Rosina follows Melissa’s eyes to Erin in a ball beside her. “Erin?” she whispers.
“So we’re fucked,” Serina says. “We can’t do anything.”
Morose faces around the room.
Erin is unreachable.
“That’s not true,” Grace says. “Look at us. Look at what we’re doing. We’re changing things already.”
“What’s changing?” Serina says. “Lucy still got raped. Those assholes are still free. We’re not doing anything.”
“These meetings are something,” Grace says. “We’re changing ourselves.”
“We’re changing the culture at Prescott,” Melissa agrees.
“Erin,” Rosina whispers. “Do you need to go?”
“But we don’t even talk about Lucy anymore,” Serina says. “We hardly ever talk about Spencer, Eric, and Ennis, either. And aren’t they the whole reason this thing started?”
Without thinking, Rosina places her hand lightly on Erin’s back. In a split second, Erin bursts out of her quiet huddle, arms flailing, knocking Rosina over in the process.
“Jesus, Erin!” Rosina says, rubbing her arm. But by the time Rosina gets herself upright, Erin is already on her way out the door.
“And we can’t forget about the girls who aren’t here,” Sam Robeson says. “The ones who aren’t fighting yet. We need to fight for them.”
“So what do we do?” Melissa says. “How do we help them?”
“We could host a self-defense class,” Connie Lancaster says. “We could pool our money and hire someone to teach us.”
“That’s good,” Sam says. “We should definitely do that.”
Rosina runs out of the room after Erin. The last thing she hears is Serina Barlow say: “Yeah, but it’s still not enough.”
It takes a few moments for Rosina’s eyes to adjust to the darkness outside. The wind has been replaced by a downpour. The world outside the leaking shelter of the porch is a wall of solid water.
“Erin?” Rosina says softly. “Where are you?”
She hears wood creaking. She searches with her flashlight until the beam finds Erin, sitting on an old crate in the shadows at the far end of the porch, rocking to a rhythm only she can hear.
Erin holds her hand over her eyes. “Will you please not shine that in my face?”
“Sorry,” Rosina says, shutting the flashlight off. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion.”
“Can we talk?”
“Why don’t you go talk to your cheerleader instead?”
“Erin, what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
As Rosina moves closer, she notices Erin flinch.
“Come on,” Rosina says. “You had near meltdowns in the past two meetings.”
“You know I don’t like large groups of people,” Erin says, looking out at the rain. “I need to be alone sometimes.”
“I don’t think that’s it, though. This is about more than that.” Rosina pauses, waits. But Erin says nothing. “They were talking about things. About sex. About rape. Things that triggered you.” Rosina takes one tentative step closer. “You can tell me. I’m your best friend.”
Erin stands up and starts pacing the length of the porch. “What about what your cheerleader said? What about not forcing people to talk about it?”
“I want to help you. I—”
Erin stops abruptly in front of Rosina. Her entire body is shaking. “It’s none of your business!” Erin shouts. “Why do you think everything about me is your business?” She starts pacing again, this time faster, this time with her hands flying. “You’re as bad as my mom. You think I can’t handle my own feelings. You think I’m completely helpless.”
“I’m sorry,” Rosina says. “That’s not what I—”
“I don’t need your help,” Erin says with a strained voice. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can.”
“Don’t patronize me!”
“Erin—”
“Just go away,” Erin says, returning to the shadows in the corner of the porch. “Just leave me alone. I don’t need you. I don’t want you here.”
There are no words for what Rosina’s feeling, no response to what Erin has said. She could tell herself it’s Erin’s stress talking right now, that she’s lashing out because she’s scared, that she doesn’t really mean what she’s saying. But Rosina knows there is something real in Erin’s anger, something damning, and a heavy pressure seizes her from inside her chest and grabs her throat like a hand, strangling her.
“Fine,” Rosina manages to choke out. “I’m walking home. You can get a ride with Grace.”
Rosina steps off the porch and is instantly drenched. She does not turn around, does not check for Erin’s response. Erin’s right—she doesn’t need Rosina. Nobody does.
Rosina is grateful for the rain, grateful that she can focus on the sound and the feel of it on her body, the new heaviness of her clothes, the cold wet of her skin. She does not turn on her flashlight as she walks away, even though the moon is covered by thick rain clouds and there are no streetlights nearby, even though the road is overgrown and rocky, even though the trees are tall and thick and slightly terrifying. Rosina does not try to fight the darkness. If she can’t see, then she has to be even more aware of her surroundings. She has to use all her inner resources just to manage walking. She has to focus on moving forward, focus on surviving. And when you’re focused on surviving, there’s nothing left for pain.
You’re alone, the darkness tells her. Nobody wants you.
The rain is so loud, even if Rosina was crying, no one would hear her. The night is so dark and she is so drenched, even if there were tears on Rosina’s cheeks, no one would be able to see them.
Two miles later there is not a single part of Rosina that is dry. She’s careful to clean up the puddle she makes when she strips off her clothes in the living room. Best to be invisible. Best to leave no trace. Best to not create any new reasons to make Mami mad again.
The house is silent. Mami and Abuelita are both asleep in their rooms. Rosina and Mami have barely spoken to each other since their fight last weekend, except for what is absolutely necessary. Take the garbage out. Order ready for table four. Help Abuelita with her bath.
Rosina doesn’t know which is worse—this Cold War silent treatment or the sporadic high-octane screaming fights. At least actual fights are over quickly. They usually have some closure. They burn themselves out. But this, whatever it is, is like a smoldering fire, a constant ache. There’s a voice in Rosina’s head, so soft it’s more like a subliminal message, on repeat, a low dirge: You are not even important enough to scream at anymore.
GRACE.
“Oh my God, you guys,” Connie Lancaster says. “You’ll never guess what I heard.” It’s Monday morning, the bell for homeroom hasn’t even rung yet, and Connie is already primed for gossip. “A bunch of girls just started a feminist club at East Eugene High and, like, guys are joining.”
“That’s awesome,” Grace says.
“But this is the best part,” Connie says, leaning in. “They’re calling themselves the Nowhere Girls.”