Moxie: A Novel

by Jennifer Mathieu

  “No, Viv, no,” says Lucy, shaking me. “Are you kidding me? Moxie has been worth it. Think about last Saturday. Think about the fact that the girl Mitchell attacked wouldn’t have spoken up without Moxie. Hell, at the very least, acknowledge that Moxie is the reason you and I became friends.”

  I peer up at Lucy and smile. Behind her, I spy the bright yellow Post-its with the Audre Lorde quote on them.

  YOUR SILENCE WILL NOT PROTECT YOU.

  “Should I do the walkout?” I say.

  Lucy looks me dead in the eyes. She nods firmly. “You know the answer,” she says. “I don’t even care if I take the blame for all of it. It’s worth it to me if it happens. I’ll write an essay about it for my college applications. If nobody does the walkout, it’s like I got suspended for nothing. It’s like Wilson wins.”

  I nod, and I know Lucy is right. “Who do you think made the flyer?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she answers. “The messed-up thing is it could be almost any girl. But whoever it is, she’s telling the truth. I believe her with all my heart.”

  I curl into myself, remembering Seth’s doubt. I tell Lucy about my conversation with him earlier in the day.

  “Sometimes I think even the best guys have a hard time getting it,” Lucy says, her voice sad and soft. “And I think Seth is a really great guy. I do. But if he hasn’t lived it, he just can’t know, I guess.”

  I sniffle a little. “You think he’s a good guy?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I do.”

  “Lucy,” I say, my voice cracking, “I’m so glad we’re friends.”

  Lucy grins. “Me, too,” she says. “And I still can’t believe you made those newsletters.”

  “Zines. They’re called zines.”

  “Okay, zines,” she says, rolling her eyes. She reaches out to hug me. A good, strong hug. The kind of hug that says, “I get it.” The kind of hug that says, “I’m here.”

  * * *

  Lucy’s grandmother won’t let her drive me home, so I have to make the long walk to my house from hers, and halfway home my phone buzzes with a text from my mom.

  Just got one of those robocalls from your school … something about a walkout?

  Damn it. Wilson is pulling out all the stops.

  Yeah it’s a long story … a girl accused Mitchell Wilson of trying to rape her. And some girls are organizing a walkout to protest that the school isn’t doing anything about it.

  I choose to leave out the part about me actually starting the movement that sparked the walkout to begin with.

  My phone rings mere seconds after I send the text. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk to answer.

  “Mom?”

  “What is going on at that school?” she asks, not even saying hello. In the background I can hear voices shouting and the hustle-bustle sounds of the urgent care center.

  “Exactly what I said in my text,” I tell her.

  “God, it’s like nothing’s changed in all these years,” my mom mutters, her voice full of exasperation.

  “What did the robocall say?” I ask.

  “Just that a walkout had been planned and if anyone participated they would be subject to suspension and possible expulsion.”

  Principal Wilson isn’t messing around if he’s gone so far as to call parents. I stand there, the mid-April heat surrounding me. I stare at the house in front of me, wishing it were mine so that I would already be home and hiding under my covers.

  “What time are you coming home tonight?” I ask, and suddenly I feel like crying again.

  “I have a date with John,” she says. “Do you need me to cancel?”

  “Yeah,” I say. Now I’m definitely crying again.

  “Vivvy, are you okay? You need me to come home now?”

  “Mom, I think me and Seth broke up,” I say. Tears are pouring down my face. “Everything is so messed up.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m leaving right now.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and try to calm down. “No, no, it’s okay. I’m not even home yet. I’m walking home from Lucy’s. Just come home as soon as you can, okay?”

  “Okay,” my mom answers. “You’re sure you don’t want me to leave right now?”

  “Yes,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I’m okay.”

  She makes me promise to text when I get home and to head over to Meemaw and Grandpa’s if I get too upset, but the truth is the only place I want to be is in my bedroom all by myself. I want to turn Bikini Kill up as loud as it will go and curl up in my bed and let my body absorb all the lyrics until I have enough strength to deal with whatever is going to happen next.

