The First Rule of Climate Club, page 18
“I’ll forgive you,” I say, “if you let me say five curse words in a row.”
His face turns as red as the ceramic chicken on the shelf behind him.
“I’m kidding, Dad. You should know I’m planning to deliver that box myself.”
“You do that, Mary Kate. And you should know, I could not be prouder of you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“What he said,” Mom says.
“Thanks, Mom.”
THE CALM BEFORE THE BEARSVILLE CLIMATE CLUB FALL FUNFEST
When Dad drops me off at FMS at eight in the morning, Mr. Lu is in front of the school, pacing.
Dad helps me unload the pumpkins we picked up yesterday, and I wait for Mr. Lu while he talks on the phone with his mom.
“I’m not doing that, Mom. They’ll think I’m weird.”
“It’s okay. I’m calming down.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. I’ll see you at one, Mom.”
Mr. Lu turns around and sees me standing there, trying not to laugh.
“I’m thirty-three years old, and my mom is still up in my business,” he says. “Yay—pumpkins. Let the festival begin.”
We walk around to the back field near the Kindness Garden.
“The canopies are already up,” Mr. Lu says, “thanks to Mr. Ricky.”
Ben and Jay are hanging hemp clothes on hooks next to Ben’s leaf-blowers-are-the-worst table. Ben found two old barn doors to use as a display, and they’ve attached true-or-false questions about lawn machines and hemp.
True or false? Growing hemp uses less water than growing cotton. (True.)
True or false? Leaf blowers can cause hearing damage. (True.)
People start trickling in with hay bales and more pumpkins, and Hannah arrives in her neighbor’s pickup truck, which is full of the clothing racks we got from that thrift shop lady’s contact. She’s wearing a hand-painted Swappable T-shirt.
“Do you like it?” she asks. “I’m working on the logo.”
“I love it,” I say.
We move in a group, like a school of fish, first setting up the gym, then the tables in the tents, then sectioning off the parking lot, just as the first dealer arrives in a matte-green electric car.
Elijah and Jay are in charge of giving jobs to the seventh-grade volunteers, who all want to join climate club.
Ms. Lane rides up on her bike, wearing jeans and the old sweatshirt she bought when she and Sarah took a road trip to Yosemite a long time ago.
“Put me to work,” she says.
“You rode all the way here from your house?” I say.
“Yeah. You said zero-waste, right? Come on, give me a job.”
“Don’t you have to knock on doors?”
“In a couple hours. People don’t like their doorbell rung at eight in the morning. Believe me.”
“Go help Beam make his climate-themed-library-book-lounge vision happen,” Mr. Lu says.
Our parents start showing up to “help,” which basically means they stand around talking and making comments like “In my day, we all played in the dirt and didn’t go home until the streetlights came on.”
Ben’s dad brings up how raking leaves is an art and a science. He looks and acts exactly like Ben.
I’m sitting on the bench near the Kindness Garden, drinking tea out of my reusable water bottle, when Ms. Lane walks over and sits down.
“Is the Beam lounge ready?”
“It’s ready, and it’s adorable,” she says. “I’m leaving in a minute, but I wanted to talk to you before I go.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve watched you grow up since you were two hours old, Mary Kate Murphy, and I’m so in awe of everything you’ve done with Molly and the climate class. I know a lot of this is completely out of your comfort zone, and I know it’s been so hard with Lucy sick. But look around. You and your friends are a force to behold.”
Friends. The word feels warm, like hot chocolate on a fall morning.
“I’m proud of you too, Charlotte. When people ask me what I want to be when I grow up, I’ll tell them I want to be a Ms. Lane.”
She laughs. “Maybe with a Mr. Lu mixed in.”
“And Mr. Beam.”
“Love that guy,” she says, wiping her face with her sleeve. “Ah. I have to get myself together. I have a lot of doors to knock on this weekend with my partner in crime.”
“Is she taking Pea?”
