“The—”
“Middle-aged sexist pigs. And where is the rule about what a boy can wear?”
“I know,” Annie said. “But kids label each other, Deb. I care about Sierra and her reputation—”
“Your innocence is adorable, Annie, if you haven’t figured out that everyone wears short shorts. Stores don’t carry anything else. Boys get those knee-length parachutes and girls get hot pants.” Deb sighed. “What on earth is she supposed to wear when it’s hot out?”
“It’s not me,” Annie objected, feeling like a nerdy hall monitor. “It’s the school’s dress code.”
“Which is entirely sexist.”
Yes, but so was life.
Annie wanted Sierra—all of the students—to be treated like whole human beings, not objects. If that meant adhering to an occasional double standard and buttoning an extra button, wasn’t it worth it?
Before she’d sent Sierra back to class, Annie had tried to explain to her that the rules of fashion were not written to benefit teenaged girls, but rather to objectify them. I remember that feeling of power, Sierra, and it’s a ruse.
Sierra had nodded gently and unconvincingly, as though Annie was the lonely local curmudgeon known to yammer on about how great life had been before that dang rock ’n’ roll music ruined everything.
Only once did Sierra’s eyes, heavily lined in turquoise pencil （when had that come back into style?）， flick desperately to the door.
Annie had been tempted to grab her by the shoulders and bark that sex was evil.
Wasn’t life just hilariously ironic, because teen Annie would have rolled her eyes so hard at such out-of-touch advice from a grown-up.
（Nor did Annie truly believe that sex was evil. It was fantastic, at least until you were a grown-up and really thought about how young pubescent kids were, how underdeveloped emotionally. She would never understand why biology handed out hormones to the young. Might as well send paper dolls to fight wildfires.）
“So,” Deb said. “Do I need to pick up my little fashion victim?”
“I gave her a pair of Laurel’s sweats and sent her back to science. There was some big finger-pricking blood lab that she didn’t want to miss.”
“Bless you, Annie, because I have to show a house in half an hour. Are we done with the boring stuff?”
What had Annie expected from Deb? The woman had once worn a crop top and leggings to book club.
“It’s not boring, Deb, it’s—”
“Yes, I know, of premium importance. How ever can those poor, weak boys learn while our daughters’ outfits distract them? So”—Deb’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial tone—“are you visiting Lena Meeker again today?”
The day after that first visit, Annie had returned to Lena’s with paint thinner and Lena had invited Annie in for some shortcake granola cookies. There had been two more visits after that, always with baked goods. Hank had tagged along on the last one and Lena had given him cupcakes and let him draw all over her patio with sidewalk chalk.
“You’re a good person,” Deb said. “She must be so lonely.”
“I enjoy her,” Annie said simply. And although there was more to the situation, it was true. “Math club was canceled tomorrow, so I’m taking Laurel up.”
Seriously? Mike had asked. Again?
I don’t pull up a chair and start confessing things, Annie had assured him. But she understood his raised eyebrows.
“Great idea,” Deb said. “Older people love being in the presence of youth.”
“Lena’s not old.”
“Isn’t she? Anyway, I picked up some cute plaid fabric for the girls’ Halloween costumes, but,” Deb teased, “those skirts are far from dress-code-compliant. Postage-stamp-sized. I’ll check with Laurel before I cut the fabric.”
Annie laughed.
Deb still frequently told the story about how during their toddlers’ play group, Laurel had waddled over to Sierra, who’d been happily eating dirt from a bucket. “No, no,” Laurel had said with a grab of Sierra’s hand. “Dirty!”
Designated hall monitor right there, Deb had said. She’ll keep ’em on track during high school.
“Thanks, Deb,” Annie said. “Just let me know what I owe for the fabric.”
“Pish,” Deb said blithely. “It’s like fifty cents. Talk later.”
As Annie hung up, she tapped the eraser against the notepad again.