  * * *

  My mom finds me in bed, my throat raw from the crying I did at Lucy’s house and the crying that started up again as soon as I got home.

  She wordlessly curls up next to me, still dressed in her scrubs, and hugs me. She doesn’t say anything for a while. Just rests next to me. Even Joan Jett joins us, like she knows I need the company. She balls up next to my stomach and purrs like a diesel engine.

  “Wanna talk?” my mother says at last.

  “Yeah,” I say. Staring at tacked-up posters of bands I used to like in ninth grade, I give her the basics about the flyer and the walkout and then, my voice cracking, I tell her about my fight with Seth.

  “I feel awful,” I say, turning toward her.

  My mom sighs and sits up, undoes her ponytail and does it up again.

  “How did you end things again?” she asks.

  “I told him to stop telling me to calm down,” I say. “I feel bad that I said it, but at the same time, I don’t. Because I meant it.”

  My mom nods. “You know one thing I loved about your dad?” she says. My eyebrows pop up slightly. We hardly ever talk about my father. “Well, I mean, there were a lot of things I loved about him, but one thing I loved about him more than anything was that I knew that I could say anything to him, and we would be okay. I could snap or get mad. I could get frustrated. And he got frustrated with me, too. That’s what happens in relationships. People aren’t perfect. But at the core, I knew he loved me for me. I knew he accepted me for who I was. He was a good man because of that.”

  I think about what Lucy said earlier. “Seth is a good person,” I say.

  My mother nods again. “He seems to be, so far as I can tell.”

  “But he didn’t get it. About the flyer. About what Mitchell did.”

  “He’s still learning,” my mother offers. “The thing is, guys are indoctrinated with the same bullshit.”

  “I guess I never thought about it that way,” I say.

  My mother pulls me toward her and kisses me on the top of the head. “Vivvy, you’ll work it out. I bet you really will.”

  I shrug, not so sure. “Even if we do or don’t, it doesn’t really answer the question about the walkout.” I gnaw on a thumbnail.

  “So it was this Moxie group that called for the walkout?” my mom asks, her voice full of concern. My mouth goes dry. It was okay to talk about Seth with my mom. That felt okay. But now we’re venturing into trickier territory.

  “Yeah, it was the Moxie name on the flyer,” I say, glancing back up at my posters, avoiding eye contact. “But, I mean, no one knows the exact girl who made the flyer.”

  I could tell my mom about Moxie. Like I told Lucy. I could. But my entire mouth has turned into sandpaper.

  “So, I’m confused,” my mom continues. I glance at her and feel my cheeks redden, so I look away again. “Is this Moxie group like a club or what? With a president and everything?”

  “Not exactly,” I say.

  If only she knew.

  I roll to my side, my back to my mother. If I tell my mom I started Moxie, it will be like giving it to a grownup, almost like taking it away from the girls of East Rockport.

  “Well, a walkout is a pretty big statement, don’t you think?” my mother asks, reaching out to stroke my hair. It’s a kind gesture, but I find myself freezing up.

  “Yea
h, it is,” I answer, still facing away from her. I decide to test the waters. “You think I should do it? Even though Principal Wilson is threatening to expel the girls who do?”

  There’s a pause. “This is some sort of karmic thing, isn’t it?” she says at last.

  I turn and look over my shoulder, peering up at her. “What do you mean?”

  “All the times I insisted to Meemaw and Grandpa that all my crazy stunts in high school were just my way of fighting The System—capital T, capital S,” my mother says, shaking her head. “And now you’re asking me for permission to participate in civil disobedience.”

  “I guess that is some irony for you,” I say.

  “It’s blistering.” She sighs and rubs her eyes.

  “You still haven’t told me what you think I should do.”

  She takes a deep breath. “The mother I thought I would be when I was nineteen wants to tell you to do it,” she answers. “And the mother I’ve morphed into wants to tell you I’m afraid. Afraid that you could get expelled. Afraid for what that might mean for your future. For college. I don’t know, Vivvy.”

