Bending the Rules

Tricia was my anti-establishment, “I-make-my-own-rules” friend in high school. She took risks. She pressed boundaries. She lived on the edge. And sometimes, she broke rules.

Tricia and I hung out with the same group of friends at Bishop Watterson, the Catholic high school we attended in Columbus, Ohio. Tricia could be brutally honest and and sometimes I was anxious to be around her. Nervous that she might again mention my “mustache of zits” as she once called an unfortunate and recurring breakout on my face. But mostly because I wanted Tricia to like me.

Tricia drove a little Datsun with the radio blaring to its limits. If you happened to be a passenger, you might have felt like I did one time when I thought my eardrums had ruptured, the music was so loud. I have long suspected that that “one time” resulted in the hearing loss I’ve experienced most of my adult life. (I recently told Tricia about my suspicions. She was unsympathetic.)

But to me, more than anything, Tricia was cool. And I wanted to be cool too.

Tricia and I hung out with the same group of friends at Bishop Watterson, the Catholic high school we attended in Columbus, Ohio.

—   —   —

Female students at Watterson were required to wear maroon jumpers with pastel or white collared blouses. In lieu of the jumper, girls were also allowed to wear maroon pants, but the “maroon” of the jumper was a difficult color to match. At the time (late 70s), there wasn’t an official uniform pant for girls. Many of us got demerits for coming to school wearing pants that looked more purple or eggplant than maroon. Even though it was the seventies, even maroon-like pants were hard to find. Of course, the boys didn’t have these problems. Like in grade school, the boys got off easy with respect to the “uniform” they were required to wear. Navy blue pants with a white or light blue polo shirt. Give me a break!

—   —   —

It is my senior year. Tricia has been breaking uniform rules regularly since we were freshmen and she’s never been busted. I’ve even seen her having a conversation with a teacher, while brazenly wearing a dark plaid shirt beneath her jumper. And nothing. This past Monday, Tricia actually wore a collarless black t-shirt, walking around school like she had nothing to hide! It was as though she was taunting Sister Martha, the dean of girls, daring her to give Tricia a demerit. And nothing. She had escaped under the radar once again.

I have to do something! I want to break the uniform rule too! And I’m going to.

—   —   —

I have never liked wearing blouses. They always make me sweat. And I don’t particularly like long-sleeved blouses because their sleeves usually don’t fall long enough on my wrists. So, I usually roll my sleeves up to my elbows before I leave the house for school each morning.

Yippee! Today is the day! Today, I am going to break the dress code. I don’t have the guts to wear a dark shirt – I don’t like dark colors anyway. Instead, I’m sticking with the color code but I’m going to wear a white, short-sleeved, collarless Henley top. If stopped by the uniform police, I am prepared to apologize and explain that all my uniform shirts are dirty (lie), and they’re going to be cleaned tonight (another lie). With any luck, if I’m caught, I won’t be punished.

I know when Tricia is breaking uniform rules, she walks with an air of confidence. A demeanor that I’m finding hard to master. But I need to. I have to walk as though I’m carefree and aloof if I’m to pull this off.

But this is hard. At heart, I’m a devout rule-follower. But I want to be more like Tricia. I want to be a rule-bender.

Before homeroom starts, I’m in the hallway with a group of friends waiting for the bell to ring. While I’m trying to be cool and collected, I know I look anything but. More like uptight and guilty. I can’t relax or participate in any conversation because my eyes keep darting around, scanning the hallway for any signs of a teacher approaching. I’m prepared to dodge behind one of my friends if I see one. Man! It’s not even ten after eight and I’m already sweating bullets!

So far, I’m not enjoying the comfort of my Henley shirt nearly as much as I had anticipated.

Finally, the bell rings, the hallway empties as we all go to our respective homerooms. I’m pretty confident that my homeroom teacher, Miss J, won’t blow the whistle on me, but still, I worry.

I’m sitting at my desk, minding my own business when my heart jumps out of my chest. Sister Martha, the dean of girls, is standing in the doorway. What the hell? I put my head down (to hide my collarless neck) and pretend I’m writing in my notebook. (This won’t be the only time Sr. Martha graces the doorway of my homeroom and has me sweating bullets. But that’s another story. One that takes place about a week later.) Good. It looks like Sr. Martha just wants to tell Miss J something.

