Chapter Text
Illi McMillan sat at the back of St. Agatha’s Catholic Preparatory lunchroom, staring down at her tray of mashed potato slop with the expression of someone who had just been told she’d live out the rest of her days eating lima beans. Her skirtless legs jiggled under the table, not with nervous energy—though she had plenty of that—but with anger. It bubbled up behind her ribs like soda about to fizz out of the bottle.
The problem wasn’t potatoes. Potatoes could be endured. The problem was fabric. Specifically, the polyester hellscape known as "dress code regulation pants" in a color officially referred to by the administration as "dignified black," and unofficially referred to by Frank Iero as "graveyard sludge chic."
And the thing was, Illi had already seen the girls’ uniform. Pleated skirt, plaid streaked red, black, white—all angles and sway, iconic, and something that when she pictured herself in it didn’t feel like a question mark. It felt right. It felt like opening a window and breathing in the exact right kind of air.
But, according to Sister Blanche, head of the school’s unholy fashion police, Illi McMillan could not wear it. To do so would "confuse the student body" and "violate the sanctity of the uniform policy."
"Sanctity of the uniform policy," Illi had hissed under her breath when she’d first been told. As if plaid polyester was one ancient church relic.
That was why their table now looked not like the typical haven of dorky outcast upperclassmen (a role they leaned into with theatrical delight), but like the center of a brewing revolution.
Ray Toro, was tapping dramatically on the table like a war drum. Mikey Way, Illi’s brother, was adjusting his glasses every other second and pretending like he wasn’t both nervous and gleeful about the plans Illi had roped him into. And Frank Iero, naturally, was grinning like he’d just been told detention didn’t exist anymore and all pranks were legal.
"Operation: Free the Knees is a go," Illi declared softly, leaning in like this wasn’t just lunch but the war council before the Normandy invasion.
"FREE THE KNEES," Frank shouted immediately at full volume, nearly choking on his soda. A few freshmen at a nearby table whipped their heads around, startled.
"Frank," Mikey muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We’re—there’s supposed to be, like, a buildup. Subtle planning. Secret resistance."
"Resistance isn’t subtle, Mikey," Frank snapped back, indignant. "Resistance is righteous. And loud. And preferably wearing plaid skirts while being loud."
Illi covered her face to hide her laughter. She wasn’t sure how she’d convinced them to actually go along with it, but the plan had been simple: tomorrow, every one of her friends—Ray, Mikey, Frank—was showing up in the girls’ uniform skirt.
It had been Ray, sweet, reliable, calculating Ray, who had pointed out that if only Illi wore a skirt, they’d grab her, haul her to the office, and hammer down with all their boring little "institutional authority consequences." But if all of them did it at once? It wasn’t just Illi being "rebellious." It was a statement. And the thing about Catholic prep school administration was that they couldn’t actually suspend *everyone*... could they?
At least, Illi hoped not.
"We’re gonna look incredible," Frank said with solemn conviction, crunching into his chips with the poise of a general briefing his soldiers. "United! A wall of bare knees in the face of the oppressors!"
"Don’t phrase it like that ever again," Mikey muttered, shoving his fries one by one into ketchup.
Illi laughed, sharp and bright, in spite of herself. For months she had felt like she was walking around half-wrong in her own skin, forced every day to shove her body into something that screamed *not you*. But right now, with her stupid friends surrounding her, her brother glaring like a reluctant but loyal knight-in-training, and Frank literally wiping ketchup on his tie by mistake... right now she felt unstoppable.
The next day at 8 A.M. sharp—the revolution marched.
Mikey Way, scowling like someone had stolen his bass guitar, drifted into homeroom wearing a skirt that was a solid half-inch too short for "sanctity." Illi couldn’t stop herself from snorting into her fist. His knees were, in fact, liberated, blinding the classroom with pale awkwardness.
Then came Frank, already chanting, "FREE THE KNEES, FREE THE KNEES!" before homeroom had even officially started. He hopped up on a chair, ignored Ms. Daniels’ shrieking, and posed like Captain America holding a instead-of-shield textbook aloft.
"FREE! THE! KNEES!" his voice reverberated down the hallway.
By the time Ray entered, calm as ever, his enormous hair practically glowing in the fluorescent light, skirts had become a fashion statement, a rally cry. His long strides carried him with the poise of someone absolutely convinced he was pulling this look off. And honestly, he was. Illi almost applauded.
By mid-lunch, it had snowballed. Literally. Freshmen were chanting it timidly. A cluster of seniors had tied sweaters too short around their hips in solidarity. Somebody had written it in dry-erase marker across the vending machine. "FREE THE KNEES" occupied the courtyard like a battle hymn.
And in the middle of it—Illi herself.
Skirt swishing, knees bare, sun catching on her hair as she stood on the lunch table and hollered alongside her friends.
"FREE THE KNEES!"
"FREE THE KNEES!"
Her voice cracked halfway through—because of course it did—but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about Sister Blanche screaming from the window, or the fact that detention now stretched out in their collective futures like a minefield.
Because this was joy. Because for once, she wasn’t the question mark. She wasn’t the lone rebel. She was part of something loud, stupid, powerful, glowing.
Ray drummed the side of the table with his tray like it was a rock show. Frank had stolen someone’s pudding cup and was holding it aloft like a trophy of war. Mikey was muttering “oh my god, I hate you all,” but even *he* was chanting now, his lips twitching toward laughter he couldn’t quite smother.
And Illi—Illi felt like she’d never been more herself in all her life. Her knees were free. Her friends were ridiculous. The whole schoolyard was alive and bright, and nothing Sister Blanche said could drag that down.
It was glorious.