The girls arrive early that first day of school. The ones who live on Park Avenue or Madison set their alarms for five; those who are in the Bronx, Queens, Hoboken set theirs earlier. They come out of cabs and buses and subways and carry balloons and chalk and glitter; and over the next hour the Upper East Side walkways become red carpets, leading the underclassmen to their first day back. A few girls volunteer to buy lattes and cronuts and scurry off; they don’t return until after the festivities are over, after all hundred-some students of the school have been escorted through large blue doors to echoes of Cyndi Lauper and Miley Cyrus. By the time the clock strikes eight, the closet-turned-lounge is full, not just with the recycled futon squished between metal lockers but with forty-four seniors, and class meeting officially begins.
“Welcome to senior year!” Cait exclaims. Next to her, Georgie throws her hands in the air and shrieks. A handful of girls in front of them – Kirsten, who only got back from the Hamptons yesterday; Nina, who is gossiping about her hot summer romance with the Puerto Rican guy who lives near her grandparents in San Juan; Sarahs A., K., R., and T., each marking different quarters of the lounge – cheer in response.
“We’re super excited to be pres. and VP again this year,” Georgie continues.
“Before Ms. Johnson comes to kick us out – ” a wave of eye rolls sweeps through the class – “We have a few quick announcements.” Cait pulls an iPhone X out of her pleated skirt pocket and hands it to Georgie.
“This week is board elections for Community Service, Diversity, and Tech Boards, so let us know if you want to run,” Georgie announces.
“We’re bringing back the big-little sister program with the lower school, so you’ll all get your little sisters next week!” Cait declares.
“And, as seniors, we have to come up with a class project,” Georgie proclaims. “Cait and I were thinking, what with everything going on in politics and whatever, it should be, drumroll please – ” clogs emerge from beneath crossed legs and stomp against the vinyl floor – “Feminism!”
A few Sarahs snap their fingers. Whitney, who has been wearing a Duke sweatshirt ever since she toured there in June, offers a, “Whoop, whoop!” Cait waves her hands in an attempt to garner more reaction, but Georgie pats Cait’s arms back to her sides. Uncomfortably, Cait fumbles with her skirt and rolls it up once, twice, three times to show off the farmer’s tan she’d gotten from lacrosse camp.
“We already have ‘Practices in Feminism’ twice a week,” Sarah A. notes. “You don’t think Ms. Johnson will say we’re just plagiarizing her class?”
“Come on,” Sarah T. replies, “It’s not like they even teach us real feminism. We need to take matters into our own hands.”
“Speaking of feminism,” Kirsten interrupts, “Did that petition for a uniform change ever pass?” “Nope,” says Cait. “We were emailing with Ms. Johnson all summer, too.”
“Georgie, I thought your dad was on the board,” Sarah K. adds. “Can’t he talk to Mr. Berkman?”
“My dad said that Mr. Berkman can’t get involved in the dress code,” Georgie admits. “Apparently, being a male head of an all-girls school doesn’t go over well in a lawsuit.” The class groans. “We’re going to keep trying, though!” Georgie continues. “We’re strong, independent women and we don’t need no uniform!” Snaps are not enough for this statement; cheers bounce off the walls of the lounge and life Georgie in praise. “Feminism!” one of the Sarahs cries. Cait grabs a light-up speaker from her LeSportSac backpack and scrolls through her Spotify to find “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” Forty-four navy pleated skirts begin to shake to the beat, and the hand-me-down futon quivers under the weight of dancing girls.
***
There are four none-white girls in the class, Abigail notes, five including Sarah A. The walk to the subway station gives her time to consider. Of course, the class hasn’t changed much since freshman year – with the exception of Lucy, whose decision to shave his head and try out the name Lucas also sparked him to transfer out of the all-girls school for eleventh grade – but, like every first day of school, Abigail counts nonetheless. Tayshia, Desi, Nina, and Abigail. Sarah A. is Chinese, but she was adopted at nine months old and has lived on 5th Avenue her whole life. Still, she’s included in the school promotional pamphlets.
