The Nowhere Girls by Amy Reed
“There!” Mami shouts, pointing at an intersection a block away. The car speeds up and they swerve just in time to avoid rear-ending a car turning right.
Abuelita is standing calmly at the corner, pressing the button for the crosswalk. The car screeches to a halt in front of her, and Mami jumps out. Rosina pushes the hazard lights on and pulls up the emergency brake lever. For a brief moment she wishes Mami could have witnessed her quick thinking, could have seen her taking care of things.
“Mami,” Mami says gently to Abuelita. She puts her arm around her and says, “Vámonos.”
Abuelita blinks, confused but trusting. Mami speaks to her cheerfully in Spanish, all of her previous rage suddenly gone. Rosina has to turn her head. Something about witnessing her mother’s softness hurts. Because Rosina never feels it. Because it is never directed at her.
Rosina gets out and opens the door to the backseat as Mami guides Abuelita back to the car. She looks across the lanes of traffic, at the Quick Stop gas station and mini-mart. She wonders if Spencer is working right now. She wonders who he’s hurt lately.
Then thwack! Rosina stands, stunned, as she realizes the side of her face is burning. She turns her head to see Abuelita right next to her, her open hand raised in the aftermath of a slap, eyes wild with a combination of anger and terror.
“¿Qué has hecho con mi hija?” Abuelita demands. What have you done with my daughter? “¿Qué has hecho con Alicia?”
“Soy yo,” Rosina says. “Soy Rosina.”
“Tienes su cara, pero no eres ella.” You have her face, but you are not her. Abuelita thwacks Rosina again. “¡Demonio!” she screams. Demon!
“Mami!” Rosina’s mother calls, reaching for Abuelita’s arm, but the old woman wrestles herself free. Rosina covers her face with her hands while her grandmother hits her with everything she’s got. Rosina doesn’t fight back. She doesn’t try to stop her. Each impact seems somehow earned. She deserves this.
“¡Basta!” Mami shouts. Enough! “Rosina es su nieta. Ella te ama.” Rosina is your granddaughter. She loves you. “Ella es buena.” She is good.
No, Rosina thinks. Mami’s lying. She doesn’t believe that.
Rosina and her mother manage to wrestle Abuelita into the back of the car. She stops fighting as soon as her bony butt hits the seat, as if, just like that, something switched in her head and she forgot her torment. How nice it would be to turn off feelings like that, Rosina thinks as she leans in and buckles Abuelita’s seat belt. Something wet from her face makes a tiny splash on her grandmother’s knee.
They drive home in silence. Abuelita falls asleep as soon as the car starts. “Like a baby,” Mami says softly. “You used to do that. When you wouldn’t stop crying, I’d put you in your car seat and drive around the block. Worked every time.”
But it’s not working now. Rosina is turned as far away from her mother as possible, her forehead pressed against the cold window. It has started to rain, and the thick drops outside match the ones falling down Rosina’s cheeks.
Rosina gets out of the car as soon as it comes to a stop in front of the house. She lifts Abuelita out of her seat, and her bony arms hold tight around Rosina’s neck as she carries her into the house. Rosina lays her down in her bed, pulls the blankets up her to chin, and tucks in the sides slightly. Rosina knows Abuelita likes her blankets tight, just like Rosina.
Mami is standing in the doorway of Abuelita’s bedroom. The room is dark and Rosina cannot see her face. She steps quietly away from the bed and says, “Excuse me.” Mom gets out of her way.
“I’m going out now,” Rosina says. In the darkness, she can see her mother nod.
US.
“At least this place is a lot cleaner than where we had the last meeting,” Grace says.
“But it’s probably even more illegal,” Erin says.
The big stone sign at the entrance to the road says OASIS VILLAS, but there is neither an oasis nor villas in sight, only acres of muddy, bulldozed land dissected by a tangle of roads that circle around and go nowhere. The only signs of life are abandoned tractors sitting on piles of dirt and, way off in the distance, far from the main road, this one empty, perfect house on top of a hill, which the girls are sitting in right now. The sign stuck out front says MODEL HOME! in cheerful green letters, but there is nothing cheerful about it.
“Oh, look,” Rosina says. “I’m not the only brown person here anymore. There’s Esther Ngyuen and Shara Porter. We have our token Latina, Asian, and Black girls now. Aren’t we just the model of intersectional feminism?”
Rosina plops down in the corner and leans against the wall, glaring at the rest of the room.
“What’s your problem?” Erin says as she sits down beside her.
“I don’t have a problem,” Rosina says.
“You’re even bitchier than usual,” Erin says.
“You do seem kind of down,” Grace says. “Are you still upset about your meeting with Principal Slatterly on Thursday?”
“Fuck Principal Slatterly,” Rosina says, but without her usual enthusiasm. She touches her red and slightly swollen left cheek. “My mom told me I had to come into the restaurant today,” she says. “Even though it’s my day off. Seriously, it’s like third world conditions. Being in my family is like living in a sweatshop.”
