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

  At last, Coach Hall tucked her clipboard under her arm and walked toward Janis. Her red cap was pulled low over her aviator sunglasses, the rest of her face a bed of frown lines.

  “Go on and wrap up today’s practice with the other freshmen,” she said when she reached Janis.

  In the sunglasses’ reflection, Janis’s lips quivered once. She nodded. “Okay.”

  “But I want you back here Monday. You’re going to finish tryouts with varsity.”

  This time, Janis’s lips tried their hardest not to smile.

  ~*~

  “It’s all the work you put in,” her father said.

  Janis took another swallow of Coke, the syrup and cold carbonation mingling with her elated exhaustion, and rested her arm on the windowsill. The late-day air felt good billowing around her, stealing away her perspiration. Her father had had the celebratory can of soda waiting for her when he pulled in to pick her up. He’d never doubted the news would be good.

  “But now isn’t the time to rest on your laurels,” he counseled. “If anything, you have to be more prepared than ever.”

  They pulled up to a light. When her father looked over, a thin mesh of wrinkles grew around his eyes, which was how he smiled. He shook her dusty knee where, for the first time, Janis noticed a dark patch of blood.

  “But I know you know that.”

  “Yeah, don’t worry. I’m not expecting next week to be any easier.”

  “Good, Janis.” He turned back to the road. “Not enough people think that way. There are far too many receiving perks in this country through no diligence of their own. Too many government programs enabling that kind of ethos. They’re well intentioned, I’m sure, but self-defeating. Motivation, initiative…” He waved his hand. “That’s all done away with. And now we’re facing skyrocketing debt and a workforce that can’t compete with the Germanys and Japans anymore. It’s why we’re supporting Reagan again.”

  “Mom, too?”

  Her mother hadn’t been crazy about staking the Reagan/Bush ’84 sign in the front lawn.

  “Well, your mother’s coming around. The sixties left a bit of a stain on her thinking, I’m afraid.”

  As Janis lowered the can from her lips, she thought of the way her mother had smiled that night when, in a low voice, she shared her plans to return to school. Janis glanced over at her father. For the first time, she felt a wall going up over the part of herself that had always accepted his opinions as holy writ.

  “Star says the debt is because the Republicans are spending money on missiles we don’t need and giving tax breaks to their rich friends. They want us to believe it’s because of welfare spending, but it’s really not.”

  “This Star is a friend from school?”

  Janis made herself nod.

  “What Star needs to understand is that her country is responding to an aggressor that has vast nuclear armaments and has sworn our annihilation more than once. Her country is doing its best to protect her.”

  “She says that’s a lie, too.”

  They were passing a short strip mall with a convenience store and Laundromat, and her father swerved in. The car bounced against the drive, its bottom scraping the cement incline. Janis gasped and held her Coke up to keep it from spilling. The car cut into a space at the far end of the building that fronted a cinderblock wall. When her father pulled the emergency brake and looked over, his face was so solemn that Janis feared for a moment he was going to slap her. Not that he ever had.

  “What is it?” Her eyes felt huge above her quivering lips. The last mouthful of Coke had turned sour on her tongue. She watched her father’s nostrils dilate, his eyes boring into hers.

  “We knew that in high school you were going to be exposed to people with different opinions, different views of the world. It was why your mother and I were so demanding of you and your sister growing up. We wanted you to develop the capacity to think for yourselves. And you’ve done that. Your mother and I are very proud of who you and Margaret have become.”

  But even as he said this, his face remained stern, his wiry brows nearly touching.

  “For some reason, people often get swept up in movements and ideologies that sound moral and righteous but that are, in fact, defeatist. Defeatist for themselves — defeatist for their country. This happens even to intelligent people.”

  “I wasn’t saying I believed what Star said.” A lump swelled in Janis’s throat. “I was just telling you…”

  “I know.” He closed his eyes and exhaled. His brows drew apart. “But now that you’ve heard your friend’s version, I think it’s important that you hear the truth, even if it scares you. You’re old enough now.”

