Grrrls on the Side

by Carrie Pack

  “So, how old are you, Tabitha? Still in high school?” Kate flips on the light at the top of the stairs and descends.

  “Yeah, I go to North Decker. I’m a sophomore.”

  “Sixteen?” Cherie asks.

  I nod.

  “I went to N-Deck,” Kate says. “Mrs. Sansone still there?”

  “Yep, I have her for trig.”

  “She was great. The only teacher I ever had who made math bearable.”

  “I hate math,” Cherie says. “When you’ve got a Chinese last name, teachers always expect you to be good at it, but I’m not. Maybe if I had a teacher like that.”

  “Cherie went to Central. We’re at the community college together.”

  Our conversation is interrupted when we hear footsteps on the stairs and Cherie asks me to help set out chairs. Marty, who has bright pink hair today, barks orders that Kate and Cherie ignore in favor of doing their own thing. I introduce myself, and, after a brief moment of excitement at my presence, Marty gives me orders, too. My eyes follow her as we set up. She’s bigger than the other girls, but not as fat as me. She moves like she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Guessing by her snug-fitting shirt and shorts, it’s probably the latter. I envy her.

  The room gradually fills up with girls—some are as young as fourteen, but most of them are friends of Kate, Cherie and Marty, so they’re a bit older than I am. Everyone seems to get along, and no one seems to be left out, which kind of blows my mind. I didn’t know that was possible. Everyone has someone to sit with, and they all introduce themselves to me. One is a girl who goes to my school; she’s a senior named Jenny whom I’ve seen in the halls but have never spoken to. She smiles at me as if we’re old friends.

  “Hey, I think we have gym together,” she says. “Well, the same period. It’s Tabitha, right?”

  I nod. It’s the only communication I can manage. How does this girl—a real-life popular senior!—know my name? I’m invisible.

  While I’m still trying to reconcile my own image of myself with the way Jenny smiles at me, Kate motions for me to sit by her. It’s surreal to walk into a room and be welcomed. My chest clenches, and I try to take deep breaths.

  “Hey, everybody,” Marty says, once the group is quiet and formed into a lopsided circle. “I’m Martina DeVane, but everyone usually calls me Marty. I wanted to start off today’s meeting with a question. What was the moment this week that you were treated like a commodity? For me it was when I went to buy this hair dye and the woman at the register said I wouldn’t be able to catch a boyfriend with fuchsia hair.” Marty rolls her eyes and I hear Kate mutter something like, “bitch.” Marty continues, “So I told her to suck my left one.”

  Applause breaks out and Marty sticks out her tongue in a way I’ve only seen punk rockers do. This girl is so crazy and fierce. I love it. Kate and Cherie made me feel welcome, but Marty makes me want to take on the world. She’s gritty and edgy and takes no shit. Every other word out of her mouth is a four-letter one. In fact, the first thing she said to me was, “Fuck yeah! A new recruit.”

  The next girl is a fifteen-year-old from Central who says her brother called her “unfuckable.” The one after that says her aunt pointed out her unshaven legs at a family party and everyone, including her own mother, laughed at her. And so it goes: story after story of girls being degraded or sexualized without their consent. When it’s my turn, I hesitate. I have nothing as heart-wrenching as these girls.

  “It’s okay,” Kate says. She puts her hand on my back and rubs small circles. That makes me brave.

  I take a deep breath and confess, “My story’s nowhere near as bad as that, but I guess I felt like that when my former best friend called me Flabby Tabby and made fun of me.” Embarrassed, I hang my head and wait for the next girl to speak.

  “Not as bad?” Marty interrupts. “That’s almost worse. Girls should stick up for each other.”

  A couple of girls shout “Yeah,” and I lift my head to find Kate smiling at me. Maybe Mike was right. Maybe this group will be different. I’ll reserve judgment, at least until the next meeting.

  After everyone has answered the question, the rest of the meeting is more or less an informal party. Girls take turns bringing up stuff they want to talk about, but mostly we talk in small groups. Toward the end, Marty breaks out a guitar and plays a melancholy tune while Cherie sings along. When she gets to the chorus, a bunch of girls sing along.