“No, Jason’s taking her to the festival. I’m short on Murphy family volunteers today because your dad wants to see your mom’s modeling debut, and Mark is bugging Jason to watch his gig.” She ties her shoe and stands up.
“His big middle school gig?”
She laughs again.
“Ms. Lane?”
“Yes, Mare?”
“I’ve been saying these intentions. If you want to try it, you repeat ‘Charlotte Lane wins in a landslide’ over and over again, as if it already happened.”
“You know what? I’m going to do that. It can’t hurt, right?”
“It can’t hurt.”
HOW TO FEED PEOPLE IN A MIDDLE SCHOOL CAFETERIA WITHOUT FILLING UP YOUR TRASH CANS
The biggest challenge of the morning is trying to keep parents, student volunteers, and Mr. Lu from eating all of Rebecca’s cranberry energy balls.
“Who needs fritters,” Mr. Lu says, “when you have balls.” He pops another one into his mouth.
Rebecca is set up in the cafeteria kitchen with three seventh-grade assistants. They’re all wearing hairnets and taking this very seriously. They have vegan pizzas in the oven and cranberry balls on trays, and they’re stirring a giant pot of Shawn’s dad’s chili while Shawn FaceTimes his dad to show him what’s happening.
“How are you going to swing the zero-waste part?” his dad asks. Shawn looks so much like him.
“We’re using the school’s trays and silverware, and compostable napkins,” Shawn says. “The compost company will take away any waste we have today and compost it right away.”
“That’s outstanding, kiddo,” his dad says.
“Say hi to Mary Kate,” Shawn tells him.
I wave.
“Hey, Mary Kate,” Shawn’s dad says. “I’ve heard a lot of great things about you.”
“You too, Mr. Hill,” I say.
Mr. Lu comes in like a tornado and tells us his mom said there’s a road race today, and what if people are busy and don’t come, and we need to spread the word about the festival.
We’re middle school kids with phones.
The word is already spreading.
THE PEP TALK MR. LU GIVES AT 12:45
“Um. Sooo. Like. Yeah. Here we are. A few weeks ago, we were a motley group of great big losers, unfairly kicked out of a grant competition and whining about it.
“But you didn’t let me get away with boring bulletin-board suggestions—I’m looking at you, Shawn—and instead, you insisted we go bigger. You came up with a vision and conjured all your social media magic to get a huge crowd of people already lined up at the admission table.
“Look around. You did this. You used your superpowers. You made epic happen.
“You, my friends,” Mr. Lu says, “are showing all those middle school haters who’s boss.”
“Thanks for being awesome, Mr. Lu,” Hannah says.
“I’m only as awesome as my students, Hannah. Come on, it’s go time.”
GO TIME
Mom says she barely remembers her wedding, and not just because it was a long time ago. She always tells us that after all that planning, she was so busy greeting people and talking to guests, she didn’t have much time to enjoy the day.
I’m trying hard to enjoy this day.
The first two hours are a big blur of classmates and their families wandering around and learning from Wayne Cress, certified EV specialist from the car dealership, about how electric vehicles work. The compost people brought actual dirt and worms and are explaining how composting helps reduce emissions.
I didn’t even see Mark before he got here, because he’s always late to everything, but now he’s playing the songs I grew up hearing every Thanksgiving weekend when he and his friends jammed together up in the band room. People are sitting in front of him on blankets, and I’m pretty sure this might be the best day of his life.
Shay from the North End Climate Club, and her little brother, and some other kids from the meeting are here, and almost everyone brought clothes to swap. Hannah can be very bossy, but she must also be very good at organizing a lot of clothes in a giant gym, because everyone who walks out is carrying something.
At some point, Mr. Lu gets on the sound system that’s connected to one of the electric vehicles. “Let’s have all the models come to the main lobby of the school to prepare for the thrifted fashion parade, which will take place in the Fisher front circle in thirty minutes.”
