Roxie's had it. She’s been subjected to Chaz Humbert’s creepy come-ons and inappropriate antics for three years—and she’s not his only victim. With teachers and school administration unwilling to end the harassment, Roxie exacts revenge on an anger-fueled impulse. What she doesn’t realize is how her actions will completely change her life--and her worldview.
Turns out, revenge is not so sweet, not just because of the guilt she feels, but because her sentence is an in-school suspension…with the perp himself! Trapped in close quarters with Chaz, Roxie is determined not to be fooled by the sudden drastic change in his behavior. But when Chaz reveals an unexpected truth, both he and Roxie hurtle down an entirely new path of self-discovery.
Meanwhile, they aren’t the only ones in their school—or town—with problems. Old friends, new friends, and family are all struggling with their own first steps into adulthood. Roxie’s eyes are opened to the narrow-mindedness and limitations of her hometown. Will things ever improve? And can a girl who just started high school make a difference?
An American coming-of-age story set against the social backdrop of the 2000s, Finding Chaz illustrates the pitfalls of adolescence with raw humor, honesty, and heart.
Roxie's had it. She’s been subjected to Chaz Humbert’s creepy come-ons and inappropriate antics for three years—and she’s not his only victim. With teachers and school administration unwilling to end the harassment, Roxie exacts revenge on an anger-fueled impulse. What she doesn’t realize is how her actions will completely change her life--and her worldview.
Turns out, revenge is not so sweet, not just because of the guilt she feels, but because her sentence is an in-school suspension…with the perp himself! Trapped in close quarters with Chaz, Roxie is determined not to be fooled by the sudden drastic change in his behavior. But when Chaz reveals an unexpected truth, both he and Roxie hurtle down an entirely new path of self-discovery.
Meanwhile, they aren’t the only ones in their school—or town—with problems. Old friends, new friends, and family are all struggling with their own first steps into adulthood. Roxie’s eyes are opened to the narrow-mindedness and limitations of her hometown. Will things ever improve? And can a girl who just started high school make a difference?
An American coming-of-age story set against the social backdrop of the 2000s, Finding Chaz illustrates the pitfalls of adolescence with raw humor, honesty, and heart.
If my life were a TV show, Chaz Humbert would be the bad guy.
Not Casanova bad. Not James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause bad.
Just plain bad.
Fat, creepy, and depraved, Chaz looks the part of a stereotypical sex
offender as much as he plays it. From his dated haircut to his Members
Only windbreaker, everything about him screams “stranger danger.”
Trust me: if you’re a girl and you saw him coming your way on a quiet
street at night, you’d run screaming in the opposite direction.
But sadly for us girls, Chaz loves the chase. When prowling the
halls of the high school, he usually isn’t too selective with his targets. If
I’m standing by my locker, it’s a safe bet Chaz will materialize within
seconds. Of course, I don’t let him get away with anything. Depending
on his level of offensiveness, I’ll either fire something right back, laugh
it off, or punch him if he gets handsy. That said, I’m not his only victim.
Wherever freshman girls may roam, Chaz is forever underfoot, if not
underskirt. While most boys our age are at the point where they can
talk to girls without awkwardness, Chaz is only interested in deviance.
Whether he’s snapping bras, snapping pics, or deliberately landing on
top of me during PE, he never takes a day off. By the time I graduate
high school in 2010, I will have endured 2,191 days of uninterrupted
sexual terrorism.
Chaz first emerged in sixth grade. We were all new to middle
school that year, but my family had only been in town a week, and I
knew no one. The first day, I was sliding into my chair when my foot
bumped something large, spongy, and alive. Peering beneath my
desk, I jerked back and shrieked. A boy shaped like a bowling ball was
crouched directly under me, looking up my shorts and grinning like
the Cheshire Cat. To this day, if I ever feel too lazy to double-check
my front door’s deadbolt before going to bed, Chaz’s first greeting
floats back into my subconscious.
“Humbert,” he purred. “Chaz Humbert. We’re going to have a lot
of fun together.”
“Fun” with Chaz was beyond abnormal. First, I had him in homeroom,
but then suddenly he was in two, three, and four of my classes. Week
one, he asked me out. Week two, he began stalking me. Figuring he was
trying to get a rise out of me, I stopped reacting, so he kicked it up, and
by the end of the month, Chaz was flying out at me from dark corners
of the school with a lacy thong stretched across his face. Near the end
of the year, someone drove a remote-controlled car into the girls’ locker room with a video camera taped to the roof, and while a couple girls took
it to the office and implicated Chaz as the driver, he never took the rap.
After Chaz humped my backpack during homeroom one morning,
I’d had enough. I excused myself from class and went directly to see
the school counselor, Ms. Stein. Upon arrival, I was surprised to see a
girl sitting on the couch, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. I recognized
her from a few of my classes.
