What's a Girl Gotta Do? (11 page)

I waved my hands so aggressively that the horn flew across the waiting area. I sighed and went to pick it up.

“You just need to calm down a little.” He said it so patronizingly, I could've killed him.

Instead I picked up the horn, ran back, put it as close to his ear as possible and honked it loud twice. The receptionist hushed me again, shooting me dagger stares.

“OUCH! Stop it. What was that for?!”

“You just told me to calm down. I wasn't being uncalm! I was just being a girl and sharing an opinion – that is NOT UNCALM…” Okay, maybe
now
I was uncalm… “You wouldn't have said that if I was a guy. If I was a guy, and I was just talking about something I believed in, just slightly louder than I usually talked, you wouldn't use the words ‘calm down' to me. You only tell boys to calm down when they're pissed out of their heads and about to punch someone in the face and get everyone barred from the pub, but, no…girls, all we need to do is raise our voices slightly and have an opinion and then it's like CALM DOWN, YOU MAD COW!” I had an adrenalin re-surge. Just when I thought this project was silly, or over the top, or could potentially ruin all my life plans…I just reignited like one of those trick birthday candles that don't blow out.

Will didn't have a chance to respond – though it looked like he was gearing up for a fight. Half his mouth hung open, in stupored disbelief, the other half was in a snarl. But Mr Packson's door was suddenly flung open and he strode out, wringing his hands.

“Charlotte? William?”

We glared at each other then followed him back into his room. He walked behind his desk but didn't sit down. I bet he'd learned that on some kind of head teacher training day.

“I've been thinking…” He looked over the tops of our heads. Not a good sign. “And I've decided, Charlotte, you can continue with this project…” It was my turn for my mouth to drop open.

“Really? Thank you, sir…”

He held up his hand to indicate he wasn't finished. “With some adjustments, of course.”

Will and I looked at each other.

“For one,” he continued, “I can't believe I've got to say this, but no cream pies!”

“But…!”

“None, not on college property. If I see even a hint of squirty cream on these premises, I will suspend you instantly. And you know what that means.”

I looked down, wanting to argue, knowing I couldn't. I knew… No Cambridge… Dad would go beyond nuts.

“And it's not just pies. You cannot physically touch a student in an aggressive way at all during this month… I mean, you're not supposed to anyway. I will do what I can to support you, Charlotte. And I want you to write something for the college newspaper…” He turned to Will. “You can tell that to the local paper. And William? You are free to leave. I need a few words with Charlotte by herself.”

Will stalked out – no doubt triumphantly thinking that he was responsible for the project being saved. But my relief overrode my annoyance.

The door shut behind him and Mr Packson beckoned for me to sit down.

“Take a seat, Lottie.”

Well, at least I was back to being Lottie.

He sat down too, and surveyed me over his pen pot and framed photo of his toddler.

“What's going on, Lottie?” he asked. “You're a month away from your Cambridge interview. Why would you distract yourself with something so…” He ran his tongue under his bottom lip. “Time-consuming?”

“Because it's the right thing to do,” I repeated. For, like, the millionth time in my life.

“Do your parents know? What's going on with this, I mean?”

I nodded.

“And I can guess how they're taking it…”

I nodded. Mr Packson and my parents had met a few times, always to discuss “my shining future”. Dad had always been a bit like a pit bull terrier with him. He wasn't used to how they were treated compared to at my old school – where parents were treated like bosses of their own corporations, the children just an “asset”. You could schedule a meeting with any teacher, any time, and they'd fall all over themselves to tell parents what they wanted to hear. When Mum and Dad first wanted to quiz Mr Packson about my Cambridge chances last year… Well Dad wasn't happy when he had to wait a week and a half for a free slot. He'd made his unhappiness known.

Mr Packson smiled – like knowing my parents disapproved made him like the idea all of a sudden. “Are you
sure
this isn't going to impact your studies?”

I nodded. “There's more to life than studying, anyway.”

“Be careful, Lottie. You're playing with your future here. I know how much getting into Cambridge means to you and your family.”

I sighed. “Yes, it does. But this project doesn't clash with my interview date. And, you know what?” I thought about Megan again. “Sometimes you need to be able to look at yourself in the mirror. I don't want to be a hypocrite…”

He did another small smile. I was SO his favourite student – even if I was also his most difficult.

“We need to talk ground rules though; I can't have you personally attacking the teachers.”

I shook my head this time. “It doesn't work that way. I can't pick and choose.”

He didn't lose his temper. He just sat back in his chair, like I was about to tell him a story. “How does it work then?”

So I explained it to him – the whole idea, all the rules, I even told him about the van men and how I got the idea.

