The Nowhere Girls

by Amy Reed

  Rosina can hear Grace taking deep breaths next to her.

  “Grace,” Rosina snaps. “Stop breathing so loud.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m hungry,” Erin says.

  “I guess it’s time to go home,” Grace says. She and Erin start heading out the door, but Rosina can’t move her feet. She can’t stop staring at the office door. The feeling she had a moment ago disappeared as soon as the door closed behind Cheyenne, as soon as Rosina realized it was time to go back to her own life.

  “She’s going to be okay,” Erin says, pulling at the hem of Rosina’s shirt. “Let’s go.”

  But it’s not Cheyenne who Rosina is worried about.

  US.

  In the almost hour it takes to drive back to Prescott, no one speaks. Grace, Erin, and Rosina look out the windows, each of their views slightly different. The setting sun will be dipping into the ocean soon, a hundred miles or so to the west. The light fades from the sky without fanfare, as if it is any other evening.

  It is dusk when they pull up in front of Erin’s house. No one is surprised to see the police car parked in front.

  “What are you going to tell them?” Rosina says. “We have to make sure our stories match.”

  “The truth,” Erin says. “What else is there?”

  Spot greets Erin as soon as she enters the house, circling her ankles, sniffing her, licking her fingertips, all of his usual magic tools of assessment. Mom is sitting on the couch, stunned and red eyed, across from a nervous cop who looks barely older than Erin. Mom jumps up and lunges forward, then stops herself just short of tackling her daughter in a full embrace. She knows she cannot hold her, cannot be held, so instead she breaks into tears. She stands there, an arm’s reach away from Erin, sobbing so hard her shoulders shake.

  “What happened?” Mom cries. “I don’t understand how this could happen. I thought things were getting better. I thought you were better.” Spot leaves Erin’s ankles and rubs up against her mother’s. “I tried so hard to take care of you. I try so hard. But I failed you. I let this happen. If I had just—”

  Erin reaches out and touches Mom’s shoulder. “Don’t be scared, Mom,” she says. “I’m not.”

  As soon as Erin pulls her hand back, Mom reaches up to her own shoulder, touching the vacant space. She sniffles a few times, as if surprised by her sudden absence of tears.

  “They want you to go to the station now,” Mom says, wiping her eyes.

  “Then let’s go,” Erin says.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for your dad to get home?”

  “No,” Erin says calmly. “We’re fine without him. We’ve been fine without him.”

  “But—”

  “Mom, we don’t need him.”

  Erin does not meet her mother’s eyes, but she doesn’t have to. Mom studies the surprising stillness of her daughter’s face, her own face a mix of alarm and confusion and fierce, unnamable love, as if she doesn’t recognize the young woman standing in front of her, like she is seeing her, hearing her, for the first time.

  “We don’t need him,” Erin says again.

  Erin looks up and studies the tense shock on her mother’s face, then the gradual softening as Mom seems to realize what Erin’s saying, as maybe she lets a little of it in, as she tastes the tiniest hint of something that could turn into freedom.

  Meanwhile, in front of Rosina’s house, the lights of the police car are spinning, painting the block in colors that almost seem festive. A handful of people from the neighborhood mill around, waiting for something to happen.

  “Jesus,” Rosina says. “I should charge admission.”

  “Are you going to be okay?” Grace asks.

  “I don’t know.” All Rosina knows is, she can’t spend the rest of her life avoiding her mother’s phone calls. She can’t keep running away from the inevitable. She can’t stop time. Whatever ends up happening may not be fair. It may not be right, or just, or the way things should be, but it is reality. It is Rosina’s reality. It will be her reality until she figures out how to change it. But one thing Rosina knows for sure is that running away is not change. She steps out of the car and braces for whatever is about to come.

  When Grace gets home, a policewoman is sitting on the couch with her parents with a cup of coffee in her hand. “Gracie!” Mom says as Grace enters, but no one says more than that as she drops her schoolbag by the door and comes in to sit with them.

  “Hi,” Grace says to the policewoman.