  My stomach sinks. Because I know that in the end the only person who’s going to be able to decide what to do when it comes to the walkout is me. I tug my bedspread over my face.

  “You wanna be alone for a little while?” my mom asks, her voice muffled.

  “Yeah,” I answer. But then I peek my eyes out. I don’t want to end our conversation like this. My mom’s mouth has turned into a soft, anxious frown, like she’s searching for the just-right words.

  “Viv, I love you,” she says finally. “And whatever you decide … whatever happens … I’ll always love you, and I’ll always stand with you.”

  The knots in my gut give way a bit. But not enough that I want to tell her about Moxie. I love my mom. I just don’t think she could handle it.

  Her expression still uncertain, she slides off the bed and leaves my room, Joan Jett following her. I hide under the covers with my phone and find lots of stuff online about the walkout. Girls are debating back and forth about whether they should do it, and most boys are saying it’s stupid. I text Claudia and my other friends and ask them if they’re going to do it and they all write back variations on the same thing.

  I think so. But I’m scared

  Marisela posts that she’s tired of boys at East Rockport acting like assholes and treating girls like property. People agree with her but some boys start posting that she’s accusing all boys of being jerks, and a huge debate follows. Kiera posts a picture of Wonder Woman and a quote by a woman named Angela Davis. “When one commits oneself to the struggle, it must be for a lifetime.” I look her up and read about how Angela Davis was a black feminist who was imprisoned for fighting for her beliefs. It makes a walkout look pretty minor in comparison, to be honest.

  I fight the urge to text Seth.

  He doesn’t text me.

  After a little while, my mom brings me some reheated lasagna from dinner the night before. I make myself eat a few bites.

  “I feel like going to bed,” I say.

  “It’s not even nine o’clock.”

  “Yeah, but if I go to sleep, I don’t have to think about any of this,” I answer.

  My mother nods and clears the plate, and soon I’m in my pajamas in the dark. But it’s a long time until I drift off, my mind unsettled and my heart pumping steadily as it circles back to tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The walkout is supposed to be midway through my English class. According to the flyer, we should get up and leave when the bell rings to alert teachers to take the daily attendance.

  It’s a loaded class for the walkout to happen. Not only will Seth be in there, but Mitchell will be there, too. Lucy would be there, of course, if she weren’t suspended.

  It’s literally all everyone is talking about, and as my friends and I gather on the front steps to discuss it, we all get texts from Lucy.

  When the walkout happens send me pics. I have an idea

  When, not if. My hands go numb, but I manage to text back.

  What’s the idea?

  You’ll see—just send pics of all the girls walking out

  “Think it’s gonna happen?” says Sara.

  “I think something’s going to happen,” Claudia answers. “Some girls were posting some really intense stuff last night that made it sound like they’re committed.”

  “So you’re going to do it?” asks Meg.

  “I think so,” I answer. But now that it’s here, my stomach’s a rock. I think about getting suspended. Maybe even expelled. I picture myself standing in front of the school with five or six other girls. Then I remember the words of that freshman girl the other day.

  “Wilson can’t expel us if we all walk out.”

  The first bell rings and we all head in, but my mind is blank as we listen in class and go to our lockers during passing period and make eye contact in the hallways. The school feels electric. On edge. The teachers are all standing in the hallways in little clumps, whispering to each other. It’s the most engaged I’ve seen them all year.

  I look for Seth but don’t find him.

  I spot Mitchell Wilson and his fellow apes hanging out like every other day. Their loud boy voices, laced with Mountain Dew and the knowledge that the world belongs to them, ring through the halls, echoing off the walls, making my skin crawl.

  If they walk, they’re gonna be so fucked.

  They won’t do it. They don’t have the guts.

  Finally, English class. Mr. Davies passes out a worksheet and clears his throat, then glances at the clock.

  The seconds tick by.

