Full Cicada Moon by Marilyn Hilton

Timothy.
    The shop classroom smells so good—
    like sawdust and oil and hot wood
    and boys. It reminds me
    of working with Timothy last spring.
    I feel like I belong in this room,
    and sit at one of the tables.
    The boys at the table look at me
    but don’t say anything.
    Mr. Sperangio comes in.
    I must stick out, because he sees me right away.
    â€œI believe you’re in the wrong class.
    This is shop.”
    â€œI know. I want to be here.”
    The boys laugh.
    â€œLook here, young lady,” he says,
    â€œyou can’t do that.”
    â€œBut I know how to use all the tools,
    so you won’t have to train me.”
    â€œThat’s not the point.”
    The boys stare and twist and laugh
    and look at Mr. Sperangio
    to see what he’ll do next.
    â€œYou need to go back to study hall.”
    I put on my best smile, and
    say, “But I’ll learn more here
    than in study hall.”
    The boys say, “Oooh.”
    â€œThis is not a conversation,
    Miss Oliver. Either go to study hall
    or the office. It’s your choice.
    But you can’t stay here.”
    â€œWhat difference would it make
    if I sat here and listened?”
    â€œDo you want detention,
    young lady?
    Because that’s what you’re asking for.”
    I don’t want detention again.
    I do want to take shop.
    So I get off the stool.
    â€œThat’s a wise decision,” says Mr. Sperangio.
    At lunch, Stacey says, “You were late for study hall.”
    And I tell her about shop.
    She says, “I love drama. I’ll go with you next time.”
    That’s another thing I love about Stacey—
    she knows there will be a next time.

Civil Disobedience
    Stacey and I hook our pinkies outside shop.
    â€œReady?” I ask.
    We know what will probably happen
    if we go in. “Yeah,” she says,
    and we stroll into the class.
    The boys watch us.
    Mr. Sperangio watches us.
    Stacey and I sit at different tables.
    Silence
    and then Mr. Sperangio’s footsteps
    squeak toward me.
    â€œYoung lady,
    I thought we already settled this.”
    I glance at Stacey,
    then say to him, “I just want to sit in your class.
    I want to take shop.”
    â€œSo do I,” Stacey says from across the room.
    â€œThis is getting interesting,” says a boy at my table,
    and leans forward on his arms
    to watch what happens next.
    Mr. Sperangio puts his hands on his hips
    and frowns, his face growing pink.
    â€œThis isn’t going to happen
    in my classroom. You girls are in defiance of the rules
    and need to be disciplined.
    Either go back to study hall or go to the office.
    Stacey and I look at each other
    and stay on our stools.
    Mr. Sperangio huffs.
    â€œWell, ladies, you’ve made your decision,
    so come with me to the office.”
    But when Stacey and I hop down
    from our stools, he looks surprised.
    â€œWell,” he says,
    â€œyou’re sure about this?”
    â€œWe’re sure.”
    â€œOkay then, let’s go,” he says,
    and we follow him to the door.
    As we leave, Andrew Dutton asks,
    â€œWhy can’t they stay?”
    and then I think we might have a chance
    of taking shop.

The Principal’s Office
    Mr. MacDougall presses his fingertips together
    like a daddy longlegs on a mirror.
    Stacey and I
    and Mrs. LaVoie and Papa
    are in the principal’s office. My heart is pounding,
    and Stacey is breathing fast,
    and I’m wondering if it was a good idea
    to defy Mr. Sperangio
    even though we were always respectful.
    But it’s too late now—
    we can only go forward.
    â€œHow could you do such a thing?” Stacey’s mother asks.
    â€œMimi, I thought you were a nice girl.”
    â€œShe is a nice girl, Mother,” Stacey says.
    Then Papa says, “They were exercising their civil right
    to protest.”
    â€œProtest what?” Mr. MacDougall asks.
    Then I say in a voice as clear as I can make it,
    â€œWe think girls should be