I turn over one of the books in my hand, reading the back. But a quote stands out to me:Balanced.
“What does this mean?” I ask Mr. Marsh, pointing it out to him. “What does it have to do with the Essential Women’s Act?”
“It, uh … It means the book explains both sides of the issue,” he says. “Equal coverage.”
“Both … sides?” I ask. “As in defending the side that was stripping women’s rights?”
“Yeah. Thinly veiled propaganda.” He pauses. “Do you know what that is?”
I nod. I’d read that chapter in our history book the first day.
“Like I said,” Mr. Marsh continues, “I thought there’d be more books.” He closes the desk drawer as students for his next class begin to file into the room. “I mean, we’re not that far gone as a society that we ignore women completely, right?” He laughs and I smile reflexively.
Maybe Mr. Marsh doesn’t realize how far his society has gone—or that he’s part of the problem. The fact that he’s never bothered to read a book about something so devastating as the Essential Women’s Act when he teaches history, the fact that he was so unbothered that he didn’t even try to seek out a woman’s point of view on the topic, says a lot about it. He can call it propaganda, speak out in the safety of his classroom. But where was Mr. Marsh when the laws were being passed? Probably at home, watching a male newscaster say how awful it was for women.
“Thank you for these,” I tell him, holding up the books as I back away.
“Hey, uh … Philomena,” he says. “I noticed those scratches are gone.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
He points on his neck to the same area where Garrett scratched me during his attack.
“The scratches you had at the game,” he clarifies. “They’re barely there. Are you a fast healer or something?”
“Oh,” I say, running my finger over the area. “Um, sort of. But they looked worse than they really were. Plus”—I smile winningly—“I have excellent makeup.”
He continues to stare at the area but relaxes his shoulders. “How’d you get them again?” he asks.
It occurs to me that I can’t demand that Mr. Marsh change his behavior if I don’t tell him what’s going on. Don’t give him the chance to react.
“One of the boys,” I say. “Garrett. He doesn’t like that I stand up to him when he’s harassing me or other girls.”
Mr. Marsh’s eyes narrow slightly. He looks suddenly impatient. “Yes,” he says. “He’s been problematic before. I’ll talk to him, okay? I’ll tell him to leave you alone.” My teacher waits, and I realize he’s expecting praise.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’d appreciate that.” He nods that it’s not a problem and begins to gather test papers for his next class.
I start to leave, but at the last second, I turn around. “Mr. Marsh?” I call.
He sighs, good-naturedly, holding a stack of papers. “Yes, Philomena?”
“Is that why Jonah Grant was in here?” I ask.
“Excuse me?” he asks, as if he misheard.
“Jonah Grant,” I say. “He was talking to you before I came in.”
“Oh, yes.” Mr. Marsh begins to tap the papers on his desk, straightening them. “Jonah’s in my seventh-hour class. It had nothing to do with you, but if he’s a problem …”
“No,” I say, wondering why he’s lying. Adrian told me they mentioned my name. So what is Marsh hiding? “It’s fine,” I say. “And thanks again for the books.”
I hold them up and walk out of class. Once in the hallway, Istand there a moment, reading the back of the books. I realize pretty quickly that they won’t be helpful for my purpose. Unless that purpose is to get even angrier.
“It’s too bad your books weren’t sharper,” Sydney says when I tell her about bumping into Jonah Grant before class. We smile, sitting together at lunch, and the room buzzes with activity around us.
“And why would Mr. Marsh lie?” I ask. “Unless you think Adrian was mistaken?”
“I find that girls are rarely wrong in these cases,” she says. “She has no reason to make it up. Does Marsh?”