  “Fuck the man;

  fuck my uncle;

  fuck it all, my friend.

  We are women who won’t be silenced,

  never again the end.”

  Applause breaks out, and a few girls hug. One of the youngest has tears streaming down her plump cheeks. Kate hugs her, and the girl collapses in her arms. The room is silent until the girl finally lifts her head to speak.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, sniffing.

  “Don’t be sorry, Becky,” Kate says. “What that guy did to you is shitty.” She strokes Becky’s hair.

  “What happened to her?” I whisper to Cherie.

  “Date rape,” she says, her thin lips curled into an ugly sneer. “Well, ‘date’ is a loose term. It was a guy in her church youth group. They were at a retreat, and he slipped something into her pop. She woke up naked on a blanket in the woods. He claimed she had been begging for it.”

  “But she’s so young,” I say. My brain won’t process it. I can’t understand how a girl younger than me could be violated like that, and by someone she knows. “She’s just a kid.”

  “Like that’s gonna stop a shitbag rapist like Jason Hartley,” Cherie says through gritted teeth. “We should plaster his name all over town.”

  “Well, at least he’s in jail, right?”

  Cherie scoffs. “Hardly. They sent him on a mission trip to Haiti. His parents said he needed to learn to stay away from ‘girls like Becky.’ They think the focus on others will help him to heal.” She rolls her eyes. “Can you believe that? He needs to heal, like he’s the one who can’t go a day without breaking into tears. Like he’s not the one who chose to drug a thirteen-year-old girl and undress her and violate her.”

  “But it’s not her fault,” I say, suddenly angry at this guy I’ve never met—and his stupid parents. “Why would his parents…? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No, it fucking doesn’t.” Marty’s voice comes from behind me. “But sadly, most of us have stories like that.”

  I glance around the room; my eyes dart from one girl to the next. They all look so normal. How are they still sane? How have I escaped this horror?

  “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Marty.” Cherie shoves her shoulder. “Some of us haven’t been raped. You’re scaring her.”

  “It’s rape whenever a man violates us,” she says. “Even if it’s verbally. You heard what some of these girls said today.” She levels her gaze at me. “You’ve been called fat. But what about a whore? A bitch? Maybe even a lesbian, like that’s some sort of insult.”

  I nod, blinking to keep the tears from forming. Me and my stupid tears.

  “That’s fucking rape. Every time someone degrades us, or tells us what to look like or how to feel or what to do, they are violating us.”

  “Stop comparing rape and misogyny,” Kate says, sounding exasperated. “Sexism is brutal and it needs to stop, but it’s not the same as what happened to Becky. I’d gladly take being called a bitch a million times if it meant stopping all the rapes in the world.”

  “But that’s my point. You shouldn’t have to be subjected to either! When men call us bitches, it degrades us and makes it okay for them to rape us.” As she gets more impassioned, Marty’s round face begins to match her hair.

  Kate rolls her eyes. This is obviously an argument they’ve had before. “Whatever, Marty. I just think you should tone it down a bit. That’s all.”

 
; “Don’t fucking tell me what to do in my own house!”

  Kate shakes her head and gives me an apologetic smile. “I think I’m going to go before this gets any more heated. Would you like a ride home, Tabitha? Cherie and I could drop you off.”

  “That would be great, thanks.” As much as I’m fascinated by Marty, I’ll gladly accept the ride to get away from the terror that is her rage. I thank her for hosting the meeting.

  “You’re coming back, right?” Marty’s dark eyes burn through me as she grabs my arm. “I swear I’m not always like this.”

  “Oh, yes, she is,” Cherie says. She sticks out her tongue to show she’s teasing, but Marty glares at her anyway.

  “I’m just passionate about stuff,” Marty explains with a smile. “Can’t fault a girl for that, right?”

  I smile. “No, I think it’s good to care.”

  “See? I knew she was cool,” Marty says.

  My heart soars. Marty thinks I’m cool. I’m incredulous; my mouth breaks into a wide grin.

