by Amy Reed
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.
“At least give me my phone back,” Connie says.
“You have to promise not to play any music,” Erin says. “The dance party is over.”
“Okay, y’all,” Grace says in an almost-loud voice. “Um, let’s get in a circle, everyone. I’m Grace. Margot asked me to lead the meeting while she’s gone.”
People slowly find seats on the dusty wood floor. Erin sits by Grace, Rosina sits by Erin, and Melissa sits by Rosina. Melissa does not notice Erin’s eyes shooting daggers in her direction.
“I wonder where Amber is,” Grace says to no one in particular.
Across the circle, Lisa Sutter says, “Who cares?”
“That’s not nice,” says one of her cheerleader friends.
“She’s not nice,” says Lisa.
“Hey, y’all?” Grace says. She clears her throat. “Can we try to focus on what can bring us together rather than what divides us? We’re not going to get anywhere if we keep fighting each other.”
“Or sleeping with each other’s boyfriends,” Lisa mutters under her breath.
New beers are opened as empty cans are crushed and thrown into dark corners of the room. How many of these six-packs were purchased from Spencer Klimpt at the Quick Stop? How many girls recognize the irony of this?
“Where’s Elise?” Rosina says.
“She has a date,” says one of her softball friends.
“She’s skipping the meeting for a date?” Connie Lancaster says. “Doesn’t that go against everything she believes in?”
“Dude, just be happy for her,” Rosina says. “If anyone deserves a little romance, it’s Elise.”
Melissa leans against Rosina with her whole body, and Rosina forgets how to breathe.
Everyone is seated. The room is dark around them, faces illuminated by the unstable light of candles and flashlights as the girls sit in a circle facing each other. There are almost forty girls here. They’re practically piled on top of each other.
“Oooh, are we going to have a séance?” someone says.
“Let’s play Truth or Dare!” says someone else.
“I need to say something,” Sam announces before Grace even has a chance to decide what she is going to say next. “I think we need to call off the sex strike,” she says.
“You’re just horny,” her friend says.
“I’m not joking,” Sam says. “I never wanted to do the strike. From the beginning, I thought it was a bad idea.”
“Oh, poor you,” a girl says, obviously drunk. “So you’re not getting laid? Big deal. At least you can get laid. Some of us here will probably die virgins.” Her friend is trying to shush her, but it’s not working. “I’ve never even kissed anyone. How pathetic, huh? Some of us might never get boyfriends.”
“Or girlfriends,” mutters someone else.
“But you all have hands,” Rosina says. “I hope you know how to use them.” Melissa giggles next to her.
“It’s not just about that,” Sam says. “I think the strike sends the wrong message. We’re protesting rape, right? But rape isn’t about sex. It’s about power and violence.”
“We’re protesting a lot of things besides rape,” Melissa says. “And like you said, rape is about power. It’s about their physical power over us, about them using their bodies to overpower ours. So we’re asserting our power, right? By not letting them have our bodies?”
“But we’re not just withholding sex from guys,” Sam says. “We’re withholding it from ourselves. It’s like going on a hunger strike because they’re pelting us with tomatoes. It doesn’t make sense. We’re still suffering because of them. They’re still controlling our bodies.”
“Personally, I don’t feel like it’s that much of a sacrifice,” Connie says. “But I don’t have a boyfriend, so I guess I don’t have a whole lot to give up.”
“Sam,” Grace says, sitting up a little straighter as she speaks. “What do you propose we do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how to fix it. All I know is it doesn’t feel right to me.”
“But we can’t just take it
back,” Rosina says. “That would be like surrender. That would be like them winning.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Sam says. “It’d be us making a decision for ourselves. They have nothing to do with it. I mean, look at what we’ve done so far. Look at how things have changed. It had nothing to do with the sex strike. It was about us supporting each other. It was about standing up for ourselves and not taking any more shit. Sex is ours, too, you know? Empowerment isn’t just about saying no. Isn’t our pleasure empowering too?”
“I don’t think it’s time yet,” Melissa says.
“I agree with everything you said, Sam,” Grace says. “I think most of us probably do. But, honestly, I don’t know if people will listen to us otherwise.” She sighs and looks around the room apologetically. “It seems like sex is still our best tool for making sure we’re heard.”