Tayshia lives in Queens and Desi in Harlem, but Nina and Abigail both make the hour-long trek to and from the Bronx every morning and night. They’ve never been particularly friendly, but they connect like the cars of their subway: close when necessary, easily detachable. Abigail prefers the calm and quiet girls in the class; the silent solitude of Tech Board contrasts the roughhousing of her brothers at home. Nina, on the other hand, has worked to fall in with the Manhattanites, trading hour-long subway rides for invitations to parties at doormanned buildings and birthday gifts she cannot afford to return. Abigail and Nina talk only within the context of school – if one is blocking the other’s locker, if one’s skirt has become unbuttoned, if Ms. Johnson is approaching the senior lounge and one is not wearing a collared shirt – and on the subway.
“Wasn’t that so fun today?” Nina asks as she grabs onto a subway pole in front of Abigail’s seat.
“What?”
“The dancing!” Nina exclaims. “Sisterhood!”
Despite herself, Abigail chuckles. Nina shoots her a look. “You can’t really take that seriously, can you?” Abigail says. There’s a. pause before the subway screeches to a stop and allows the overflow of bodies out onto the platform; Nina spots an opening next to Abigail and quickly sits down. A new gaggle of people approach their spot, and in an effort to ignore them, Abigail asks, “How was your summer?”
“Fine,” Nina replies, disinterested. She pulls out an Android and shrugs apologetically in Abigail’s direction. “Sorry, my boyfriend just texted.” Abigail leans her head back against the window as the train descends into a deeper tunnel. From the corner of her eye, Abigail can see Nina scrolling through Instagram.
They’re only a few stops from home when a man approaches them. Tall, pale, in a hoodie and pants that hang too low. “Excuse me, ladies,” he breathes, trying to weasel a leg in between Abigail and Nina’s backpacks. “You girls are looking beautiful today.” Nina turns to Abigail and pulls tangled headphones from her pocket; Abigail quickly unzips her bag just far enough to stick a hand inside and pull out the first book she can grab. “What, you’re going to ignore me?” the man continues. Nina kicks his foot without looking up and mutters a quick, “Sorry,” under her breath. “Ugly bitches,” the man says, raising a middle to them both. Nina turns a shoulder to him and pulls Abigail in closer; both girls stare intently at their reflections in the grimy subway windows. “Who do you think will run for Diversity Board?” Nina asks. Abigail shrugs.
***
Tayshia is the first runner-up for Diversity Board. Sarah T., who came out as gay during a field day cheer in the spring, is second. Kirsten and Whitney, blonde and dark blonde, win the roles. Their first proposition is to change the name from Diversity Board to Inclusivity Board, and among the forty-four pieces of folded paper, the vote passes thirty-nine to five.
***
The girls enter their first ‘Practices in Feminism’ to a skirt-scattered homeroom with the desks pushed against the radiator and the three words “What is feminism?” written on the whiteboard. Supposedly the teachers use refillable pens, but halfway through the title it seems Ms. Johnson became frustrated; the last word is written in a purple Expo marker which rolls lazily across Ms. Johnson’s desk. As the bell rings, Ms. Johnson instructs all forty-four girls to line up against the back wall and tells them all to close their eyes and imagine there is a bag of money at the other end of the room. “Take a step forward if what I say applies to you,” she says.
“I go to an elite private school.” All the girls lunge forward. Ms. Johnson sighs and admonishes their inability to follow directions; there is muttering and murmuring while the girls readjust to have taken only a tiny step in the right direction.
“I own an iPad.” Abigail, Tayshia and Desi hang back; Nina takes only a half-step forward. Ms. Johnson reminds them that the school has issued them iPads, and are they saying they’ve destroyed theirs? Abigail, Tayshia and Desi uncomfortably join Nina a bit behind the others.
“I am going to a four-year university.” There are murmurs, and Ms. Johnson cries, “Okay, okay, I know everyone’s stressed, but you are all going to four-year universities.”
“My family owns a Mercedes or more expensive car.”
