The bell rings, signaling lunch is over. The movement and sound of hundreds of students intensify as everyone packs up to leave, and the girls feel their bubble quickly losing form. They will soon be swept back into the world of high school.
“It’s not going to turn into a riot,” Grace says, speaking fast. “We’ll figure something out.”
“It’s time to go to class,” Erin says.
“Can we meet after school?” Grace says. “To plan this?”
“My shift starts at five, but I can meet for a couple of hours,” Rosina says. “Holy shit, we’re really going to do this?”
They look at Erin. She’s busy packing up her lunch.
“Erin?” Grace says. “What about you? Is after school today okay?”
She zips up her backpack. “After school is when I do my homework,” she says. “Then I watch my episode of TNG. I’ll have just enough time to do some extracurricular reading before dinner. If I meet after school, it will disrupt my schedule and throw everything into chaos.”
“Really, Erin?” Rosina says. “Chaos? That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”
The lunchroom empties, and they are the last ones sitting in a sea of vacant tables, surrounded by dirty trays and soiled napkins.
“Erin,” Grace says. “Look at me.” Erin meets her eyes for almost a full second. “What’s more important? Your schedule, or doing something to stop the rapist assholes holding this school hostage?”
“?‘Holding this school hostage’?” Rosina says. “That’s good, New Girl.”
Erin fidgets with the zipper of her backpack. “I’m going to miss my episode,” she says, not looking up.
“So you’re coming?” Grace says.
Erin takes a deep breath, squints her eyes closed, and nods slightly. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today.”
To: undisclosed recipients From: TheNowhereGirls
Date: Tuesday, September 20
Subject: GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!
Dear friends and classmates: Are you tired? Are you scared? Are you tired of being scared?
Are you ANGRY???
We know what they did. Spencer Klimpt, Eric Jordan, and Ennis Calhoun. We know they raped Lucy. We know they have hurt others, probably many of us. We know they will hurt more.
But it is not just them, not just those three. It is everyone. It is the whole school, the students and administration, the whole community of Prescott, who let them get away with it. It is their friends and families and teammates who looked the other way. It is everyone who made excuses, everyone who thought “boys will be boys,” everyone who thought it’d be easier to ignore Lucy than to give her justice.
When they raped Lucy, they raped all of us. Because it could have been us. It could have been any of us. Who will be next?
The rape continues as long as they remain unpunished for what they did.
Are you tired of enduring? Are you tired of letting things go? Are you tired of being silent?
We failed Lucy. We will not continue to fail ourselves. We will not continue to fail one another.
We will meet Thursday after school in the basement conference room of the Prescott Public Library. Enter through the emergency exit door in the alley off State Street. It will be propped open.
This meeting is intended to be a safe, anonymous, and confidential space. What is shared, and the names of who is present, will not leave the room.
Are you ready to do something? Are you ready to take matters into your own hands?
Join us. Together, we are stronger than they are.
We will not be silent any longer.
Love,
The Nowhere Girls
US.
“Nobody’s coming,” Rosina says.
“Yes, they are,” Grace says.
“I had to beg my aunt to give me the afternoon off babysitting,” Rosina whines. “Favors are really hard to get in my family, by the way. I used up a favor for nothing.”
Rosina, Grace, and Erin are sitting on folding chairs in a long-forgotten room in the Prescott Public Library basement. Half the lightbulbs are out, and the walls are lined with dusty stacks of cardboard boxes. Erin pulls a book out of her backpack and starts reading.
Grace is on the edge of her seat, her knee bouncing away. “They’re coming,” she says. She looks at her watch. “It’s only a little after three. People have to go to their lockers. Maybe stop somewhere to get a snack.”
“I was sure at least a few people would show up,” Rosina says. “Three people responded, ‘This is awesome!’ to the e-mail we sent out. With exclamation points. I thought those were definite RSVPs.”
“The e-mail was sent to five hundred seven girls,” Erin says. “It’s probable that at least a few people will show up.”
“Thank you, Erin,” Grace says.
“Unless all the recipients are either lazy or don’t care or think what we’re doing is weird. That is also likely.”
“I’m going to go check to make sure the back door is still open,” Grace says. “Maybe people can’t get in and they’re too afraid to enter in the front?”
“Or no one’s coming,” Erin says. “That’s the most logical answer.”
“Maybe I can make it home in time to save my aunt’s favor for later,” Rosina says.
“So that’s it?” Grace says with a quivering voice. “You want to give up?”
But then the doorknob rattles. Grace blinks back tears. The three girls turn their heads as the door opens to a blinking, freckled face.
“Um, hi,” the girl says. Elise Powell: Senior, jock, undetermined sexual orientation. Not the top of the popularity totem pole, but definitely not the bottom. “Is this where the meeting is?”
She shuffles in, unsurely, and sits down on one of the chairs Grace set up in a circle. Following close behind are a pair of freshmen named Krista and Trista, both with badly dyed blue hair and thick black eyeliner. Then two more arrive—Connie Lancaster and Allison Norman, the gossips from Grace’s homeroom. How many does that make? Eight? Not exactly enough to start a revolution.
“Oh, hey,” Connie says to Grace. “You’re in my homeroom, right?”
“Yes!” Grace says, too eagerly.
“Do you know who’s in charge of this thing?” Connie says, running her fingers through her long dark hair. “Who sent the e-mail?”
“No one knows,” Grace says, her face blazing red.
“This is weird,” says Allison.
Then one more girl walks in. Rosina gasps. It is not just any girl.
“Hello!” the new arrival says in a cheerful voice that seems exceptionally loud coming from such a small body. Sam Robeson. Head of the drama club. Lead in last year’s semiscandalous production of Cabaret, wearer of costume jewelry and endless expanses of scarves, and Rosina’s hopeless crush all freshman year after she dressed up like a boy-band pop star for Halloween, proving definitively that there is nothing sexier than a femme girl in boy drag.
“So, what’s up?” Sam says as she sits down. Rosina notices how her short pixie cut frames her perfect ears and jawline. “What are we going to talk about?”
“I think we’re supposed to talk about Lucy Moynihan,” one of the blue-haired girls says.