“You guys are crazy,” Rosina says. “This is a great place to have a meeting.”
“It’s not structurally stable,” Erin says. “And it’s a fire hazard. It is highly likely that it’s going to catch fire and we’re all going to be burned alive.”
“Maybe it wasn’t a great idea to tell people to bring candles,” Grace says.
“But we need light, right?” Rosina says. “And who knows when this place last had electricity?”
“Flashlights,” Erin says. “Battery-operated lanterns. We should have specified no open flames.”
The old Dixon Mansion has been sitting uninhabited on the edge of town for as long as anyone can remember. The three girls stand on the porch of the crumbling three-story building as it towers in front of them, the ornate columns framing the entrance tilting at an unnerving angle. Pale light flickers from inside, through cracked and scum-coated windows. The wind is hard tonight. A strong gust might tip the whole place over.
“You ready?” Rosina says to Grace.
“No,” Grace says.
“You’re going to be great,” Rosina says. “Right, Erin?”
“Do you want my honest answer?” Erin says. “Or do you want me to be supportive?”
“What do you think?” Rosina says.
“Grace, you’re going to do great,” Erin says flatly.
Grace sighs. “I can’t screw it up too much, right? Because the meetings usually pretty much lead themselves?”
“Or they end up like the first meeting at the library,” Erin says.
“Erin,” Rosina says softly.
Erin blinks. “I’m sorry, Grace,” she says, looking away. “I want to encourage you because you are my friend and I care about you.”
“That was really sweet,” Rosina says.
Erin shrugs. “Even if Grace totally bombs, it’s okay. Because we’ll still like her and so will everyone else.”
Grace looks at Erin with the beginning of tears in her eyes. “Erin, that is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Yeah, well,” Erin says. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I kind of want to hug you right now,” Rosina says.
“Don’t you dare.”
“I love you guys,” Grace says with a quiver in her voice.
“Ugh,” Erin says. “You are both unbearable.” And she pulls open the creaking front door.
The inside of the mansion looks like the set of a horror movie, complete with a rotted, half-collapsed grand staircase leading to a second-floor landing, the rusted metal carcass of a car-size chandelier in the middle of the floor, the crystal ornaments stolen long ago. The girls follow light and voices into the adjoining ballroom, where a few dozen girls cast ghostlike shadows.
“This place is so creepy!” someone squeals.
“Whoever had the idea to meet here is crazy,” says someone else as she guzzles a can of beer.
“This house is definitely haunted,” says another.
“See, Grace,” Erin says. “You’re not the only one who’s scared.”
“I think it’s great,” says a possibly tipsy Samantha Robeson, leaning against a stone fireplace that is at least a foot taller than she is and could fit at least five of her inside it. “It’s a perfect metaphor, if you think about it. The house symbolizes our fears, and we’re joining here to face them.”
Standing next to Sam is a laughing Melissa Sanderson. “Oh.” Melissa stops laughing. “You were serious.”
“Melissa!” Rosina calls, then hurries over to greet her.
“Was Rosina skipping?” says Grace.
Erin rolls her eyes in answer.
The huge ballroom is drafty, and the candlelight flickers, casting weird moving shadows over the stained walls and ceiling. Peeling wallpaper gives the impression that the house is disintegrating while they are in it. The sound of pounding wind is somehow amplified, made hostile. The room is dusty and dry, but there is a sense of being underwater, of being fish in a human-size aquarium.
Something creaks. Girls scream. Melissa grabs Rosina’s arm and pulls her into her. Then she looks up, giggles, blushes, and lets go. But she is still close. Their hips are touching. They can feel each other’s warmth through their jeans.
Music is playing out of someone’s phone. Girls are passing bottles around. Erin has taken it upon herself to go around the room asking everyone if they have a designated driver. Preppy girls are talking to nerds, jocks are talking to artsy girls, loners are talking to popular girls. Sam Robeson spins in place, whipping her red feather boa around her head like a gleeful tornado. Girls are dancing, freed of their usual inhibitions, liberated from the need to be sexy for an audience of boys.
“Come on,” Melissa says, taking Rosina’s hand and pulling her into the small circle where people are dancing.
“I don’t dance,” Rosina says.
“Everybody dances,” Melissa says. “You don’t fool me. I know you’re not as cool as you act.” She leans in, her soft hair brushing against Rosina’s cheek. “Hey,” she says, her lips, her breath, warm in Rosina’s ear. “Do you want to hang out sometime?”
“Are you drunk?” are the words that come out of Rosina’s mouth.
Melissa pulls away, hardens slightly. “No,” she says. “I’m not drunk.”
“I’m sorry,” Rosina says. “I don’t know why I said that.”
A heavy silence passes between the girls. “I’m sorry,” Rosina says again. “I’m just not used to girls like you talking to me.”
“Girls like me?” The corners of Melissa’s eyes squint in a smile. “What exactly is a girl like me?”
“I don’t know,” Rosina says, looking at her feet. “Popular. Seemingly well adjusted. Not weird.” Melissa laughs. Rosina looks up, into Melissa’s light-blue eyes sparkling with candlelight. “Kind of beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful too,” Melissa says. “Really beautiful.”
“Shouldn’t we start the meeting?” Erin says sharply, appearing out of nowhere, pulling Rosina away from Melissa. “It’s already seventeen minutes past the meeting start time.”
“Hi, Erin,” Melissa says warmly. Rosina is still in shock, unable to form words in her mouth that was just so close to Melissa’s skin.
“This dancing,” Erin says sternly, “or whatever it is you two are doing, is not a constructive use of our time. Grace!” she shouts, even though Grace is only a few feet away. “Shouldn’t you start the meeting?”
“In a few minutes,” Grace says. “People are having fun.”
“But this is not supposed to be about fun,” Erin says, with a frantic edge in her voice. “We should be sitting in a circle and taking turns talking. We need to be organized. We need to be planning our subversive action. We need—”
Melissa circles Erin in her arms and gives her a big squeeze, then lets go before Erin has a chance to freak out. She waves her arm toward the rickety dance floor, at all the girls dancing like no one’s watching. “This is subversive action.”
“You two are useless,” Erin says, then stomps away.
The music abruptly stops. Erin holds the offending phone in her hand.
“Hey, that’s mine,” says Connie Lancaster.
“It’s time to start the meeting,” Erin says.