“My building has more than three doormen.” Abigail doesn’t bother to ask about the girls who don’t live in apartment buildings.
“I could realistically be a Victoria’s Secret model.”
“My family owns more than two houses.”
There’s a moment’s pause and then, like a referee, Ms. Johnson yells, “Now get the bag of money!” Thirty-four girls stampede the room. Nina makes a halfhearted attempt to run; Abigail, Tayshia and Desi hang back. Whitney, whose family only owns an Audi and a Honda which they gifted her brother as a college-acceptance present, and Sarah K., who lives in a townhouse, are among the others who give up on the attempt.
“See how few of us are privileged?” Ms. Johnson marvels as thirty-four girls dust off their skirts and pull their hair into ponytails. “This is what we need to consider when we think about feminism.”
***
As the New York air gets cooler, the girls avoid going out to lunch, instead ordering take-out straight to the senior lounge. They take cabs to school and walk through the blue doors in Barbour jackets and purposefully ripped black tights. Georgie and Cait petition the administration to allow boots in the uniform; Mr. Berkman tepidly approves the motion, but the greater administration vetoes it under the pretense of looking “unprofessional.” Georgie accuses Ms. Johnson of sexism during a ‘Practices in Feminism.” After class, many a girl follows a tearful Georgie into the bathroom to pat her on the back.
Dress coding gets harsher after that. Ms. Johnson starts carrying around a notecard to measure the length of the girls’ uniform skirts. Points are handed out for every violation; the winner receives a detention. Tayshia gets three in a row, and after school gets called to Ms. Johnson’s corner office.
“Tayshia, you are a wonderful student, you’ve never had any discipline issues,” Ms. Johnson begins, “So I just can’t understand why you’re acting out now.”
“It’s not – I’m not – acting out,” Tayshia replies, jilted. “I’ve had this skirt since freshman year, and since there’s only a few months left, it’s not worth it to buy a bigger one.”
“You know the way people will look at you in that skirt, Tayshia,” Ms. Johnson admonishes.
“I just – my family can’t afford it.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Ms. Johnson says, leaning back in a plush rolling chair. “You can take one from the lost and found – God knows your classmates are forgetful enough – you can email the company about buying old skirts for lower prices. There are options, Tayshia. You don’t have to look like…that.”
“Like what?” Tayshia says, and immediately regrets it.
“When you are in that skirt, you are representing our school,” Ms. Johnson dictates, growing louder with each word. “And by not adhering to the uniform, you are not a good representation of our school.” Tayshia offers a muted apology and scurries across the hall to the senior lounge, eyes burning.
“I can’t stand her!” Tayshia seethes as she stomps past Sarahs R. and T., who share her free period, and plops next to Desi, who is touching up her makeup at her locker.
“Who?” Desi asks without looking up.
“Ms. Johnson!” Tayshia exclaims.
“Oh my God, what did she do?” Sarah R. cuts in. Tayshia whips around to see the Sarahs leaning down from the futon. Tayshia’s newly braided hair brushes Desi’s face as she turns, and Desi swats her leg in retaliation.
“I thought you guys liked her?” Tayshia asks.
The Sarahs snort. “Fuck no,” Sarah T. says. “I’m just staying on her good side until she sends in my college rec.”
“Last week, I went to talk to her about setting up a meeting with the school counselor,” Sarah R. adds. “She told me that if I wanted to see the counselor, I should be ready to ‘deal with the consequences.’ That I shouldn’t come crying to her anyone made fun of me for it.”
“What did she do?” Sarah T. repeats. Tayshia explains slowly, carefully, hesitant to mention the real reason her skirt is so short. Sarah T. doesn’t pry, though Tayshia is sure she has guessed. “That’s ridiculous!” Sarah T. exclaims when Tayshia’s story is over. “She’s calling you a slut for following her rules, as if it’s your fault that people think schoolgirls are sexy! I mean, I’m gay, and you don’t see me getting ‘distracted’ or whatever shit Ms. Johnson is saying, I don’t think any less of anyone for how they dress.” Tayshia nods quickly.