“I’m so tired of it,” she mumbled, her blond curls framing her face.
“He gets away with everything.”
My interest was piqued. Straining my ears, I tried my best to hear
the rest of the conversation.
“He snapped my bra strap twice during the fire drill,” she sniffled.
“Then, during culture week, he pulled up his kilt and flashed me as I
was walking to class.”
“Wow,” Ms. Stein said, shaking her head. “That’s nuts. I’m so sorry,
Hanna. I’m going to see what I can do, but I’m quite surprised. I have
several students I’ve had to keep an eye on, but I can’t say I’ve gotten
any complaints about Chaz Humbert.”
“Ms. Stein,” I interrupted, forcing my way through the door.
“Excuse me,” she replied sharply. “I’m with a student.”
“I’ve been having problems, too,” I said. “With him.”
“With whom?”
“Chaz Humbert.”
“And tell me, who are you?” Ms. Stein gave me a look.
“Roxie Nazari,” I said. “I left class to see you. Here for the exact
same reason she is.”
“Well, I’m not sure about…”
“Sexual harassment,” I cut in. “Unwanted attention of a sexual nature. Stalking. Following. Pressure for dates. Inappropriate touching.”
The previous afternoon, I’d spent my bus ride flipping through
the ethics section of my planner and, to no great surprise, found
everything Chaz had been doing to me punishable under school law.
I listed off several more reasons why Chaz should be in a straitjacket
before sitting down on the couch next to the girl.
“I can’t do anything about it, and he refuses to stop,” I concluded.
“I was told to come here for help.”
“I’m sorry. What was your name again?” Stein asked, addressing
nothing I’d just said.
“Roxie. I’m new here.”
“Well, Roxie. I’m more than happy to meet with you later.”
“It’s no trouble,” I said quickly. “That’s all I came here to say.”
“Okay, then,” Ms. Stein replied. “Well, thanks for stopping by.”
“And,” I continued, feeling brushed aside, “what she’s saying sounds
a lot like what I’m saying. That creep is out of control.”
“Well, let’s not start name-calling,” Ms. Stein said firmly.
I gaped at her. “Are you serious? I just came here to report the same thing. I don’t know this girl, and I’m not lying about Chaz. He’s dangerous and a freak!”
“Enough!” Stein snapped, holding up a withered palm. “I said I would
look into it, and I’m happy to call him in, but that’s all I can give you. Now, if you’ll excuse me—other students are waiting.” She rose to get the door, but I beat her to it, wrenching it open and slamming it shut behind me.
Not feeling like returning to another useless classroom session, I
loitered by the water fountains, complaining to no one in particular.
“What a crock!” I griped to the vending machine. “She’s supposed
to help.”
“I know.”
I spun around to see the girl from earlier. “He’s been bothering me
since the start of the school year.”
I raised a brow. “You too?”
“Oh, yeah.” The girl managed a smile. “I’m Hanna, by the way.”
“Roxie,” I replied. “I think you’re in some of my classes?”
“Yeah,” Hanna said. “A few, I think.”
I made a face. “Which is how you know Chaz.”
“Everybody knows Chaz,” Hanna sighed. “At least every girl. I don’t know
what to do. I’ve told the teachers, Ms. Stein, the principal. Nobody cares.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Doesn’t seem like it’s going to do squat. I’m going to
be late for class, so I’ve gotta run. It was good talking to you, though.”
“See you next period?” Hanna asked hopefully.
“Totally.” I laughed. “You, me, and Chaz.”
And we did see each other. From that day forward, Hanna and I started
hanging out together in class, at lunch, and after school. By the end of
sixth grade, we were inseparable. School days could be exhausting, but
at least somebody else shared the burden that was Chaz. Our friendship cemented by a situation far too many girls face, our relationship wasn’t based on common interests or extracurricular activities, but survival. The years went on, and Chaz’s obsession with us remained constant. By the time we entered the ninth grade, I knew it was time for drastic action.
“He didn’t.”
“He did!” I insist. “Stephanie wasn’t there, but she knows
people who were. She never lies.”
Hanna shakes her head. “So he…?”
“Rollerbladed after girls wearing a strap-on.” I rub my eyes, trying
to dislodge the imagery. “He had this little pink nub sticking out of
his fly, and he just went rolling around trying to stab them with it.
Freaking sick.”
“He’s ill,” Hanna agrees. “Something’s, like, medically wrong
with him.”
I raise my eyebrows. “And you’ve only recently figured this out?”
“No,” Hanna says. “I’m well aware. But that’s a little much, even
for him.”
“How so?” I shrug. “Oh and get this. The entire time he was
cracking these sick puns like ‘I’m about to finish’ or ‘track meat’ in a
weird accent. He did it Saturday during the relay.”
