybody up!”
“Around the building?” Alexa—or Melissa?—says.
“You want your PE credits, you’ll have to earn them,” Ms. Ardvinson says. “Four laps! Go!”
“Are you serious?” Kendall is still on the floor as everyone else rises clumsily to their feet.
“Go! Go! Go!” A whistle emerges from behind the zipper of Ms. Ardvinson’s jacket, and she’s blowing it at us.
This is more what I expected.
My legs are half-asleep from sitting cross-legged, but I hurry to catch up with the pack as they burst through the gym doors and take off down the hallway.
“Not jogging—running!”
I catch up to Sarah Nan.
“I cannot believe we’re going to be doing this until December,” she says.
“I’m not,” I say. “After today, I’m quitting.”
Sarah Nan stops short; I skid to a stop, too, almost falling over. “Are you kidding?” she asks. “You can’t leave me here by myself.”
We’re outside now, on the sidewalk that circles the building. It’s sunny, but still cool; I can feel my arms prickling with goose bumps. “You can quit, too,” I say. “You don’t even want to be here.”
“After everything my mom went through to get me out of morning gymnastics? She’d kill me. Plus, did you see those high school girls? They’re going to remember us next year. Do you want them to see us as those two little eighth graders who couldn’t—” She cuts herself off as Kendall puffs past us, cursing to herself, the wide cuffs of her pant legs swishing.
Sarah Nan continues, “You’ve got to let go of this Ms. Ardvinson thing. So she’s not all sunshine and hugs like Ms. Faraher—big deal. Are you really going to quit just because she gave you a B that one time?”
I prickle at the comparison to Ms. Faraher. “No, I’m quitting because she’s the worst.”
Sarah Nan, long-suffering, rolls her eyes. “Look: You were the one who wanted to take this class, right? Not your mom, not my mom—you.”
I nod.
“So are you really going to let some Aardvark with a mullet ruin this for you? She’s the one who can teach you what you want to learn,” she says. “So learn it.”
You learn that you can do it, and more importantly, your body learns that you can do it. If there really is a way not to freeze, then Sarah Nan is right: I do want to learn. “Okay,” I say.
“Okay, good.” With that, Sarah Nan picks up running again, before the other girls can lap us. I follow.
“You should give Ms. Ardvinson a chance,” Sarah Nan says as we round the corner toward the back parking lot. “Maybe you have something in common.”
“Like what.” I’ve got a stitch in my side already. My chest aches.
“Well, I’m pretty sure she’s not married,” Sarah Nan says, and then she picks up her pace, leaving me behind to wonder if it’s true that the Aardvark—although I would never, ever ask her—might have even more answers for me than I thought.
Chapter 9
Ms. Faraher is absent today. “Baby appointment, probably,” Chloe says, which for some reason irritates me. She doesn’t know for a fact that it’s a baby appointment.
What is a baby appointment even for? I feel really clueless sometimes.
I worry briefly that we’ll be assigned more note-taking from the vandalized textbooks, but instead, the sub, a young guy named Mr. Le, announces that he’ll be taking us to the library to work on our CARP research.
The library is downstairs and past the main office. As we file through the lobby, the boys jump to try to touch a low beam that runs across the ceiling. What is it that makes them have to do that? I follow behind Chloe and Sami, close enough that I’m not alone, but not so close that I’m actually with them.
“She’s kind of old to be having a baby, isn’t she?” Sami asks.
“Not that old, I don’t think,” Chloe says. “But yeah, her biological clock must be ticking. She probably told Mr. Faraher, ‘It’s now or never, mister!’”
Ms. Faraher kept her last name, so there is no “Mr. Faraher.” But I don’t tell them that.
As soon as we’re in the library, Michael and Ethan start chasing each other around the stacks; Chloe and Sami claim the quiet corner by the reference section where they can secretly be on their phones. Aidan goes to the circulation desk to ask the librarian for help. I head for the magazines.
I tried researching Ms. Faraher’s idea about apple reproduction. It was interesting, learning about how my tree might have gotten there—probably not wild, in fact, but planted long ago for making hard cider. I don’t think I want to spend the next three months on that, though. I’m still stuck on one of my other questions: What does it mean to find someone “cute”? Maybe I could research what attracts one moose to another moose, or snake to snake, or bird to bird. Is it just the size of their antlers, or the brightness of their scales? But even the plainer birds still find someone. Is it all just hormones? Is there really any thinking, any deciding?
All this leads me to wonder if maybe I should start with the most mystifying organism of all.
Most of our school’s magazine collection is educational—National Geographic and Discover. But there are also a few sports and celebrity magazines meant to appeal to middle schoolers. I scan the display, and I see the type I was looking for: Teen Girl.
