Grrrls on the Side

by Carrie Pack

  “Hey, you interested in doing some shit?” she asks. Her pale green eyes sparkle with determination.

  “Like what?”

  “About all the bullshit in the world that girls have to put up with.”

  Thinking she’s joking, I laugh. “That’s ambitious.”

  “Just because we’re girls doesn’t mean we can’t change things. Here.” She hands me the flyer I’d noticed her passing out. “We meet on Tuesdays.”

  “Thanks.” Before I get a chance to read it, she thrusts another piece of paper under my nose.

  “This is our zine,” she says. “It’s just some thoughts and stuff, but it’s free. If you want to subscribe, send a dollar and some postage to that address on the back.”

  I flip over the tiny booklet—it’s photocopied and folded to look like a small magazine. The pages are a mixture of typed and hand-written passages with pictures that seem to be cut out of Sassy or Seventeen. It reminds me of that Bikini Kill zine I had.

  In the absence of anything better to say, I mumble, “Cool,” and shove the zine into my pocket along with the flyer. The girl smiles again, and my stomach flutters, just as Mike taps me on the shoulder.

  “They’re getting set up. Let’s try to get a spot closer to the stage.”

  “Sure.” I turn to the brunette, wave and offer a halfhearted “Thanks.” I still don’t know what the hell she gave me, but I wish I could talk to her longer.

  While the band sets up, a petite Asian girl stands up at the mic and shouts, “All the girls, come to the front!” I hesitate. Maybe she’s talking to her friends. I glance around for a clue. No one seems to be moving. Mike nudges me, and I stumble over my heavy boots.

  “Girls to the front!” she shouts again. “Come on. All the girls need to be up here, right down front where the band can see you.” She waves her arms wildly, beckoning us forward. A few girls follow her command, but I’m frozen.

  “Tabitha, you’re a girl,” Mike insists, shouting over the noise.

  I inch closer, but I still feel like a fraud. I’m not cool enough to be part of this group of girls.

  “All girls to the front!” the girl onstage shouts again, and the room reverberates with feedback.

  I’m attempting some half-assed excuse when a pale girl with hair so red it could only have come from a bottle grabs me by the elbow. Without a word, she tugs hard on my left arm. Before I know it, I’m close enough to the stage that I can reach out and touch it, and the redhead still has her arm looped through mine. I want to pull away but I don’t. She smells like vanilla body spray, and her arm feels like silk where it grazes my bare skin. We’re in this together now.

  The house lights dim, and the crowd erupts into screams as the band rips into their first song. By the chord change, I’ve forgotten all about my awkwardness and I dance my fucking face off.

  Decked Out No. 1

  The official zine of Riot Grrrl Decker

  My Zine is Better than Your Scene

  So at the Lipstick Revolver show last month I met this rad chick named Marty who told me about this group called Riot Grrrl (if you’ve ever heard of Bikini Kill or Heavens to Betsy you know what we’re talking about) and we decided to start our own group right here in Decker. For now, we’re meeting in Marty’s basement; it’s not as bad as it sounds, promise. She has a pool table and comfy furniture. We just need to bring our own pop and stuff so her mom doesn’t go nuts. This is gonna be an all-ages thing, so bring your little sisters, girlfriends, cousins, bffs, whatever. Riot GRRRL is all about DOING STUFF. We want to be heard and we’re sick as f*ck with being left out of the punk and grunge scene because we’re chicks. We are sick of walking to our front doors at night with our keys between our fingers so we can gouge out the eyes of our rapists. We’re sick of being called fat because we don’t look like supermodels. We’re sick of being called whores because we dare to wear midriff tops. We’re sick and tired of being sick and tired.

  We want to change that. We want people to take us seriously and we want to support each other with some girl power! This is a girls revolution! JOIN OUR GRRRL GANG!!!!!!!!

  Now our meetings won’t all be super serious. We’re hoping to just chill too and some of us want to start a band. Marty and I were brainstorming names the other day and came up with some cool ones. Check it out and let us know if you use one so we don’t overlap.

