Riot Girls: Seven Books With Girls Who Don't Need A Hero

by Sara Roethle, Jill Nojack, Rachel Medhurst, Sarah Dalton, Pauline Creeden, Brad Magnarella, Stella Wilkinson

  That got some laughter, and Scott was glad to see that the disgruntled joker was short and pudgy with an Ovaltine-colored bowl cut, not of the same physical stock as the officers he’d observed at Friday’s meeting.

  There was hope for him yet.

  “What about you, Stretch?” Ovaltine asked. “What’ve they made you do?”

  It took Scott a moment to realize the boy was addressing him. The rest of the pledges turned. His ears prickling savagely, Scott lowered his eyes and retracted his neck like a tortoise.

  “Oh, um…” The truth was, he hadn’t been made to do anything. Not yet, anyway. “Push-ups.”

  The others grunted and nodded, all except for the tall pledge who sat across from Scott and ate quietly. He seemed to be the only one without sweat stains in the armpits of his dress shirt. A minor miracle. And then Scott recognized him. It was the same guy he’d collided with on the first day of school.

  “All right, guys,” he said once he’d finished chewing. The table fell silent. “Like it or not, this is going to be our life for the next thirteen weeks. We can either sit here grumbling over who has it the worst, or we can say, ‘You’re not going to break my resolve.’ Because that’s exactly what this is — a test of our resolve, our character. But more, it’s a test of us as a pledging class.”

  The solidity of his words struck Scott first, then the words themselves. Why couldn’t he talk like that? Scott watched the speaker’s intent blue eyes, his easy smile, the way his fraternal gestures included the entire table. And even though he wasn’t much bigger than the others around him, the Gamma letter around his neck seemed much smaller, somehow, like it was no burden to him at all.

  “I say we make a pact right here. A pact that we’re going to complete our pledge term — the thirteen of us.” He bent toward his backpack and reappeared with a sheet of college-ruled paper. He took a couple of minutes to write something across the top, then slid the paper and pen over to Scott. It read:

  The Pact — Gamma Pledge Class ’84

  I hereby promise to do everything required of me as a pledging brother. I understand that failure to do so will result in letting down not only myself but also my fellow brothers with whom I am pledging. If I am ever on the verge of giving up, I promise to first seek out a fellow pledging brother for counsel and support. And if I see a fellow pledging brother in crisis, I promise to do everything in my power to help him.

  The “Lucky” Thirteen are:

  Blake Farrier 372-8731

  Scott followed the speaker’s example and printed his name and phone number under the statement. The sheet went around the table and at last came back to Blake.

  “All right,” he said. “I’m going to see about printing these off and getting everyone a copy.”

  Scott peeked around, then cleared his throat. “I have a printer. I-I could type it up and print off copies.”

  “Even better,” Blake said. “Thanks, Scott.”

  Scott’s chest swelled as he took the piece of paper from Blake and stowed it importantly inside his own backpack.

  The pledges now talked of other things, Scott soaking in the laughter and fraternal chatter. He marveled at how much could change in a week, how much had changed. Last Monday, he was a computer dweeb and recluse, harried by thoughts of phone taps, federal agents, and the ghosts of middle school past. Now he was in high school and a member of The Lucky Thirteen. He was sitting across from a football star, he learned, and was among a group who’d just sworn to help him pledge into the school’s premier club.

  The pudgy pledge (“Just call me Sweet Pea — everyone does eventually”) pretended to count on his fingers. “One down, and let’s see … only fifty-nine more cafeteria lunches to go!”

  When Scott looked down at his clean tray amid the laughter, he realized that he hadn’t even minded the cafeteria fare, and he said so. The others agreed — Blake, too. An older brother came by to inspect their trays and dismiss them. And when Scott poked his head through the service window to thank the lunchroom ladies, he could not have been more sincere.

  “I wouldn’t have wanted to eat lunch anywhere else today,” he told them.

