Only Girls Allowed (11 page)

The other entrants received pretty much the same excited response. There was the kid who did magic tricks. Not bad, actually, but it didn't seem like he knew enough tricks to do a weekly show all year long. One girl performed a one-woman play,
Me and My Dog, Sophie.
It was
cute and funny, and, afterward, people in the audience shouted “Woof! Woof! Woof!” I thought she might win. A dog in cute little people clothes would be a hard act to follow. Bet was next.

Her video began to roll, and I felt a shiver as I saw images of the Pink Locker Society Web site.

What was she doing—blowing our cover? Is this what she was doing that day I caught her in our office?

My heart was beating so loudly I heard it in my ears—
kunga, kunga, kunga
. The audience was hushed.

“Have you heard of the Pink Locker Society? If you have, I bet you're a girl,” Bet told the camera in a serious anchorperson voice.

She went on to say how the Pink Locker Society was performing “a vital service for the young women of Margaret Simon Middle School.” Her voice sounded a little thin, but before anyone could shout “Bor-ing!” she asked the audience a question.

“So why would someone vandalize this reputable site with horribly rude comments?”

Bet showed some screen shots of those awful remarks splattered over the Pink Locker site.

“Those of you who frequent the Pink Locker Web site probably have seen these wretched commentaries. To someone who was having body-confidence issues, the hacker wrote ‘La-ha-looooooser! Boys will never like you.' ”

“Well,” Bet said, “I think the hacker is the la-ha-looooooser.
And I'm pleased to say my investigation has uncovered the true identity of this person.”

Bet waited—a dramatic pause. I myself was rapt with attention. I shot a look at Piper and Kate, whose eyes were locked on the huge video screen in front of us.

“I was concerned about accusing this person,” Bet said, “because a good journalist does not just blindside someone without giving them a chance to speak. For my investigation, I partnered with a very fine computer consultant, and I had a hunch of my own. But what if I was wrong?”

As she spoke, Bet was seated at an anchor desk, her hands neatly folded in front of her. She looked so calm, cool, and collected. I, on the other hand, was at the edge of my seat.

“What I'm about to show you proves that I was not wrong,” Bet said. “But before I get to that, my investigation also has uncovered some surprising bits of history about the Pink Locker Society.”

OK, under normal circumstances, I'd be very interested in whatever historical odds and ends Bet had dug up. But right this minute? No. Like everyone in the entire auditorium, I wanted to know who it was. Who was the hacker?

“Did you know the PLS mysteriously halted its operations in 1976?” Bet asked.

In her video, she scanned over old copies of
The Pink Paper
on the screen and an open copy of the 1976 Margaret Simon yearbook. We were all waiting, waiting.

“More to come on that in future reports,” Bet said finally.

“Back to the hacker who vandalized the Pink Locker Society Web site. It is someone familiar to us all. And, to my great surprise, she freely admitted what she did on camera. She said she was not worried about getting in trouble. She said her comments, which led to the temporary shutdown of the PLS site, were meant to be—her words here—‘funny and edgy.' So who is this mystery girl?”

Another generous pause. The entire auditorium watched and waited. Then the screen cut to Taylor Mayweather.

“Yes, I did it,” Taylor said, flipping hair over one shoulder. “I saw it as an elegant prank—an extension of my ‘Gotcha!' brand and persona. If I want to be a reality TV star, I can't take careful little steps. I have to be bold and daring.”

I was stunned—so stunned that I had to remind myself to breathe.
Inhale, exhale,
I told myself.

“But Taylor, what about the girls whose feelings were almost certainly hurt?” Bet asked.

Taylor laughed in an irritated way, like Bet was asking a dumb question.

“I was going to tell everyone it was me as soon as I won the MSTV contest and started my weekly show.”

“But again, I have to ask, what about the people you hurt?” Bet asked once more.

“I-I didn't think about
hurting
people. I was just thinking that it would be funny. Totally surprising, don't you think?”

The camera cut back to anchorwoman Bet, who explained that Taylor had enlisted an accomplice. Bet said this accomplice—whom Bet had chosen not to identify—was an accomplished student and computer expert. He figured out how to break into the Pink Locker Society Web site, Bet said, and he gave Taylor the access she needed to make her catty remarks. Immediately, I knew her accomplice had to be Gabe, the sweet geeky guy people said Taylor had been flirting with. The poor guy.

Bet went on to say that Taylor said she wouldn't be hacking into the PLS site any more.

“I've kind of been there, done that, you know what I mean?” Taylor told the camera.

At this point, the entire audience seemed to be scanning the rows of auditorium seats. We were all looking for Taylor. Where was she, and was she really so casual about all this? Surely Principal Finklestein would be whisking her away for some kind of disciplinary hearing.

“It's not for me to say how this ‘prank' should be punished,” Bet said. “But I'd like to conclude my report by applauding the women—past and present—who are making it a little easier to grow up. Each question the Pink Locker Society answers is a random act of kindness, a lifeboat to someone who feels like they are going under. My only
regret is that you guys don't have the same service. Though boys would never admit it, I suspect a Blue Locker Society would be just as popular as the pink one.”

With that, her segment ended. Bet had saved the title of her proposed show for the end. She called it
On Your Side? You Bet!
The crowd erupted in, what else? “You Bet! You Bet! You Bet!” They were louder cheers than before. Some people, including Piper, were on their feet. Bet deserved to win. Even I had to admit it. Taylor, on the other hand, should be sent to live alone on some island with just the seagulls to keep her company.