  “Hey, look!” Marty says. “Tabitha has teeth after all.” She laughs, and I know she’s teasing me because she likes me. I like not feeling shoved aside.

  “See you next week!” shouts a girl whose name I forgot.

  “Bye!” yells another.

  As I follow Kate and Cherie up the stairs, my boots seem lighter even with the steel covering my toes. Or maybe it’s my mood. The black cloud that has followed me for months thins and the first rays of sunlight poke through.

  Chapter 3

  School, as usual, knocks me off my cloud, and the hazy miserable fog returns… literally. The day starts with a torrential downpour that soaks everything from my hair to my socks, including a meticulously written essay for English lit. The ink has bled all over, and only a few words are legible. As I frantically try to rewrite it in first period—struggling to remember the quotes I used and the arguments I made—I notice an overpowering wet dog smell. It overwhelms my nose and makes it hard to concentrate. Some other kids seem to notice it too; whispers travel around the room in waves.

  Brad slams his backpack onto his desk behind me and sniffs loudly. “Whoa, Tabitha, you reek.”

  I sniff harder. It can’t be me. I am soaked to the skin, like I just went swimming, and anyway, I showered this morning.

  “It’s not me, you cretin.”

  Brad looks confused. I’m proud of myself for using a word that seems to have baffled him, even momentarily, but Amber, the girl sitting next to me, leans over and inhales.

  “I think it is you,” she says, her face scrunching up in a grimace as she bends and sniffs again. “Ew. It’s those nasty old boots.” She pinches her nose and waves her other hand in front of her face.

  I bend over to get closer to my feet, and sure enough, the smell is radiating off my boots. It reminds me of that time my mom forgot a bag of groceries in the car, and we couldn’t get rid of the rotting chicken smell for weeks.

  My face burns as I try to figure out how to get rid of the odor. I can’t go barefoot; I’ll get detention. I could wear my gym shoes, but they’re on the other side of the school in my locker. I’d never make it there and back before the bell rings. I’m going to have to sit through all of first period smelling like the Swamp Thing. I shift in my seat and try to tuck my feet under my desk but the smell seems to be getting stronger.

  “Mrs. Sansone,” Amber says, raising her hand. “Tabitha’s boots are rank. Can I switch seats?”

  “Thanks a lot, traitor,” I mumble.

  Mrs. Sansone glances at me and then my boots. She offers a sympathetic smile through her grimace. “Tabitha, do you need to go change? I can give you a hall pass.”

  I’ve never been more grateful to be a teacher’s favorite. I try to shrink as I walk to her desk to get the pass, but I’ve never felt more enormous and obvious. My face flushes as I notice more students covering their noses as I walk by. Shame has a smell, and it’s wet thrift store boots.

  The hallways are quiet and eerie without students. I like it; it’s more peaceful, and less like a minefield of awkwardness waiting to happen. In the cavernous space, the smell from my boots dissipates. It has somewhere to go besides up the nostrils of my classmates.

  As if they’re trying to remind me of my mission, my boots squeak and squish on the tile as I make my way to the locker room. I won’t have time to rewrite my English essay, but at least I won’t smell like a dead animal soaked in armpit sweat.

  The locker room is far less treacherous without clusters of girls in every corner—girls who are far less concerned with revealing skin than I am, who simply strip down to their bras and panties without a care, who don’t have cellulite at sixteen or fat rolls so deep I could store snacks in them. No, blissfully empty, the rows of hunter-green lockers have lost their power to make me feel worthless. I straighten my spine and hold my head a little higher.

  I stop short in front of my locker. Something is wrong. The lock looks odd; it’s sideways in the latch and hanging open. Did I forget to lock it?

  I rip open the door. My gym clothes are lying in a soggy mess on the bottom of my locker, and it’s not from rain water. There’s a sticky sweet smell reminiscent of grape cough syrup that’s even stronger than the odor from my boots. Well, grape shoes are better than dead animal boots, I guess. I reach into the locker, trying to keep my hands from the worst of the puddle. The only problem is, my shoes are nowhere to be found. I hadn’t noticed because of the wet clothes. There’s a grape-soaked T-shirt and my shorts, but no shoes. They’re gone.