“Jesus, Lottie,” he exclaimed, in the annoying disbelieving way men tend to have when you tell them such a thing.

“It's okay,” I told him. “‘I've still been walking that way and the van's gone. I'm hoping they maybe got fired or disciplined or whatever.”

After I'd finished, he leaned back further – mulling it all over. I tried not to look at his bald patch too much – but everyone at college said it was shaped like a kidney bean, and it really, really was.

“So…” he said. “You have to call out every bit of sexism you see in some way, but you don't do each thing more than once?”

I nodded, still eyeing the bald patch. “You got it.”

“So, those horrid builders, say. You wouldn't take them on again?”

I sort of shook my head. “I wouldn't take them on in particular… But if some other guy catcalled me, I'd still take
him
on – because it's a new person. And, if the same person did something ELSE sexist, then I'd holler too. But, other than that, once it's out and I've hollered, then that's that.” I wasn't sure why I was suddenly using the word “hollered”, but I liked how it sounded – like I had spunk. Which, let's face it, is a sexist word, but I bloody do.

“So Teddy and his mates aren't safe?”

“They're safe from cream pies. I've agreed to back down on the cream pies on college premises.”

“That's very generous of you.”

“I know.”

“I still can't have you attacking the teachers personally though…” He had another think. “I know… Calling it out? What does it involve exactly?”

I shrugged. “It's different for different things, it's all a bit ad-hoc if I'm honest. But, generally, in some way or another, I have to make it clear to society or whatever, that it's sexist.”

Mr Packson was grinning. “Would telling the head teacher of your college make it clear enough? If he promised to listen and take it in?”

I could see where this was going… I narrowed my eyes. God, he was clever. Though I needed to compromise somewhere. I couldn't get suspended – we both knew it.

“I guess…”

He leaned so far back in his chair that he put his feet up on the desk, and folded his hands behind his head.

“Well, go on then, Lottie. You have my full attention. Tell me every single sexist thing our staff does – let it out. I'm the head teacher and I'm going to totally acknowledge it.”

I chewed my lip and wished Will was here to film it – though I suspected Mr Packson wouldn't be doing this if he knew it was going onto our channel.

I threw back my head in defeat.

“We're going to be here a long time.”

“I've got time.”

“All right then. Well, my philosophy teacher, he always picks boys to answer questions over girls. I counted it once, it's like at least a 70:30 boy to girl ratio…”

eighteen

There was no greater sight than that of twenty FemSoc members honking their horns in the college cafeteria.

As yet another sexist rock song came on the jukebox, we all stopped our meeting, jumped on our chairs and started honking for all we were worth. Amber seemed to be getting into it more than anybody. She jumped up on the table, her face red with excitement, and yelled, “WOMEN ARE NOT BITCHES!”

Most of the cafeteria (Teddy's mates) were booing us and deliberately putting sexist songs on the jukebox just to enjoy the drama, fifteen per cent were ignoring us, and ten per cent kept coming over to ask what we were doing, listening to us explain it, then saying, “Cool.”

All I cared about was that ten per cent.

Teddy was sat right next to the jukebox, giving me evils. Which was nothing new. I felt a surge of frustration. I really, really hadn't done anything WRONG to him. We'd dated, I'd realized he wasn't for me. I'd told him, nicely, as soon as I'd figured that out. Why was he still SO angry?

Will was filming everything – albeit with a scowl on his bespectacled face. We'd had yet another fight after I emerged triumphantly from Mr Packson's office.

“You should have let me film Mr Packson,” he said. “I can't believe you let all that footage go to waste!”

“I'll explain it all in my video diary tonight,” I promised, trying to calm him. “Plus, I told you, I don't think he would've agreed to it if you were shoving a camera in his face.”

After we'd suitably rejected the current song choice, we clambered back into our uncomfortable metal chairs and resumed our meeting.

Evie opened a bag of cheesy Doritos and passed them round the circle. I noticed her helping herself to a small pile before passing them on and my tummy twisted for her. She wouldn't eat from the bag once it had gone round the whole circle. It made me sad, even if she was so much better than she used to be.

Megan sat next to me, sketching as I spoke.

“So, you were explaining why you're still wearing make-up,” one of our members, Georgina, prompted.

I nodded and tried to regain my trail of thought…it had been interrupted a LOT by all the misogynistic rock.

“Yes, I was. Because I thought that SOMEBODY…” I glared at Will. He glared back, but still kept filming. “…might ask. And I was right. I
have
decided to still wear my usual make-up for the duration of this project…but it's not been a decision I've made lightly,” I said, as people started whispering. “I wanted to chat today about cognitive dissonance – have any of you heard of it?”