Fall Fashion Issue: You’ll Never Guess What’s Back!
The Ultimate Skincare Routine!
Quiz: Is it a crush?
I glance around to make sure no one’s looking before I slide the issue from the shelf. A girls’ magazine might not seem like a scientific source, but it feels like research to me.
I open to “Is it a crush?”
How often do you think about him?
(“Or her,” I can imagine Sarah Nan adding indignantly.)
How do you feel when you are around him? (Shy? Outgoing? Flirty?)
Are you putting more effort into your appearance?
Ugh. I flip past the quiz. The next page I land on is “Ask Teen Girl!”
Dear Teen Girl, the first person writes. I’m thirteen. My friends are getting crushes on boys. It’s all they talk about. I go along with them, but I actually really don’t get it! Is there something wrong with me?—Left Out
My heart pounds. I could have written that exact letter. I even do a brief memory scan: Did I write this letter? It sounds so much like me.
“Ugh, Michael, get away!”
Michael is standing over Chloe and Sami with a hardcover human anatomy book opened wide. The cover shows a human-shaped silhouette with a heart and various paths of veins and arteries. The page it’s open to clearly shows something else.
Before Mr. Le can go over, Michael slams the book shut, laughing, and dashes off.
I look down and realize I’m holding the magazine to my chest. I have to read this before Michael or someone else interrupts me. What advice did they give to “Left Out”?
I slink back behind the magazine rack.
Dear Left Out,
There is nothing wrong with you! In fact, it’s good to wait on dating until you’re definitely ready. What’s the rush? Once you’re ready to put yourself out there, boys will be looking for someone new, so you’ll be fresh and exciting! You may also be questioning your sexuality at this point, and that’s okay, too. Please reach out to a trusted adult, such as a parent, teacher, or guidance counselor, if you feel like—
I stuff the magazine back onto the shelf. Then I cover it with an issue of National Geographic about the International Space Station and hurry away toward the computers.
Boys will be looking for someone new. As if girls are the latest Xbox or something. And what did they mean “once you’re ready”? What if you’re never ready?
I spend the rest of class aimlessly googling about apple trees and the history of the Granny Smith.
When Mr. Le dismisses us, I’m the first one out the door—and I nearly walk straight into the Boy in the Skirt.
He dodges me just in time to avoid a collision. “Whoa.”
“Sorry,” I say, but he’s already moved past me down the hall, his spine straight and purposeful, his gray skirt billowing, clearing a path around him.
It’s not even that he’s being bold, I think as I gather my books closer to my chest and head to math. He’s just doing it. He’s an eighth-grade boy wearing a skirt. Why can’t I stop worrying about the ways I’m different?
I wish I’d said more than “sorry.” I wish we had even one class together so I could find a way to talk to him. I wouldn’t even ask him about the skirt. Not at first.
As I turn the corner, Sarah Nan and Ned walk by across the hallway. They don’t see me. Sarah Nan is talking animatedly, and Ned has his arm around her waist; her T-shirt is short enough that his thumb is touching her skin. Since we were little, she’s dreamed of being part of a couple, always wanting to play pretend as a princess finding her prince. I played those games, too. But until Sarah Nan started dating Ned, I didn’t know she really meant it.
Is there something lying dormant in me, like those rosebushes, just waiting for the right shift in season?
Or is something inside me missing?
Chapter 10
“No!”
It’s our second self-defense class, and Kendall is shouting. The rest of us are on the floor doing push-ups because we didn’t shout.
Ms. Ardvinson is very emphatic about the importance of shouting in an attack situation. Last class, after our run around the building, she told us that too often, women don’t shout because they’re embarrassed, or because they second-guess themselves. We’ve been socialized not to be loud, she said. I guess she’s right. Even practicing here, everyone is shy, each of us afraid to be the only one shouting out. Kendall doesn’t mind being the only one, though, which is why she’s practicing her moves in front of the mirror while the rest of us are struggling on the floor.
“. . . ten!” Ms. Ardvinson finishes counting, and I collapse as my arms give out underneath me. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through today. On top of the push-up punishment, I have my period, which means the cramps are raging. I’ve seen some girls use cramps to get out of PE class—whether they actually had cramps or not—but I think it would be way more embarrassing, and not even worth it, to have someone know the private thing going on inside you.
“Now, let that serve as a lesson,” Ms. Ardvinson says, as the high school girls groan on the floor. “Yet another lesson on the importance of shouting. It can save your life, and it can save you from push-ups. Now, let’s practice the blocks and parries from last week.”
While everyone grumbles, Sarah Nan sits up, dusting off her palms. She, of course, wasn’t winded by ten push-ups. “I am so sick of all this blame-the-victim stuff.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, even though I’m not interested in more of her thoughts about why self-defense is worthless.
