Damn it. Wilson is pulling out all the stops.
Yeah it’s a long story … a girl accused Mitchell Wilson of trying to rape her. And some girls are organizing a walkout to protest that the school isn’t doing anything about it.
I choose to leave out the part about me actually starting the movement that sparked the walkout to begin with.
My phone rings mere seconds after I send the text. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk to answer.
“Mom?”
“What is going on at that school?” she asks, not even saying hello. In the background I can hear voices shouting and the hustle-bustle sounds of the urgent care center.
“Exactly what I said in my text,” I tell her.
“God, it’s like nothing’s changed in all these years,” my mom mutters, her voice full of exasperation.
“What did the robocall say?” I ask.
“Just that a walkout had been planned and if anyone participated they would be subject to suspension and possible expulsion.”
Principal Wilson isn’t messing around if he’s gone so far as to call parents. I stand there, the mid-April heat surrounding me. I stare at the house in front of me, wishing it were mine so that I would already be home and hiding under my covers.
“What time are you coming home tonight?” I ask, and suddenly I feel like crying again.
“I have a date with John,” she says. “Do you need me to cancel?”
“Yeah,” I say. Now I’m definitely crying again.
“Vivvy, are you okay? You need me to come home now?”
“Mom, I think me and Seth broke up,” I say. Tears are pouring down my face. “Everything is so messed up.”
“Oh, honey, I’m leaving right now.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to calm down. “No, no, it’s okay. I’m not even home yet. I’m walking home from Lucy’s. Just come home as soon as you can, okay?”
“Okay,” my mom answers. “You’re sure you don’t want me to leave right now?”
“Yes,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I’m okay.”
She makes me promise to text when I get home and to head over to Meemaw and Grandpa’s if I get too upset, but the truth is the only place I want to be is in my bedroom all by myself. I want to turn Bikini Kill up as loud as it will go and curl up in my bed and let my body absorb all the lyrics until I have enough strength to deal with whatever is going to happen next.
*
My mom finds me in bed, my throat raw from the crying I did at Lucy’s house and the crying that started up again as soon as I got home.
She wordlessly curls up next to me, still dressed in her scrubs, and hugs me. She doesn’t say anything for a while. Just rests next to me. Even Joan Jett joins us, like she knows I need the company. She balls up next to my stomach and purrs like a diesel engine.
“Wanna talk?” my mother says at last.
“Yeah,” I say. Staring at tacked-up posters of bands I used to like in ninth grade, I give her the basics about the flyer and the walkout and then, my voice cracking, I tell her about my fight with Seth.
“I feel awful,” I say, turning toward her.
My mom sighs and sits up, undoes her ponytail and does it up again.
“How did you end things again?” she asks.
“I told him to stop telling me to calm down,” I say. “I feel bad that I said it, but at the same time, I don’t. Because I meant it.”
My mom nods. “You know one thing I loved about your dad?” she says. My eyebrows pop up slightly. We hardly ever talk about my father. “Well, I mean, there were a lot of things I loved about him, but one thing I loved about him more than anything was that I knew that I could say anything to him, and we would be okay. I could snap or get mad. I could get frustrated. And he got frustrated with me, too. That’s what happens in relationships. People aren’t perfect. But at the core, I knew he loved me for me. I knew he accepted me for who I was. He was a good man because of that.”
I think about what Lucy said earlier. “Seth is a good person,” I say.
My mother nods again. “He seems to be, so far as I can tell.”
“But he didn’t get it. About the flyer. About what Mitchell did.”
“He’s still learning,” my mother offers. “The thing is, guys are indoctrinated with the same bullshit.”
“I guess I never thought about it that way,” I say.
My mother pulls me toward her and kisses me on the top of the head. “Vivvy, you’ll work it out. I bet you really will.”
I shrug, not so sure. “Even if we do or don’t, it doesn’t really answer the question about the walkout.” I gnaw on a thumbnail.
“So it was this Moxie group that called for the walkout?” my mom asks, her voice full of concern. My mouth goes dry. It was okay to talk about Seth with my mom. That felt okay. But now we’re venturing into trickier territory.
“Yeah, it was the Moxie name on the flyer,” I say, glancing back up at my posters, avoiding eye contact. “But, I mean, no one knows the exact girl who made the flyer.”
I could tell my mom about Moxie. Like I told Lucy. I could. But my entire mouth has turned into sandpaper.
“So, I’m confused,” my mom continues. I glance at her and feel my cheeks redden, so I look away again. “Is this Moxie group like a club or what? With a president and everything?”
“Not exactly,” I say.
If only she knew.
I roll to my side, my back to my mother. If I tell my mom I started Moxie, it will be like giving it to a grownup, almost like taking it away from the girls of East Rockport.
“Well, a walkout is a pretty big statement, don’t you think?” my mother asks, reaching out to stroke my hair. It’s a kind gesture, but I find myself freezing up.
“Yeah, it is,” I answer, still facing away from her. I decide to test the waters. “You think I should do it? Even though Principal Wilson is threatening to expel the girls who do?”
There’s a pause. “This is some sort of karmic thing, isn’t it?” she says at last.
I turn and look over my shoulder, peering up at her. “What do you mean?”
“All the times I insisted to Meemaw and Grandpa that all my crazy stunts in high school were just my way of fighting The System—capital T, capital S,” my mother says, shaking her head. “And now you’re asking me for permission to participate in civil disobedience.”
“I guess that is some irony for you,” I say.
“It’s blistering.” She sighs and rubs her eyes.
“You still haven’t told me what you think I should do.”
She takes a deep breath. “The mother I thought I would be when I was nineteen wants to tell you to do it,” she answers. “And the mother I’ve morphed into wants to tell you I’m afraid. Afraid that you could get expelled. Afraid for what that might mean for your future. For college. I don’t know, Vivvy.”
My stomach sinks. Because I know that in the end the only person who’s going to be able to decide what to do when it comes to the walkout is me. I tug my bedspread over my face.
“You wanna be alone for a little while?” my mom asks, her voice muffled.