  “Grace, do you know why I’m here?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’d like you to come into the station for questioning. You’ve been accused of some very serious crimes.”

  “Oh my lord,” Mom says. Dad puts his arm around her. Grace cannot look at them, cannot risk seeing the heartbreak in their eyes.

  “May I ask whom I’ve been accused by?” Grace asks. “And what the accusations are?”

  The officer looks at the notes on her clipboard and reads without looking up. “A complaint has been filed by Regina Slatterly on behalf of the Prescott City School District. It says here theft, theft of proprietary information, cybertheft, hacking, harassment, conspiracy, contributing to the delinquency of a minor—golly, this is quite a list.”

  What is that strange feeling bubbling up inside of Grace? Why is she so calm? Why is she smiling?

  “Does Grace need to ride with you in the police car?” Dad asks.

  “No, sir,” the officer says. “She’s not being charged with anything yet. She can ride with you.”

  “But if she’s not being charged with anything,” Dad says, “then technically she doesn’t have to come in, right? She can stay here. I think maybe I should call a lawyer. I don’t know if I’m comfortable with my daughter—”

  “Dad,” Grace says. “It’s okay. I’m ready to talk to them.” Finally she looks up, looks each of her parents in the eye. “I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Honey,” Mom says as soon as they’re all buckled in the car, Grace alone in the backseat. “What is going on?” Grace can hear the fear in her voice.

  “This isn’t you,” Dad says. “You don’t get in trouble with the law. I don’t understand how this is possible.”

  “I can explain,” Grace says. She pauses for a moment, closes her eyes, searches inside herself for the solid part of her, the place her true voice comes from. “I am one of the founders of the Nowhere Girls. It was me and my friends Rosina and Erin. We started it because we wanted to help Lucy, the girl who got raped last year. We wanted to help all the girls. The group took on a life of its own as it got bigger.”

  Mom turns to face her, but Grace cannot see her eyes in the darkness. But she can somehow feel the love radiating from them.

  “We may have broken a few rules, small rules, but we haven’t hurt anyone,” Grace says. “We’ve helped people. We have helped so many people.” Her voice cracks. “Mom,” Grace says. “This is the best thing I’ve ever done.”

  Grace hears Mom sigh, sees her parents look at each other the way they do when she knows they’re reading each other’s minds. No one speaks for the rest of the way to the station, but something has been decided. Some kind of peace has been silently declared. They trust her. They have always trusted her.

  Rosina’s mom’s car is equally quiet, but the silence is charged, dense, as if it is on the verge of combusting at any moment, as if the car is a moving bomb. Rosina thinks she must have missed Mami’s angry stage, because all she’s seen since she got home is something much worse, something beyond angry—Mami is terrified. She has said virtually nothing, not a word to shame Rosina or even to intimidate the police officer in her living room. She sat there almost demurely as he explained that he’d like her to drive Rosina to the police station. “Yes, sir,” was all she said. And now she drives with white knuckles, staring straight ahead, the tears on her cheeks reflecting the fleeting glow of streetlights.

  Rosina is dying to get out of the car, but neither of them mov
es when they pull into the police station parking lot. Something must be said. They could wait forever for the other to say it.

  Rosina looks out the window and sees Erin walking tall into the police station, her mother following close behind, holding her purse to her chest. Despite the oppressive air of the car, Rosina can’t help but smile at the sight of her friend—such a small, tidy movement of the lips to express something so huge inside, such a tiny gesture to reveal this bursting of love and pride.

  “You scare me, hija,” Mami finally says. Rosina turns and is surprised to see a middle-aged woman with smeared mascara and fried graying hair. She never quite thought of her mother as beautiful, but she definitely never thought of her as old.

  “You’re always fighting,” Mami says, her pleading eyes burning into Rosina’s. “You want to fight everything.”

  “That’s not true,” Rosina says, but softly, without conviction.

  “Someday you’re going to lose,” Mami says. “You’re going to get hurt.”

  “Maybe,” Rosina says. “But when that happens, do you want to be the one hurting me?”