“Well, that is supremely fucked up,” Sam says.
“Everything’s fucked up,” says Rosina.
“Don’t you see it?” Sam pleads. “We’re using sex to get what we want. We’re still playing by their rules. How is that okay?”
The room is silent. No one has an answer. No one has a solution.
Grace clears her throat. “I think what Margot would do right now is take a vote.”
“That’s her solution to everything.” Sam sighs. “But deciding something doesn’t necessarily make it right.”
“It’s the only thing I can think of,” Grace says. “I’m sorry if it’s not perfect. But unless someone comes up with a better idea, I think it’s all we have right now.” She clears her throat and looks around the room. “Does anyone have anything they want to add before we vote?”
The room is quiet.
“Okay,” Grace says. “All in favor of keeping the sex strike, raise your hand.”
The room is full of hands, but the faces attached to them are resigned, unenthusiastic.
“All opposed,” Grace says.
Far fewer hands fill the air now.
Sam shrugs. “It was worth a try.”
“Are you still with us, Sam?” Grace says.
Sam smiles a tired smile. “Of course I am.”
Then something in the air shifts, some kind of invisible movement. Eyes follow eyes until they are all focused on the same thing. Lisa Sutter gets up and walks across the room to meet the figure that has appeared in the doorway.
“Abby?” Melissa Sanderson says, wide-eyed, like she’s seen a ghost.
Lisa stands almost protectively next to the girl who has materialized out of the shadows.
“Who is that?” Grace whispers to Rosina.
“Abby Steward,” Rosina says with disdain. “Graduated last year. One of the queens of the troll table. Total mean girl.”
“Hey, Melissa,” says the girl named Abby. “Hey, Lisa.” She is something close to beautiful, but there is something too sharp in her features, something strained and hard.
“She could be a spy,” Erin says. “What if she’s a spy? What if she’s going to turn us all in?”
“Oh my God, Abby!” says one of the cheerleaders. “How have you been since graduation?”
“I’m all right,” Abby says. “Taking some classes at PCC and working at Applebee’s.”
“That’s great,” the cheerleader says. “So nice to see you.”
“Yeah,” Abby says. “Whatever.”
“If someone could be murdered by uncomfortable small talk,” Rosina says, “I would definitely be dead right now.”
“Why’s everyone being weird?” Grace whispers.
“Abby is Spencer’s Klimpt’s ex-girlfriend,” says Rosina.
“I can’t stay long,” Abby says, backing up half a step toward the door. “Lisa told me about your meetings and everything. And I just—I wanted to come by and tell you something.”
A ballroom full of girls are sitting at Abby’s feet, staring at her, waiting.
Abby picks at something on her fingernail. “So, like, you guys know I dated Spencer Klimpt almost all last year?” She leans against the wall, trying to look relaxed, like she couldn’t care less about what she’s doing. But she doesn’t know what to do with her hands. She puts one in her coat pocket, tucks an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear with the other, then folds both arms across her chest. She covers her mouth with thin, trembling fingers, as if they could hide her words, as if they could protect her from what she came here to say.
“So, he was, like, bad,” Abby finally says. “Like really bad. Like I think he’s crazy. I think he likes hurting girls.” She looks up briefly with a startling softness, suddenly not the bitchy mean girl of her reputation. “He was really controlling, you know? Like he always had to know where I was and who I was with. And he’d get rough, like violent, sometimes.” She twists a ring on her right hand. Her eyes dart around the floor, the walls, the ceiling. She looks anywhere but into another person’s eyes. “It wasn’t really rape, right? Because I was his girlfriend?”
“It was rape,” Lisa says.
“It was absolutely rape,” says Melissa.
“The first time he did it, I cried afterward,” Abby says. “He told me to shut up and just left me lying there because he said I was annoying him. When he did it again, I knew not to cry. After that, I just knew to never say no.”
Lisa leans against Abby and puts her arm around her. Abby stiffens but lets her.
“I never told anyone before, besides Lisa,” Abby says. “I kept it a secret. I got really good at covering up bruises with makeup.” Lisa hugs her closer. “But now I know I have to talk about it,” she says, looking up. “You all have inspired me, I guess. I knew I had to tell you. Someone has to do something.”
