Rosina and her mother manage to wrestle Abuelita into the back of the car. She stops fighting as soon as her bony butt hits the seat, as if, just like that, something switched in her head and she forgot her torment. How nice it would be to turn off feelings like that, Rosina thinks as she leans in and buckles Abuelita’s seat belt. Something wet from her face makes a tiny splash on her grandmother’s knee.
They drive home in silence. Abuelita falls asleep as soon as the car starts. “Like a baby,” Mami says softly. “You used to do that. When you wouldn’t stop crying, I’d put you in your car seat and drive around the block. Worked every time.”
But it’s not working now. Rosina is turned as far away from her mother as possible, her forehead pressed against the cold window. It has started to rain, and the thick drops outside match the ones falling down Rosina’s cheeks.
Rosina gets out of the car as soon as it comes to a stop in front of the house. She lifts Abuelita out of her seat, and her bony arms hold tight around Rosina’s neck as she carries her into the house. Rosina lays her down in her bed, pulls the blankets up her to chin, and tucks in the sides slightly. Rosina knows Abuelita likes her blankets tight, just like Rosina.
Mami is standing in the doorway of Abuelita’s bedroom. The room is dark and Rosina cannot see her face. She steps quietly away from the bed and says, “Excuse me.” Mom gets out of her way.
“I’m going out now,” Rosina says. In the darkness, she can see her mother nod.
US.
“At least this place is a lot cleaner than where we had the last meeting,” Grace says.
“But it’s probably even more illegal,” Erin says.
The big stone sign at the entrance to the road says OASIS VILLAS, but there is neither an oasis nor villas in sight, only acres of muddy, bulldozed land dissected by a tangle of roads that circle around and go nowhere. The only signs of life are abandoned tractors sitting on piles of dirt and, way off in the distance, far from the main road, this one empty, perfect house on top of a hill, which the girls are sitting in right now. The sign stuck out front says MODEL HOME! in cheerful green letters, but there is nothing cheerful about it.
“Oh, look,” Rosina says. “I’m not the only brown person here anymore. There’s Esther Ngyuen and Shara Porter. We have our token Latina, Asian, and Black girls now. Aren’t we just the model of intersectional feminism?”
Rosina plops down in the corner and leans against the wall, glaring at the rest of the room.
“What’s your problem?” Erin says as she sits down beside her.
“I don’t have a problem,” Rosina says.
“You’re even bitchier than usual,” Erin says.
“You do seem kind of down,” Grace says. “Are you still upset about your meeting with Principal Slatterly on Thursday?”
“Fuck Principal Slatterly,” Rosina says, but without her usual enthusiasm. She touches her red and slightly swollen left cheek. “My mom told me I had to come into the restaurant today,” she says. “Even though it’s my day off. Seriously, it’s like third world conditions. Being in my family is like living in a sweatshop.”
“Is that racist?” says Erin. “Are you being racist against yourself?”
“But you’re not at the restaurant,” Grace says, still standing in front of her two seated friends.
“Yeah, well, that’s because I said no.”
“That’s good, right?” Grace says.
“Not when it sets off a fight that’s so bad we don’t notice my grandmother leaving the house until she’s already made it five blocks away and is about to get herself killed trying to cross the six-lane street by the highway. And then when we try to get her in the car, she thinks I’m a demon impersonating her dead daughter and punches me in the face.”
“Oh no,” Grace says. “I’m so sorry.”
Rosina shrugs her best I-don’t-care shrug, but it is not convincing. She looks around at the growing crowd of girls cramming themselves into the pristine, empty living room, trying to maneuver for prime spots near their friends. Even here, where everyone’s supposed to be on the same side, social cliques and hierarchy still reign.
“Why don’t you just quit?” Erin asks.
“What, quit my family?” Rosina says. “I wish.”
“Quit your job.”
“I need the money.”
“Could you at least quit babysitting like you were talking about?” Grace says. “Get your cousin to start doing it?”
“My family doesn’t exactly understand the word ‘no.’?”
“Margot’s talking,” Erin says.
“When is she not?” Rosina says.
“It’s time to be quiet,” Erin says.
Someone has turned on the gas flames of the model home’s fake fireplace, and Margot Dillard, student body president, is standing in front of it trying to get everyone’s attention.
“Grace, are you going to sit down?” Rosina says. “You’re making me nervous.”
Grace looks at her feet, then at Margot, then back at her friends sitting in the corner. “I think I’m going to sit closer to the middle?” she says. “So I can hear better?”
“Whatever,” Rosina says. “Knock yourself out.”
“There are thirty-one people here,” Erin says, her hands in knots. “That’s too many for this room. It’s too crowded. It’s just a matter of time before the meeting descends into total chaos.”
“Descends into total chaos,” Rosina sings in a growly heavy-metal voice. “Duh duh duh.” But Rosina’s teasing of Erin is interrupted as Melissa the cheerleader sits in the empty spot right next to her.
“Is it okay if I sit here?” Melissa says, smiling.
“Um, okay?” Rosina says, immediately hating herself for the question in her voice.
“I am not comfortable with this at all,” says Erin, to no one in particular.
“Does anyone have topics they would like to propose for today’s discussion?” Margot says from the fake fireplace.
“Can we talk about how all the boys are being big babies?” someone says, which makes people laugh.
“I’m curious how things feel different for people,” Melissa says. “Like if anyone feels like things are changing with how guys are treating them, or how we’re treating one another. Or even how we feel about ourselves.”
“Yes,” Margot says. “Does anyone want to speak on what Melissa brought up? How things are changing?”
“I feel more confident,” says Elise Powell. “Like, less insecure around other girls. Not as worried about everyone judging me all the time. Because it feels like we’re all on the same side for once.”
“I feel braver,” says another girl.
“Yeah,” says Elise. “I feel like we’re different. The girls are. But the guys seem exactly the same.”
“If not worse,” someone says.
“We’re forcing them to show who they really are,” says Sam Robeson. “Nothing like a little obstacle to bring out someone’s true character. It’s basic dramatic theory.”
“What are we supposed to do now?” says another girl. “Just sit around and wait for the guys to get their shit together?”
“Basically, yes,” says Elise. “They know what we want. It’s up to them to figure out how to change.”
“They can always ask us for pointers,” Rosina says. “Like here are the top ten ways to not be a douche bag. Number one: Don’t rape girls.”
“Number two,” says Melissa. “Don’t let your friends rape girls.”
“Number three,” someone says. “Have girls as friends, not just girlfriends.”