Bridget Farr - Margie Kelly Breaks the Dress Code

A scuffed wooden ruler with worn black numbers waits right between my eyes. Maybe Ms. Scott is going to rap my knuckles with it like I saw in one of the old movies Dad likes to watch on rainy days. That wrinkled teacher had tiny rectangular glasses at the end of her pointy nose and a really high bun at the top of her head, her hair wrapped up tight like the detonator to her dynamite. Her lips were pursed in a tight coil, the ruler in her hands ready to strike. Even though Ms. Scott looks like she could still be in college, she has the same rectangular glasses and high bun, so at the moment Im panicking. I didnt think teachers could do that anymore: whack your hands with a ruler. And I didnt even do anything wrong! Ive been in sixth grade for literally five minutes. I hadnt even finished writing my last name, Kelly, on my handout.

Ive followed all the rules since I came to this pale-blue classroom. I even got here a few minutes early, skipping the huge line at the water fountain so I wouldnt be late. I went straight to the desk with my name on it and didnt even try to switch the sticker so I could sit next to my best friend, Daniela, even though I saw a boy in the back row do it so he could sit next to his best friend. I didnt smile or wave at the few other kids I recognized from elementary, either. I wrote my name only after Ms. Scott told us to start. And in print because my cursive isnt that great. We barely practiced it last year.

I answered the silly Would you rather questions she had on the board: Would you rather have an elephant trunk or a giraffes neck? Giraffe neck. Would you rather wear clown shoes every day or a clown wig? Clown shoes.

Would you rather stand behind your teachers desk while she holds a ruler in front of your face or show up to the first day of middle school wearing a diaper?

Diaper all the way.

Okay, probably not.

But I really wish she didnt have that ruler in her hand.

Margaret, did your family get a copy of the handbook at orientation? Ms. Scott asks, resting the ruler on her denim skirt. Behind me pencils scratch as people finish their Would you rather questions, the timer counting down the minutes until theyre ready to stare at me.

I think so. My dad took all the papers.

She smiles. Okay. Well, hell need to look at it again, so he can review the dress code. Your skirt is out of compliance.

I look down at the three perfect navy tulle tiers in my first-day-of-school skirt, each layer trimmed in sequins that swing when I walk. Last week when Dad and I went shopping at the Lone Star Mall, we had the skirt-versus-leggings discussion and how Texas is too hot in August for anything but a skirt. I didnt want anything too princess-cupcake, but I couldnt resist the shimmer of the purple and turquoise sequins. The skirt was perfect, like a chocolate-dipped Oreo. I run my hand along the bottom ruffle.

I need to measure your skirt real quick, and then we can send you to the office to change if my assumption is correct. But Im never wrong about this.

Dad thought this skirt was perfect. Just like me. Just like my first day of middle school should be. Turns out Dad was wrong.

I flash a look over my shoulder to see if anyone is watching. Every head is down except for Daniela, who is looking at me as if her eyes are going to pop out of her head. Are you okay? she mouths. I snap my head around. Please dont cry.

Whew, its hot in here, Ms. Scott says, her pale cheeks flushed red. She wipes a drip of sweat from her hairline before turning to the class. You have two minutes to finish that warm-up, so we can start to get to know each other, she calls. Its your first official assignment of sixth grade! She whispers to me, If youll just turn around quick, I have to measure from the back of the center of your leg.

I slowly turn around, trying to find where to look. The clock? The Classroom Expectations poster written in Ms. Scotts perfect teacher handwriting? Daniela? Definitely not Daniela. If I make eye contact, I will totally cry, and I cannot cry on the first day of middle school. The ruler feels cool against my skin.

Yep. Exactly what I thought. Five and a quarter inches. Over an inch too short.

My dad bought it, I whisper, the words catching in my throat. Normally we just shop online, but he said that for the first day of middle school, we could spend the whole day shopping at the mall together and even get frozen yogurt. Grandma Colleen was there, too, since she lives with us now, but he didnt let her argue about how much money we were spending. The skirt wasnt even on sale. Not even close to on sale. At $59.50 its the most expensive piece of clothing I own (except for my winter coat, but Dad says Ill wear that for years since it never gets too cold in Teravista, Texas, a suburb just north of Austin).

Dad picked out the top, a white T-shirt with Fabulous written in shimmering turquoise letters with these little tassels that hang beneath. Because you