Taryn Talbot glanced at herself in the mirror. She pushed one side of her short bob behind her right ear and checked her mascara again. Good to go. She liked to think of herself as oblivious to the distractions of makeup and dress but was religious about her mascara. She picked out her favourite three friendship bead bracelets that Basty, her boyfriend, (well, former boyfriend) had given her to wear. They would make a nice contrast with her demure grey cardigan. Besides, she thought they might bring her luck.
Taryn was nervous. Stomach tightening, fumbling nervous. What if no one came? She was the one who had talked up the walkout. She was the one who had posted the call to action on her Facebook page. It seemed as if the whole school was behind her from the number of likes she had. But as her younger brother said, “Talk’s cheap.”
Taryn grabbed her cell from her dresser, yelled to her brother as she passed his bedroom door, hurried to the kitchen, downed a glass of orange juice, passed by the family blackboard where any messages left by her mother could detain or annoy her, and left the house. During her fifteen minute walk to school, she checked a dozen messages all supporting her. The petition had six hundred supporters from schools around the region. She went over the short speech she planned to give by the school flagpole and reminded herself to pick up the manifesto, About Appearance, from the Students’ Council office. She hoped Tim, the Vice-President, had set up the small riser borrowed from Mr. Grant in Drama for a speaker’s platform. And the sound system he was sure he could borrow had better be there too. She suspected Tim saw this all as a bit of a joke.
Protesting a dress code was not Taryn’s highest ambition but she knew it would be popular with her peers and she did believe the present school rules were sexist. What difference did it make what she wore as long as she did her work? It was embarrassing that a ruler could be used to measure a girl’s morals. The slutmeter Megan McEvoy called it and guffawed. Taryn did not own any of the forbidden Daisy Duke shorts but her friend Megan did and she was an A student. If this protest went well, there should be support for the inevitable protest that would be needed to set up an LGBTQ-Straight Alliance. She had already suggested forming one to Mr. Andrews, the Students’ Council Staff Adviser. He was supportive but doubtful their small rural community was ready for it. Sometimes Taryn only wanted the next year and a half to pass and to be in Toronto. Surely a mecca of enlightenment.
But today’s protest was imminent. Taryn sat in her desk listening as the morning announcements droned on detailing the latest games by the boys’ basketball teams, junior and senior, winning or losing. The cross- country meet, boys’ and girls’ teams, all events reviewed. Auditions for a play solicited. A reminder about the night’s dance. Last chance to sign up for Spring Cleanup and get next Wednesday afternoon off. The following students to see the Vice- Principal…. No one listened. Most students were hunched over their phones. A few chatted. A couple scrambled to finish homework. Even Mrs. Biemann, the home room teacher had her head down writing. Taryn tried to breathe evenly. The announcements ended. Students were told to move to their first class. No mention had been made of any protest. The plan was for students to leave the school en masse directly after the announcements and the playing of the national anthem. Taryn stood up and said, “Follow me,” and without looking behind her left the room and headed to the main foyer where protesters should be appearing.
Relief. There were already students with signs gathered. “Measuring is for Math, not my shorts’ length.” “Don’t make me change clothes. Change your attitude.” “Students’ want thier rights.” “Veale sucks.” Taryn felt a flash of anger. She had appointed Jacky, the Students’ Council secretary to make sure all signs were appropriate and not riddled with errors. Just one more reason to give condemning adults to shake their heads and snigger.
Students were swelling all around Taryn. She passed Principal Veale, hugging a wall. She recognized the look on his face as she caught his eyes. It was the same look her father had given her when she told him she was going camping with her boyfriend for the weekend, just the two of them. The look was part embarrassed, part uncomprehending, part pleading. For a moment she was lost in the press until she was pushed against the banister at the top of the stairs. She swung up and perched on it
“Gather by the flagpole. One love,” she said.
“One love,” she heard returned from several directions.
Taryn swung herself from the banister and pushed down the stairs. Behind her she heard the voice of Mr. Greystone, the V.P. “Let me through, folks, we’ve got a counter protest happening.”
“Go get’em, Stoner,” someone said followed by bursts of laughter. Taryn thought Greystone was O.K. He didn’t try too hard to be liked. Maybe ‘Stoner’ was a bit much though.
She squeezed through the doors into the open. Surely not a counter-protest. It was the FFC, Fellowship For Christ. The group was holding hands in a circle around the flagpole. She had forgotten about them. Every Friday they had a prayer meeting around the flagpole. They were allowed to be late for first class. This upset some students. Taryn’s take on it was that flagpole praying was a bit too American.
She noticed behind the group a large sign. This was not usual. The sign read: “Modesty is no sin. Timothy 2:9 Women to be modest in appearance.” Some of the FFC belonged to a local fundamentalist group which encouraged young women to wear white prayer caps. It was no secret that there had been name-calling towards these girls by a few students. A recent nasty incident involved a group of Grade 11 boys who trailed a girl walking home, assaulted her and tore off her cap. Taryn did not want an incident to spoil her protest. She could not see her platform. Damn Tim.
She began to yell, “Stay back, stay back. Let them finish,”and waved the manifesto above her head. But some students began crowding forward. The prayer circle broke, girls screamed. Three girls hugged each other and fell to the ground together kneeling in prayer. One of the FFC boys tackled a girl and fell over her yelling, “I’ll protect you.” A male with a halter top over his tea-shirt tore the Modesty sign from its stake. Phones held high made random recordings. Taryn heard Greystone yelling, “Back to class” but could not see him. He was drowned out by the rising cry- “My dress, my choice.”
From the side Taryn saw someone appear from behind the large blue spruce tree that flanked the flagpole. He was dressed in loose denim overalls and wore a farm Co-Op cap. He carried a rifle. Taryn heard two shots. She felt incredible pain. Another shot. Then nothing.