“We need to do something!” Sarah R. declares. She sweeps straightened blonde hair over her Prada sweater. “This is bullshit!”
“The class project is feminism,” Tayshia replies with a quick roll of her eyes. Desi swats her leg again.
***
November 1st comes and goes, and with it the college early decision deadlines. The crazed impatience of the senior lounge has shifted now that the competition for college acceptances has officially begun. Cait and Georgie try to host de-stress activities, but none go as planned: Georgie rents a massage chair for the senior lounge, but no one can get it through the door; Cait hosts a “spa day” in the lounge, complete with her mother’s at-home pedicure foot soak, but the water spills and Ms. Johnson gives everyone a point; the large order of Magnolia cupcakes are barred from the school because the facility is not nut-free. Whatever semblance of sisterhood had existed earlier in the year is gone. Until, early into December, the girls come back from gym to find Nina sobbing into her coat on the floor.
“Oh my God, Nina, what’s wrong?” Sarah K. asks.
“It’s… it’s my boyfriend!” Nina sputters. “He dumped me!”
“What? Why?” Sarah A. prods.
“It doesn’t matter,” Nina says suddenly, and no matter how much the Sarahs pry, Nina refuses to answer.
The day passes slowly, and Nina is mysteriously absent from a number of classes. By the time she and Abigail have boarded their subway home, the class gossip has passed on to other subjects, like who Kirsten invited to spend the weekend in the Hamptons, and whether Sarah A.’s parents will really move to Florida after graduation. For the first half of the train ride, Nina is silent. When Abigail finally asks what happened, Nina is bursting with tears.
“He said I’m a fake,” she admits. “That I’m just playing at being rich, that I don’t care about him, I just care how I look.”
“That’s not true, Nina,” Abigail says softly.
“Yes, it is!” Nina insists, hiccupping. “I mean, I go to a private school I can’t afford, I go to parties and drink and – and – ”
“Nina,” Abigail cuts in, “Stop.” She gingerly rests a hand on Nina’s shoulder, half expecting Nina to brush it away. “You go to a private school because you worked your ass off to get in, and you’re going to go to a great college and do great things in this world. And you cannot beat yourself up for enjoying life. Maybe it’s not the life most people in our neighborhood live, but you can’t let yourself be put down for trying to be happy.”
For a moment, Nina doesn’t reply. Then she launches herself at Abigail, grasping her shoulders like the pole on the subway, soaking tears into the hand-me-down polo Abigail’s been wearing for the last two days. “Thank you,” Nina whispers, and they never speak of it again.
***
The next ‘Practices in Feminism’ comes the day after early decision acceptances are released, and though the girls aren’t supposed to wear college apparel, they do. Cait and Sarah T. each don a Cornell sweatshirt; Sarah K., who has been deferred, tries not to look in their direction. Abigail, who caught some stomach bug floating around her neighborhood, has gotten into Amherst and cries tears of joy over a patchy video call; Desi and Tayshia are sure to brag on her behalf. Georgie’s Instagram is overflowing with congratulations on her acceptance to Brown. Kirsten, who has been committed to Tulane since November, wears her green hat for the first time. Whitney has burned her Duke sweatshirt and now wears a Davidson one, in hopes that this will bring her better luck. Sarah R. modestly announces her Harvard acceptance through a choice maroon uniform shirt.
“Today, we are practicing the Oppression Olympics,” Ms. Johnson declares. “I am going to break you up into groups and give you a number of identifiers, and I want you to discuss how each group has been historically oppressed.”
Tayshia raises a hand. “Isn’t the ‘Oppression Olympics’ meant to satirize what we shouldn’t do?” A few girls nod in agreement.
“No, it’s meant to recognize our identifiers, and the hardships some of us have had to go through more than others.” Ms. Johnson’s eyes scan the room for the non-white students, and Tayshia feels herself shrink into her too-short skirt.
“But this is just pitting us against one another,” Sarah A. exclaims.
