“I wonder if they’re going to show my interview,” Mom says, licking her ice-cream spoon.
A male reporter stands in front of the school with a microphone in his hand. It is long after school hours; the shot is empty and dark, almost sinister, as if a violent crime has been committed. The reporter says with journalistic gravitas: “A local high school is mired in conflict resulting from the activities of an underground feminist group calling themselves the ‘Nowhere Girls.’ ”
Cut to a close-up of crumpled posters in a garbage can. “In recent weeks Prescott High School has been plagued by vandalism and increasingly volatile altercations between students. The group is also suspected of stealing sensitive computer data from the school. It is unclear how many members the group has, but the school administration believes it consists entirely of female students.”
Cut to a shot of the empty football field. “Targets of the group have included the Prescott High football team, who were last year’s regional champions but have a total losing streak so far this season, which Coach Dwayne Baxter believes is a direct result of bullying and slander by propaganda spread by the Nowhere Girls.”
The screen cuts to Coach Baxter, sitting at the desk Grace recognizes all too well. “You wouldn’t believe the team’s loss of morale,” he says. “They’re just devastated. These girls are accusing them of awful things, stuff I know my guys wouldn’t do. These are good guys. They’ve trained hard for this season. And now all their talent is being wasted because a group of troublemakers is going around spreading lies. These are hate crimes is what they are. Pure and simple. My guys are being singled out because they’re boys, because of their gender.”
The reporter returns. “Some are calling it an adolescent war of the sexes. Some say it’s a result of hormones gone awry. And some are saying the Nowhere Girls have legitimate concerns stemming from the events of last year that threw Prescott High School, indeed the whole town of Prescott, into chaos, after one girl accused three male students of a brutal sexual assault. The charges were quickly dropped, but the unfortunate event sent ripples through the community that seem to have inspired the recent disruptions at Prescott High.”
“We asked Prescott residents what they think of the so-called ‘feminist uprising’ at the high school, and here are some of their responses.”
The screen cuts to an old woman standing outside the grocery store. “I think it’s disgusting,” she says between thin lips. “What these girls are up to. Our boys don’t do things like that.”
A middle-aged man in front of his truck: “They’re just a bunch of girls who want attention. Just like that girl last year.”
A dreadlocked, scruffy-bearded man of indeterminate age and questionable sobriety: “Yeah, girls. Fight the power.” He pumps his fist in the air.
“That’s who they chose to speak for the other side?” Grace says. “Objective reporting, my ass.”
Mom raises her eyebrow. “Sorry,” Grace says.
Cut back to the reporter, chuckling. “One thing’s for sure, Prescott is full of opinions. We also spoke with Dr. Regina Slatterly, principal of Prescott High School, who is at the epicenter of the current difficulties and is struggling to keep her students safe and focused on their education.”
Principal Slatterly sits behind her desk, hands folded in front of her. She is wearing more makeup than usual. “You know,” she says, “we live in such a culture of entitlement and blame and playing the victim card when we feel we don’t get the kind of treatment we deserve. I think the girls involved in this need to stop for a moment and ask themselves what their part is in their dissatisfaction. Maybe then they will stop blaming boys for all their problems and stop using them as a scapegoat. Don’t get me wrong; I do believe most of the girls involved are probably good girls at heart. But they’re young and full of emotions they don’t understand, and they’ve found the wrong outlet for it. Girls this age are naïve and impressionable, and I have reason to believe that there is a mastermind at the center of this who is responsible for leading them astray and putting all these ideas in their heads. But I want to make one thing clear: This is not your usual run-of-the-mill case of peer pressure. This is serious. The escalating disruption at Prescott High has created a hostile environment that is not conducive to learning and is, quite frankly, not safe for the students. And I am determined, with full support from the Prescott police force, to find the person or persons behind this and bring them to justice. I will get my school back.”
There is so much Grace wants to say, none of which would be appropriate in front of her mother. More than anything, she wants to throw the remote control at the TV screen, straight at Principal Slatterly’s smug face.
“Many of the people we spoke to echoed Principal Slatterly’s sentiments, but there is one response that stands out, from a relatively new member of the Prescott community—Dr. Robin Salter, new head pastor at Prescott Congregational.”
“Mom, you’re on TV!” Grace says.
“Oh, my forehead looks so shiny,” Mom says.
“Shhh!” Grace says. “I want to hear you.”
“I wasn’t here last spring,” Mom says in front of the church’s big rainbow mural. “So I don’t know firsthand what this community went through. And I don’t think anyone knows what really happened between the young woman and the three young men except those involved. Whatever the truth is about that night, it sounds like the young women of this community have thoughts and feelings that need to be heard, and whether or not we agree with their tactics, I think we can all agree that we care about these girls and we want to hear them.”
Grace’s Mom is replaced by a fat white man standing at the front of a large modern church, the stained glass of a suffering Jesus on the cross towering behind him. The camera shoots from below so he looks more powerful, kinglike. The reporter’s voice is dubbed over: “But Pastor Robert Skinner of Prescott Foursquare, Fir County’s largest congregation, has a different take on the matter.”
“They cut out all the good parts of my interview,” Mom says.
