Black and White and Gray All Over (8 page)

The principal, as it turned out. That's who was against uniforms.

I was practically shaking as I waited my turn outside Mr. Pfeiffer's office. Michael and I had had a couple of run-ins with him doing interviews, and I wasn't his favorite student, that's for sure. Kids coming and going to see the vice principal (in charge of discipline) gave me oddly pitying looks on the sofa, assuming I'd done something so bad I had to see the head honcho. It was embarrassing.

When Mr. Pfeiffer came to the door to call me in, I managed a weak smile and a firm handshake (hoping he wouldn't notice my hands were like ice cubes, which is what happens when I'm nervous).

“Ms. Martone, always a pleasure,” he said, though I didn't really believe him. Mr. Pfeiffer is
a pretty good guy and actually a really good principal, but there was no love lost between us.

“So we're here today about school uniforms?” he said. He's always pretty prepared, so I wasn't surprised that he was ready for me.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Trigg assigned the topic just as an exploration. I've been asking around and looking to hear from people who are for or against it, and what their reasons are.” I pulled out my notebook and pen and sat ready to jot down Mr. Pfeiffer's list of pros and quotes about why the PTA always gave him a hard time about adopting uniforms, but that wasn't how it turned out at all.

“Well, Ms. Martone, you might be surprised to know I'm one of the only principals around who is not
for
uniforms in our school.”

My jaw must've dropped because he laughed.

“I know.” He continued. “Surprising. But let me tell you why. Certainly I can see all the pros, and I know all the arguments well. I do think uniforms are an equalizer of sorts. However, I would argue that it is still obvious—sometimes more painfully so—what the cliques are and
who the rich and poor are, even
with
uniforms. Uniforms are easily tweaked—skirts shortened, sleeves rolled, pants worn low, accessories added to within a millimeter of the guidelines—and I think that kids, especially tweens and teens—are able to make uniforms their own in a very distinct way. It almost becomes a challenge for them.
How far can I go and still be in dress code?
I am not interested in policing clothing any more than we already do.”

My pen flew over the pages of my notebook, filling the lines with his surprising words.

“I don't think that uniforms are more economical for families, as the rich family that buys the designer shoes will still buy the designer shoes, and the poor family that has little to spend will still stretch to afford the uniforms; only now they'll need those in addition to weekend clothes.

“But here's the crux of it for me: If we do not teach our kids from a young age how to deal with the differences in life—economic, stylistic, self-expressionistic—then when will they learn to deal with them? How can we tell kids it's important to look beyond the surface when we're trying to make the surface all the same?”

“Hmm,” I said. He had a point. A good one.

“I think differences in style, taste, clothing, and self-expression are something kids should learn to live with, work with, and move beyond. And that's why I am against uniforms in schools.”

“Okay,” I said, still writing. I finished the last sentence and then I looked up. He was smiling at me. It startled me, and I guess it showed on my face.

“Not what you expected, eh?”

I had to laugh. “Not at all.”

“Do you think the students will be pleased or disappointed to hear my opinion on this?”

I thought for a moment. “Probably pleased, though more of them are for it than against, judging from my random sampling. Or, I should say, if they're not actually for it, they wouldn't be totally against it.”

“Well put,” said Mr. Pfeiffer.

“Have you had any pressure from the community to adopt uniforms?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

I glanced at my list of questions. “What about from the superintendent of schools or other governmental bodies or officials?”

“No. They distribute the research, but there is no pressure.”

I had one question left. “Did you have to wear a uniform as a child?” I smiled.

“Yes,” said Mr. Pfeiffer with a laugh. “And I swore I'd never do it again!”

“Aha!” I said.

“Aha!” he echoed, and we laughed.

Too much laughter in an interview usually means you're not asking tough enough questions; I've learned that the hard way. Was there something I should be asking that I hadn't thought of? Totally off the cuff, I asked, “Do you think there's a gender divide when it comes to school attire that would be corrected by uniforms?”

Mr. Pfeiffer was thoughtful for a moment, and then he said, “If you're asking if the female students spend more time thinking about what they're going to wear, then my cautious answer is yes, but it's only because there are so many more options
for them. I think many of the boys
care
just as much what their clothing says about them. I just think they have fewer choices to work with.”

“Good observation,” I said, writing it down.

“Yes, well, we've had quite a lot of gender-blindness training around here, and I wouldn't presume to know what someone's thinking until I'd walked a mile in her shoes—whether they're UGGS or sneakers or flats.” There was that expression again! I laughed again. “Well, thank you very much for your time, Mr. Pfeiffer. I think there will be a lot of relieved kids out there.”