“And just because some of us have it worse doesn’t mean we don’t all have issues!” Sarah R. adds, leaning forward to stare down Ms. Johnson.
“Do you want me to call Mr. Berkman?” Ms. Johnson threatens. The class quiets. “If we do not acknowledge our differences, we cannot find a way to fix them.”
“Sure,” Georgie says, slowly, “But this isn’t just acknowledging them, it’s diminishing them.”
“I don’t think you all understand the exercise,” Ms. Johnson says, pointing her nose to the ceiling. “Now, let’s split up.”
There are supposed to be seven groups, each led by a member of the class council, but since Abigail is absent (“So inconvenient!” Ms. Johnson muses) they consolidate to six. Cait’s group spends their allotted twenty minutes debating whether Sarah K. has faced enough discrimination as a blonde Jew to compete with the Native American population. Georgie’s group ranks black and Muslim people in a tie, only for Ms. Johnson to say that ties are “cheating.” Sarah A. and Kirsten’s groups rip up the pages in protest of the exercise; Ms. Johnson accuses them of insolence and ignorance. Whitney and Sarah T. wonder aloud why Ms. Johnson’s identifiers do not include an LGBTQA+ category, and Nina’s group – made up of giggling girls in white supergas – uncomfortably lists Latinx people as the most historically oppressed.
At the end of the class, Ms. Johnson makes an announcement: “I’m sure you’ve all heard about the Women’s March in Washington, D.C. this January,” she says. The class falls silent. “In the spirit of the senior class project and our identity as a feminist school, Georgie, Cait and I have made arrangements for a class trip to the protest.” Stomps and cheers of excitement are dulled by Ms. Johnson’s outstretched hand. “Georgie and Cait will have more information for you during your next class meeting. We are so excited to be using our voices, together, as one, in this way.”
***
The day before Christmas break, the senior class dresses up in red and green polos, Santa hats, glittery ribbons, and leftover wrapping paper taped to their bodies. They take the hands of their kindergarten little sisters and sing around an olive tree, to symbolize peace, freedom, and the school’s commitment to being non-denominational.
***
January brings Canada Goose coats and out-of-uniform boots to the school building. Georgie and Cait hang a Bachelor bracket above the futon in the senior lounge and every Tuesday before class, the girls will discuss who was the bitchiest or the sluttiest of the contestants on the previous night’s group date. An email goes out to parents about signing their daughters up for the Women’s March for a small bus fee of $120; Kirsten and Whitney host a bake sale so that the scholarship students can attend as well.
For the last ‘Practices in Feminism’ before the March, Ms. Johnson collects dried-out markers and construction paper scraps from the lower school art room and carries them to a skirt-strewn, sweaty-smelling homeroom. “Posters are the heart and soul of any good protest,” Ms. Johnson announces to the group, handing out crafts supplies to the class leaders. “Today, we will be discussing what purpose we want this Women’s March to serve for us as a class, and we will use these ideas to create posters.” Ms. Johnson summons Cait and Georgie to scribe at the whiteboard, and then demands: “Who has ideas for what we can write on our posters?”
Kirsten tentatively raises a hand. “Equal rights for all?” she asks. Ms. Johnson nods approvingly. Sarah K. continues, “My body, my choice?”
Ms. Johnson stops short and motions for Cait to erase this last catchphrase. “Well, of course, it is your body and your choice,” she says slowly, “But we don’t want to alienate anyone, do we? This is an inclusive march, girls, remember that.”
Tayshia raises a hand. Ms. Johnson nods in her direction, and Tayshia suggests, “Black Lives Matter?”
“Black lives do matter,” Ms. Johnson replies, “But so do all lives. Let’s steer clear of divisive speech, girls.”
“But ‘Black Lives Matter’ isn’t meant to be divisive – ” Tayshia exclaims, only to be cut off by Ms. Johnson’s resounding approval of “Girls Just Want to Have Fundamental Human Rights!”
Whitney offers, “Respect existence or expect resistance.”
Cait jumps in with, “Equal pay for women!”
The class snaps so loudly that Ms. Johnson almost can’t be heard calling on Nina.
