Six Angry Girls

by Adrienne Kisner

  RAINA PETREE,

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  IN THE COURT OF

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  REVENGE OF CAMBRIA

  Plaintiff,

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  COUNTY

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  v.

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  :

  THE WORLD,

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  Case No. LIFSOVR20205

  :

  :

  Defendant

  :

  MARCH 15: COMPLAINT FOR ACCESS TO PUBLIC RECORDS

  Mondays are apparently a good day for town hall meetings. Most of Steelton streamed into the auditorium of Steelton High, since it was the biggest public gathering space other than the Moretti Performing Arts Center, which probably had a college production going. I met Grace in front of the huge metal doors.

  “You’ve switched to a garbage bag to hold the yarning?”

  “I was told to bring any abandoned projects or spare yarn,” she said. “I tried to get Millie to come to this, but she had to do something with her dad and his new girlfriend.”

  “Bummer. Oh hey, over here!” I waved Carla and Alex over to us as they walked toward the auditorium.

  “Excellent. Glad to see you girls.” Carla eyed Grace’s bag. “Do you also quilt?”

  Grace laughed. “I have in my life. I brought some of my fabric. I went through a duvet phase but got bored. I’m much more a yarner than a sewer. Figured I could donate my good intentions to the cause.”

  Carla nodded. “It’s going to start soon. Follow me.”

  Carla, Alex, Grace, and I shuffled to the very front of the huge room, next to pretty much the entire LYS crew. Beatrice and Gretta had brought their entire families. I had underestimated how many grandchildren and great-grandchildren each of them must have had. At least a dozen more people I recognized from the store sat behind them with yarn and needles. They all waved to us as we sat down.

  Onstage, someone had set up a podium next to two long tables with four chairs, each chair having its own little individual microphone. Behind it, scaffolding peeked out from behind the nearly closed blue velvet curtain. I realized that it was probably for the set of fucking Our Town. I couldn’t dwell too much on it because someone came to the podium. The ambient buzz died down around me. Carla turned and nodded to our group. Everyone began pulling out their yarn.

  “Welcome to the Steelton town hall meeting. I’m Peter Jones, Steelton city manager. You might recognize me from my recent terrible performance in the administration’s basketball game against the Weston municipal employees.”

  Laughter rippled through the crowd.

  “At today’s panel, we’ll hear from some of our elected officials. Each has a few updates from their respective offices, and then there will be time for questions at the end.”

  The audience politely applauded.

  “In order from left to right, we have: Joseph Adams, our financial director; Malik Novak, the chief of police; Fateh Agarwal, Steelton planning director; and Herman Wise, our new district magistrate.”

  The sound of metal needle against metal and wood needle against wood gently scraped around me. No one in our section clapped, though Carla was able to keep her eyes trained on the stage as stitches flew around her Addi Turbo circulars. I wondered how long I’d have to practice until I’d be able to do that.

  They went through the line, with all the updates from around town. Malik Novak told everyone about officers trained in Narcan dosages and the new app to report needles in public spots. Fateh Agarwal talked about zoning changes in the Warnerstown and Roxam neighborhoods, and how the city planned to make up the budget deficits from the infrastructure improvements. Joseph Adams chimed in there, saying that they didn’t anticipate having to cut many services but that they were exploring options to phase out a few early-childhood programs and a domestic-abuse hotline.

  “Isn’t ‘phasing out’ services the same as ‘cutting’?” said Grace.

  “Yes,” said Carla. At least, I think that’s what she said. It sounded less like a word and more like some sort of growl.

  Finally, Herman T. Wise got to speak. The knitters who knew what they were doing picked up their stitching pace.

  Judge Wise talked about equity and justice and how he’d lived in Western Pennsylvania his entire life, so he really understood the community’s concerns and issues. “And I hope to bring a fair perspective to all the people I serve,” he finished.

