The chaperone, p.7
The Chaperone, page 7
How can I get her to leave? Can I say the donut is making me sick? Would she believe me if I claimed to have a test in the morning?
Sister Laura must not sense my apprehension because she smiles and starts talking like we’re going to have a real conversation. “I’m so glad you told me what happened today. It’s good to have someone to confide in.”
“Uh-huh.” I take another bite of donut.
“Sooooooo.” Sister Laura lets the word drag out. “Do you know him very well?”
“Who?”
“Mateo, of course.”
She clearly isn’t taking the hint. I respond as shortly as I can. “Kind of.”
“Is he in one of your classes?”
“Musical Expression,” I say before I realize she’s tricked me into giving up information.
“What’s that like?”
“You didn’t take it?” I ask, again figuring out too late what she’s doing.
“No.” She shakes her head. “I finished high school early. Right before New America was founded. Before the Minutemen renamed every city they took over.”
“Bull Run used to be called something else, didn’t it?”
“It was called Bowling Green until the Minutemen named it after the second Battle of Bull Run, one of the bloodiest losses for the Union.”
“The Union?”
“That’s what they called the first army that fought to save America.”
“Why would they name a town after something so awful?”
Sister Laura narrows her eyes. “All of our cities are named after Civil War battles now. I guess they don’t teach you that in New American History?”
I’m not sure which war she means, but I decide not to admit that’s something else they don’t teach us. “No, but I bet they didn’t teach you how to express yourself through music.”
Sister Laura lets out a laugh. “That’s true. We had old-fashioned music classes—choir, band, piano, guitar, that kind of stuff. All the other classes were different too. Algebra, geometry, calculus, world history, biology, chemistry, physics.”
“You took classes for boys?”
“Well, they weren’t just for boys back then.”
“Huh.” I’m interested but don’t want to show it. I put the last piece of donut in my mouth.
“Don’t get me wrong—they still told girls they weren’t good at science and math. But they never actually kept us from taking those classes. Still—” She wants to say something else.
“What?”
“It’s nothing.” She rubs her nose and looks away.
“Just say it.” She wanted me to talk to her, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.
She lets out a sigh as loud as a cleansing breath. “I was going to say that, yes, it was similar to what happens here but wasn’t nearly as bad.”
My mouth drops open. “You think what happens here is bad?”
“Are you shocked to hear me say that, Stella?”
“Uh, yeah. You’re a chaperone.”
“Then you know why I hesitated.”
“I guess.”
“Are you upset with me?” She tilts her head to the side like a dog. “For telling you what I think?”
“No, it’s just—no one ever talks like that.”
“It’s good to be honest about these things.” When I don’t respond, she asks, “Do you agree?”
“No one ever is.”
“Well, maybe it’s time things changed.”
I don’t say it, but an answer forms in my head.
Maybe it is.
Sister Laura studies me. Does she know I agree with her?
“Is that what you want, Stella?”
“Sometimes.”
“How do you think things should change?”
I take in my own cleansing breath.
“I won’t tell anyone, Stella. I don’t work for them. I work for you.”
“I know.” The truth is, I didn’t know that. Yes, Sister Helen supported me unconditionally. That’s why it was so hard to lose her. But I’m not sure I can trust Sister Laura, though I have to admit there’s something about her. She’s not like anyone else. She and Sister Helen have that in common.
I take in another deep breath before I exhale to the count of ten.
And then I tell Sister Laura what I wish could change. “There are too many things I don’t know. Like what you said about the Union. And the Civil War. I don’t know what those things are.”
“I’ll teach you.”
“And, of course, I want to do things on my own, but—”
“Yeah, not possible. Not here anyway.”
Not here? I want to ask, but I’m not ready. “I hope this doesn’t sound boy crazy, but it would be great if I could, you know, actually spend time with boys. Or a boy.”
“A boy meaning Mateo?”
I feel myself blush. “Sure.”
“You want to be alone with him?”
My face gets even hotter. “Uh, yeah.”
It seems like an obvious answer, but Sister Laura appears to be processing. Now she’s the one glancing down at her hands. “I’ll have to teach you some things.” She squints. “All the things they don’t want you to know.”
“Like what?”
“Like how to stay safe.”
“You think Mateo is dangerous?”
She lets out a laugh. “Of course, that’s what you’d think. That’s what they’ve taught you. I don’t mean that kind of safe. I mean, safe…you know, when you’re romantic with someone.”
Sister Laura is talking about sex. And I don’t think she means sex after marriage.
Embrace purity.
“If and when things get heated.”
“But—”
She pushes her glasses up her nose. “I know it sounds wild to you, Stella, but the truth is, it’s perfectly normal for teenagers to have sex.”
I think about this all the time. But I’m not going to admit that to Sister Laura.
“As long as they do it safely and with consent.”
Everything in my body alights. It’s the same rush of emotion I experienced when Mateo and I locked eyes in the library.
I can feel it.
Everything is changing.