  ~*~

  Janis hardly heard Star during fifth period. The jackhammering of two dozen electric typewriters had a lot to do with it. And what Janis could interpret from Star’s moving lips when she glanced over was a rehash of the latest fight she’d been picking with their teacher in American history, easy to block out. But she couldn’t do the same with Amy’s final crumbling look back.

  Janis’s jaw tensed as she pecked out a line of words from the typing primer: dad dad fad fad sad sad. Janis had watched Amy in middle school, had seen her capacity for cruelty and deceit. And now she couldn’t shake the idea that Amy’s plea to start over — even her tears — were a ruse. The Amy-Alicia-Autumn hydra wanted to get into Alpha, and they feared Janis derailing that ambition.

  Plain and simple.

  Before the start of English, Janis sat sideways at her desk and watched the door for Amy. In walked Dougherty, who had been seated first last week and was caught making the “crazy” gesture at Mrs. Fern. He hadn’t spoken up much since then.

  Scott, the boy who lived up the street from her, strode through next. Lord help him, were those Standards? And a Gamma letter? She hoped he knew what he was getting into. She’d heard stories from Margaret’s friends about the kind of hazing their pledges were put through.

  Janis’s gaze lingered on Scott before startling at Amy’s entrance. Janis pretended to feel beneath her desk for a book. Amy had washed her face, but her skin was pale and puffy beneath a fresh application of makeup. And she was alone for a change — not between Autumn and Alicia. Janis watched until Amy’s small, quiet steps carried her beyond her peripheral vision.

  So now what?

  ~*~

  Scott sat holding his head, the base of his skull drawing into a fist. The flame of Janis’s hair glowed in his periphery, but he hadn’t looked toward her, couldn’t look toward her. Not yet. Because everything hinged on what she was wearing.

  He held his breath and slid his gaze over to the center row, center aisle…

  His desk hopped when he pumped his fist — Yes! Yes! Yes! Students in the next row turned their heads. Scott raised his hand in apology, but when they were done looking, he squeezed it back into a fist and pumped it once more. He ventured another peek at Janis, just to be sure. She wore women’s slacks and tan flats, her combed hair falling over a pink blouse. If those weren’t the Alpha equivalent of Standards, Scott Spruel didn’t know what was.

  And our outfits match, he thought with a dopey grin. All except for…

  His heart plunged into an ice bath. He looked again, not believing it wasn’t there. Where was her letter? His gaze scrambled over her. Where was her A? Scott removed his glasses and pinched the inside corners of his eyes until they began to hurt. Just my cursed luck. Replacing his glasses, he shifted his gaze back to Janis, to her desk, to the storage space beneath her desk.

  And that’s where he found it. Not the letter, but a string that trickled out from one of her folders. Where the string was anchored, Scott discerned a shiny sliver of red. His heart resumed beating.

  The rest of English fell in and out of focus as the implications of that hidden red letter inflamed Scott’s imagination. After class, he strode past locker doors slamming and the shout and bustle of students going the other direction. Skateboarders shot past, knee-length shorts flapping with each hip stroke. Instead of catching the bus home, Scott had resolved to type and print out The Pact. He wanted to have it ready for the other pledges at lunch the next day.

  He had his printer at home, sure, but his equipment remained stashed in the storage room. Carrying it all back to his bedroom would be a chore, not to mention a risk. No, better to keep everything hidden until someone decides I’m no longer worth the hassle of a tap.

  Inside the library, beneath a poster of Larry Bird imploring kids to read, Scott parked him
self in front of the school’s newest Apple II computer. With the punch of a few keys, he opened the directory. From habit, he pecked out a series of commands that would expose any hidden files within the system. His gaze roved back and forth, like a famished dog’s. And that’s exactly how Scott felt in that moment: as if a part of him was starving. But for what?

  Access, a voice whispered.

  Yes, Scott agreed, access. He craved the rush of reaching out with the part of his mind that Wayne didn’t believe in and that he himself hardly understood. Were the computer a node on a larger network, he would be inside of it right now, shooting from one department to another, probing data-ways, discovering how this over here connected to that over there, tearing open directories, pawing through files. And by the time his rabid hunger was sated, Mrs. Norris, the head librarian, would be cutting the lights off and on to announce the library’s imminent closing.