  This is gonna be killer. See you… oh, I guess I should say when the meetings are. We plan to meet Tuesdays at 6 at Marty’s—it’s the address on the back of the zine.

  xoxo,

  Kate

  BAND NAMES FOR BADASS GIRL GROUPS

  Battle Bots

  Bottled Blondes

  June Meat Cleavers

  The Menstrual Cyclists

  Vagina Slims

  Tits and Slash

  Tits and Gash

  The Pain Austens

  Toxic Shock

  Dandelion Queef

  Suicidal Butterflies

  9021-Ho

  Lace Panties

  The Rags

  Brandon Walsh’s Virginity

  Menstrual Weekend

  Menstrual Oyster

  Twat’s Up Doc?

  My Left Tit

  Silicone Breast Implants

  Toe Pick

  The Claires

  Pubic Menace

  YESTERDAY

  by Kate G.

  Yesterday, my dad told me I had mosquito bites instead of boobs;

  Yesterday, I saw an ad for a Wonderbra;

  Yesterday, I realized my own father had sexualized me;

  Yesterday, I bought a magazine that promised me “7 ways to wow him in bed!”;

  Yesterday, I learned I’m a commodity—made for male consumption;

  Yesterday, a boy called me ugly, and I believed him;

  Yesterday, I knew I’d never measure up;

  Yesterday, I traded my soccer cleats for high heels;

  Yesterday, I wondered if there is a way out;

  Yesterday, I kissed a girl;

  Yesterday, I got called a dyke;

  Yesterday, I died a little inside;

  Yesterday was my birthday.

  A teenage feminist manifesto

  by Marty DeVane

  We are the generation who can change this shit. Misogyny. Patriarchy. Sexism. We need to wake up. Stop buying the push-up bras and pantyhose and going on crash diets. I want to spit in the face of consumerism and piss on the patriarchy. I want to wear frilly dresses and play in the mud. I want to punch things and dance ballet and eat an entire cake. I want to not care if my thighs touch. If I decide tomorrow that I don’t want to shave my legs or my pits, then I won’t. If I want to wear red lipstick, I will.

  I am a woman.

  I am a human.

  I am.

  Chapter 2

  I skip the Riot Grrrl meeting that first Tuesday after the concert. I’m not sure why. Even after the concert, I’m left with a feeling of inadequacy. Guess you can’t erase sixteen years of insecurity with one night of thrashing at a Bikini Kill show.

  Instead I moon over that stupid flyer. I carry it everywhere and read it whenever I need a boost. The words “Smash the Patriarchy” printed in bold, block letters have become my internal mantra.

  When Brad Mason catches me reading the flyer in first period, he laughs. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of joining those whiny-ass bitches.”

  I glare at him over my shoulder. Smash the Patriarchy!

  Brad sneers. “They’re all just a bunch of man-hating, hairy-armpitted lesbians.”

  “Shut up.” I turn around in my seat and try to ignore him.

  “Are you a lesbian, Tabitha?” He smirks.

  “That’s none of your business.” I crumple the flyer and shove it in my poc
ket. Even though I have no intention of using it, I keep my hand tightly balled in a fist. Tears sting my eyelids, but I refuse to let them fall. I might be a chicken, but I’ve got standards. No crying in public. Not after the last time.

  Brad’s gaze burns through my back the entire hour, but I don’t spill a single tear. Not one. Smash the Patriarchy!

  Every day that week, in first period, I smooth out the flyer and read it again. Only this time I’m more careful about letting anyone see it. I eventually chicken out and wad it up, shoving it into the deepest, darkest crevice of my backpack. Later, usually in last period, I dig it out and smooth it as best I can, pondering the twelve words of text I soon have memorized. I even have Marty’s address stored in the depths of my brain. She only lives about six blocks from me. How great would it be to meet some girls who liked the same stuff that I do? Who have gone through the same stuff? Who aren’t Heather Davidson and her bitchy sycophants?