Sarah Nan grabs two strike pads for practicing and goes over to the far wall with me. “Punishing us when we don’t shout? Come on. It’s like saying that if you don’t scream loud enough, then it’s your own fault if you get attacked. Want me to go first?”
“Sure.”
Sarah Nan hands me the pads, which I swipe at her from various angles so she can block me with her forearms. Thud. Thud. Thud. So far, we’ve been doing a lot of work with blocking, and learning how to escape different kinds of holds—like if someone tries to put their arm around your shoulders, how to spin away and snap their wrist back. It’s exciting to know that there’s something you can do, no matter how awkward or out of shape you are. But I also get a sinking feeling sometimes. Does all this mean that Mom and I could have done something differently that day with Mr. Henckman? Does it mean we should have?
“You can go faster, you know,” Sarah Nan says, so I take a sudden swipe at her head that she has to duck to avoid. “Hey!”
“Just so you know,” I tell her, “my mom didn’t shout. Okay? And I didn’t, either. So the Aardvark is right.”
“Lizzie!” Sarah Nan’s expression is pure surprise.
I let my arms drop to my sides. “What.”
“Lizzie,” she says again. “He tried to break into your house. He hurt your mom. That’s not your fault.”
I want to believe her—she sounds so sure about it—but I can’t really think about it as my insides start clenching up into another cramp. I grit my teeth.
“Are you crying?” Sarah Nan asks.
I shake my head. “Cramps,” I say, and this one is so bad, I have to crouch down.
“Is this normal?” Sarah Nan kneels in front of me. “I’m pretty sure it’s not.”
I try to concentrate on my breathing. Puberty must be a baffling experience for Sarah Nan, who’s never had any of the things in the books—growth spurts, pimples, awkwardness—actually happen to her.
“It’s fine. I’m better now.” I start to stand, but Sarah Nan puts her hands on my shoulders and forces me back down.
“Tell Ardvinson you need a break. It’s just going to happen again.”
“I don’t want her to know.”
“She’s a woman, too.”
“Who’s old,” I point out, as Ms. Ardvinson comes up behind us.
“Taking a rest, ladies?”
I pop up from the ground, and this time Sarah Nan can’t stop me. “No, I just have a—”
“Cramps,” Sarah Nan interrupts. “She has cramps.”
“Sarah!”
Ms. Ardvinson studies me as my cheeks blaze. Maybe she’s evaluating the likelihood that I’m faking, the way she would for any kid in her usual PE class. Maybe she just likes to make me sweat.
“Here,” she finally says. “Try this.” She picks up a long, flat cushion from against the wall. Sarah Nan urges me back to the floor, and Ms. Ardvinson sits down cross-legged in front of me.
“Sit like this, then bend forward and rest your head on the cushion.”
She shows me. She’s really flexible for someone so old. How old is she, even? Her hair is all white, but looking at her up close, she’s not totally shriveled.
She passes me the cushion. Then, rising back to her feet, she turns to the rest of the class and bellows, “I still want to hear SHOUTING!”
“I hate you,” I tell Sarah Nan, tucking the cushion under me.
She pats me on the head. “You’re welcome.”
I feel silly hugging a giant pillow on the floor while everyone else is up shouting and punching—but Ms. Ardvinson is right. The pressure of my folded legs on my abdomen eases the cramps.
Kendall appears at my side and presses a bottle of ibuprofen into my palm. “That’s the other kind of self-defense, you know,” she says.
I pop open the bottle. Usually I choke when I try to swallow pills without water, but today I don’t even care. “What?”
Kendall drops to the floor next to me and Sarah Nan, stretching her legs out as she leans against the wall. Her sneakers are tattered and colored in with black Sharpie. “Talk about your period,” she says, swishing the bangs out of her eyes. “Guys get grossed out and leave you alone. I do it all the time. That’s how I got out of English yesterday—told Mr. Leary I needed a tampon.” She laughs.
“Guys shouldn’t be grossed out,” Sarah Nan says. “It’s natural.”
Kendall shrugs. “I’m just saying, it’s a secret weapon. Use it if you need to.”
Sarah Nan and Kendall watch the other girls practice for a moment, while I rest my face on my folded arms.
“You’re really good at all this,” Sarah Nan tells Kendall.
“Yeah, I’ve taken self-defense before. It was different, though. It wasn’t just about fighting back—it was also about relationships and stuff, setting boundaries, communicating, all of that. And we definitely didn’t do push-ups. Like, at all.”
“What did they say about relationships?” Sarah Nan asks, but then Ms. Ardvinson calls out for everyone to finish their drills and come back to the circle.
“Except you, Lizzie,” she adds.