  Focus, man.

  He leaned back, distancing himself from the monitor, from his own chaotic thoughts. After all, there was no network here. No hidden files. The Apple II was just a solitary computer in a high school library.

  Remember why you’re here.

  With Janis’s hair billowing through his imagination, Scott removed The Pact from his backpack, placed it beside the keyboard, and began pecking out the statement.

  ~*~

  Janis hurried to the sidewalk outside the front office and waited. She knew Amy’s mother picked her up in front of the school. Janis decided she would approach Amy if she found her alone. She would ask if Amy were all right and then tell her she was forgiven. Ruse or no, Janis just wanted the whole thing off her conscience. She didn’t want to have to think about it anymore.

  But Amy wasn’t alone. When she appeared in front of the auditorium, she was in Autumn and Alicia’s company. They chatted for a minute before something made Amy rear her head to the sky in a fit of laughter.

  Well there you have it, Miss Gullibility.

  Janis wheeled around and stomped toward where Margaret was parked. Stupid, stupid, stupid! She switched her books from one arm to the other and had only gone a few paces when someone called her.

  “Hey — uh, Janis is it?”

  She spun. “What?”

  Behind her, someone knelt to the sidewalk.

  “I, um, I think you dropped this.”

  When he stood, Janis recognized the boy with the indigo eyes who had been at Wendy’s last week. Blake — yes, she remembered his name — Blake Farrier. In fact, she’d repeated the name to herself a few times since. Though she hadn’t told anyone else, not even Samantha, it was a name that had come to feel good in her thoughts. But, oh God, had she just snapped at him? Her cheeks flushed with heat.

  “I’m so sorry,” she blurted. “I didn’t know… I thought you were…”

  He laughed. “I think it fell out of your folder there.”

  Janis saw he was holding her Alpha letter. He stepped forward and slid it back inside the folder so she wouldn’t have to adjust the books in her arms. For a moment, his crisp, clean fragrance was around her. His cheeks dimpled softly when he smiled.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Shouldn’t you be wearing that?” Before she could answer, he leaned in and lowered his voice. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Technically, I should be wearing mine, too.”

  Janis took her turn to smile. “Your Alpha letter?”

  His light fragrance whisked back around her when he laughed.

  She nodded at his blue shirt and tie. “I’m not sure it goes so well with…”

  “Nope, you’re right. Guess color coordination’s not my thing.” He took a smiling breath then stopped and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I haven’t introduced myself. My name’s Blake.”

  I know. The words almost slipped out when she tucked her books to take his hand. “Janis,” she said.

  His grip was firm and kind.

  “Janis,” he repeated. “As in Graystone?”

  She fought off a grimace as she nodded. Once more, Margaret’s good name precedes you.

  “Let’s see, star outfielder, stellar goalie…”

  Confusion creased her brow.

  Blake laughed. “I read the paper.”

  “Oh, that.” Janis’s pulse quickened.

  The Gainesville Sun had done a piece on her that summer. It took up half the front page of the sports section. The pictures were horrible, but it had been fun to read about herself, Janis had to confess, and to see the pride on her dad’s face. He made several photocopies and had the original article framed. It hung in her bedroom, above her trophies.

  “Well, welcome to Thirteenth Street High. I have to go and get ready for practice, but…” He indicated the string of her Alpha letter dangling from her armful of books. “I guess this won’t be our last meeting.”

  “No, I guess not,” she said. “Thanks again.”

  And as Janis watched him turn and step into an assured balls-of-his-feet gait that was somehow unassuming at the same time, she wondered whether pledging Alpha was such a bad move after all.

  Biting her smile, she turned toward the parking lot to find Margaret.

  ~*~

  At the library’s circulation desk, thirteen printed copies of The Pact in hand, Scott asked to use the phone to call his father. Mrs. Norris, who looked as if she’d been shut inside the library since the Woodrow Wilson administration, sniffed and turned the phone around just enough for him to read the message taped to its base: “Not For Student Use.” To underscore the point, a small lock secured the phone’s rotary dial. The chains from Mrs. Norton’s horn-rimmed glasses swayed with the wattled skin at her neck as she stepped past him with a stack of books. Scott waited until she was out of sight, then lifted the phone. Dial tone? Perfecto.

