“So he thinks you accused Mitchell of trying to rape you?” I say.
“That’s the thing,” Lucy says, sitting up, rubbing her eyes. “It was like he knew the flyer wasn’t about me—which it isn’t—but he was still accusing me of making it.”
“So you think he knows who Mitchell tried to rape?”
Lucy shrugs, takes the tissue in her hand, and squeezes it into a tight ball before throwing it off the side of her bed. “Yeah,” she says. “I mean, the flyer said the girl went and told him, so he must.”
“So now what?” I ask, frowning.
“I’m suspended tomorrow,” she says. “He’s not expelling me, but he says he’s going to contact every college I apply to next year, to let them know what I did.” I expect her to start wailing at this, but instead she just slides back against her bedroom wall and stares out numbly at the space in front of her. “I wish I knew who started Moxie,” she says. “I would ask them what the hell to do next.”
My heart starts to pound, then journey up to my throat. I open my mouth, then close it.
I can’t do it. But I have to do it.
“So I won’t be at school tomorrow,” Lucy continues. “He made sure that I wouldn’t be there for the walkout. Since he thinks I’m the leader of Moxie, I guess he assumes that if I’m absent, I’ll be less of an influence.”
Once I say it, there’s no going back.
I look down at my hands. They’re gripping Lucy’s lavender-flowered bedspread so tight the veins in my knuckles are popping out.
“I have to tell you something,” I say, and now it’s too late to stop for sure.
“What?”
I swallow hard. I take a deep breath.
“I made Moxie,” I say out loud. At last. “I made the zines. Everyone keeps calling them newsletters, but they’re zines. I made the stickers, and I started the bathrobe thing and the stars-and-the-hearts-on-the-hands thing. It was me. I got inspired by my mom’s Riot Grrrl stuff from the ’90s. The only other person who knows is Seth, but I think maybe now we’ve broken up or something, so … I don’t know. But I did it. I started it.” My throat starts to tighten up. I swallow and feel my face start to flush.
Lucy stares at me and then, slowly, her body slides off the bed until she collases into a lump on the messy floor.
“Lucy?” I say.
She looks up at me and says, slowly and deliberately, “You. Are. Shitting. Me.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I really did it.” My heart is still hammering, trying to catch up with what I’ve just done.
“But you didn’t do the flyer this morning?” she asks, concerned.
“No,” I say. “And Kiera did the VFW hall thing and you did the bake sale. I have no idea who made the flyer. Or who put the stickers on Principal Wilson’s car.”
“Holy shit, Viv!” Lucy says, standing up.
“Are you mad at me?” I feel tears start to fight their way out, but I hold them back. I can’t be the one who’s upset here. Lucy should be mad at me. I lied to her so much.
“Why would I be mad at you?” She’s almost shouting. “And why am I standing up?” Then she falls back down on her bed with a flop.
“I can’t let you take the fall for this, Lucy,” I say, my voice cracking a bit. “I can’t let you get in trouble for the walkout when you didn’t even start Moxie.” I imagine turning myself in to Principal Wilson. Meemaw and Grandpa will be scandalized. I’m not sure how my mom will feel. But it’s the right thing to do. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I probably should have. The whole thing has just gotten out of control.”
Lucy sits up. “Oh, Viv, it’s okay. I mean, I guess I am a little hurt you didn’t tell me. But the truth is, Moxie was almost more powerful because it didn’t have a leader, you know? Like, I can see why you did it that way.” Then she shoots me a rueful grin. “And anyway, maybe it’s better I didn’t know. I always have had trouble keeping my big mouth shut.”
I manage a smile. It’s nice she’s taking it so well. But still.
“I need to go in to talk to Wilson,” I say. “I have to.”
“I don’t know,” she answers. “I’m already in trouble for putting my name on the form. Wilson probably won’t even believe you. And he’d rather blame some Mexican girl from the city than a nice white girl like you who’s been here all her life.”
I flop back on Lucy’s bed. There’s a tiny crack running across the ceiling. I trace it with my eyes until the tears finally come. I let them stream down my cheeks, not even trying to stop them.
“Viv?” Lucy says.
“Everything is so screwed up,” I say. “Moxie’s gotten out of hand. And now Seth and I are in a fight, and you’re in trouble, and it’s all messed up. And what does it matter? Nothing is going to change. Nothing. I should have just done what my mom always planned for me to do and kept my head down and got into college and gotten out of here.”
“No, Viv, no,” says Lucy, shaking me. “Are you kidding me? Moxie has been worth it. Think about last Saturday. Think about the fact that the girl Mitchell attacked wouldn’t have spoken up without Moxie. Hell, at the very least, acknowledge that Moxie is the reason you and I became friends.”
I peer up at Lucy and smile. Behind her, I spy the bright yellow Post-its with the Audre Lorde quote on them.
YOUR SILENCE WILL NOT PROTECT YOU.
“Should I do the walkout?” I say.
Lucy looks me dead in the eyes. She nods firmly. “You know the answer,” she says. “I don’t even care if I take the blame for all of it. It’s worth it to me if it happens. I’ll write an essay about it for my college applications. If nobody does the walkout, it’s like I got suspended for nothing. It’s like Wilson wins.”
I nod, and I know Lucy is right. “Who do you think made the flyer?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she answers. “The messed-up thing is it could be almost any girl. But whoever it is, she’s telling the truth. I believe her with all my heart.”
I curl into myself, remembering Seth’s doubt. I tell Lucy about my conversation with him earlier in the day.
“Sometimes I think even the best guys have a hard time getting it,” Lucy says, her voice sad and soft. “And I think Seth is a really great guy. I do. But if he hasn’t lived it, he just can’t know, I guess.”
I sniffle a little. “You think he’s a good guy?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I do.”
“Lucy,” I say, my voice cracking, “I’m so glad we’re friends.”
Lucy grins. “Me, too,” she says. “And I still can’t believe you made those newsletters.”
“Zines. They’re called zines.”
“Okay, zines,” she says, rolling her eyes. She reaches out to hug me. A good, strong hug. The kind of hug that says, “I get it.” The kind of hug that says, “I’m here.”
*
Lucy’s grandmother won’t let her drive me home, so I have to make the long walk to my house from hers, and halfway home my phone buzzes with a text from my mom.
Just got one of those robocalls from your school … something about a walkout?