“Of course they did,” Grace grumbles.
The pastor speaks: “I have to tell you, something like this would never have happened ten years ago, when the people of Prescott really cared about family values. But people from outside the community, with different values and priorities, are moving here and changing the culture, changing the way we do things, creating conflict and problems where there have never been any. You know, I sympathize with these girls, I do. I know how hard it is being a teenager, what with all their hormones and pressures from school, and disappointments from dating, and the mixed messages they get from the media. I can see how that would lead to some destructive feelings, and then you add the mob mentality of this thing, and it’s just getting out of control. I think what these girls need to do is take a deep breath, go home to their families, and pray.”
“That guy is such a blowhard,” Mom says.
“And there you have it,” the reporter says. “It’ll be interesting to see where this goes. Principal Regina Slatterly was able to tell us that three members of the group have recently been identified and are receiving disciplinary action, but the leader of the group is still unknown. Of course, we’ll keep you posted with any new developments. I’m sure I speak for all of Prescott when I say I hope this gets resolved soon and things can go back to normal for the students at Prescott High. Back to you, Jill.”
Grace turns the TV off. She grabs the pint of ice cream from her mom and sticks a big spoonful in her mouth to keep herself from saying something she’ll regret.
Mom shakes her head. “Interesting they didn’t ask any of the students what they think.”
Grace sucks on her ice-cream spoon.
“Do you know anything about this group?” Mom says. “These Nowhere Girls?”
“I’ve seen their posters around school,” Grace says, digging in for another scoop.
“So you’re not involved or anything?” Mom says.
Grace shakes her head. She thinks the spoon sticking out of her mouth is the only thing keeping her from spilling everything.
“It’s intriguing,” Mom says.
Grace pulls the spoon out of her mouth, fights the smile that wants to form on her lips, fights the urge to throw her arms around her mother.
Instead of any of these things, Grace stands up and says, “Did Dad tell you my ceiling has a leak?”
“He must have forgotten to mention it,” Mom says.
“Well, it does.”
“Then I guess we need to take care of it.”
“Yeah,” Grace says. She hands her mother the ice cream. “I’m going to head up to bed now. Thanks for dinner and everything.”
“Okay, honey.”
“You did really good on your interview.”
Mom smiles and opens her arms. “Come here.”
Grace lets herself be held. She closes her eyes and for a moment imagines telling her mother everything. Maybe Mom wouldn’t be proud exactly, but at least she’d know what Grace is capable of. She might get mad, she might be disappointed, but she’d certainly be impressed.
But Mom can’t know. It’s bad enough what happened to Trista, Elise, and Margot; there’s no way Grace is going to take that chance with Mom. She can’t burden her with that knowledge. She can’t ask her to keep that secret. Mom has way too much at stake.
“We’re doing good,” Mom says, squeezing Grace’s shoulders.
“We are,” Grace says. But what she’s thinking is, You have no idea.
The Real Men of Prescott
Bad news, men. The feminist apocalypse may be upon us. If you live in Prescott, you already know what I’m talking about. If not, here’s the short of it—the girls of Prescott High School have been possessed by evil feminist cunt forces and have decided to declare a sex strike. Something about wanting “respect” from guys and “justice” for some girl who got fucked last year and cried rape because she thought being a victim would be cooler than being a slut.
And it’s not just the ugly girls who have their granny panties in a bunch. Even some of the dumb hot princesses who have nothing to complain about have gotten the idea in their head that the best way to get respect is to turn frigid. Really, girls? You think guys will respect you more if you take away the only thing we actually like about you?
Have they ever stopped to think that maybe if they say no all the time, guys will stop taking no for an answer?
—AlphaGuy541
US.
Today’s homeroom announcement from Principal Slatterly: School employees, at their discretion, have authority to separate girls who are congregating for nonschoolwork-related reasons.
“She’s not even pretending to not be a fascist anymore,” Connie says.
Coach Baxter is late. He storms in, throws some papers on his desk. “The cheerleaders?” Coach Baxter rants at the front of the classroom. “I’m sick of this. The marching band was one thing, but now the cheerleaders are boycotting games?”
“They should have done it a long time ago,” says the boy who plays trumpet in the marching band.
“Get out!” Coach Baxter growls. “Get out of my classroom right now.”
“Gladly,” says the boy as he picks up his bag and walks out the door.
“I’m coming with you,” says the girl who sits next to him, one of the marching-band drummers.
“This is ridiculous,” Coach says as the door closes behind them. “All of this. What happened to respecting authority? What happened to tradition?”
No one has an answer for him.
* * *
“Hey!” Melissa says as she practically leaps into her seat at the lunch table. “You guys will never believe this!” She leans in, bouncing with excitement. It is almost impossible for her to keep her voice down. “I convinced Lisa to talk to the cops about being on Spencer’s list.”
“Really?” Grace says. “Oh my God.”
“Melissa!” Rosina beams. “You’re amazing.”
“Get a room,” Erin mumbles.
“She says she thinks she can convince Abby to do it too,” Melissa says.
“It just takes one person to be brave,” Grace says. “Then others will follow her lead.”