  Janis watched her father’s face, which looked gray and grave in a way she’d never seen.

  “You’re familiar with the Cold War, of course. You’ve studied its history in school.”

  “Yes,” she said, but wasn’t sure her father heard.

  “In the late years of World War II, the U.S. and the Soviet Union teamed up to defeat Hitler and Nazi Germany. Americans advanced through western Europe, the Soviets through eastern Europe. They met at the River Elbe in Germany. Your grandfather was at the meeting point, in fact — your mother’s father. You were too young to remember, but he would tell stories about sharing photos and hand-rolled cigarettes with the Soviet rifle division in the spring of 1945.”

  Her father gazed through the windshield as he spoke, and Janis wondered whether he was thinking about his own service in Korea, something he rarely talked about.

  “But it was an alliance of convenience, you see. After World War II, the Soviet Army remained in eastern Europe, which had been Stalin’s plan all along. Where he didn’t expand the Soviet border, he installed puppet regimes in countries like Poland, Hungary, half of Germany. It’s why there’s an East and West Germany and a wall dividing Berlin. Communist governments, Janis. No democracy, no free will. Everything controlled by the state. The United States, meanwhile, sent billions in Marshall funds to rebuild western Europe and bulwark its governments from the spread of Soviet influence.”

  In the past, whenever her father used to lecture her like this, Janis would have to fight the compulsion to roll her eyes, but there in the car, she could barely breathe. Like stones being set on her chest, his words bore weight.

  “An arms race followed. More and deadlier missiles. The advent of the hydrogen bomb, a thousand times more powerful than its atomic predecessors. By the 1950s, the U.S. and the Soviet Union had hundreds of nuclear weapons pointed at one another. Did you learn the concept of Mutually Assured Destruction? MAD? It was the idea that a massive launch from one side could be answered with a massive counter-launch from the other. Both countries would be obliterated, you see? Which meant neither country could strike first. And this has been the basis for our peace for the last thirty years. But that may be changing.”

  “How?” The question caught in Janis’s throat.

  “The Russians have more sophisticated weapons than was previously believed, for one. They pulled ahead in the arms race, and now Reagan is determined to catch up. But it’s not just a matter of numbers anymore. Something else is happening.”

  Janis was barely aware of cars coming in and out of the lot, their headlights washing past them and illuminating the dark dumpster that seemed to be squatting in the weeds beside them in wait.

  “There are voices in the Soviet Politburo talking now as if a nuclear war can be won. That could be bluster, of course. But it could also mean they’ve discovered a method for launching a first strike that would go undetected until it was too late. Or perhaps they have the means to neutralize a counterstrike. Either way, there would be no retaliation. No Mutually Assured Destruction.”

  The cinderblock wall beyond their windshield was dingy and littered with graffiti: crude messages about what this or that person would do, complete with phone numbers — the sort of thing that would normally have turned Janis crimson, especially with her dad beside her. Bu
t now the messages barely registered. She didn’t think he was seeing them either.

  Janis’s fingers felt for her crucifix.

  “I’m not telling you this to frighten you. I’m…” He took a breath and then a long look at her face. “You’re extremely intelligent, Janis. Extremely capable. You and your sister, both. And if this standoff continues to escalate, why, you may be called on one day to help your country. That’s why I’m telling you.”

  Her father looked at her for another moment, then started the car and put it in reverse. By the time they rejoined the traffic on Sixteenth Avenue, her father seemed himself again, but everything around them — the entire world — felt different to Janis, as if it had fallen under a dark pall.

  He snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot about movie night. Should we swing by Video World and pick up a rental?” He glanced down at the clock display. “There’s still time before dinner.”

  “Oh, I’m going to the homecoming game tonight, remember?” Janis’s voice felt far away, as though someone else was saying the words. “And then sleeping over at Samantha’s.”