PART II
CHAPTER 22
Sister Laura brings a small pile of running gear to my room early Friday morning. The clothes are hers, the shoes from Dad. He bought them the day before. I didn’t think he’d give in so easily.
“Meet him downstairs in fifteen minutes. And don’t be late.”
It’s still dark out, the house even colder than usual. I sleepwalk through putting on the roomy shirt and sweatpants.
Dad is at the door when I go down the front staircase. I can’t help but notice the pistol is not on his hip. Does he usually wear it when he goes running? He doesn’t look happy or unhappy. He looks focused.
“You ready?”
“I guess so.” I have no idea how this will go. I’ve never run outside of gym and haven’t taken a real gym class in almost four years. Boys take it in high school, but girls take Gynecological Fitness, which is more about keeping our bodies primed for pregnancy than exercising. There’s no way I can run more than a mile without passing out. And I’m betting Dad runs farther than that.
* * *
The humidity smacks me in the face.
Dad rotates his arms in circles as he strides to the front gate. I follow, not sure if I should imitate him. On the sidewalk, he tilts his head to the left, and before I know what’s happening, we’re running.
He moves slowly at first. For my benefit, I’m sure.
We run away from town. I’m surprised how invigorating it is to cover new ground. I can’t remember the last time I’ve gone this way on foot. Pretty soon we’ve climbed the hill out of the Gaslight district and gone down the other side into the government campus. This used to be a university. Limestone classroom buildings now house offices I’ve never been inside. The old dorms at the bottom of the hill have been transformed into the conservatory where chaperones train. Dad peers into each lobby, nodding at security guards like he knows them. He must run this way every day.
I’m already winded, but Dad blasts ahead. We leave campus and cross into the residential area behind it. Cedar Ridge. It’s old, but not as old as our neighborhood. Bonita lives here, and we run toward her house like it’s our destination. My breathing gets louder, uneven, but Dad doesn’t seem to notice. Bonita’s house is in the distance: white brick with black shutters. From the street, it looks like it’s only one story, but the backyard slopes down to a giant field surrounded by woods, revealing a ground floor not visible from the front. When we were little, Bonita’s parents let us camp in a tent out back. We might as well have been on another planet.
“Would Bonita be surprised to see you running?”
I’m taken aback by how upbeat he sounds but only have the energy for one word: “Definitely.”
He smiles. “It’s good to surprise people, Stella. Keeps them guessing.”
I know the rules. Speak when spoken to. I choke a few words out. “I hope I can make it.”
“You should never get your hopes up, Stella. That’s a sure way to be let down.”
What’s the point of living if you don’t get your hopes up? “Yes, sir.”
We’re climbing the giant hill in front of Bonita’s house, and I’m wheezing too much to say more. I come to an abrupt stop, bending over at the waist. Dad is twenty-five feet ahead of me before he turns around.
“You can do it, Stella.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“Keep going!” He rotates his arm in a circle, waving me forward with out-of-character optimism.
I straighten up “You go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
He wipes his hand across his mouth, glancing up and down the street before walking back to me. “It’s okay. We can head back.”
“Don’t you want to keep going?”
“No, it’s fine.”
It hits me. He can’t go on without me. He can’t leave me. For the briefest moment I forgot I’m not allowed to be alone.
Dad lifts his hand like he’s going to pat my back but, at the last second, pulls away. “You did well, Stella. Now let’s go home.”
CHAPTER 23
A week later, the temp climbs above 100 again. The weather man on the Freedom Channel brags about breaking more records. Even though I showered after running with Dad this morning, I’m sweaty all over again just two blocks from home.
Sister Laura wipes a hand across her forehead before she says, “You need to come up with other things you want to try, Stella.”
“Like what?”
“Little things. Things that aren’t against the rules but, for whatever reason, you don’t do.”
Sister Laura has been right so far.
Sitting alone in the library. Going to self-defense class. Running with Dad. It’s been exhilarating. Why not do more? And what do I want to do? My absolute number one is going out alone, but that isn’t happening. Going on a date, like a real movie date, is up there too, but I don’t see that happening either. If nothing else, it would be nice if the boys who come to Visitation could be boys I actually like. Or even if I was allowed to talk to boys outside of Visitation. Like at school or the library or wherever. But, as it stands now, I don’t even talk in front of boys in class. Girls never talk in coed classes. It’s just a thing. Like an unwritten rule or something.
That’s when it comes to me.
I want to talk in class.
* * *
The hardest part is just trying.
I’ve never seen a girl raise her hand in a coed class. Not since elementary school when every class except gym was coed. But starting in middle school, we were separated by gender. In class, at lunch, at church, even at social events. Deflect attention. As soon as that happened, girls stopped talking to boys. It was like we’d all received the same announcement. Girls who are menstruating can no longer talk to members of the opposite sex. We got the message. Once we were old enough to have a chaperone, it wasn’t safe for boys and girls to converse.
But I’m not doing it anymore.