“With a strap-on around his hips?” Hanna frowns. “How did he
not get caught?”
“Like I said: it was inside the pants.” I gag. “Concealed carry.”
We’re on the bus home on Friday afternoon. Petra, the psychotic
bus driver in charge of our route, forced Hanna and me to sit up front
with the first graders after catching us scarfing down a packet of Oreos
in direct violation of her “no eating” rule. I’m not upset, though. Ten
more minutes and we’re out of here. Plus, in the midst of the chatter
of the younger kids, there’s less of a risk of being overheard. And I’ve
got important business to discuss with Hanna.
“It’s time,” I say slowly. “Let’s get him.”
Hanna furrows her brow. “What do you mean? Like, entrap him?
Show some damning evidence? Yeah, I’m totally with you there.”
I roll my eyes. “No. We’re way past that. I mean get him, get him.”
“Look, I agree Chaz is way out of bounds,” Hanna says, knowing
where this is headed. “I hate him as much as you do. But we can’t do
anything that could get us in trouble. Now that we’re in high school,
it’s just not worth the risk.”
“A little trouble never hurt anyone,” I counter. “Detention isn’t even
that bad. I was just there last week, and The Swindler sent a corn dog
and a Sprite my way for a couple bucks. The cool kids hang out there,
and sometimes they bring in hot seniors to help you do homework.”
I grin. “Sold yet?”
“Hot seniors?” Hanna raises an eyebrow, a smile playing across her
lips. “Could be fun.”
“You see?” I say. “Life is like a river. Pools come after the rapids.”
“Okay, Rumi,” Hanna laughs. “You still didn’t answer my
question.”
“What question?” I scrunch my face at her. “Getting into trouble?
Getting caught? It won’t happen.”
“And what if someone gets hurt?” Hanna demands. She lowers her
voice. “You know, like last time?”
“What happened last time?”
“When we egged Jenna’s house!” Hanna hisses. “Don’t you remember?
They had to bring the pressure washer and everything.”
“So?” I chuckle. “Jenna told people I was turning tricks for lunch
money. I couldn’t just let that slide.”
“That was it?” Hanna asks. “That’s all she did? You said it was really
bad and that Chaz was involved. I don’t even remember what you told
me; you say so much bullshit every day I can’t keep track.”
I shrug. “Nothing happened to Jenna. It was her grandma who fell
off the porch. We never got caught.”
“She went to the hospital! And we were technically responsible.”
Hanna shudders. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Of course,” I reply, putting in an earbud and choosing a rap song
I know Hanna can’t stand. “Collateral damage. We’ll make sure it
doesn’t happen again. Deal?”
Hanna’s mouth twitches the way it does when she’s torn between
a tempting scheme and being perfect. “Fine,” she finally agrees. “But
I get to choose this time. I don’t want to end up serving time in the
state pen once we turn eighteen.”
“Yes!” I punch the air. “This is going to be awesome.” Ecstatic, I rip
the earphones out of my iPod and start rapping along with Ice Cube,
only to receive a lukewarm reception from the rest of the bus-goers.
I try to get a few sullen sophomores to join in, but they stare at me
blankly and resume huffing something out of a paper bag.
I flop back into my seat, the wind gone from my sails, and realize
we’ve reached our stop. Taking Hanna by the arm, we stand and barrel
toward the front of the bus.
“Halt!”
I tentatively face Petra. “Yes?”
She flares her nostrils. “Was that you causing a ruckus on my bus
just now?”
“Um.” I stall for time. “Well, I was, like, really excited about
something, and it was…”
“Wonderful!” Petra cuts in. “On my bus, we’ve got rules: sit down,
pipe down, and don’t cause a fuss. You broke all three today.”
“I know,” I say. “Please just let this one go.”
“Okay,” Petra agrees. “I’ll let it go. You ain’t banned.”
I smile gratefully. “Thanks.”
“Just suspended! See you in a week.”
I open my mouth to inform her she can’t do that, but Hanna pulls
me away before I get the opportunity. With a belch of black smoke,
the bus lurches forward and roars away from my street.
***
Even when early, I cannot show up on time to save my life. If tardy
slips worked, I’d have learned my lesson years ago, but to this day, I
have yet to be in the classroom before the bell rings. I’m already behind
schedule on Monday morning when Chaz spots Hanna and me in the
commons and rushes over to us.
“Whoa, whoa,” he crows, dropping his voice to a low growl. “It
just got hot in here!” Beginning to unbutton his shirt, he looks over
at us and grins. “Let’s cool down. Together.”
“I’m cold, actually,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “But you
know who isn’t?”
Chaz looks at me hopefully. “Hanna?”
“Nope,” I say. “The cheerleaders.”
“They’re in the gym right now,” Hanna chimes in, following my
lead. “Training. For basketball season.”