Everyone shook their heads. Evie shook hers especially hard. “You're obsessed with hard words,” she called over the table, and everyone laughed.

“I know, I know, I know…I'll try and explain it as quickly as I can. Basically cognitive dissonance is just a posh term for having two personal beliefs at the same time that contradict each other.”

There was quiet. The last chorus of the rock song was fading, so I knew I didn't have long. Especially as Teddy and the rest of His Lot were gathered around the jukebox now – pumping twenty pence pieces in and looking over with glee. I continued.

“So an example is loving cute baby pig pictures on Instagram but then still eating bacon…or…umm…I dunno, really rushing and getting stressed about arriving in time for a yoga class.”

Amber butted in. “So, it's like hypocrisy?”

I nodded. “Yeah…I guess. And, I mean, everyone is guilty of it. No one is perfect. However, I was thinking about how cognitive dissonance works in feminism…”

The song ended and almost instantly some new song, “Pimp My Hoes”, started playing. I mean…really? I hadn't even realized we had that song on the shitty jukebox yet, it was only just on the radio.

Teddy and his mates cheered – “This one's for you lezzas!” Teddy called through his hands – getting about twelve pats on the back from the ladz.

Me, Evie and Amber found each other's eyes over the table, rolled them, then got up again. The rest of FemSoc followed and we blasted our horns. This seemed to make Teddy and his mates even happier.

This really wasn't how I wanted it to go – boys like Teddy enjoying it, using it to wind me up. But then, what did I expect?

I got down ungracefully and made my way over. Teddy saw me coming and puffed his chest out even more. The others all started wolf-whistling. My skin prickled… The horn in my hand… I was so desperate to throw it at his fat arrogant head… But I'd promised Mr Packson no more violence.

“You know using ‘lezzas' as an insult is, like, the most backward messed-up insult ever?” I said, rage flowing through me. At them. At myself, for letting them get to me.

Teddy shrugged. “I just call it how I see it.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Me too. And you're a disgusting pig-headed RUNT. Now, why don't you all just run along, or I'll tell Mr Packson about your disgusting homophobia?”

I stormed back to my table with jeers like “Oooh, she's going to tell on us” and “Ooooh, someone's on the blob” following me. I heard female laughter too, and saw Jenny and some of her friends giggling at me from the sidelines. I flipped Teddy my middle finger but kept walking. FemSoc crowded around, offering me words of encouragement.

“Did you actually just call him a runt?” Evie asked, patting my back. “That's my new favourite insult ever.”

Will peered over the top of his lens. “I got all that on camera.”

I smiled at everyone, accepting their commiseration, or whatever it was. It made me feel slightly better, but my stomach was still tangled into an impenetrable ball and the anger had a side order of exhaustion about it. What was I doing? Why was I putting myself through this?

And it was only my first day…

I sat back, grabbed a handful of crisps and chowed them down with half a bottle of Diet Coke. “So…” I clapped my hands like nothing had happened. “Cognitive dissonance.” The others quietened, apart from the crunch of crisps. “As I was saying, I was thinking about how it relates to feminism, and how it will impact my project. I think one of the hardest things about being a feminist is cognitive dissonance. Your heart knows better…but, like, we've been so brainwashed into a certain way of being that it's almost impossible NOT to be a hypocrite. Like, knowing your weight shouldn't matter, but also really wanting to be thin…thinner than your friends probably. Or, like, I know that all the fairy-tale love stories we're told about Prince Charmings sweeping us off our feet are dangerous bullshit… I want to be a strong, independent woman with a good career and I don't want my happiness to depend on some bloke on a pony rescuing me—”

“That would be amazing,” Amber interrupted. “If it was an actual pony. How naff would a prince look on an actual pony? His feet scraping along the ground?”

Evie giggled. “A Shetland pony?”

“Even better!”

I paused to let everyone giggle, and took another sip of my Coke.

“But…“I continued, “I also
really
like watching that sort of film. Total cognitive dissonance! PLUS, sometimes, occasionally – well, more than occasionally – I dream of that sort of thing happening to me. Some gorgeous guy just rocking up and I fall totally in love with him and never have to worry about anything ever again…”

I looked over at Will, who was STILL filming. He must have had, like, ten battery packs in his pocket. He caught my eye, raised his eyebrows and I felt myself redden. It was MUCH harder talking about this sort of stuff with a boy there. It made even me feel shy about being brutally honest. I could kind of see the point of keeping these conversations females-only. No boys had expressed an interest in joining FemSoc anyway, despite all our best recruitment efforts…

“I know it's totally bullshit, but I do kind of fantasize about it…” Will raised his eyebrows again but I ignored him. “So, you see, I'm a total hypocrite, as Amber says.”