* * *
I give myself a pep talk in the restroom before Family Development. In the mirror, my skin appears flushed, almost splotchy. “You can do this,” I say to my reflection. “It’s just talking.”
I march into Mr. Russell’s classroom with my head up, shoulders back. I’m ready.
It’s Liv who questions me. “Are you okay, Stella?”
“Why?”
“Your face.”
I move a hand to my cheek.
“It’s bright red. And your hands.” She points at them. “They’re clenched.”
I unclench my fists. “I’m fine.”
Mr. Russell clears his throat from the front of the room. “If you need to see the nurse, Miss Graham, do so before class begins. I don’t want your…your cycle…disrupting my discussion.”
My cycle? Is he assuming that just because I’m worked up I have my period? And is he saying my period would be disruptive?
“I’m fine.”
“Then take a seat.”
It takes Mr. Russell fifteen whole minutes to ask a question. “What is the appropriate age to start contemplating marriage?”
An easy one. Everyone knows we’re supposed to start thinking about marriage when we begin puberty. I shoot my hand in the air.
Mr. Russell’s eyes flatten. My hand wavers, but I force it back up. He rolls his gaze back and forth over the tops of our heads like a sprinkler.
He points at a boy on the other side of the room. “Cal, how about you?”
He clearly went out of his way not to call on me.
I throw my hand back in the air.
Mr. Russell goes back to his desk and pulls a notepad out of his drawer. “I’m writing you a pass, young lady.” He looks up from the paper and glares at me.
“What? Why?”
“You’re obviously not well.”
“I’m fine, really.”
Mr. Russell strides back to me and pushes the pass in my hand. “Skedaddle.”
Mr. Russell does everything but physically push me out the door. It’s all I can do not to give him a cross-hook to the face.
* * *
“Do you feel better, Stella?” Liv asks when the three of us sit down at lunch with identical meals: plain chicken breast, steamed broccoli, and an overripe peach.
“You’re sick?” Bonita turns to face me, dropping her fork back to her tray. “Homecoming is next Friday, Stella. You cannot get sick.”
“No.” I shake my head with disgust. “I am not sick.”
“Your face was bright red in Russell’s class. You looked feverish.”
I blow out a puff of indignation. “I was worked up, Liv, not sick.”
“Worked up about what?” Bonita asks.
Before I can respond, Mason Stiles approaches our table, his eyes trained on Bonita. He doesn’t stop—that would draw too much attention—instead walking as slowly as possible past our table. He does this every day. It’s one of the ways he and Bonita are able to be together without actually being together. Their connection is so intense I have to look away. I glance at the boys’ side of the cafeteria. Mateo isn’t in our lunch shift, but if he was, would he do the same thing? Would he walk by our table every day just to look in my eyes?
“Stella,” Liv says, pushing her chicken around on her plate. “Is this about Sister Laura?”
Of course Liv would think that. Her chaperone is a dictator. “No, it’s not her. She’s actually okay.”
Bonita swings her attention back to us, Mason finally out of sight. “She’s okay? I thought she was ruining your life.”
They both stare at me with wide eyes.
“She’s really not that bad.”
Neither of them says a word.
“You just have to trust me.”
Bonita finally speaks. “If you’re sure, Stella.”
“I’m sure.”
“So you got lucky with your chaperone again?” Liv says.
I swivel toward Liv. “You’re not implying Sister Helen’s death was lucky, are you?”
“Of course not. But still.”
I roll my eyes at her. “I’m not sure about Sister Laura yet, but I have decided something.”
“What?” Liv asks.
“We always act like we have to obey them. Our chaperones.”
“And?” Bonita says.
“And we don’t. They work for us. We can stand up to them.”
Liv jumps in. “It’s too risky. If we get caught, we’ll be shunned.”
“But what if we don’t get caught?” I turn to Bonita. “You and Mason are constantly finding ways to connect.”
Bonita smiles. “We’re pretty sly though.”
“What about the time he stormed into New American History just to tell you he had to see your face?”
“Okay, that was the opposite of sly.”
I turn to Liv next, pointing to the Moon Pie in her lap. “And you buy contraband all the time.”
“That’s different. No one gets in trouble for sneaking junk food. Disobeying our chaperones is on another level.”
“That’s why we won’t get caught.”
Bonita and Liv exchange a look. I’m not sure what emotion I see on their faces. Is it fear? Concern?
“Stella.” Bonita puts her hand on the table like it’s a buzzer. “What’s going on with Sister Helen?”
“What do you mean?”
“The case. Brooklyn Liu keeps saying she’s heard things. From her dad.” Brooklyn Liu’s dad is head of the Bull Run PD.
“What case?”
Bonita glances at Liv and then back at me. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
Liv answers. “They’re investigating…you know…”
“No, I don’t know.”
“People are talking, Stella.” Bonita takes a deep breath. “People are saying it was murder.”
* * *
When I walk in the door of Musical Expression an hour later, everyone glares at me. Now I finally know why.