I nod. “In bikinis.”
“Really?” Chaz gasps.
We both confirm.
“Well, I’m out,” Chaz announces. “Greener pastures await.
Later, hos.”
As the creature flies out of sight, Hanna and I slap a high ten.
“Good one.” She smirks. “That should keep him busy.”
I grimace. “For now.”
“Did you do your homework?” Hanna asks as we begin walking
towards Home Economics. “That worksheet was due today.”
“Can’t remember,” I lie. “I might have. If it is, it should be in here
somewhere. I might’ve already dropped it in the tray.”
Hanna shivers. “How could you not know? I can’t imagine.”
“I’m sure you couldn’t,” I mutter. “How much time we got
until class?”
She holds up her phone to display the time. “We’re late.”
We crash into our chairs right as the bell stops ringing. Of course,
Mrs. Fullerton, the teacher, notices this.
“Roxanne?”
I groan. “Yeah?”
“It’s ‘yes,’ not ‘yeah.’ Teenagers!” She sniffs. “Roxanne, did you turn
in your original recipe for homestyle fried chicken?”
I stretch my legs out underneath my chair. “I’m vegan now.”
Hanna laughs, and Fullerton scowls. “Well, I hope you turned
something in, but I’m sure you didn’t, knowing your track record.”
“I did,” I answer, annoyed. “Check the tray.”
Fullerton shakes her head in disgust and suddenly becomes distracted
by a stain on her blouse.
“Would you look at that,” she sighs. “And to think I just got it
back from the cleaners.”
“That’s such a cute blouse,” Jenna Carmichael simpers before
Mrs. Fullerton can take a breath. “I have to buy one. Where did
you get it?”
I’ll get to Jenna later.
“Why, thank you, Jenna.” Fullerton beams as Hanna and I roll
our eyes to the backs of our skulls. “I bought it at a thrift store in
Minneapolis many years ago. So I’m not sure where and if you can
find another.” She turns to the rest of us. “Class, today we’re going to
watch a short film on being a smart consumer. Some of us could do
with a little education in that department. Derrick, would you mind
turning off the lights?”
Like Mrs. Fullerton, the movie is dated, useless, and terribly
boring. I hope we’re not getting quizzed on it because forty minutes
in, I still don’t know what it’s about. Once Derrick killed the lights, I
pulled my hood up, grabbed my iPod, and let Kurt Cobain serenade
me into further depression. While we’re filing out of the classroom
at the bell, Mrs. Fullerton stands by the door and intercepts me
with a bony arm.
“Stay,” she commands. “Hanna, you hurry along.”
Hanna shoots me a look of pity before leaving me on my own.
Mrs. Fullerton motions for me to sit on one of the cold metal seats
by her desk.
“Roxanne,” she begins, squinting at me through her round
spectacles. “We have some things to discuss.”
“Sure,” I say, fighting back a laugh. “What’s up?”
“I’m going to cut to the chase,” Fullerton says. “You need to step
it up.”
“What do you mean?” I feign confusion. “Step it up how?”
“I want you to begin respecting the assignments I hand out and
put effort into your work. I’ve seen you fooling around and distracting
others most of the time. That’s not okay in this class.”
I frown, this time genuinely confused. “I don’t like anybody in this
class besides Hanna. What are you talking about?”
“You know,” Mrs. Fullerton says, studying me. “And I’m not going
to repeat this. Grades are coming up. This isn’t middle school. Your
grades count here.”
“Totally,” I say. “I agree. I’ll step it up.”
“I checked the tray,” Fullerton sighs. “Your assignment wasn’t there.
Neither was the last one. I don’t know what to say.”
“I did them,” I insist. “But if you say they aren’t there, I’ll print
both of them and bring them tomorrow.”
She heaves another sigh. “Fair enough,” she says, though I can tell
she thinks that’s anything but fair. “And what are your plans for the
future? You know, in life?”
“Uh.” I try to think of an answer that’ll get me out of here. “Doctor.
Lawyer. A feminist? I don’t know. I don’t really think I need to learn
how to cook if I’m fighting the patriarchy, right?”
Mrs. Fullerton shakes her head and sighs. “You are dismissed.”
***
School’s out, and I’ve got a stack of homework in addition to the
pile from yesterday I didn’t do. And it’s not totally my fault. The school,
understaffed and hopelessly disorganized, rarely updates their website
despite the fact teachers claim their assignments can be found online.
I turn to ask Hanna to see if she has any clue where to find tonight’s
English assignment when Chaz swoops out of nowhere and wedges
himself between the two of us.
“Bunnies!”
“Eat one,” I snap, shoving him off me.
“Party tonight?” he offers. “Two girls. One tub. No suits needed.”
He caresses his lumpy body in an attempt at seduction.
“Nope.” Hanna flips her hair. “It’ll be you and your hand.”