  I glance in Heather’s direction and notice she’s wearing the silver hoop earrings I got her for her birthday last year. It was the last time I hung out with her before she completely disowned me. Although, if I’m honest, she’d written me off long before then. Loyalty was the only thing keeping us connected at all and even that couldn’t trump popularity—not with boyfriends and makeup and parties on the line. For her fifteenth birthday, Heather had a pool party and invited all the cool girls from our class. She told me she had a secret plan to get us in with their crowd, and I was so excited. Then Jen Radford, in all her tactful coolness, asked her why she had invited the fat girl. Of course, we both knew Jen meant me. I was the fat girl. I remember looking around at the other girls, all skinny and tan in their bikinis, and me in a navy-blue one-piece covered with a Ren & Stimpy T-shirt. To drive her point home, Jen shoved me in the pool and joked that everyone could go whale watching now. And Heather laughed. She was probably still laughing when I walked through my front door twenty minutes later, sopping wet and minus a best friend.

  By this time, I’ve been staring too long. Heather looks up and glares at me and then whispers something to Molly, who’s taken my place at Heather’s side. They’re always together and always laughing about something. They erupt into a fit of giggles that I know is at my expense. Heather may be dead to me, but it still hurts. When I look at her I still see the little girl who told me she was going to marry Kirk Cameron and have twenty babies. Only now that girl has been consumed by a lip gloss-wearing harpy whose only mission in life is to make me miserable. I wish she’d go back to daydreaming about Kirk and his twenty brats and leave me the hell alone.

  I force my attention back on the chapter we’re supposed to be reading, but I can still feel their eyes on me. I try my best to care less than they do, but the hurt still niggles at the back of my mind, even as I try to read Great Expectations. I hate Dickens almost as much as I hate Heather, so it’s easy to get distracted. My brain runs through every worry it can drum up. What if the girls at this meeting are just like Heather and Jen and Molly? What if I’m the fat outcast who’s the butt of all the jokes? What if no one likes me? What if Heather got to them first? I’m not sure I could handle that again.

  I crumple the flyer and shove it in my pocket. The ink is starting to wear off.

  I try to smash down thoughts of the Chick Clique—yes, they actually call themselves that, and it makes me want to barf—as they continue to look my way and laugh. I blink to keep the tears from spilling. My vision is too blurry to copy the homework assignment, but I refuse to let Heather—or anyone else—see me cry.

  When the bell rings, I toss the flyer in the trash.

  “I don’t know why you let those jerks get to you,” Mike says. He stubs out his cigarette and lights another one. “They are nasty, self-absorbed little girls. You don’t need Heather Davidson in your life.”

  I like that Mike never calls girls bitches, even girls like Heather who deserve it. He says his mom doesn’t like it when he demeans women. He gets in more trouble for saying “bitch” than he does for the f-word.

  “I know you’re right, but it gets under my skin. And she knows it.” I pretend to squint into the sun so he can’t see my traitorous tears.

  He bumps his shoulder against mine. “So stop letting it get under your skin. Prove her wrong.”

  “Easier said than done, my friend.” The closeness overwhelms me, so I take a couple of steps to kick an empty pop can. It goes skittering across the parking lot before coming to a stop in a puddle of greasy, brown water. I can relate. I’m more like that faded old can than other girls my age. “Why are girls such shits?”

  “I don’t think all girls are like that,” Mike says. “You’re not like that.”

  He pushes off the wall he’s leaning on and steps closer as he tosses his cigarette in the same puddle. His brown eyes lock on mine, and my heart beats faster.

  “I’m not?” The words sound hollow, but I can’t think of anything else to say. It seems like more than we’ve said to each other in a month.

  Pursing his full lips, Mike shakes his head. Holding my gaze, he tucks my hair behind my ear and then glances down to my lips and back up to my eyes. I think he might kiss me. Instead, he turns his head and spits. His saliva puddles and disappears into the pavement, and I’m grateful it didn’t end up in my mouth.