I leave Shawn and Sydney in the composting tent and run over to the back of the school to see Mr. Beam’s reading lounge.
I’m shocked.
“Mr. Beam, it’s so beautiful.”
He put up a tent outside the library door and hung tapestries on the sides and the paper lanterns from last year’s winter play from the ceiling, so it’s like a colorful fort. There are the beanbag chairs from Ms. Santos-Skinner’s office, and little tables with piles of books. All the beanbag chairs are full of people actually sitting there reading books and eating cranberry balls. And I don’t know how he did it, but the whole place smells like cinnamon and cloves.
“I gotta go watch my mother embarrass me in a fashion parade,” I say. “But thank you, Mr. Beam.”
“Thank you, Murphy. You’re turning me into a tree hugger.”
“Aw. You already turned me into a book hugger.”
“That was the plan all along.”
OUT OF THE CLIMATE-THEMED BOOK LOUNGE AND INTO THE FIRE
Sydney’s in the composting tent whispering in Shawn’s ear.
“Stop. You’re lying,” Shawn says loudly.
“Nope,” Sydney says with her hands on her hips.
“What’s she talking about?” I ask.
“Um. I think you’ll want to follow me.”
We follow Sydney to the front circle, and I stop dead in my tracks. Mayor Grimley is standing there next to his wife, who’s holding a Reelect Grimley sign. They’re both wearing jeans, fancy shirts, and red Grimley baseball caps.
“No. No. No,” I say because that’s the only word in the entire English language I can think of.
I walk toward the school, then back to the circle, then toward the woods, then back to the circle. I have no idea what to do with myself, or with my thoughts that want to be shouted.
You kicked us out of Applefest.
You said awful things at Applefest when you didn’t think anyone was listening.
You accused our teacher of using kids to get elected.
You claimed our teacher was going to make the town “unsafe.”
You used your deceased Black friend to make yourself sound not racist.
You ditched the debate.
You were too busy to do our podcast.
You refuse to even try to understand how racism works.
“Can you believe this?” Hannah says. “I nearly slammed into him on my way out of the school. He reeks of cologne.”
My anger is swarm-shaped. My stingers are out.
I see Lucy out of the corner of my eye. She and her mom are at the electric-vehicle demonstration. People are starting to crowd around the DJ table to wait for the fashion parade. Shawn comes over, and then Ben and Rebecca and Mr. Lu.
“He’s here,” I say. “At our event. Without being invited. After Ms. Lane was working all morning and left before anyone got here, because she actually wanted to help.”
The rest of climate class finds us, and Sydney, and Andrew Limski, and we watch Mayor Stuffed Shirt patting little kids’ heads. We walk like a line of ducklings behind Mr. Lu, who goes right up to the mayor and his wife.
“This is not okay,” Sydney says. She’s half the size of the mayor, but she stands inches away from him and glares up at him.
“Okay, Sydney, I’ll take it from here,” Mr. Lu says. “Mayor, with all due respect, this is a school-sponsored event, and there’s no politicking allowed. We’re going to need to ask you to leave.”
“I understand. Not a problem,” the mayor says. “My aides had this festival on our calendar. They must have forgotten to check the rules. I’ll head out.”
“Have a great day,” his wife says in a very fake-friendly voice.
“While you’re here, do you want to do the podcast?” Elijah yells after them.
“Or the debate?” I yell.
They keep walking.
“The nerve of some people,” Mr. Lu says. “Anyway, let’s not let this rain on our actual parade. ’Cause it’s fashion time.”
Then we hear chanting coming from behind the old middle school building. It’s faint at first, then louder and louder: “Let’s go, climate club!”
Molly, Navya, Bea, Pearl, Olivia, Will, George the sophomore, and a bunch of other people from the high school are walking toward us, wheeling a giant mural on a wooden platform. The mural is painted on three separate panels, each with a different theme: compost heaps, clothes, and futuristic cars. It’s so colorful, and woven throughout the bigger images are tiny paintings of flowers and rainbows and mountains and rivers and birds. At the top, in big blue letters, it says Justice for Mother Earth.