  Why the hell would someone steal my ratty old gym shoes?

  When the shock wears off—and I’ve searched my now-empty locker again—I am overwhelmed with defeat. I can’t go back to class. I’ll have to sneak out and go home. I can go now while everyone is in class. I have a hall pass. No one would realize I was leaving until it was too late.

  It would also give me a chance to take my gym clothes home to wash them. They’re doing me no good in my locker soaked in… Is that grape soda?

  I yank my lunch out of my backpack and dump the sandwich and chips in the trash. Then I shove my sticky gym clothes into the brown bag. It’s a tight fit, but at least I won’t have grape goo all over my books. I grab paper towels from the bathroom and clean out my locker as best I can. Then I double-check that it’s actually locked. Not that it matters now; there’s nothing in it.

  Just as I’m about to leave, the locker room door swings open. First period gym must be getting out. I duck into a bathroom stall in case one of the coaches shows up and realizes I’m in the wrong place. I’ll wait it out until the bell rings. I can sneak out between classes. No problem.

  I didn’t account for the second period class showing up to change. The noise in the locker room grows louder and louder, and then it gets quiet.

  I sit on that stupid toilet for a good fifteen minutes until the warning bell rings. This is probably as empty as the locker room is going to get. I stand up, ready to make a break for it, when I hear familiar voices.

  “She’s so disgusting. I can’t believe you used to be friends with her.”

  “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

  As usual, I have all the luck. It’s Heather and Molly.

  “Amber said she smelled like rotting meat.” Molly’s cruel laugh magnifies her disdain.

  “Rotting meat soaked in urine,” Heather corrects. Her accompanying laugh is unfamiliar and cold. So much has changed; I realize I don’t know her anymore. At all.

  Hot, angry tears soak my cheeks as I try to remain silent and invisible. Confronting them would only make it worse, so I hold my breath and try to calm myself while I pray they leave soon.

  Finally, the second period bell rings, and the locker room clears out. It takes me a few minutes to regain my composure, but when I do, I run for the exit.

  My boots squish the entire wa
y home.

  I share the whole story with the other Riot Grrrls the following Tuesday. All of them are sympathetic, several of them are visibly angry and even Jenny has a suggestion for getting the smell out of the boots: “Just wipe them down with diluted vinegar and then let them dry for a few days,” she says.

  “Next time don’t wear them when it rains,” a dark-haired girl says.

  Thanks, Captain Obvious.

  Overall, though, sharing my embarrassment is cathartic. Being able to bitch about it without fear of being judged is liberating. It seems like it’s that way for a lot of us. Our Riot Grrrl meetings are special, a way to vent and feel a part of something while working toward a larger goal. Of course, that goal is amorphous and changeable. One day it’s “sticking it to the man” and the next it’s “saving girls from rapists.” Some days it’s both. Smash the patriarchy, right?

  The meetings begin to blur, one into the next. We talk about our problems; we encourage each other and we become friends. I get along with almost everyone—a new sensation for me; I’m used to being invisible and friendless—but I’ve become closest with Kate and Cherie. Even Marty seems to have accepted me as one of her flock. Riot Grrrl is my refuge from the festering wound that is my high school and the salve on the scar of my friendship with Heather.

  I’m pretty sure she was the one who soaked my gym clothes in grape soda. I can’t prove it, but she’s the only one who knows how much I hate grape flavoring. I can’t figure out why she’d do it. I’ve never done anything to her, and it’s not a very high-profile prank. She’s not even in my gym class to see me discover the mess. In the end, I decide it doesn’t matter. The smell washes out, and the clothes aren’t stained. But I take extra care locking my gym locker—double- and triple-checking it every day after I change.

  It’s only a couple of months before the end of the school year. I just need to make it a few more weeks. The community college gets out earlier, so I spend even more time with Kate, Cherie and Marty.