  I could visibly see Gretta and Beatrice seethe into their wool. Their stitches grew tighter and tighter until I worried their wooden needles might actually snap. I half expected to see smoke coming from the Addi Turbos around me.

  When it came time for questions, residents lined up in the center aisle behind a microphone. People asked about sponsored addiction-treatment options, new playgrounds, garbage pickup times, you name it. Carla, without breaking her cabling rhythm, rose and maneuvered herself to the end of the question line. My shoulders tensed in anticipation.

  A guy asked a question about parking meters, and then it was Carla’s turn to speak. “My question is for Judge Wise,” she said.

  Judge Wise sat up a little straighter. Carla was the first person to direct a question just to him.

  “Two of your recent decisions have made the news, and both of them seemed to demonstrate a bias against women. You seem to favor the aggressors’ stories over victims’—”

  “Alleged aggressors and alleged victims,” he said into his microphone.

  “Aggressors’ stories over victims’, and isn’t it true that during your days in legal practice you gave several interviews to the Tribune Republican where you stated that you believe accusations of assault or sexual misconduct are often exaggerated or fabricated?” Carla’s voice got louder with each word until she was practically shouting into the microphone.

  Judge Wise cleared his throat. “I…”

  “With such a bias, how can you possibly bring a fair perspective to half of the population? Or any of the population?”

  Now the rest of the crowd started to murmur. Something needed to happen now. Someone needed to do something. And I realized that I wanted that someone to be me.

  Moved as if by the needles around me, I stood up. Then Gretta. Then Beatrice with the help of her daughter. Then the rest. I glanced at Grace, who threw me a WTF look and stood. I filed out of my row, and everyone followed until we stood with our backs against the side door wall of the auditorium in a long line. I resumed my knitting.

  Judge Wise turned his head toward us, then across the audience, and back to us. My angle and proximity to the stage put me directly into his line of sight. Judge Wise locked eyes with me for a second before he looked back at Carla.

  “Actually, I’m afraid we’re about out of time,” said Jones. “Judge Wise, you can answer if you want, but in the interest of brevity, we could hold off on this discussion until the next meeting.

  Another murmur rolled through those assembled. Judge Wise sat back in his chair and folded his hands on his stomach. He nodded to Jones.

  “Okay then, folks, thanks for coming out! We will see you next time!”

  Alex moved up the aisle, so people could leave through the side exit. The rest of us spread out so that we weren’t blocking any doors.

  Carla came over to us. A few people smiled at us or nodded to Carla on their way out. Eventually, she led us to the parking lot as well. “Nice move, standing up,” she said. She squeezed my shoulder.

  “What did that accomplish?” said Beatrice.

  “It put his past out there,” said Carla. “It added a little context to his time on the bench, so maybe more people will start to pay attention. It put him on notice that people—voters—care.”

  “That’s not enough,” said Gretta.

  “No. I agree,” said Carla. “Let’s just give it a few minutes, shall we?”

  We stood in a conspicuous circle outside. Five minutes went by. Then ten. Everyone kept knitting, but no panelists ever came out.

  “D
o you think they parked on the other side?” said Grace.

  “Probably. They might have left from the other doors. Cowards,” said Gretta.

  “Well, that confrontation will have to wait. But we have other plans.” Carla glanced over her shoulder, her mouth set in a determined grimace. “Okay, folks. Get out your fabric and find someone with a car for a ride. We have to travel to this mission. It’s go time.”

  MARCH 17: MEMORANDUM AND ORDER

  “When is this, again?” said Mom.

  “State Mock Trial? In about a month. A little more than three weeks. From today. It’s a weekend. I’d go there overnight.”

  “Oh. That’s great, honey. That’s great that you won.”

  Dad had gotten an offer of a full dollar more per mile extra or something for another run, so he hadn’t come back for his planned time off. Mom had been a little out of it the whole weekend, since he was supposed to have been around but wasn’t. Then she had a double Monday and Tuesday. Her brain hadn’t recovered yet.