  “I gotta go. My mom wants me to help with dinner.” It’s an outright lie, but I don’t want to stay here with Mike any longer. Something has changed between us, and I need time to process it.

  “See you tomorrow,” he says. It sounds like a question instead of a statement.

  Unable to trust my own voice, I nod. I can feel Mike’s gaze on my back as I walk away. I keep my posture as firm as I can, and I try to walk as if it’s just another day, as if the ground beneath me hasn’t shifted. But everything is different. I’m sure he can see it in my stride.

  I need new friends.

  That almost-kiss overrides my fear of rejection and pushes me into action. Plus, I have the address memorized, so I can’t use throwing out the flyer as an excuse.

  Marty’s house looks a bit like mine, but it’s much bigger—the longer I stare, the more it reminds me of Heather’s house, especially the way the driveway wraps around in a half circle. I stand in that driveway staring at the front door until my feet begin to ache. I’m about to make my getaway when a car pulls up. It’s a gold hatchback, and even with the windows up I can hear the music blaring. The white girl from the concert who gave me the flyer is driving; the Asian girl who was up onstage is in the passenger seat. When the driver sees me, she waves.

  Shit. I’ve been spotted. No turning back now.

  I hold up my hand in a halfhearted greeting and try to smile, but I suddenly feel extremely awkward and out of place. These girls are much cooler than I am. The driver has perfectly lined eyes and a button nose. Her shoulder-length brown hair is shampoo-ad shiny, but now, instead of wearing the baby barrettes, she’s pulled it back into a cute ponytail. My ponytail always manages to look lazy. I tug on my hair, hoping to smooth some of the frizz.

  As the other girl exits the car, her black hair, sculpted into a perfect angled bob, falls beautifully across her face. And her petite, perfectly proportioned frame is evident even beneath her oversized babydoll dress. Meanwhile, my stomach strains against my waistband, so, hoping to look smaller, I suck it in. My heart races as I try to decide the best route to cut and run. They’ll probably think I’m a fat freak with my pale skin, boring gray eyes and mousy brown hair.

  “Hey,” the driver says. She sounds almost happy to see me. “Didn’t I see you at the Bikini Kill show last week?”

  “Yeah, um, you gave me the flyer.” My voice squeaks. Actually squeaks! What am I, a mouse?

  “Cool.” She smiles again. “I’m Kate Goldberg and this is Cherie Wong.”

  “We’re so glad you came!” Cherie gushes. She looks far less aggressive than she did at
the concert. Of course, she’s not screaming into a microphone, so that might have something to do with it. Her smile is welcoming and real.

  I’m not sure what to say, so I attempt another smile. I bet it looks as awkward as I feel. “I’m Tabitha,” I say. “I’m not sure I’m supposed to be here. I just…” I don’t know how to finish that sentence.

  “Oh, we all feel that way at first,” Kate says, putting her arm around me as if she’s known me for years. “Don’t worry. Everyone is going to love you, if your taste in music is anything to go by.”

  We’re quiet while Kate rings the doorbell. A shout from inside insists we come in and head downstairs.

  “Marty likes to make an entrance,” Kate says, “but she’s cool… in her own way. You’ll see.”

  Cherie smiles. “Last week she dyed her hair bright blue, but it faded to a half-assed green. I wonder what color it will be this week.” She winks at me and leads the way into the house.

  I laugh, but I wish I had the guts to dye my hair a crazy color.

  “Tabitha, hmm? Your mom think she’s a witch or something?”

  “Obsessed with Bewitched, actually. Apparently she watched a lot of reruns while she was pregnant with me. So you’re not far off.”

  “Still, it’s a pretty name.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter. It’s the first time someone my age has complimented my name instead of making fun of it. No condescending fingers on the nose, attempting to mimic the childlike wiggle from the TV show. No shouts of “Flabby Tabby” as I try not to cry. I don’t know what to do with that.