“Yeah, well,” Melissa says, “I think Lisa’s thinking more like blackmail. But whatever, that’s between the two of them.”
“You guys?” Erin says.
“Grace, you’re friends with Amber, right?” Melissa says.
“I’m not sure you would call it that, but yes, I guess so.”
“Do you think you could talk to her?” Melissa says. “Maybe she’ll come forward too.”
“She’s on the list?” Rosina says.
Melissa nods. “Number four. I’m like ninety-nine point nine percent positive.”
“Hey, you guys,” Erin says again.
“She wasn’t in class today,” Grace says. “But I can call her.”
“You guys!” Erin yells.
But it is too late. The security guard is towering over them. “That’s it,” he barks. “Party’s over. Break it up.”
“What do you mean?” Melissa says.
“I mean move.”
“Where are we supposed to go?” Rosina asks.
“I don’t care,” the guard says. “You just can’t sit together.”
“This is bullshit,” Rosina says.
“What was that?” he growls.
“I said ‘Yes, sir.’ ”
“If you girls aren’t separated in ten seconds, I’m sending you all to Principal Slatterly’s office.”
So they move. One by one, they join other tables. Rosina sits with Serina Barlow. Melissa sits with a handful of cheerleaders, who are apparently still allowed to congregate. Erin heads to the library. Grace picks up her tray and looks around the lunchroom, is stunned to realize she could join half these tables and feel something close to comfortable. But there is one in particular that catches her eye, mostly a mix of athletes from the school’s less-fashionable sports like golf and fencing. At the end of the table, with a cheeseburger in his hands, is Jesse Camp.
Grace thinks about her mom. She thinks about how sometimes doing a scary thing makes it less scary.
“Hi,” Grace says as she sits down next to Jesse, just as he takes a big bite of burger.
“Mrumph,” he mumbles with a full mouth, his eyes wide with surprise.
“You have a little ketchup.” She points to a spot on her chin. Still chewing, Jesse tries to wipe it off but misses. Grace picks up a napkin from the table and wipes it off.
Jesse swallows. “Um, thanks.”
“I just got booted from my table by the rent-a-cop.”
“You’re such a rebel,” he says, smiling.
“I know,” Grace says, smiling back.
“So you’re not mad at me anymore?”
Grace takes a bite of French fry and shakes her head.
“So we can be friends now?”
Grace chews and nods.
“So,” he says, setting his burger down. “Things are pretty crazy around here these days.”
“You could definitely say that.”
“Are you friends with the girls who got suspended?”
“Yeah,” Grace says. “Pretty good friends, actually.”
“Have you heard anything from them?”
“It sounds like Elise’s parents are pretty cool and she didn’t even get grounded. Margot’s freaked out this’ll ruin her chances at Stanford, but I’m sure she’ll be fine. Her parents are threatening to sue the school or something. Elise’s too, I think. They’re filing a formal complaint with the school board. The other girl, Trista, she got it the worst. She’s like grounded forever. Her parents are going to make her do some kind of spiritual counseling with the youth pastor at their church.”
“Wow,” Jesse says. “That sucks.”
“Yeah,” Grace says. “Especially since none of them is guilty.”
“How do you kn
ow?”
“I just know.”
“Because you’re in the Nowhere Girls,” Jesse says. “I already figured that out.”
“The first rule about the Nowhere Girls”—Grace smiles—“is you do not talk about the Nowhere Girls.”
* * *
A girl looks around the lunchroom and can’t help but laugh a little at all the groups of girls being forced to separate by security guards. Since when are groups of white girls considered a threat? Must be that Nowhere Girls stuff. Some girls from her softball team invited her to a meeting a couple of weeks ago and she thought about checking it out, but she knew she never would.
Because this feminism or whatever it is they’re doing—it’s a white-girl thing. When they go around making demands and yelling, people call them fired up and passionate.
But black girls don’t have that privilege. When black girls stand up for themselves, people call them hostile. They call them dangerous. They call them other things.
* * *
Amber decides she needs a day off of school. She needs a break from being herself.
The problem is there’s nothing good on TV. There’s nothing good in the fridge. Mom’s at work and her boyfriend-of-the-week is who knows where (thank God), and the trailer is feeling damp and toxic. Some kind of dark-colored mold is growing around the edges of all the windows. Condensation drips down the glass and forms tiny puddles on the windowsills.
There’s that guy she met at that PCC party last weekend. Chad something. He texted her yesterday and she never texted back. Maybe this one’s different. Maybe he’s more mature because he’s older and in college.
Chad picks her up two blocks away. Amber thinks maybe if he doesn’t see where she lives, he won’t jump to certain conclusions. And maybe because he’s not part of her high school world, he won’t have any preconceived ideas about who she is. She can start with a clean slate. She could be anyone.
She tells him she’s hungry. She hopes maybe he’ll take her out for a real date at a real restaurant. Her heart drops when the car slows and turns into the McDonald’s drive-through. But at least he pays for it.
“Let’s go to my place,” Chad says. In the few minutes it takes to drive to his apartment complex, Amber eats her burger and fries and swallows whatever pride foolishly dared to surface this morning.