  “It’s a lot of fun. It’s great just sitting in the courtroom. Maybe I should be prelaw,” I said.

  “Mm-hmm,” said Mom. She started scrubbing dishes in the sink.

  “I mean it. It could be my thing. I know I’m a witness, and I’m basically acting. But the opening statements. The questioning. The reasoning of the courts before you. It’s fascinating, Mom.”

  “Great, honey.”

  She didn’t turn around.

  I went over to the sink and gave her hug from behind. She missed Dad more than I did when he left. He’d been gone so much of my life that it actually felt weird having him around.

  “Daddy said to call him the second you find out about getting into college,” she said. I could hear her holding back tears. “He’s really proud of you going for it.”

  “If I get in,” I said. I knew how unconvincing I’d been as a turkey.

  Mom didn’t say anything. She concentrated on the pots. There wasn’t a lot more that I thought I could do for her.

  “Going to school. Bye, Mom!”

  “See you,” she said.

  I thought the tears would follow as soon as the front door shut behind me. I knew from past experiences of this very thing that she gave herself one full day of grief over the Dad visit disappointment before returning to her stoic keep-calm-and-carry-on routine.

  When I arrived at school, I stopped at my locker to switch my books. I rounded the corner to get to homeroom and almost ran smack into Brandon.

  “Watch where you’re … oh,” I said.

  “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” He shifted his backpack and looked over my head, as if an escape hatch might open from the drop ceiling. When one didn’t materialize, he looked at me. “Get the new case materials yet?”

  “What?”

  “For states. Or nationals.”

  “Oh. Not yet.” I gazed at him.

  “Oh. Well. Maybe the Steelton team will go all the way this year,” he said. There was something in his voice. A tone that I recognized. He was saying something without saying something. A lot of people couldn’t pick it up, but I could.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “It’d be nice if our hard work all these years would pay off.”

  I searched his face, but it was no longer mine to read. Something was off, here. But I found I didn’t care. Brandon just wasn’t the kind of guy who was worth crying over anymore. Or wasting time thinking about what he was trying to tell me.

  “Well, see you,” I said.

  I turned and left him standing there.

  In the hallway after homeroom, Millie was in rare form.

  “We got the materials,” she said as soon as she saw me before homeroom.

  “I heard,” I said.

  “The new case. For states and nationals. It’s freedom of speech. You are going to love it.”

  “Do you have a copy I could see now?” Heaven knows I had no interest in my impending America lit discussion of Ethan Frome, the most soul-sucking book ever written.

  “No! After lunch. Ms. McClain is making us each a packet.”

  I sighed. Ethan Frome it was. How anyone could take the joy out of sledding, I didn’t know. I walked by a table of kids selling tickets to the spring play on the way to my locker. I should try to persuade the freshmen to put on Ethan Frome next year as their play. I still had some sway over the new people, even if they thought I’d lost my mind. It would serve them right for picking fucking Our Town.

  “Raina,” one of them called. “Are you going to come to the play?”

  She looked so eager and happy. I couldn’t resist. The school play I wasn’t in didn’t make me sad. I just wanted them to succeed.

  I bought a ticket. Despite what my mom believed, because school productions weren’t packing them in, it was open admission. I could go any night. Maybe a group of us could go. It might annoy Claire to see me there. And I bet Millie would want to support her. Win, win!

  After lunch, I could hardly wait to get the trial documents in my hands.

  “Okay,” said Millie. “What we have here is a case involving freedom of expression.”

  “That has potential,” said Izzy.

  “A group of nonbinary and female-identifying students put together a discussion group to discuss issues around gender, sexuality, and culture. They called themselves the ‘Social Justice League.’ Members of the group made posters and art, which they put up on the school free-expression boards. They also had a few social-media accounts to which many members post frequently. The school principal has refused to acknowledge the club because he says it is exclusionary and promotes ‘lewd and lascivious behavior.’ Postings on the free-expression board are removed. Some satirical art has been circulated, and it is rumored that the group was responsible for the ‘rainbow yarn bomb incident’ involving the principal’s car.”