Amber grinned – like she didn't mind at all that I was a huge hypocrite. Megan had been doodling next to me and I looked at her sketch of a Disney princess, carrying a briefcase and wearing power specs. “That's really good,” I muttered.

She went red. “Thanks.”

Another FemSoc member, Jess, put her hand up. “So you're not allowed to watch romcoms for a month?”

I shook my head. “Well, they've got better ones now with strong female leads that may pass the Bechdel test, but I won't be able to watch anything where it's just a really clichéd female whose only storyline is whether or not she'll find love.”

Another member put her hand up. “So, why is make-up okay then? I mean, no offence, but you wear a lot of it…”

I smiled. Because I did. I really did. My face was essentially always half eyeliner. The girl asking, Sylvia, was a useful member of FemSoc, in that she had really strong beliefs but was totally different from me, Evie and Amber. Much more old-skool hardcore feminist. We had to calm down her
men-are-all-arseholes-who-should-be-burned
monologues quite often, and she'd threatened to start a new group as sometimes she lost her temper with us, and told us we were too soft.

“So…make-up, yes…” I nodded at her. “I had a long think about whether I can be a feminist and still wear make-up. I mean, you could argue we wear it just to make us more attractive to guys.”

Sylvia nodded furiously.

“I mean, I really enjoy wearing it, but if it's just there to oppress me, then I guess I'm a hypocrite… But then I realized that I don't
feel
oppressed wearing make-up. In fact, I find wearing it quite liberating. It's a way of expressing myself, of being creative. Actually, I feel sorry for boys who don't feel they can wear it. And, most importantly, if all boys died tomorrow—”

“We can but hope,” said Sylvia. A few of the group laughed. I didn't.

“Hey, Sylvia, don't make me honk my horn at you,” I warned and she scowled. “But, yes…if they all died tomorrow, well, you know what? I would still wear it! It may have initially been invented for some screwed-up reason, but now I feel it's mine to reclaim. The same with skirts and dresses – again I feel sorry for boys that they feel they can only wear trousers…”

“I think their societal perks more than make up for it,” Sylvia interrupted again. “You know…being paid more, getting to run most of the country and major corporations…having privilege shovelled onto them from the day they're out of the womb.”

I saw a couple of people roll their eyes and knew I had to wrap things up. “I don't
feel
like a hypocrite when I wear make-up,” I continued. “Therefore I'm going to continue to wear it.” I paused…really wishing Will wasn't here for this next bit…especially with his camera running. “Hair removal on the other hand…”

All the girls laughed.

“No, Lottie? You're going to stop shaving?”

I nodded, glowing redder and redder. “I can confirm that I'm going to stop shaving my bodily hair growths.”

“Everything?” Will's voice called out over his lens cap. There was so much innuendo in that one word and he knew it – he stared right at me, a playful smile on his face. The glorious sexy bastard that I was quickly finding out he was.

I nodded again. “Everything.” And I fixed him with such a Lottie-special stare that it was his turn to blush.

“I think this is one of the things I'm most scared of, especially because of my moustache.” The table laughed; at least two girls butted in with, “Oh, Lottie, you don't have a moustache!”

“I know I don't,” I laughed back. “Because I wax it! But I don't feel liberated waxing it, not like with make-up. I'm not waxing it to express myself – the same with leg hair and armpit hair. I'm doing it out of pure fear. Because I know I'd basically be shunned if I didn't. That's not a liberated place to be in. Imagine if right now, I raised my arms to reveal a huge, hairy bush in my armpit.”

At least three girls shuddered. Even Amber said, “Eww.”

“You see! I think it's disgusting too. But I also know that it's totally natural for women to have body hair. It's just society has decided it's gross – and we should all look like prepubescent plastic hairless Barbies. And, judging by the sheer extortionate cost of replacement razor blades, there's probably a capitalist agenda behind that too.”

“A what now?” someone asked. I tried not to sigh.

“To make money,” I explained. “Anyway, I have total cognitive dissonance about body hair, so if I'm going to do this properly…I have to stop shaving…” I still felt sick at the thought. “Luckily, what with it being winter and all, you'll probably not notice my legs. But in a week and a half's time, you should all start a Lottie's moustache watch…”

And, just as they all leaned in closer, without even knowing they were doing it, to inspect my mutant upper lip…I was saved by the jukebox. A ferocious cheer erupted from Teddy and his mates and one of Rihanna's less…er…liberated songs boomed through the college speakers.

We all got up on our chairs.