  I peer over at Seth, who walked in at the bell. When I look away I think I feel him looking at me, but I don’t look back.

  Five minutes until 11:15.

  “Can I get someone to read the passage?” Mr. Davies asks. He folds and refolds his arms. He grimaces and stares out at all of us, his expression sour.

  No one volunteers. Finally, Mr. Davies calls on one of Mitchell’s friends, who starts reading some short passage in a halting voice.

  “John … Steinbeck was an American author … who wrote … many novels. He is best known for his … Pulitzer Prize–winning masterpiece The Grapes of Wrath.”

  Tick tick tick.

  “Setting is an important part of … Steinbeck’s novels. Most of his stories … are set in … central and southern California.”

  Tick tick tick.

  My heart starts to hammer. One minute left. I want to scream the tension is so heavy.

  “In 1962 … John Steinbeck won … the Nobel Prize in Literature. Steinbeck’s works regularly … touch on the concepts of … injustice.”

  BUZZ.

  There’s a collective jump, and Mr. Davies moves toward his computer to input attendance, like he expects nothing. Everyone is watching everyone else. I want to get up. I want to stand up. But I’m frozen. I look out into the hallway, hoping to see a ponytail floating by. I’m desperate to hear the sounds of girls’ voices as they gather together and march out of the building.

  Mitchell Wilson snorts under his breath. Mitchell Wilson, who is almost certainly a rapist.

  Get up, Vivian. Get up!

  My leg muscles tense and then, just as I start to stand, I’m cut off.

  By Emma Johnson.

  Queen Emma. Cheer squad Emma. Vice president of the student council let’s-all-act-like-Texas-ladies Emma. That Emma.

  She stands up, whips a Sharpie from her pocket, and—her china doll cheeks flushed with what I quickly perceive to be rage—she writes the word MOXIE down her left forearm.

  Her hand is shaking.

  Then she looks toward the back of the classroom. She stares at Mitchell with eyes full of a fury so awesome her face reminds me of Kathleen Hanna’s voice.

  “Mitchell,” she says, her voice clear and cutting. “Fuck you.”

  And she walks out.

  S
he’s not two steps out the door before I get up and follow, my skin buzzing, my heart on fire. In that moment I don’t even care if any other girl is following me. All I know is that I won’t let Emma walk out alone.

  She is halfway down the hallway before I catch up to her. There are a few other girls standing by the lockers, looking around a bit aimlessly, not sure what to do.

  “Are you okay?” I ask Emma. She’s crying now, tears running down her cheeks. Her perfect eye makeup is smudged. Two tiny coal-black streams slide down her face. She wipes them away.

  “I’m okay,” she says. “But what happens now?”

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” I say. “Who made the flyer?”

  “Yeah,” says Emma, nodding.

  My first impulse is to hug her, but I’m not sure she wants to be touched.

  “Let’s go out,” I say, my voice rising, so the other girls will hear. “Let’s head out toward the front steps of the school. We can figure it out there.”

  “Thanks,” she says, sniffling.

  The girls in the hallway follow me, and as we walk, more and more classroom doors start to open. I spy Kiera and Meg and Marisela and Amaya and Kaitlyn, their faces uncertain as they step out, then smiling as they see they’re not alone.

  I see Claudia. She sees me. She sticks her tongue out, she’s so excited.

  Our numbers start to grow, and quickly, too. At least half of the girls in East Rockport are walking out. Maybe more. As soon as other girls inside classrooms hear noises, they venture out. Teachers step into the hallways, shout at us that we’re going to be expelled.

  Look, Wilson can’t expel us if we all walk out.

  I see that freshman girl, too, grinning so big her face looks like it might split in half.

  We keep marching, our feet trampling over Principal Wilson’s threats and our teachers’ warnings. We are marching because those words deserve to be run over. Steamrolled. Flattened to dust. We are marching in our Converse and our candy-colored flip-flops and our kitten heels, too. Our legs are moving, our arms are swinging, our mouths are set in lines so straight and sharp you could cut yourself on them.