“Funny.” Chaz smirks. “And when you two change your minds
and show up, a two-piece is too much,” he reiterates. “No swimsuits.
Just birthday suits.”
“Yeah, well. Make sure to keep food, water, and a coffin by your
front door while you wait,” I say. “It ain’t happening. Now move. We
got to ride the bus.”
Chaz shrugs and cups his groin. “Why don’t you ride me, instead?”
Hanna flips him off, and we keep walking.
“How rude,” Chaz tsks. “So distasteful. My car’s parked out back
if you change your mind.”
“Your car?” I snort. “You mean that oxcart your mom drives? With
the dent and the handicapped placard?”
Chaz’s eyes sparkle. “You know my car? You actually care.”
“No,” Hanna says, rolling her eyes. “Vans are what weirdos drive.
And you need room for all the little girls you’ve abducted.”
Before Chaz can respond, we run towards the back lot and step in
line right as the last passengers start to board. As Hanna and I step
onto the bus, I suddenly recall Petra’s declaration and put my head
down, hoping she won’t notice me.
“Off.” She shoos me with both hands. “See you next week.”
“This is my only ride home,” I beg. “Can’t we stay? You won’t hear
a word, I promise.”
“Not my problem, hon,” Petra gloats. “Find another way. Forget
to tell your parents?”
“They’re dead.”
The lie rolled off my tongue before I could stop it, but the more I
think about it, it isn’t completely off-base. My father died almost four
years ago, and my mom works all the time, so I hardly see her. Why
does Petra the bus driver need specifics?
“Oh, darling,” she gasps. “I didn’t know. You poor thing. Go on,
sit up here by me.”
I produce a grateful smile and sink down in my seat. Hanna flops
down beside me and refuses to look at me.
“Now, Roxie,” Petra begins, craning her neck to look at me. “I get
it if you don’t feel like talking about it. But who do you live with?”
“My brother,” I say. “He’s eighteen.”
At least that’s true. My brother, Nick, really is eighteen, but can
hardly be considered responsible. I’m basically raising him, in case
you’re wondering.
Digesting my response, Petra redirects her attention to some middle schoolers having a tinfoil war towards the back of the bus. I lean back in my seat and brainstorm more lies in case Petra wishes to talk further. But more importantly, why can’t I stop lying? Any other time, I’d come clean and confess, but I can’t because Petra’s now staring at me in the rearview mirror and smiling earnestly. If I tell her now, she’ll hit the ceiling.
As the bus slows to a crawl at my street, Petra stops me up at
the front.
“Roxie,” Petra says, locking eyes with me. “If you ever need anything
or need help...just let me know, okay? Growing up without parents is
tough. Life is hard enough, but trust me, growing up orphaned? Let’s
just say I understand.”
My stomach lurches. “Thank you.”
***
As I charge through the front door, I’m met by the sweet aroma
of spiced bread. Feeling snacky, I kick my shoes off and slide towards
the kitchen, wondering what tasty treat awaits me.
“Yo!”
“In here,” Nick calls. “Baking.”
“What’s the occasion?” I ask, stepping into the kitchen.
“A girl in my culinary class,” Nick responds. “She’s new, and I’m
trying to impress her. Nothing says ‘interest’ like a slice of homemade
pumpkin bread, am I right?”
Turning to me, Nick’s front is almost completely covered by my
mom’s tabby-cat apron. A burnt oven mitt obscures his left hand,
while his right hand holds a wooden spoon coated in orange batter.
Unable to help myself, I start laughing. Pouting, Nick strikes a pose,
and I quickly snap a picture for Hanna.
“Who’s the girl?”
“Gabriella Svenson,” Nick replies, tossing the spoon in the sink.
“She’s doing an exchange year from Sweden. She’s nice. She’s funny.
And she’s super hot.”
“And you think you can win her heart with baked goods and a
form-fitting apron?” I ask. “That’s the game plan?”
“It’s my only hope.” Nick runs a hand through his shaggy locks
before looking up at me. “You’re a girl. How do I get her to notice me?”
I stare at him blankly. “We’ve been over this. Dress normally, cut
your hair, and don’t act like a freak when girls come around.”
Nick furrows his brow. “Freak, huh? I’ll need some examples to
back up that claim.”
“Costco,” I say at once. “On Sunday, right in front of everyone,
you air-guitared and moonwalked at the sample stand. That’s what
I’m talking about.”
“What about it? Biscotti excites me.” Nick lowers his eyes. “Okay,
so what do I do? Feather my hair and play cover songs at the local
coffee shop? Be in touch with my emotions? Act my age? That’s not
who I am. What’ll she think when she uncovers the real me?”
“I didn’t say to lie,” I insist. “I said change up your image. A little.”