“I don’t have a catchphrase, or anything like that,” Nina says slowly, “But I think we should address economic inequality?” Her voice squeaks towards the end as she looks around for support, and Nina’s body cocoons when only Abigail and Desi nod in her direction.
Ms. Johnson frowns. “Cait just suggested that,” Ms. Johnson reminds Nina.
“No, I mean, Cait’s is good too, I just – ” Nina falters. “We have to acknowledge women who are underprivileged too.” Nina ducks her head.
“Nina, this is a Women’s March, not an economics march,” Ms. Johnson dictates. “Let’s try to stick to the subject.” The quickly scribbled note on economic equality is swept from the list.
Desi raises a hand. “‘Come on now, ladies, now let’s get in formation!’” she sings to the beat of Beyoncé.
“Yes!” Ms. Johnson cries, “Great idea, Desiree! We do need to get information!”
***
The girls arrive early that morning of the Women’s March. The Manhattanites wake up at four; girls from the other boroughs at three. By sunrise there are forty-four girls lined up outside the school building. The coach bus they’ve hired is late, so the girls huddle together, sticking one another with cardboard posters and ignoring the glitter falling onto their jeans. Ms. Johnson checks every girl for out-of-uniform dress code violations as she boards the bus – no ripped pants, no leggings, no writing on shirts, no explicit posters – and then offers the students a choice of Mean Girls or She’s the Man for the drive to D.C. The vote tepidly chooses the latter, but most of the girls pull out Air Pods and neck pillows and await their very own feminist revolution. Before the bus even arrives in Washington, D.C., Kirsten and Whitney have posted identical pictures on Instagram and the school Facebook page has declared the trip a “huge success.”
Most of the girls have been to the capital before – it was the eighth-grade overnight trip – but Nina and Desi, who started in the ninth grade, are awed by the buildings and gates. Desi holds Tayshia’s hand and tugs on it every time she sees something new – “The White House!” “The Washington Memorial!” “God, what I would give to see Obama here!” – while Nina walks ahead with Sarahs K. and R. and says nothing.
Georgie and Kirsten are the first to spot the hat stand. Pink and bright and loud, like the senior lounge during school hours, selling pussy hats for $30 each. Georgie texts Cait about the class fund but there’s not enough, so Georgie transfers a couple thousand dollars from her mother’s account to cover the surplus and returns to the group with forty-four pink-eared, hand-made, protest-ready pussy hats for a sea of schoolgirls who have shed their pleated skirts.
“Don’t put them on now, though,” Ms. Johnson says when Georgie presents them to the group.
“Why?” demands Whitney.
“You can wear whatever you want outside of school, I don’t care,” Ms. Johnson backtracks, “But right now, we are representing our school, and we have to act appropriately.”
“So, you mean we can’t run around showing off our pussies? Man!” Tayshia whispers to Desi, who begins to giggle.
A murmur runs through the class. “We’re standing in solidarity,” Sarah K. argues, “This is the most appropriate choice for this march.”
“I understand,” Ms. Johnson replies, “But it’s out of uniform.”
“We’re all out of uniform!” Cait cries.
“Cait – ”
“You’re the one who taught us that we have privilege, and with privilege comes responsibility,” Georgie declares. “We’re wearing these hats every day for the rest of the year!” The class snaps as Georgie’s voice fades into the shouts of the march. Abigail raises her eyebrows at Nina across the mob, who rolls her eyes. Kirsten yells for the girls to follow her, and a stampede of supergas and knee-high boots push through the protesters to a streetlamp on the side of the road. Georgie helps Cait up onto a bench, and Cait pulls Georgie up in return; they do a quick headcount to make sure no girl has been lost in the shuffle. Ms. Johnson waits, arms crossed, at the edge of the group, checking her watch as if rebellion has a time limit.
“Okay, we have everyone,” Cait announces. “From now on, we do feminism on our own terms!” The girls cheer.
“And if everyone could get me $30 for the hats by Monday, that would be great,” Georgie adds as an afterthought.