My first impulse is to hug her, but I’m not sure she wants to be touched.
“Let’s go out,” I say, my voice rising, so the other girls will hear. “Let’s head out toward the front steps of the school. We can figure it out there.”
“Thanks,” she says, sniffling.
The girls in the hallway follow me, and as we walk, more and more classroom doors start to open. I spy Kiera and Meg and Marisela and Amaya and Kaitlyn, their faces uncertain as they step out, then smiling as they see they’re not alone.
I see Claudia. She sees me. She sticks her tongue out, she’s so excited.
Our numbers start to grow, and quickly, too. At least half of the girls in East Rockport are walking out. Maybe more. As soon as other girls inside classrooms hear noises, they venture out. Teachers step into the hallways, shout at us that we’re going to be expelled.
Look, Wilson can’t expel us if we all walk out.
I see that freshman girl, too, grinning so big her face looks like it might split in half.
We keep marching, our feet trampling over Principal Wilson’s threats and our teachers’ warnings. We are marching because those words deserve to be run over. Steamrolled. Flattened to dust. We are marching in our Converse and our candy-colored flip-flops and our kitten heels, too. Our legs are moving, our arms are swinging, our mouths are set in lines so straight and sharp you could cut yourself on them.
Maybe we hope you do.
We don’t speak as we march. We don’t even whisper. We just move, our eyes on the ones in front us. Blond hair in ponytails and black hair in braids and brown hair and red hair, too. Hair cut pixie-style or held back with cheap barrettes or carefully styled into loose spiral curls that still smell of that morning’s dose of hair spray.
The only sound is the squeak of our feet on the floor. But if you listen hard enough, you can hear our heartbeat.
Now there’s the cha-chunk of the school’s heavy metal front doors opening. We see the light from the outside streaming into the main hallway, and we squint a little but we don’t stop marching. We don’t stop walking. We don’t stop heading outside.
We don’t back down.
As all of us gather on the front steps of the school, I lean into Emma.
“Do you want to say something?” I offer. “About why we’re here?”
“Yeah,” she says, and I see a bit of that vice principal of the student council in her starting to come out. She’s composing herself, taking deep breaths. “But will you stand with me?”
“Yes,” I say. “Of course.”
Girls watch as Emma and I take the top step. They gather in a tight knot around us.
“Hey, listen up!” I shout. “Emma’s got something to say!”
That’s when I see him. Seth. Off to the side by the front of the campus, apart from us girls. He’s standing there with a handful of other boys—some of the guys he sometimes eats lunch with. When he sees me looking at him, he nods. Then he gives me a thumbs-up, which is the corniest thing he’s ever done. I smile in return, then turn my attention back to Emma.
Emma looks out at the sea of girls in front of her and when she tries to speak, her voice cracks. I place my hand on her shoulder, and she looks at me, her eyes grateful.
“First I want to say thanks for coming out here,” she begins. “And I want to say that I didn’t want it to come to this. When Mitchell Wilson tried to assault me at a party last weekend…” Her voice breaks again. Then, from the back, I hear a girl shout, “We believe you!”
Emma squeezes her eyes shut, collects herself, then continues.
“I was able to get away. But then later when I tried to tell Principal Wilson, he wouldn’t listen. He told me that I’d imagined it! That it was nothing and to forget it. Well, I won’t forget it! And I don’t want the school to forget it either!”
Girls shout their approval at Emma’s words. They holler and clap and yell. I spy Claudia in the crowd, and her eyes are red from crying. My heart feels like it’s going to explode.
Suddenly we hear shouts behind us, and we turn to see Principal Wilson and Mr. Shelly and all the other administrators heading toward us like a snarling pack. Mr. Shelly has a clipboard, and he’s trying to write and walk at the same time. His jowls are shaking and his face is sweaty and red.
Principal Wilson has a fucking bullhorn in his hands.
“Girls, I order you to form a straight line so your names can be collected by Mr. Shelly,” he shouts into the bullhorn. “I am moving forward with suspensions for all of you as well as the process of expulsion.” He storms over to Emma and me.
“Emma,” he says, dropping the bullhorn to his side. “I told you this would be handled.”
“But you didn’t handle it, Principal Wilson,” Emma yells back, her hands balling up into fists. It’s jarring to see perfect Emma Johnson shout at authority like this.
And it’s pretty amazing, too.
I glance at the crowd of girls. Several of them are taking pictures with their phones.
“Am I to understand that you’re responsible for this Moxie group? Along with Lucy Hernandez?”
Emma frowns, confusion crossing her face.
“I planned this walkout, yes,” she says.
“And you were behind all the other Moxie activities?” Principal Wilson asks. “Along with Miss Hernandez?”
Emma shakes her head no, and I know it’s finally time. I turn and look Principal Wilson right in the eye, grateful for my height. I open my mouth and say as loudly as I can, “I started Moxie, Principal Wilson. I made the zines and the stickers, and I put them in the bathrooms. It was me.”
Emma’s eyes grow wide, and I hear a ripple of talk spread out among the crowd of girls. I know I’ve just doomed myself to never graduating from high school, but in that moment it’s all so worth it I wish I could say those words again for the first time.
“Wait,” says another voice, and my head turns to see Kiera moving up to the top of the steps. “Viv wasn’t the only girl behind Moxie. I helped organize it, too.”
Principal Wilson peers down at Kiera like he’s looking at a bug or smelling a fart. Kiera stares at him, unmoved.
“Kiera and Viv weren’t the only ones,” comes another voice from the crowd. I can tell without looking it’s Marisela. “I helped start Moxie.”
“Wait,” says another girl. “They aren’t the only ones. I helped, too.” It’s that freshman girl. The one who said Principal Wilson couldn’t punish all of us.
“I helped, too!” shouts another voice from deeper in the crowd.
It’s Claudia.
“Me, too!” yells another. And another. And one more and then another until each admission of guilt—each admission of proud ownership—trips over the next, and Principal Wilson is starting to lose his cool. He huffs loudly, snapping his gaze toward Mr. Shelly.