“But I don’t want to change my image,” Nick protests. “My image
is tight! You’re telling me to turn into an indie poetry dweeb who acts
mature and comfortable around women. I’m incapable of all those
things. Plus, I can’t lose myself looking for a girlfriend,” he concludes.
“A girl needs to love the real me, not a myth.”
“How did we get to that?” I snort. “I never brought up indie
poetry. Just be a—I don’t know—subdued version of what you
are now.”
“Calm it down a little,” Nick says, nodding. “That I can do.”
“Good,” I say, grabbing him around the waist and trying to wrestle
him to the floor. “Because what girl in her right mind wouldn’t want
a pumpkin-bread-baking, accordion-playing, wannabe gangster?”
“Right?” Nick laughs and shrugs me off. “Enough about that. How
was school?”
“Dog shit,” I reply. “Nothing new.”
“Chaz again?”
I make a face. “He wanted Hanna and me to come ‘party’ at
his house.”
Nick chuckles. “Well, are you going?”
I shriek. “As if!”
“I’m actually kind of curious,” Nick says, untying his apron. “How
does a juvenile sex offender party? Like, who’s on the guest list? Blowup
dolls? Children? Victims of human trafficking?”
“I don’t want to know,” I say. “But I’m sure you can score an
invite. Chaz won’t care what gender shows up as long as it’s warm
and willing.”
Nick shudders. “Despicable.”
“That he is.”
“What time does Mom get home?” Nick asks me. “Tonight?”
“Why?”
“I gotta clean this up,” he says, gesturing to the batter-encrusted
pans laying in the sink. “Then cook dinner. Then clean that up. And
then get started on homework.” He wipes his forehead. “Growing
up sucks.”
***
Seven-thirty and I’m stuck on the second question of tonight’s
algebra homework. I stared at it for ages, hoping if I invested enough
time looking at it, it would magically solve itself. Fortunately, Hanna’s
online, and, as of right now, I’m begging her for assistance.
“Please,” I whine into my headset. “Just give me the answer.”
“Come on,” Hanna encourages. “Think. You’ve already got
three-quarters of it. It’s basically done.”
I force attention, then desist. “You know I can’t grasp abstract
concepts,” I say. “It’s hereditary. Neither can my mom. Or Nick, for
that matter.”
“My mother can barely read,” Hanna shoots back. “But I can.
Genetics aren’t an excuse. Come on. Don’t shut down.”
“I’m not,” I huff.
“Try applying yourself,” Hanna says. “Like, for once.”
“Jeez.” I crease my forehead. “Way to bring out the zinger.”
“Okay, sorry,” Hanna says. “You’re right. That was rude.”
“It’s all good,” I say. “But if you really want to make it better, all
you gotta do is—”
“Not give you the answer!” Hanna exclaims. “Come on, Roxie!
You can do this.”
“But there’s still eight more problems to do,” I moan. “And
then I have to show my work and double-check my answers. God,
I hate math!”
“I know,” Hanna says sympathetically. “And it shows. You don’t
work hard. You never pay attention. You either distract me from my
work or sleep through class. How do you even pass?”
Cramming. Plagiarism. Cheating on exams. These strategies are
how I manage to not flunk out of school.
I smile. “Insider knowledge.”
“Why don’t you go to the morning study session tomorrow?” Hanna
suggests. “The trig teacher, Mr. Evans, runs it.”
“You know how it’ll go,” I grumble. “I’ll walk in late, be surrounded
by overachievers, and end up feeling stupid. I’ll inevitably fight with
the teacher. I’ll get yelled at. Then I’ll go to detention. It’s the same
story every time.”
“And you’ll go in with a positive attitude, and that won’t happen,”
Hanna says. “Because I’m going with you.”
“Really?” I bounce in my seat. “Great! Now let’s talk about
something interesting.”
Hanna laughs. “Okay.”
I’m about to answer when a webcam chat request pops up on
my screen.
“Hey, Han,” I say. “Do we know anyone named ‘Biggie Johnson?’”
Hanna chews her bottom lip while scrolling through her contacts.
“I don’t think so.”
Curious, I click the answer button in the lower right corner of the
window. “I’m taking it.”
Chaz Humbert stares at me from the screen of my laptop. He’s
alone, standing in what looks to be an office or rec room because
there isn’t any furniture behind him. His hair appears to be covered
by a pink stripper wig like the one Natalie Portman wears in Closer,
and although he’s draped in a muumuu and his face hidden by dark
glasses, there’s no doubt who it is. As I take a closer look, I spot a small
remote clutched in Chaz’s plushy right hand.
“Welcome,” he announces, “to the Chaz Show.”
With that, he shrugs off the robe, aims the remote into the distance,
and stabs the play button. Now nearly nude, Chaz is barely covered by
a doll-sized pair of briefs. Justin Timberlake’s “SexyBack” is pounding
into my eardrums, and to the beat, he starts dancing.