  “Yesssssss,” said Grace and I together.

  “Thus, the principal claims that the club has violated school policies by creating threatening content and a threatening environment. The club members believe that the school is infringing their First Amendment rights. They are suing both the school district and the principal in federal court.”

  “Amazing!” said Grace. “Yarn bombing isn’t permanent. If they did his car, he could just cut a row, stich it up, and have himself a Pride duvet. I don’t see what he’s so mad about. Though, I do know people get defensive about this sort of thing.”

  I knew she was probably thinking of the Honorable Herman T. Wise incidents.

  Izzy snickered.

  “What’s the plan, boss?” I said.

  Millie looked at the three of us witnesses. “Can you divide the parts up again?”

  “I imagine we can,” I said.

  “I’ll talk to the lawyers.”

  We huddled in our respective groups.

  “Okay,” said Nikita. “There’s Cortney, who is the Social Justice League president. Justina Peters, the social-media monitor, and Blake, a member-at-large. I can be the last one. It sounds the least complicated.”

  “I will be the social-media manager,” said Izzy. “Because I would bet money Raina wants to be the president.”

  “You know me so well. Okay, for the defense we have Charlotte, the principal. They also have Taylor, captain of the soccer team, and Eden, president of the Real Love Club.”

  “Real Love?” said Izzy. “What’s that horror?”

  I shuffled through the stack of papers. “It appears to be a club that supports ‘traditional values.’”

  “Are these people trying to create a riot in the courtroom?” said Nikita. “I don’t even want to know how they define traditional values.”

  “I’m not playing her,” said Izzy.

  “Me either,” said Nikita.

  “I don’t want to, either,” I said.

  “Someone has to do it,” said Nikita.

  I looked at the two of them. Izzy was shaking her head as she read the witness statement, and Nikita sat with he
r arms crossed in front of her.

  “I’ll do it. But don’t hate me. I’m doing it for the team,” I said.

  Izzy turned to Nikita. “I’ll be the principal.”

  “Yeah, okay. I could be a footballer.”

  “Witnesses are set!” I said.

  There seemed to be more tension on the lawyer side of the room.

  “Millie, what side are we in our trial?” said Veronica.

  “We are plaintiffs for states,” she said. “I assume you’ve read some of the case now?”

  The lawyers didn’t seem happy.

  “What, the plaintiffs are the Social Justice League ones. Why is this bad?” I said.

  “Because it means if we make it to nationals, we might be the defense. They are … a little contrary to what I believe in,” said Grace.

  “We have to make it there first,” said Millie. “Why worry now?”

  Grace looked at her like she wanted to say something, but then didn’t.

  “Grace, Imma need a crocheted vest. Can you help me?” I didn’t like discord in my happy place.

  “I believe I could. Carla would love that. But…”

  “Hells to the yeah, she will,” I said. “But what?”

  Grace frowned. “This case. The defense. One side of this, the defense side, is arguing that people don’t have the right to exist. At least, that’s how I’m reading it. The whole traditional-values thing seems to be hate. And that certain types of people are morally wrong and should be excluded from public life, or whatever. It’s not cool. Why would they even make a case like this? I’m really uncomfortable with it. It’s seems manipulative and wrong.”

  “Well, we’re the plaintiffs at the moment. You can knit us all matching vests! We’re chicks with sticks,” I said.

  “No,” said Millie, who looked distinctly like she was trying to avoid making eye contact with Grace.

  “You won’t keep doing the puns, will you?” said Nikita.

  “I have many purls of wisdom.”

  “No,” said Millie again.

  “Stop,” said Nikita.

  “What can I say?” I grinned. In the face of possible tension in the group, it seemed wise to try to lighten the mood. “Knit happens.”