Sister Martha is gone, but my sweating hasn’t stopped. That’s the thing about me and nervous sweat. Once I start sweating, I then start worrying about the expanding sweat rings under my arms and I sweat even more! It’s a vicious, unrelenting cycle.

Okay. Calm down. Relax. It’s just a stupid shirt! No one cares.

The bell rings and it’s time for first period. I’ve made it through homeroom without Miss J mentioning my attire. My first class is two doors down the hallway. I should be able to make it there without being seen or reported by a stray do-gooder.

My art teacher, Mrs. S is standing in the doorway of the classroom. She must be subbing because she’s not my American Lit teacher.

“Jill,” Mrs. S greets me in a not very friendly tone. “You’re out of uniform. Go down to Sr. Martha’s office. I’ll let her know you’re coming.”

For shit’s sake! What the hell! Mrs. S! You, of all people! Damnit! I didn’t even make it to first period without getting busted! I know this has never happened to Tricia. Crap.

With my arms loaded with books and spiral notebooks, I turn and make the trek downstairs to Sr. Martha’s office as slowly as I can. Maybe Mrs. S will stop me and laugh that she was just kidding… Doesn’t happen.

I am sure if Tricia ever found herself in these same circumstances, she probably would have bailed and never gone to Sr. Martha’s office. She’d probably just hang out in the girls’ restroom until first period had ended and then resume the rest of her school day. But, alas. I am not Tricia. And it’s very clear to me now, that there is no hope that I will ever be as cool as Tricia.

—   —   —

The door to Sr. Martha’s office is open but the room is empty. The space is very small with just enough floor space to hold the nun’s wooden desk, a bookshelf, a filing cabinet and a guest chair. Assuming the role of guest, I take a seat.

Five minutes pass and there’s no sign of Sr. Martha. I start to think that Mrs. S forgot to tell her I’d be waiting in her office.

What if Sr. Martha isn’t even here today?

Another five minutes pass and I’m getting antsy. I’d like to get back to my first period class. Since we have a substitute today, we’d probably just be having free time to read or study…and I need any extra study time I can muster because I have a test in my second period class.

Tick-tock, Sr. Martha. I don’t have all day.

I open one of my spiral notebooks thinking I can squeeze a little study time in right now. Instead of reading my notes though, I start pulling out the leftover edges of the papers I’ve torn from the notebook that are still stuck in the wire spiral.

Look at that one, I marvel. The scrap I extract from the spiral is at least six inches long. Immediately, I start rolling the strip of torn paper into a teeny little ball. And, positioning it between my thumb and index finger, I flick it into the air. It launches high, but barely clears Sr. Martha’s desk. I can do better.

I take another jagged-edged strip of paper, wind it into a ball, flick it. Better. This one descends somewhere in the far corner. Good job.

Time passes as I continue my game. I have plenty of ammo. Once I finish all the scraps from one notebook, I have two other armed notebooks ready to go.

One thing is for sure. I can certainly keep myself amused.

Suddenly, the bell rings. The end of first period. What the hell! What if I had had an important test during first period? What kind of school is this where they have a good kid like me waiting to get punished by the dean of girls for a minor dress code violation, only to miss out on something important she may have learned during her first class of the day! My parents are paying good money for this education!

I stop my paper ball flicking game and debate whether I should get up and go to second period or continue to wait for Sr. Martha. I really do have a test.

 I’m just about to make my move. I’ll write a brief note and put it on her desk. I’ll explain that I waited for her all through first period, but I have to go because I have a test. But I have to hurry. I probably only have five minutes to go before the next bell rings. I begin scratching out my note on a clean piece of notebook paper when la, de da. Look who decided to show up! Sister Martha stands in the open doorway of her office and announces that I now have a demerit for violating the dress code.

What? No apology for keeping me waiting here for an hour? I don’t get a chance to explain about my dirty laundry situation? No concern for the class I missed?

“And Jill,” she continues, without moving from the doorway, “Before you leave my office, I want you to pick up every single one of these balls of paper you’ve flung around the room.” And with that, Sr. Martha turns on her heel and is off to ruin someone else’s morning, I’m sure.

Does she have a hidden camera in her office? How could she see the tiny balls of paper scattered on her floor from the doorway? Especially when most of the paper balls landed behind her desk.

Christ. Now I’m going to be late for my test.

I guess I’m not meant to be cool.