This perverse performance is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Never
have I been nauseous, terrified, and transfixed simultaneously, but
Chaz has managed to change that in one take. A dervish of testicles,
moobs, and flesh, he’s sailed into his nonconsensual performance
with libidinous fervor. Paralyzed, my eyes fuse to my screen, and,
as Chaz drops to his knees and caresses his chest, somebody calls
my name.
“Roxie?” Hanna asks, sounding worlds away. “Roxie, are
you there?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Yeah, I’m here.”
As Chaz climbs onto his desk and violently pistons his crotch
towards me, I’m struck with an idea.
“Uh, Chaz,” I say as I take a couple screenshots and save them to
a file. “You’ve got the wrong handle. Did you want to reach Edgar?
He’d definitely crank one out to this. Redial.”
Edgar Yarbrough, another oversexed freak and social tapeworm, is
Chaz’s closest companion and partner in perversion. Whenever I can,
I try to spread the word that Edgar and Chaz are lovers as a clapback
to their harassment. Of course, it’s pure speculation, but with us kids,
you can start a rumor with just about anything.
Chaz, though out of breath, stays in motion. “I give you the delicious
gift of my body in all its glory, and you have to ruin it by implying it
was intended for another?”
“About that.” I hover my cursor above the end call button. “Do
me a favor and keep your gift to yourself. It’s small.”
And before he can respond, I click out of the chat and nearly
pass out.
***
“No.”
Until now, Hanna and I never got the chance to debrief about
Chaz’s late-night visit. I’ve just finished giving her the details, and
more than half a day later, I’m still trying not to vomit.
“I swear on my life,” I say. “And if you think I’m crazy, check these
out.” I reach into my backpack and retrieve the hard copies of the
screenshots I printed last night. Rolling them into a tube, I pass them
to Hanna, who unrolls the first one and gasps, her stare becoming
more incredulous as she thumbs through them. Shaking her head, she
packs them back up and hands them to me. I stick them in the front
pouch of my backpack and zip it up.
The bell rings, and everybody rises to leave. I wait while Hanna
organizes her stuff so that the two of us can step out in sync. As we pull
up to our lockers, Hanna presses her lips together, staring at me intently.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“What?” I say. “That we’ve got a case? Proof? That maybe they’ll
finally take us seriously this time?”
“They’ve got to,” Hanna insists. “He’s right there in full view. You
can’t deny it.”
“We’ll do it then,” I say. “Looks like our luck is finally turning around.”
“Never thought I’d see the day,” Hanna agrees. “Let’s put Chaz
on record.”
The second we knock, Mr. Mercer, vice principal and bench press
enthusiast, tears it open.
“Girls,” he begins. “What brings you in this morning?”
Hanna shrinks a little, but I step forward. “Last night, I received a
video chat request from someone with the screen name ‘Biggie Johnson.’”
I suck in a breath. “I accepted it against my better judgment, and Chaz
Humbert came on my screen, wearing an unacceptable amount of
clothing.” Retrieving the evidence, I jab my pointer finger at Chaz’s
screencapped pelvis pulsating in my face.
Mr. Mercer slides his thick glasses down his nose and inspects the
photos. “Oh, my. Yes, I see.”
I close my eyes, not wanting to miss a detail. “Ever since we
were sixth graders, Hanna and I have been sexually harassed and
bothered by Chaz. No one helps us. It says in the school handbook
that this type of harassment won’t be tolerated. Well, I’ve reported
every incident involving him, and this is still going on.” I stare at
Mr. Mercer, trying to judge his reaction. Hanna looks over at me
and nods supportively.
His expression unreadable, Mercer produces a handkerchief, blows
several blasts into it, and stuffs the gluey wad back into his pocket. I
try to remain expressionless, even though I’m about to gag. Trying to
read his thoughts, I stare at his face to see if any of this has sunk in,
but I can’t even guess what he might be thinking.
“Sit,” Mr. Mercer says, gesturing towards a couple of wooden chairs
facing his desk. “State your names for the record?”
I hug my arms to my chest. “Roxie Nazari.”
“Hanna Gilbert,” Hanna says, her voice a little louder than normal.
He types something into his computer. “So. It’s come to my attention
that you both have a problem with Charles. And have for a while?”
“We do,” I say at once.
Mercer rubs his nose and stares at the printout again. “What makes
you so confident this is him?” he asks. “This, uh, person, is wearing
tinted glasses. The hair’s clearly not a fit. It isn’t a video, so there’s no
audio or continuous motion. I don’t know what to tell you.”
“It’s. Him!” I seethe, punctuating each word with a venomous glare.
“He found my web handle. There was music, and Chaz stripped. Why
don’t you bring the creature in to ask him yourself?”
