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YOU DON’T OWN ME.
I AM NOT MY BODY.
And down my arms and across my chest, in huge, loopy letters that circle my nipples between a lopsided doodle of a crown, the words:
I AM MACKENZIE MALLOY.
It is a total bitch to write legibly on yourself upside down, especially across my breasts, but I got the hang of it. Now my whole body is covered in graffiti – words of affirmation, words of rage. The words I’ve had to tell myself in the dark over and over and over again, until I believed them.
My words of war.
Cleo’s perfect lips freeze in this O-shape, like one of those bobbing clowns at a fairground. Behind her, Daphne’s hand flies to her mouth. At the end of the row, I can feel Alec LeMarque’s eyes sweep over my body, and it’s like something slimy sliding across my skin.
Noah stands beside Alec, his hands in his pockets. His eyes never leave mine, and although they still burn with that same seething hatred, there’s a respect there, too.
Eli elbows Alec in the side as he shoves his way to the front of the crowd. He starts to shrug off his blazer. “Mackenzie, here. Take this. I’ll—”
“What’s going on here?” A voice cuts through the chaos. A hard lump forms in my throat as Ms. Drysdale pushes her way through the crowd. She takes one look at me and throws up her arms in front of me. “All of you, get to class.”
No one moves. Eli stands there with both arms still trapped in his blazer.
“Go. You too, Mr. Hart. Or I’m hauling all your parents in here to explain why you’re being suspended for sexual misconduct.”
One by one they peel away. Cleo shoots me a triumphant smile as she loops her arm in Noah’s. The two of them climb the stairs, their heads bend together in whispers. Eli looks like he wants to argue, and he’s got his blazer off now and is holding it out.
“I said, go to class, Mr. Hart. I’ve got this under control.”
Eli’s eyes flick to mine, as if asking my permission. I nod. He backs away, his gaze not leaving mine until he’s around the corner and out of sight.
Ms. Drysdale shrugs off her jacket and loops it over my shoulders. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Is this a joke?”
“No joke,” I say, my face serious. “It’s my political science project. How did I do?”
Her eyes bug out. “What?”
“You told us to explore propaganda and social justice movements. I’ve done that by using my body – a woman’s body, which has long been exploited for political propaganda – as a tool to reclaim my own narrative.” I skim my hands over my breasts, smudging the M of Mackenzie. “You have to admit, if the idea is to get people to pay attention, it has been remarkably effective.”
Ms. Drysdale’s mouth quirks up. “You’ve got some ovaries on you, Malloy. Tell you what, I’ll give you a perfect grade if you go back into the changing rooms and put your uniform back on.”
“I can’t. My clothes were stolen.”
She sighs as she yanks her coat closed across my chest. It’s a dark maroon trench reaching to my knees, and I belt it at the waist to cover all my lady bits. It’s an awesome coat – the kind of thing I might have worn in another life. Now that I’m covered up, she snaps her fingers. “Come with me.”
I follow my history teacher into a cramped office at the back of the Humanities block. She gestures for me to sit as she roots around in a suitcase behind her desk. I stare at my feet, which I kick out in slow circles. My toe brushes the corner of a quilt tucked under her desk.
“This is cool.” I hold up a corner of the quilt. It’s covered with different-shaped helmets from history – the Corinthian helmet of the Greek hoplite, a Roman centurion’s galea, a medieval great helm. It looks hand-stitched.
“Oh, that.” Red flares in Ms. Drysdale’s cheeks. “It gets cold in here. This patriarchal establishment wasn’t built with a heating system because they believed frostbite would turn boys into men, and I’m not allowed a space heater because it’s a fire hazard. Even with two layers of thermal stockings, I freeze my ass off in winter.”
I nod, but I can’t help but notice the pile of clothes in the suitcase in the corner, the takeout containers scattered across the desk, and the corner of a pillow behind the bookshelves. Ms. Drysdale is sleeping in her office.
I shouldn’t give a shit, but it seems so ridiculous that I have this whole big house with twelve bedrooms and its own indoor bowling alley, while the only person in this entire shitty school who has actually been nice to me is sleeping in her office. I open my mouth to say something, but Ms. Drysdale dumps a load of clothes on my lap.
“Put those on and get out of here. You won’t be allowed back into class without your uniform.” She holds up a crumpled Mötley Crüe band tee. “I’ll be expecting these back.”
I finger the edge of the t-shirt, loving the distressed fabric. “I would, too. You have great clothes.”
“Please,” she scoffs. “You could trade my entire wardrobe for one of your designer handbags and still have money to spare. Don’t try to butter me up to get yourself out of trouble for this ridiculous stunt. I’m concerned about you, Mackenzie. From the minute you walked into Stonehurst, you’ve been determined to paint a target on your back. And you never got a tutor as I suggested—”
