“Yeah,” I answer. But then I peek my eyes out. I don’t want to end our conversation like this. My mom’s mouth has turned into a soft, anxious frown, like she’s searching for the just-right words.
“Viv, I love you,” she says finally. “And whatever you decide … whatever happens … I’ll always love you, and I’ll always stand with you.”
The knots in my gut give way a bit. But not enough that I want to tell her about Moxie. I love my mom. I just don’t think she could handle it.
Her expression still uncertain, she slides off the bed and leaves my room, Joan Jett following her. I hide under the covers with my phone and find lots of stuff online about the walkout. Girls are debating back and forth about whether they should do it, and most boys are saying it’s stupid. I text Claudia and my other friends and ask them if they’re going to do it and they all write back variations on the same thing.
I think so. But I’m scared
Marisela posts that she’s tired of boys at East Rockport acting like assholes and treating girls like property. People agree with her but some boys start posting that she’s accusing all boys of being jerks, and a huge debate follows. Kiera posts a picture of Wonder Woman and a quote by a woman named Angela Davis. “When one commits oneself to the struggle, it must be for a lifetime.” I look her up and read about how Angela Davis was a black feminist who was imprisoned for fighting for her beliefs. It makes a walkout look pretty minor in comparison, to be honest.
I fight the urge to text Seth.
He doesn’t text me.
After a little while, my mom brings me some reheated lasagna from dinner the night before. I make myself eat a few bites.
“I feel like going to bed,” I say.
“It’s not even nine o’clock.”
“Yeah, but if I go to sleep, I don’t have to think about any of this,” I answer.
My mother nods and clears the plate, and soon I’m in my pajamas in the dark. But it’s a long time until I drift off, my mind unsettled and my heart pumping steadily as it circles back to tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The walkout is supposed to be midway through my English class. According to the flyer, we should get up and leave when the bell rings to alert teachers to take the daily attendance.
It’s a loaded class for the walkout to happen. Not only will Seth be in there, but Mitchell will be there, too. Lucy would be there, of course, if she weren’t suspended.
It’s literally all everyone is talking about, and as my friends and I gather on the front steps to discuss it, we all get texts from Lucy.
When the walkout happens send me pics. I have an idea
When, not if. My hands go numb, but I manage to text back.
What’s the idea?
You’ll see—just send pics of all the girls walking out
“Think it’s gonna happen?” says Sara.
“I think something’s going to happen,” Claudia answers. “Some girls were posting some really intense stuff last night that made it sound like they’re committed.”
“So you’re going to do it?” asks Meg.
“I think so,” I answer. But now that it’s here, my stomach’s a rock. I think about getting suspended. Maybe even expelled. I picture myself standing in front of the school with five or six other girls. Then I remember the words of that freshman girl the other day.
“Wilson can’t expel us if we all walk out.”
The first bell rings and we all head in, but my mind is blank as we listen in class and go to our lockers during passing period and make eye contact in the hallways. The school feels electric. On edge. The teachers are all standing in the hallways in little clumps, whispering to each other. It’s the most engaged I’ve seen them all year.
I look for Seth but don’t find him.
I spot Mitchell Wilson and his fellow apes hanging out like every other day. Their loud boy voices, laced with Mountain Dew and the knowledge that the world belongs to them, ring through the halls, echoing off the walls, making my skin crawl.
If they walk, they’re gonna be so fucked.
They won’t do it. They don’t have the guts.
Finally, English class. Mr. Davies passes out a worksheet and clears his throat, then glances at the clock.
The seconds tick by.
I peer over at Seth, who walked in at the bell. When I look away I think I feel him looking at me, but I don’t look back.
Five minutes until 11:15.
“Can I get someone to read the passage?” Mr. Davies asks. He folds and refolds his arms. He grimaces and stares out at all of us, his expression sour.
No one volunteers. Finally, Mr. Davies calls on one of Mitchell’s friends, who starts reading some short passage in a halting voice.
“John … Steinbeck was an American author … who wrote … many novels. He is best known for his … Pulitzer Prize–winning masterpiece The Grapes of Wrath.”
Tick tick tick.
“Setting is an important part of … Steinbeck’s novels. Most of his stories … are set in … central and southern California.”
Tick tick tick.
My heart starts to hammer. One minute left. I want to scream the tension is so heavy.
“In 1962 … John Steinbeck won … the Nobel Prize in Literature. Steinbeck’s works regularly … touch on the concepts of … injustice.”
BUZZ.
There’s a collective jump, and Mr. Davies moves toward his computer to input attendance, like he expects nothing. Everyone is watching everyone else. I want to get up. I want to stand up. But I’m frozen. I look out into the hallway, hoping to see a ponytail floating by. I’m desperate to hear the sounds of girls’ voices as they gather together and march out of the building.
Mitchell Wilson snorts under his breath. Mitchell Wilson, who is almost certainly a rapist.
Get up, Vivian. Get up!
My leg muscles tense and then, just as I start to stand, I’m cut off.
By Emma Johnson.
Queen Emma. Cheer squad Emma. Vice president of the student council let’s-all-act-like-Texas-ladies Emma. That Emma.
She stands up, whips a Sharpie from her pocket, and—her china doll cheeks flushed with what I quickly perceive to be rage—she writes the word MOXIE down her left forearm.
Her hand is shaking.
Then she looks toward the back of the classroom. She stares at Mitchell with eyes full of a fury so awesome her face reminds me of Kathleen Hanna’s voice.
“Mitchell,” she says, her voice clear and cutting. “Fuck you.”
And she walks out.
She’s not two steps out the door before I get up and follow, my skin buzzing, my heart on fire. In that moment I don’t even care if any other girl is following me. All I know is that I won’t let Emma walk out alone.
She is halfway down the hallway before I catch up to her. There are a few other girls standing by the lockers, looking around a bit aimlessly, not sure what to do.
“Are you okay?” I ask Emma. She’s crying now, tears running down her cheeks. Her perfect eye makeup is smudged. Two tiny coal-black streams slide down her face. She wipes them away.
“I’m okay,” she says. “But what happens now?”
“It was you, wasn’t it?” I say. “Who made the flyer?”
“Yeah,” says Emma, nodding.