  Something happens in the silence that follows Rosina’s question. Weight on either side of the car seems to even out, become equal. Fear and rage dissipate and all that’s left are two women, half lit by streetlights.

  “I’ve only ever wanted to protect you,” Mami whispers.

  “I know,” Rosina says, because, suddenly, she does.

  After a few moments Rosina says, “We should go in.”

  “Are you scared?” Mami says. Not accusing, not judging. Just asking. Just wanting to know what her daughter is feeling.

  “Terrified,” Rosina says.

  To anyone else, Mami’s nod would be almost imperceptible, but to Rosina it is like a mountain moving. A small glimmer of gratitude pulses through her, like one single heartbeat, and it is more than enough. This is the scale of their love.

  Erin is as calm and collected as Rosina’s ever seen her. She’s rubbing her hands together the way she does when she’s nervous, but it’s more excited than anxious, almost joyful. Her mother sits on the bench next to her, closer than Erin would normally allow. She seems more confused than angry or scared, as if this is all a terrible mistake, as if she can’t even imagine that her daughter is capable of doing something that would bring them to the police station. She has no idea what her daughter is capable of.

  Rosina stands next to Erin while Mami marches up to the front desk to get some answers. “They’re waiting for Grace to get here,” Erin tells Rosina. “They want to talk to us all together.”

  “Is my daughter being arrested?” Mami demands, her old fire returned. Rosina never thought she could possibly feel sorry for a police officer, but there’s always a first for everything. She smiles at the sight of her tiny mother bullying the cop, sees a glimpse of herself, of her own courage, and it pushes out her fear, just a little.

  The front door opens. Grace and her family walk in as a pack, as a single unit, connected. Rosina’s mom turns around and a look passes between the two mothers, so brief and subtle Rosina almost doesn’t catch it, and for a moment her mother is not cruel or angry or even scared; for a moment all Rosina sees is love.

  The officer at the front desk makes a call. Chief Delaney emerges from his office, wiping crumbs off his mouth with the back of his hand. “All right, ladies,” he says. “Let’s make this quick. Are you ready to talk to me?”

  None of them says anything.

  Delaney sighs. “Since you’re minors, I guess I have to tell you that you’re allowed to bring your parents in.”

  All three girls say no without hesitation.

  They are nervous as they walk to Chief Delaney’s office, but they are not scared. The world is so much bigger than this tiny place, and justice is so much more complicated than the whims of this small man. Their understanding of the judicial system is limited, but they are sure something is going to happen now. They know Delaney can’t stop it. They know the county sheriff is on their side. They have evidence. They have truth. There are finally people—adults—who want to hear it. The girls know, in some small way, they have already won.

  What they don’t know is that at the same time their parents were driving them to the station, county deputies were also arriving at the homes of Spencer Klimpt, Eric Jordan, and Ennis Calhoun. Sirens alerted entire neighborhoods of their arrival. Neighbors lined the streets to watch the boys get taken away in handcuffs and shoved into the back of cop cars.

  With the door closed to the chief’s office, the girls have no idea what’s happening in the rest of the police station. They don’t know that as they attempt to tell the bored and only half listening police chief their side of the story, the county sheriff arrives. They don’t know the sheriff’s been trying to get ahold of Chief Delaney all night, ever since he talked with Cheyenne. They don’t know how Delaney has a habit of avoiding the sheriff’s calls, how he resents him for trying to make his job harder by insisting on jurisdictional communication. The girls certainly don’t know the sheriff already dislikes the chief almost as much as they do.

  Do the girls know when the boys enter the building? On some level, can they feel their presence?

  The boys are whisked away into separate rooms as they wait for their parents to arrive. If they were smart, they wouldn’t talk. They’d wait for lawyers. They’d play the game. But maybe fear—maybe even something else—has clouded reason. Maybe one of the boys is already talking. Maybe, all this time, he has been desperate to purge his shame.

  In two separate rooms, truth is being told. In two other rooms, boys hold on to silence like a life preserver.