Mr. Mercer gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Why don’t we?” He hits
the intercom. “Charles Humbert, please report to the vice principal’s
office. Thank you.”
Hanna and I sit motionless in our chairs, waiting for whatever’s
coming. I cross my legs and put on my most composed expression.
Chaz arrives minutes later. When he spots us, he blanches, then hides
his discomfort with a big, phony smile.
“Roxie! Hanna! What’s going on?” he laughs uneasily. “You got
called in here, too?”
“Charles,” Mr. Mercer says sternly. “Sit down.” Chaz obeys, pulling
out a chair next to us, and sits stiffly, without looking at Hanna or myself.
“I’ve got two very upset girls here saying you contacted Roxie last
night and stripped over the webcam. I’m going to ask you right now,
and I want the truth. Did you do that?”
Chaz rubs his ear as if he misheard Mercer. “Wait, what?”
“There are screen grabs,” Mr. Mercer continues. “Why don’t you
have a look? Roxie, show him.”
“These.” I stand up, retrieve the envelope, and begin fanning the prints
out in front of him. Chaz gulps and twitches but recovers smoothly.
“What gender is it?” he asks, examining the photos. Mercer snorts.
“I don’t strip, and I don’t send pics of myself. Ever.” He’s trying to
feign disbelief, but I can taste the fear coming through his voice. Mr.
Mercer, however, isn’t as perceptive.
“I don’t know what to tell you, girls,” Mercer says, throwing up his
hands. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Roxie, but to accuse another
student? That takes a lot, you know. Charles denies it, I personally
don’t think it was him…and we can’t exactly ask him to strip for us,
can we?” He sounds disappointed. Hanna and I are not.
“That said,” Mercer continues, “this school takes sexual harassment
extremely seriously. If I hear of any more nonsense, at school or outside,
there will be consequences.” I can’t be sure, but it sounds like a subtle
warning. Chaz nods and looks down at his shoes, and I wonder for a
second if Mercer actually does have an idea of what goes on. Maybe
he doesn’t like Chaz and is on our side. Perhaps other girls have come
forward with complaints recently. From what I’ve heard, Mercer’s been
eyeing the position of principal for some time, and there’s no better
way to snag it than by cracking down on wayward students. But, as
usual, he switches to the tired monologue we’ve all heard a thousand
times before.
“In the meantime, if any more problems come up between you
kids, I’m glad to step in. And remember, my door is always open.”
Chaz grins and bobs his head. “Got it, Mr. M. But I don’t have
any problems. Glad we could clear everything up.”
Mercer gives him a curt nod. “Miss Nazari, for the future, I
suggest you think twice before you accuse.” He pauses. “This thing
you guys have going on...if it continues, I’m going to call your parents.
Everybody’s parents, so we can finally put this to rest and get on with
the school year.”
Chaz is the first to exit. Hanna and I leave next, but as we turn the
corner on our way back to class, he steps in front of us and sneers.
“Make sure your laptop’s charged,” Chaz laughs as he saunters away.
“Part two’s in the works.”
Chester High School is like other schools around the world. There is the anxious teenager who is sure any misstep is going to cost them their entire future, the rebel that is seemingly without a cause, the power couple, the jocks, and the drop-out that's forever lurking around. Oh, and what's the cafeteria without some type of artistic students? But then these hallways are also haunted by Charles (Chaz) Humbert: the sexual terrorist.
Roxanne (Roxie) Nazari and her best friend, Hanna Gilbert, among others, have suffered Chaz's ceaseless advances, abuses, and commentary for years. After exhausting every avenue in an attempt to end the torture, Roxie finally snaps and takes matters into her own hands. The idea that revenge is a dish best served cold did not reach Roxie as, in a fit of rage, she decides to flambé hers. And it sets alight everything in its path. Including Roxie. In the wake of her revenge strike, she is faced with more than she thinks she can handle. Can she survive the consequences of her actions?
Finding Chaz by Anisa Ashabi is packed with multidimensional characters, each serving their purpose very well. The entertaining ones had me smiling and the annoying ones made me want to wring their necks. When writing, it is easy to focus on the protagonist so much that everyone else exists to serve the image of the main character. But Ashabi put life on paper. So, even though the story is told from Roxie's perspective, everyone is an actual person and each one has their own life.
This book had so many positive aspects that I could rave on and on about how amazing it was to read it as Ashabi did a great job of writing it. But the praise would end up qualifying as a book in its own right. Instead, I will recommend that older teenagers and young adults give it a read. This is because the book is filled with profane language which would not be suitable for a younger audience and, even though the book is about high school kids, the content is complicated and requires some maturity to truly appreciate it. As much as older audiences than recommended might also enjoy it, they might relate less to it. But there are some lessons in it for parents and school staff, so go for it if you feel up to it.