Mom and Dad are already gone for the day, having left before Grace even woke up for school. They had to beat rush-hour traffic to get to the local NPR affiliate in downtown Eugene, where Mom is going to be interviewed on the morning talk show about progressive Christianity. She’s out there changing the world while her inconsequential daughter makes inconsequential toast in the empty kitchen, boxes still piled in the corner with things that may never get unpacked: a crock pot, cookie cutters, a fondue set her parents got for their wedding twenty years ago that has never come out of its box.
Yesterday afternoon, in the dull, dusty light of the library basement, after shedding some good old-fashioned tears of self-pity, Grace prayed for guidance. “Lord,” she said, “please show me my path. Show me what to do. Show me how to serve you and best help my fellow man. I mean, woman. I mean, girl. Girls.” She couldn’t even pray right.
Grace took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes tight. She pulled her hands against her chest, pressed the steeple of prayer against her heart. “Please,” she said. “I know I have a purpose. I just want to know what it is. I just want to know what I’m good at. If there’s anything I’m good at.”
Then she opened her eyes with a startle, surprised at her own words. She felt her body, but not what was inside it. She was something empty, something that had not yet been filled, something waiting to know what it’s made out of.
Overnight, the rain started. If Grace’s research is correct, it will not stop until sometime in May. The stained ceiling in the corner of her room started leaking immediately, just as she suspected it would. She woke to the sloppy percussion of drip, drip, drip on her floor, and lay there for a long time considering her options: 1) Get out of bed, find a bucket and towels, and take care of it; 2) Get out of bed, get ready for school, and pretend like it’s not happening; or, the most attractive option, 3) Go back to sleep.
Of course, she eventually went with the first option. At least she knows this one thing about herself: She is someone who does what she is supposed to do. She is someone who has been raised to always do the right thing.
Even with an umbrella and raincoat, Grace finds that by the time she gets to school, her shoes are full of water and her jeans are soaked from hem to knees, and they will stay that way for the rest of the day. The windows of the building are fogged with moisture; the halls are full of the sounds of wet clothes squishing and rubber soles squeaking on wet linoleum.
But there’s something else. Voices are louder than usual. More urgent. Electric. It can’t be the rain doing that. People are huddled in conversation, eyes wide and conspiratorial. They are looking at the walls, at lockers, at pieces of paper in their hands.
Grace walks fast to get a better look at a bright neon printout taped to a locker. WARNING! it reads. TO ALL THE GIRLS, ESPECIALLY FRESHMEN. BE CAREFUL WHO YOU TRUST! It goes on to describe the boys’ sex competition in every disturbing detail. It is signed THE NOWHERE GIRLS.
“Oh my God,” a girl says. She is young, probably a freshman. The girl turns to her friend. “Do you think that’s why that senior asked for my number yesterday? I knew there was something weird about it.”
A light burns in Grace’s core. A small flame flickers in her dark expanses. God’s wordless voice tells her this is the sign she was waiting for.
She turns around. She sees all these girls talking to one another, all these girls who normally wouldn’t mix. Grace wants to celebrate. She wants to hug somebody. A twinge of pride surfaces: She wants to tell them she did this. Then shame takes pride’s place. Does Mom’s ego ever rear its ugly head like this? Does her chest fill with pride when she looks around at her rapt congregation? Does she forget to be humble? Does she forget we are only ever vessels of God, of His work? Does she ever, just a little bit, want to take His place?
A commotion in the halls. Coach Baxter and his football cronies march through, tearing down the signs. “This is unacceptable,” Coach says, his face red, veins pulsing out of his neck. “Principal Slatterly will not condone these rumors. This is bullying, ladies. That’s what this is.”
Somebody coughs, “Bullshit.”
“Who said that?” one of the football boys barks. “Who the fuck said that?”
Then Elise Powell comes striding through the madness in the hall, a pure, beautiful smile on her freckled face. Grace catches her eye, and the warmth inside her grows and grows until she’s full, until it can’t be contained, until it bursts out of Grace’s skin and through the hall and wraps Elise up inside it, and their smiles light the hall with their secret.
We did this, their eyes say. We all did this.
*
By the end of first period, most of the posters were defaced. By the end of second period, they had all been torn down. Someone wrote THE NOWHERE GIRLS SUCK!!! with lipstick across the first-floor girls’ bathroom mirrors.
After the excitement of the morning, lunch is a letdown. Things haven’t changed. People are sitting at their usual tables. The trolls are still central, still as cocky as ever, their voices and laughter even louder than normal as they joke about the morning’s events.
How na?ve to think one poster would change things. How stupid to think it would diminish their power.
“It’s like everyone forgot already,” Grace says.
“And you’re surprised?” says Rosina.
“I have exciting news about sea urchins,” Erin says, and begins a five-minute monologue.
Just as Erin starts to explain eversible stomachs, Elise Powell plops down next to her. Erin’s eyes go wide in shock. Suddenly the three girls’ tiny lunch table island is not so isolated. Suddenly they have achieved communication with the outside world.
“I just told Coach Baxter I’m quitting as manager of the football team,” Elise tells them. “To protest the sexist culture they propagate in this school.” She grins proudly.
“What’d he say?” says Grace.
“He was totally speechless at first,” Elise says. “His mouth just hung open for a while. Then he got pissed. His face got so red, I thought smoke was going to start coming out of his ears. Then he was just like, ‘Fine. Get out of my office,’ like he was trying really hard to control himself. So I got out of his office.”
“You go, girl,” Rosina says, but Grace can’t tell whether she’s being sarcastic or sincere.
“Thanks.” Elise smiles. “Well, I guess I’ll see you guys later.” Then she walks away to return to her usual table of girl jocks.
“That was weird,” Erin says.
“See?” Grace says. “Things are changing.”
“I hate to burst your bubble,” Rosina says, “but I don’t think Elise quitting as manager of the football team is a sign that we’re destroying the patriarchy.”
“Can you just let me have my moment, please?” Grace says.
But then something in the air shifts. Erin looks up in horror, as if she can smell danger. Grace can feel the presence behind her before the cruel voice speaks: “Oh, look, the two crazy bitches got a new fat friend.”
Rosina spins around and glares at Eric Jordan, who is standing behind her. “This isn’t your lunch, shitbird.”
He holds up a hall pass. “Just passing through.”
“Pass a little faster.”
“You’ve got spunk, I’ll give you that,” Eric says with a grin. “And I like a challenge.”
“Is that a threat?” Rosina says, standing up like she’s ready to fight him.
Eric laughs. “It was supposed to be compliment.”