“You have to tell the police,” Connie says.
Abby shrinks into herself. “No,” she says. “I have no proof. They didn’t believe Lucy Moynihan, they won’t believe me. I was his girlfriend.” She looks out at the circle of girls, her eyes pleading. “You have to do something.”
“We’re trying,” Lisa says.
“Eric Jordan’s a pig with no respect for women,” Abby says. “He’ll do anything to get laid. And Ennis, I don’t know. I think he’s just following Spencer and Eric. But Spencer, he’s a bad guy. A really bad guy.”
The room could not be more silent. It could not be more still. Everyone is holding their breath, frozen with the weight of what they must do.
“I don’t think she’s a spy anymore,” Erin says.
Then with a flip of her hair, Abby’s eyes go blank. She turns back into the girl people remember, a girl who would never come here asking for help. She shakes off Lisa’s arm around her shoulder. “I gotta run,” she says.
“Wait,” Lisa says. “Stay with us.”
“No,” Abby says, pulling away from her. “No offense, but I’m done hanging out with high school girls.” Her laugh is bitter, biting. “I just want that sick bastard to hurt. So good luck, I guess. Hurting him.” And before anyone can figure out what to say, Abby slides out the door and is gone.
A circle of eyes blinks at one another, like lights going on and off.
“Wow,” someone finally says.
“That was intense,” says Sam.
“Total buzz kill,” says the drunk girl.
Lisa Sutter sits down and puts her head in her hands. The room seems suddenly darker, more full of shadows.
“She has to tell the cops,” Serina Barlow says.
“She doesn’t have to do anything,” Melissa says.
Trista and Krista are huddled over a phone, their faces illuminated by the unnatural glow. “She’s number eight, isn’t she?” Trista says.
“You guys, stop,” Melissa says. “She’s humiliated enough already.”
“I’m not making fun of her, I swear,” Trista says. “I was just thinking. There are a couple of girls on the list that sound really bad. Like number six: ‘too doped up to say much.’ And number eleven: ‘got her so drunk she couldn’t say no.’ I mean, he basically admits to raping them
, right? We don’t know who they are, but maybe if Abby came forward and, like, verified that Spencer is definitely who’s behind the posts, maybe the police would investigate what he did to those girls. Abby wouldn’t even have to say all that stuff he did to her. She’d just have to admit to being on the list.”
The only movement in the room is a sea of darting eyes. The only sounds are the walls shuddering around them and the muted howls of the wind outside, as if it’s trying to get in.
“That’s actually a really good idea,” Grace finally says.
“And there are so many other girls, too,” Krista says. “If it was like a whole group that came forward with Abby, the police couldn’t ignore them.”
Trista looks up from her phone. “Like maybe some of the girls are even in this room.” She can’t help herself. She looks at Lisa Sutter. Number Twelve: Boring and needy. Apparently she’s head cheerleader now.
All eyes are on Lisa. The room is waiting for her to speak. Waiting for her to come forward and risk humiliation. Waiting for her to be brave.
But what she does is grab her purse, stand up, and walk out of the room.
“What’s her problem?” Serina Barlow says.
“Really?” Melissa says. “You all try to bully her into admitting she’s on that list, and you’re surprised that she’s upset?”
“Who was bullying?” Serina says. “No one even said her name.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“You know what?” Serina says. “Lisa should feel bad. She has the power to possibly get Spencer for some really bad shit he did, and she’s more worried about being embarrassed? Everyone already knows she’s number twelve anyway. The longer he’s out there and not in jail, the more girls he’s going to hurt. And what about those other girls? Number six and eleven? He needs to go to jail for what he did to them.”
“But who even knows what they want?” Melissa says.
“They want justice, obviously,” Serina says.
“We can’t assume that. We can’t assume they want people to know. We can’t assume they want to talk to the police or testify in court or any of that.”
“That’s bullshit,” Serina says. “They have to.”
“We can’t force anyone to talk about their rape,” Melissa says. She looks around the room, her eyes stopping at Erin, silent and hunched over, trapped inside her mysterious pain. “They’ve already been forced to do something they didn’t want to.”