Busted by Antony John Page B

shakes Ms. Kowalski’s hand, then scans the room. She doesn’t make eye contact with me, but I look away anyway. I don’t need to watch her to know how she looks: she’s wearing her silvery hair long because she thinks it looks distinguished, when really it just makes her look old; her bright red fingernail polish is spotty because she bites her nails; she’s wearing a long flowery dress with sewn-on satin flowers that her mother bought during a family pilgrimage to San Francisco for the “summer of love,” 1967. Even though it barely hangs together, she says it’s her favorite dress.
    I look around the room at the other students, expecting to see them making faces at one another—if anyone in history is ripe for a Brookbank High crucifixion, it’s her. But no one is laughing. Instead, they’re hanging on her every word because she’s a college professor, not a teacher. She’s the most unfashionable person they’ve ever seen and she keeps using words most of them won’t understand, but they respect her anyway.
    For the first time in my life, I am truly jealous of my mom.

10
    A t the first opportunity, all the guys sprint away like they’re being chased. Meanwhile, I wait at the back of the room as one by one the girls step forward to sign up for the new class. As they leave, each one casts a nervous glance in my direction, obviously thinking I’d be nuts to sign up for a class on Women’s Studies.
    They have no idea how right they are.
    Eventually only Ms. Kowalski and my mom and me remain, and Ms. K is smirking triumphantly. It’s like she’s declared war on me and is savoring an early, decisive victory.
    â€œThanks so much, Dr. Donaldson.”
    Mom snorts. “Please, call me Maggie. I think we can do away with formal titles now, can’t we?”
    Ms. K looks unsure. “Okay … Maggie. But seriously, thanks. I just know this’ll be a positive experience for everyone.”
    â€œOh, it’s my pleasure, Jane,” replies Mom.
    Jane? I don’t think I ever realized that the J in Ms. J. Kowalski actually stood for anything.
    â€œJane was one of the finest students I ever taught at Brookbank,” Mom explains to me. “But I’ve probably told you that many times, right?”
    Huh? No, she has not told me that many times. In fact, she’s never even mentioned that Ms. K was a student of hers. This is cruel and unusual.
    â€œWell,” says Ms. K amiably, “I’ll leave you two to … to … ” She blushes, then tries to salvage a graceful exit by speeding away.
    â€œI hadn’t realized so many of your classmates would be interested in my class,” Mom exclaims. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
    â€œYeah, great. But don’t think I’ll be coming.”
    She laughs. “I wouldn’t expect you to. If you don’t understand these issues after living with me for eighteen years, then it’s probably too late anyway. But Jane seems to think that there are some boys in the senior class who are enforcing unattainable and repugnant ideals of femininity, and she really doesn’t want any of the girls to fall afoul of their particular brand of ideological misogyny.”
    Okay, so that’s how you know my mom’s a professor, because she can conjure phrases like “ideological misogyny” without stuttering or pausing to draw her breath. It’s strangely impressive and mesmerizing. And it’s just dawning on me that the people she’s referring to are Brandon Trent’s gang. And that includes me.
    Then Mom’s smile disappears, replaced by a look of concern. “What’s the matter?”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œCome on. You think I can’t tell when you’re angry?”
    â€œI’m not angry,” I lie.
    â€œOkay, although—”
    â€œAll right, then, yeah, I’m angry. How could you do this without