I felt a surge of real happiness when Principal Finklestein made it official and called Bet to the stage. Bet took a bow then looked out on the crowd and smiled—not a fake anchorwoman smile, either—a genuine one.

 

I was in a great mood as I walked home from track practice that day. Just a few hours earlier, Bet had won and Taylor had lost in more ways than one. I wondered what kind of punishment she would face at school. I had the urge to get in her face and yell “Gotcha!” but I restrained myself. Was it too much to hope that she'd be expelled? But I didn't want Gabe to be kicked out of school. I was sure he was just another of her victims. And, of course, I was praying that Bet's dramatic report was all the evidence Forrest would need to finally break up with Taylor.

Thanks to all that had happened, I was no longer obsessing about my water-fountain incident with Forrest. Without realizing it, I think I was starting to give myself the advice that
I would have given any other girl. “Let it go,” I would tell her. “He's probably forgotten it by now. Maybe someday he'll like you, too.”

My mind wandered the closer I got to home. I thought about how I would burst in the door and tell my mother how my grades had finally started to improve, just in time for report cards. When I had good news, I liked to start out looking very serious and down. (My mother fell for this every time, owing to her natural tendency to imagine the worst possible scenario.) Getting her all concerned first would make it all the more fun to spring the happy news on her. What I really wanted to talk about—with anyone who would listen, even Mom—was Bet's report and the Pink Locker Society. But I knew I couldn't do that.

Two more blocks to go: Thoughts of Forrest always figured into any thoroughly good mood of mine, and this one was no different. I made a bold decision as I crossed Muir Avenue. I decided that the next time I talked to him, I would just try to be normal and relaxed—or as normal and relaxed as I could be. I was not ready to give up my glimmer of hope, my candle in the dark for him. But not knowing how he felt about me was starting to wear me out. Maybe a new low-key script was in order? As I turned the corner on my block, I started playing with opening lines.
Nothing too clever this time,
I promised myself.

But all thoughts of my new script washed away when my house came fully into view. A bunch of cars were clustered in our driveway and lined up along the sidewalk.
You welcome such a sight when you're having a party. But when you're not, you only worry that something is terribly wrong. I broke into a run and didn't stop until I reached my front door. On the way, I passed not just my mother's car but the bike my father rode to his office every day. I moved too fast to catalog the other cars, except one. The green Jeep, I recognized instantly. It belonged to Forrest's mom.

Our lacquered black front door was open, so I pulled on the storm door and stepped into the living room, which was filled with people. Their murmuring conversations stopped when they saw me. They were standing around like they were at a party, but without food or drinks. My mom and dad stepped out of the crowd.

“Jem, there are some . . . um . . . people from school who need to talk with you,” Dad said.

I couldn't form a question, but I looked around the room and said words: “School people. Need. Me?”

Then Principal Finklestein came forward. I felt faint seeing him walk through my living room, getting closer and closer until he was standing right in front of me.

“Miss Colwin, we need to ask you about some potentially inappropriate activity.”

“What? What do you mean?”

My voice sounded like I was about to cry. My distress only grew when I looked around the room and saw Piper, Kate, and Bet. And their parents.

“This is about the Pink Locker Society, Jemma,” Principal Finklestein said.

It sounded so strange to hear those words hit the air in my living room, with so many people standing around to hear them.

“What . . . What about it? Bet did a whole report on it today. Taylor's the one who wrote all that rude stuff.”

“He says that's not the point,” Piper said.

She was standing against our living room wall, with her arms folded and biting her lower lip.

“What?” I said. “But Taylor admitted it. You heard Bet's report and you picked her as the winner.”

I looked around the room for some kind of gesture of support, but all the faces looked blank. They knew more than I did, clearly.

Principal Finklestein put a hand on my shoulder in a fake-seeming gesture of concern.

“Jemma, Bet's winning should not be interpreted as an endorsement of this . . . this unofficial school club,” he said. Then he looked around the room seeking nods from the adults.

“I maintain Bet was the most qualified video journalist, but I can't abide what's been happening on this Web site,” Prinicpal Finklestein said.

My mom's laptop was open on the coffee table. She sighed out loud and turned the computer screen to where I could see it. Today, we had answered a question from a girl
who said she was desperate to have her first kiss but also was worried because her parents said she's too young for a boyfriend.

“This material is simply not appropriate,” Principal Finklestein said. “Children can't be dispensing advice to children on these subjects.”

He laughed a short, snorty laugh and continued.

“We need to ask you and your friends to stop operating this Web site immediately—or risk suspension from school,” Principal Finklestein said.

“What about Taylor? Why don't you punish her?” Piper said.

“I have no way of verifying the veracity of Bet's report and, to be quite honest, I'd rather not dip into that pool. The best thing for all involved would be for our school board—and all our school district's parents—never to hear anything about this. I'd have a riot on my hands.”

Again, he laughed that short snort of a laugh.

The next sound I heard was Bet sniffling from our brown leather chair, where she was seated, still in her anchorwoman outfit.

“I'm so sorry, Jemma. He made me tell who all of you were,” she said, and dropped her head into her hands.

Kate was sitting on the arm of the chair. She leaned down and patted Bet's back, like your mom might. Kate shot me a look that said “What are we going to do now?”

“He took the laptop,” Piper said.

“We had no choice but to seize the instrument that permitted all this to occur,” the principal said.

“We were trying to help people,” Kate said.

“Right,” I said, “and it's Taylor who messed it all up.”