  “Right, right…”

  She peeked over to find her father facing straight ahead. Yes, he looked himself again, but knowing what he could look like made him look different, too. Though she tried, Janis could not forget how he’d appeared only a minute before. She could not forget what she’d seen on his face as he stared at the cinderblock wall. Fear. She had seen her father’s fear.

  And that upset her more than anything he could have told her.

  ~*~

  “You all right?”

  “Hmm?” Janis looked over at her best friend. She and Samantha were sitting at the top of the football stands in their softball-league jackets from the year before, the shouting of the student body surging and crashing beneath them like a restless surf. A cool gust of wind blew Janis’s hair across her face while Samantha’s boyish brown hair only fluttered. Janis pushed her hair back.

  “You’ve barely said two words tonight. Everything cool?”

  “Yeah. Just tired.”

  On the field, the Ocala team kicked off the ball. It was late in the fourth quarter, and Thirteenth Street High was way ahead. Shrill screams rose around them again as Thirteenth Street’s return man ran the ball to the fifty. Cheerleaders high kicked and showed their shining teeth. A hyper group of freshmen boys turned around and demanded high fives.

  Janis held her hands up, numb to the ensuing smacks.

  “You’re not holding something back on me, are you?” Samantha asked.

  There would be no retaliation No mutually assured destruction.

  Janis thought for a second before shaking her head. Her friendship with Samantha had been founded on their passion for sports, not strange dreams or dark musings on the Cold War.

  “Hey, isn’t that your man?”

  For the first time that night, Blake was putting on his helmet and attaching the chin strap. Coach Coffer shouted something in his ear and shoved him onto the field. Blake jogged toward the huddle.

  “Cute butt.” Samantha nudged Janis.

  Janis could only nod vaguely. She had finally broken down that week and told Samantha about Blake. She’d seen him several times since he rescued her Alpha letter earlier that month — chance encounters in the hallway, mostly, where they would stop for a minute or two to chat. Just that morning, he’d wished her luck with the varsity soccer tryouts. She’d bitten back a smile, flattered that he’d even known about the tryouts, and responded by wishing him well in that evening’s game.

  Blake chuckled. “Well, if we get far enough ahead, maybe Coach will stick me in for the final minutes. You know, just enough time to get me the reps but not enough to mess anything up.”

  “You’ll do fine,” she said, placing her hand on his upper arm. The gesture startled Janice, but it had seemed so natural, as if her hand was drawn to the purple mesh jersey, to the swell of his triceps.

  She gave his arm a tentative squeeze, then drew her hand away.

  “Thanks.” His voice had sounded as soft as his dimples. “I’ll remember you said that.”

  From the bleachers, Janis watched Blake run the second-team offense in the game’s waning minutes. Coach “Two F’s” Coffer mostly had him hand the ball off to the backs, but on the final play, Blake faked a handoff and sprinted around the end. With the goal line in reach, he took a knee. Screams collapsed to groans, but Janis understood. The game was won, and Blake was showing class.

  The cheers picked up again as the final seconds ticked away. Players clapped one another’s helmets. Cheerleaders rustled their pom-poms. But from Janis’s numb distance, the action seemed to be taking place among stage actors and collapsible set pieces.

  This can all end, she thought. This can all be blown away.

  She zipped her jacket slowly and pushed her hands into her pockets. “Hey, um, I think I’m going to catch a ride home with Margaret.”

  “What about the sleepover?”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry.” Janis tried to smile. “Tryouts whipped me pretty good.”

  “Oh. That’s cool.”

  In the quick movement of Samantha’s eyes, Janis felt a chasm separating them. She wondered if they hadn’t started drifting apart that summer when she began having the strange dreams — dreams she’d been too weirded out to share, even with her best friend. Janis wondered, too, if her decision to stick with Alpha hadn’t further separated them. After all, Alpha had deprived them of lunches together. And with Janis possibly earning a spot on varsity soon, they would no longer be practicing soccer together, either.

  “We’ll do it another time,” Janis said. “I promise.”