  Neither they nor the girls are aware of the waiting area slowly filling up with their classmates. Word spreads fast in small towns.

  One after another, they arrive: Melissa Sanderson, ex-cheerleader and Rosina’s love; Elise Powell, jock; Sam Robeson, drama club girl; Margot Dillard, student body president; Lisa Sutter, cheer squad captain; Serina Barlow, rehab girl; gossips Connie Lancaster and Allison Norman; Lucy’s old friends Jenny and Lily; the multicolor-haired freshmen Krista and Trista. All these girls who would normally never mix. Others. More. Everyone.

  The Nowhere Girls are here. They are everywhere.

  When Rosina, Grace, and Erin emerge, blinking, from Chief Delaney’s office, the station erupts in an explosion of sound. The three girls try to figure out where all the noise is coming from. What is all that cheering? Girls’ voices bounce off walls and ceiling and floor, gathering momentum, gaining speed, crashing into one another.

  In the midst of the chaos, Rosina’s eyes settle on the one small place of silence. In a corner of the waiting area, apart from the crowd’s madness, stand her mother and Mrs. Salter, facing each other, eyes closed, holding hands. Praying. Searching for peace in their own way.

  Someone’s giddy voice breaks through: “Holy crap, you guys. There are a ton of news vans outside.”

  Then office doors open, one by one by one, perfectly timed: Spencer, Eric, Ennis. A silence even louder than cheers washes over the police station. It is the stillness at the edge of a cliff—so many eyes watching, so much breath being held—the moment before the fall.

  As Spencer exits one office, he sees Ennis walking out of another across the room. “What did you tell them?” he snarls at his friend, breaking the silence.

  Ennis’s head is down. He does not look up, does not respond, does not acknowledge anything that is happening. He is deflated, empty. He has said things inside that room that he can never take back.

  “What the fuck did you say?” Spencer screams, then the whole room flinches as he lunges toward Ennis.

  But an officer grabs Spencer before he gets anywhere and effortlessly pulls his arms behind his back, fastens his wrists into handcuffs. “Ouch,” Spencer says with a weak, high-pitched yelp. “You’re hurting me.” Who knew he was so easy to catch?

  “Move it along,” says the officer, kicking Spencer in the
back of the heel like chattel, causing Spencer to trip and fall flat on his face without his hands to catch him. No one moves to help him up. Tense giggles pepper the air as he squirms to pull himself upright. Spencer struggles, powerless, and the giggles turn into laughter, then into something else entirely, a sound without definition, something born out of so many weeks’, months’, years’, so many lifetimes’ worth of held breath finally expelled, so many clear voices restored, feeding one another, building and growing until the station explodes in cheers so loud there is nowhere left for silence to hide.

  Eric Jordan stares out at the waiting area, his eyes blank, unreadable, gone. He sees a wall of young women, his classmates, the girls he has hit on and catcalled and demeaned for years. He sees them as he has never seen them—a group, solid and formidable, and so much bigger than him. Not just bodies, not just skin and softness, not toys or tamable creatures. He neither wants them nor hates them. He doesn’t know what he feels. He has been raised with the privilege of not being accustomed to fear.

  But in this moment a spark of knowledge wedges itself inside him, the sudden realization of a world turned over—these girls are going to define his life as much as he has already defined theirs.

  The girls are packed in so tight there is barely room enough to breathe, and still more are coming. Cheers turn to screaming, shouting, crying. The sound is deafening, primal. It is every feeling, all at once. It is all the girls, all their voices, calling out as loud as they can.

  They burn through darkness. They brand the night.

  CHEYENNE.

  Mom said Cheyenne could skip school today if she didn’t feel ready, but Cheyenne is sick of staying at home. Even though she barely slept last night, even though everything feels tender—not just her skin, but her eyes, her mouth, her lungs. As if every piece of her is exhausted, as if every molecule has been twisted and kneaded and prodded for hours upon hours, days upon days.

  But she is tired of her life being on hold. She is tired of hiding. And she is just the right amount of sleep deprived for adrenaline to kick in, just the right amount of foolish to be brave.