  He concentrated into the system. Several seconds later, he had a ring.

  “Hey, Scottie!” A gasp for breath. “Whaddya say?”

  His father owned a prosthetics practice in northwest Gainesville, and Scott imagined him standing there, brown tie thrown over his shoulder, the bulging belly of his shirt smeared with plaster.

  “I stayed late at school to work on something,” Scott murmured into the cupped mouthpiece. “Any chance you could swing over and give me a ride home?”

  “Hold on.”

  Scott craned his head toward the back of the library, listening for Mrs. Norris’s return.

  At last, his father came back on. “Can you give me fifteen minutes?”

  So, thirty minutes. “Sure. I’ll be in front of the school.”

  Outside the library, the campus looked deserted. The slanting sunlight Scott stepped into threw a long, lone shadow behind him, as though mocking his solitude. Scott should have seen it as a warning, but he didn’t.

  At his locker, he swapped some books from his backpack, remembering to grab To Kill a Mockingbird this time. He ambled along the school’s four wings, half expecting — half hoping — to spot Mr. Shine pushing his cart. But Mr. Shine had apparently gone home as well.

  Scott wandered behind the gymnasium and joined the few spectators — parents and girlfriends, he guessed — along a low wall in front of the grunting, thudding practice field. In the middle distance, a player launched a football in a long arc toward several players sprinting downfield. The thrower was too far away to tell, but Scott wanted to believe he was Blake, one of his new Gamma friends. The Fall Jamboree was that Friday, but Scott doubted he would go. The home stadium was across town, and he didn’t think either of his parents would be willing to drive him both ways. The other pledges would probably be going. Janis, too. A sleepover at Wayne’s might have offered consolation, but he didn’t even have that to fall back on.

  Don’t talk to me. Ever again.

  Scott was wondering if he would come to regret those words, when a cadence of chanting broke up the thought. Scott squinted. The sound was coming from a part of the field away to his right, hidden from view by the tennis courts. Scott hiked up his backpack
and trekked over, craning his neck. When he reached the corner of the fenced-in courts, he peered around.

  Whoa.

  The dozen or so chanting cheerleaders pumped their fists, rose into human towers, rotated, and disassembled. And all of them wore midriff-baring tops and short shorts, muscled legs glistening in the sun. Scott allowed the stunning sight to bombard his retinas — until he realized he was gawking in plain view.

  He slinked along the chain-link fence to its far side and entered the empty courts. Just as he’d hoped, the green windbreak covering most of the fence was opaque enough that it was easier to see out than in. Inside, he was all but invisible. Scott glanced at his watch as he hurried across the courts toward the chants. He still had fifteen minutes until his dad arrived.

  He slung his backpack over the end of a pole that stretched the farthest tennis net, and he reclined against the pole itself, one knee pulled in. The cheerleaders pumped their arms in unison.

  “WHO ARE WE? THE MIGH-TY TITANS!”

  This, my friend, is the life.

  “WHO CAN BEAT US? NO ONE CAN!”

  The cheerleaders broke off into leaps and high kicks, then clapped their hands as they reassembled. For Scott, it felt like even more of a shame that he wouldn’t be going to the Jamboree that Friday. Maybe he could—

  Metal rattled behind him as the gate to the tennis courts latched closed. By the time Scott turned around, Jesse Hoag was nearly to the center court, Creed and Tyler Bast not far behind.

  13

  JESSE HOAG WAS even more massive than Scott remembered. Or maybe he only appeared so because Scott was still sitting against the post, unable to draw his feet underneath himself. The asphalt court trembled with each of Jesse’s closing footfalls. Scott’s gaze shot from Jesse’s fists, which swished at his sides like wrecking balls, to his face. Gobs of grease held his dark hair out of his eyes — sober gray eyes that appeared at odds with his sinister smile.