When they’ve finally wheeled it to the front of the school, Mr. Lu runs over and jumps up on the bench. He turns on a wireless mic and asks everyone to stop for a minute. It takes a long time and a lot of shushing for it to be quiet enough for him to talk.
“First of all, I’d like to thank you all for coming. And thank you to our spectacular superintendent, Dr. Eastman, and the Fisher staff, including our principal, Ms. Singh, Mr. Joe, Mr. Beam, Mrs. Tucker, Ms. Santos-Skinner, and custodian extraordinaire Mr. Ricky, for offering to clean up so the students can head home and get their costumes on for tonight’s middle school dance. This dream team of educators is an example of what a stellar school community can look like.”
Clapping and cheering.
“As I always say, the first rule of climate club is: ‘The more climate healers we have on this planet the merrier.’ And, boy, did you all show up to make things merry.”
“I’ve never heard him say that,” Shawn whispers.
“And thanks to Molly Frost, and our new social-justice club at the high school, for this extraordinary piece of activist art. Yeah, kids. I knew all about the surprise mural. See, I can keep a secret.”
“First time ever, Lu,” Mr. Beam shouts.
“I keep all your secrets, Beam,” Mr. Lu shouts back.
Everyone laughs.
“I’ve gotta tell you, I didn’t know what I was doing when I found out that I had been chosen to teach a pilot climate class. I was afraid it would be all gloom and doom and I’d end up with a group of kids terrified to live their lives because our planet is in trouble. But the truth is, after seeing these students work hard to figure out where they fit into this massive web of real solutions and seeing them grow and thrive over the course of a couple of months, I have never been so hopeful in my life.”
More clapping and cheering.
“Anyway, don’t ever underestimate the creativity and wisdom of our kids. And grown-ups out there, let’s listen to them for a change. I mean really listen. They have the ideas. We need to support their vision, with our money, and our work, and our votes. And as for the Fisher Middle School climate class, stay tuned. We’re just getting started.”
THE THRIFTER PARADE
Mr. Lu hands the mic to Hannah. She clears her throat.
“Sorry. I’m a little nervous. Welcome.” She looks at an index card. “We wanted to make sure all the families in our school community were represented, and we are committed to making this an inclusive event.”
She gives the mic to Jay.
“All the models are wearing clothing that was either thrifted, borrowed, or found in the back of their closets,” Jay says. “We’d like to invite you to take the ‘no shopping this school year’ pledge, started by HHHS senior Zoe Zhang. You’d be shocked to see how few things you need in your closet.”
Hannah takes the mic back. “And now, please enjoy the fabulous Fisher models, walking to the music of our own DJ Dizzy Lu.”
The models are standing in the school lobby, waiting to start the fashion parade. Hannah and Elijah run inside, and Jay grabs the video camera from the DJ table, where Mr. Lu is getting the playlist ready.
Dr. Eastman is the first model out. She’s wearing a fuzzy electric-blue coat and tall boots, and she walks like a peacock. She’s followed by Ms. Singh in a business suit and Mr. Joe pushing his dad in his wheelchair (they’re wearing matching tracksuits). There are also a few teachers, and then Mom in her fancied-up turtleneck dress.
I stand with Mark and Dad and Jason and Pea as she walks around the front circle like she’s a supermodel. She actually looks amazing.
There are high school kids, little kids, a three-year-old in a lion costume, and Ben’s two dogs, wearing matching capes.
“Everything they’re wearing is secondhand?” Jason says as they all walk by.
“Oh yeah,” I say. “Hannah made them describe where they got every single piece of clothing. Nothing new allowed, except maybe underwear.”
“Wow,” Jason says. “They all look great.”
Sydney comes out with Shawn’s mom and Mr. Lu’s mom. They’re wearing evening gowns.