“Thank you for contacting me for my opinion. I do like to be asked! And thanks for covering the topic. It's a good one.”

We shook hands and I left for lunch.

On line in the cafeteria, I played a little game with myself where I tried to guess who was friends with whom based on their clothing, or whether kids were rich or poor, or “cool.” I decided it had as much to do with clothes as it did with makeup, hairstyle, accessories, shoes, and book bags as
with anything else. Uniforms probably wouldn't be the great equalizer people make them out to be. I got my soup and half a bagel with cream cheese and was looking for a seat when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Hi!”

It was Kate with her tray. My heart sank a little.

“Hey,” I said.

“Looking for company?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said. I tried to channel what my mom had said about Kate maybe not being interested in being editor in chief and maybe not being interested in Michael. It kind of worked.

I looked around for Hailey but didn't see her, so we sat near the window in an area where I don't usually sit and began chatting and eating. We got into talking about our favorite writers and the best books we'd ever read . . . something I never discuss with Hailey or even Michael, despite the fact that he's a words guy. It felt great to realize we had a lot of the same tastes, and we exchanged e-mail addresses because Kate promised to e-mail me a list of the books she'd
loved in the past year. She actually keeps a list of every book she's ever read (I hope she doesn't tell Michael that, because then he'll start calling her Listy too and I'll be jealous!). We decided that if we had time after lunch, we'd stop by the library and pick out some books, just for pleasure reading. I was psyched.

We were having such a good time that it wasn't until we stood to leave that I spotted Hailey eating in another corner of the cafeteria all by herself.

I crossed the room quickly, calling, “Hails!” as I walked.

She looked up, but she didn't smile. She was just starting her lunch.

“Hey, why didn't you sit with us?” I asked in surprise as Kate drew up behind me.

Hailey shrugged. “You guys were engrossed. I didn't want to interrupt.”

“Are you nuts, Jones?” I said. “Interrupt?”

“Whatever,” she said. It seemed like she was mad at me.

I put my tray down. “We can sit with you now, if you like? I still have ten minutes till my next
class,” I said, conveniently forgetting about going to the library with Kate.

“No, I'm fine. I have to study. I have a quiz after this.” She reached down and brought up a workbook.

“Want me to quiz you?” I offered. Usually we would have studied together.

“That's okay,” she said.

Behind me, Kate said, “Girls, I'll leave you to it. I've got to go choose a book for later. See you soon, I hope!” And she left.

I felt torn. I would have loved to go to the library with Kate and look at books, make comments and recommendations, chat about writing. But I could hardly walk away from my best friend eating lunch alone in the cafeteria.

“Bye, Kate,” I called after her, feeling like a traitor all around.

I sighed heavily.

“You don't have to stay,” said Hailey.

I looked at her. “I want to. I . . . I miss you,” I said.

Hailey melted. “I miss you, too! I feel like
we never see each other anymore!”

“I know. It was like we got into this rut of doing only homework together and that wasn't fun. And then you've been spending time with Jenna, and I've been jealous, and . . .”

“I know. And now you're besties with Kate,” added Hailey, looking away.

“What?” I sputtered, disbelieving. “Are you kidding?”

Hailey looked back at me and grinned. “Yes.”

I fake whacked her with a napkin. “You got me, you jerk.”

“Busted. She isn't bad, though, right? I do like her. I think you'll be friends when all this newspaper stuff blows over.”

“I hope so,” I admitted. “Not
best
friends, of course. That job is filled. Meanwhile, my mother has invited you to the movies and a sleepover. When can you come?” I asked with a grin.

Hailey laughed. “Just your mother? Thanks a lot, Sam.”

“And me too, of course. And probably Allie, since she does love to have her fans around at all
times. Are you free this weekend?” I asked.

“Yes, for sure. I have an outing Saturday for my class, but I
am
free tonight or late Saturday.”

“Let's do it tonight, then,” I said, happy to have a weekend plan.

“I'm glad you admitted you miss me,” said Hailey.

“I lied,” I said with a grin and a wink.
Peace Talks Thaw Diplomatic Freeze.

When I got home, I e-mailed Kate. It said:

R u free Saturday afternoon? Want to go to Starbucks n bookstore? LMK!

It wasn't even a minute before she replied.

Y! Can't wait! Thanks for asking!

Good old Mom. She did give good advice, I had to admit. Conveniently, I pushed out of my mind her advice to invite one last person to do something. That was just not going to happen.

I was walking at full speed, on my way for one last check of the Dear Know-It-All box before I picked a letter and drafted a reply over the weekend, when I crashed into Michael Lawrence, who was coming the other way.