  “It’s cool,” Samantha repeated but without looking up. “Well, my mom’s probably waiting out front. I should get going.” She turned and began picking her way down the emptying stands.

  Janis stood watching her, wondering whether there would be another time after all.

  15

  Friday, October 5, 1984

  7:09 p.m.

  “NOT VERY MANY cars.” Scott’s father scrunched up his thick glasses and dipped his shaggy head to peer past Scott. “The front porch light isn’t even on. Sure you’ve got the right house, Ace?”

  Scott quickly read the numbers on the mailbox, then looked down at the invitation for the Alpha-Gamma gala, covering the address with his thumb. “It’s supposed to be 2624. Let’s see…” He pretended to search around. “Yup, says it right there on the box. I’m just a little early.”

  “Do you want me to wait to make sure?”

  “Naw, I’m fine.” He opened the car door and stepped out into the dusky street.

  “All right. Well, call me when it’s over. I’ve got Christine loaded in the Betamax. It’s supposed to be a horror flick, but Jagu over at Video World says it’s a riot. Har, har, har! Then I’ve got the latest Dirty Harry flick, Sudden Impact.”

  His dad cocked his head and started to squint, but before he could get off his horrendous Clint Eastwood impression, Scott closed the door. When he stood up, all he could see was his father’s belly over the steering wheel. Scott half-waved, half-shooed at him, then took a couple of slow steps toward the affluent-looking house as his father’s Volkswagen droned away. When the taillights had grown small enough, Scott headed toward the actual house, which was two blocks over.

  Sorry, Dad, but tonight’s too important.

  And it would not be out of character for his father to shout something mortifying from the car as the front door was opening: “Don’t feed him after midnight! Har, har, har, har!”

  Scott walked briskly, touching his hair. He’d spent an hour in the bathroom with a blow-dryer and a comb, trying for a feathered style like Blake’s. In the end, he’d rewet his hair and combed it forward. At least the Bud Body book had arrived that week. In the first exercises, Bud had him skipping in circles, pulling imaginary ropes, and slathering his body with vegetable oil in order to “succor the muscle tissue.” Scott h
ad been skeptical, but tensing now, he thought he felt the beginnings of a line separating his pectorals.

  He winced when he cupped his bicep. He’d forgotten about the fading brown band on the inside of his arm. Another one marred his upper ribcage on the same side. They were from the day at the tennis courts a month earlier, when the fence he had clung to became… electric? With his cervical nerves being crushed inside Jesse’s pinch, Scott hadn’t been able to feel more than a faint burning. But by the next morning, two raw bands had appeared, their surfaces mottled with blisters like toadstools risen after a humid rain.

  Scott was still trying to make sense of it all: Jesse’s strength… Creed’s speed… And what about Tyler? Before Mr. Shine appeared, Tyler had been retracting his arm from beneath the windbreak. Had he shot current through the fence? Scott straightened his glasses. He couldn’t exactly stroll up to Tyler and ask him. Ever since the incident on the courts, he’d been taking extra care to avoid those guys, his ears attuned to the faintest rumbling of the Chevelle.

  Scott squinted ahead, penny loafers slapping the sidewalk, pink argyle socks poking out from beneath the hems of his cream-colored slacks. Margaret Graystone’s Prelude was parked among the many cars lining the street. Ooh, boy. Scott fanned his face with the invitation. All the curtains on the ground level of the castle-like home had been pushed open, and light shone out into the yard. Inside, young men and women in formal attire sipped drinks and palmed cocktail napkins, some of them tipping their heads back in laughter.

  You’re out of your class.

  Scott slowed at the foot of the walkway. It was the voice again, the one that had been haunting him since the first Gamma meeting. But he’d done fine so far, he reminded himself. The lunches, where he was beginning to feel comfortable with the other pledges, truly comfortable; the Standards; the two Saturday morning service projects he had attended; even the push-ups and sprints the older members sprung on him from time to time — he’d done fine with all of them.