“Is that racist?” says Erin. “Are you being racist against yourself?”
“But you’re not at the restaurant,” Grace says, still standing in front of her two seated friends.
“Yeah, well, that’s because I said no.”
“That’s good, right?” Grace says.
“Not when it sets off a fight that’s so bad we don’t notice my grandmother leaving the house until she’s already made it five blocks away and is about to get herself killed trying to cross the six-lane street by the highway. And then when we try to get her in the car, she thinks I’m a demon impersonating her dead daughter and punches me in the face.”
“Oh no,” Grace says. “I’m so sorry.”
Rosina shrugs her best I-don’t-care shrug, but it is not convincing. She looks around at the growing crowd of girls cramming themselves into the pristine, empty living room, trying to maneuver for prime spots near their friends. Even here, where everyone’s supposed to be on the same side, social cliques and hierarchy still reign.
“Why don’t you just quit?” Erin asks.
“What, quit my family?” Rosina says. “I wish.”
“Quit your job.”
“I need the money.”
“Could you at least quit babysitting like you were talking about?” Grace says. “Get your cousin to start doing it?”
“My family doesn’t exactly understand the word ‘no.’ ”
“Margot’s talking,” Erin says.
“When is she not?” Rosina says.
“It’s time to be quiet,” Erin says.
Someone has turned on the gas flames of the model home’s fake fireplace, and Margot Dillard, student body president, is standing in front of it trying to get everyone’s attention.
“Grace, are you going to sit down?” Rosina says. “You’re making me nervous.”
Grace looks at her feet, then at Margot, then back at her friends sitting in the corner. “I think I’m going to sit closer to the middle?” she says. “So I can hear better?”
“Whatever,” Rosina says. “Knock yourself out.”
“There are thirty-one people here,” Erin says, her hands in knots. “That’s too many for this room. It’s too crowded. It’s just a matter of time before the meeting descends into total chaos.”
“Descends into total chaos,” Rosina sings in a growly heavy-metal voice. “Duh duh duh.” But Rosina’s teasing of Erin is interrupted as Melissa the cheerleader sits in the empty spot right next to her.
“Is it okay if I sit here?” Melissa says, smiling.
“Um, okay?” Rosina says, immediately hating herself for the question in her voice.
“I am not comfortable
“Does anyone have topics they would like to propose for today’s discussion?” Margot says from the fake fireplace.
“Can we talk about how all the boys are being big babies?” someone says, which makes people laugh.
“I’m curious how things feel different for people,” Melissa says. “Like if anyone feels like things are changing with how guys are treating them, or how we’re treating one another. Or even how we feel about ourselves.”
“Yes,” Margot says. “Does anyone want to speak on what Melissa brought up? How things are changing?”
“I feel more confident,” says Elise Powell. “Like, less insecure around other girls. Not as worried about everyone judging me all the time. Because it feels like we’re all on the same side for once.”
“I feel braver,” says another girl.
“Yeah,” says Elise. “I feel like we’re different. The girls are. But the guys seem exactly the same.”
“If not worse,” someone says.
“We’re forcing them to show who they really are,” says Sam Robeson. “Nothing like a little obstacle to bring out someone’s true character. It’s basic dramatic theory.”
“What are we supposed to do now?” says another girl. “Just sit around and wait for the guys to get their shit together?”
“Basically, yes,” says Elise. “They know what we want. It’s up to them to figure out how to change.”
“They can always ask us for pointers,” Rosina says. “Like here are the top ten ways to not be a douche bag. Number one: Don’t rape girls.”
“Number two,” says Melissa. “Don’t let your friends rape girls.”
“Number three,” someone says. “Have girls as friends, not just girlfriends.”
“Number four,” says Margot. “Don’t call us ‘fucksocks.’ ” The room erupts in laughter.
“Who calls women ‘fucksocks’?” Sam says.
“I read it on The Real Men of Prescott blog,” Margot says.
“Oh, God,” says Rosina.
“Number five,” says Melissa. “Don’t read The Real Men of Prescott blog.”
Then the laughter suddenly fizzles out. One by one, everyone turns her head, on high alert, like prairie dogs sniffing for danger.
“Holy shit,” says Connie Lancaster. She does not bother whispering.
Amber Sullivan is standing in the doorway, a defensive scowl already on her face. The room is silent as everyone stares in her direction. Tense. On guard. Amber doesn’t move, as if she’s being held in place by their suspicious glares. For a moment it seems like the girls have decided to block Amber’s entrance with nothing but their eyes.
“Why’s she here?” someone whispers.
“I don’t trust her,” whispers someone else. “She’s totally going to tell on us.”
“Amber!” Grace finally says. “I’m so glad you came.” Grace seems to be the only person who’s happy Amber showed up, including Amber.
People half relax as Grace ushers Amber into the room. A few people even say hi, as if Grace’s small act of inclusion was all it took to think of Amber as someone suddenly worth knowing.
“Wow,” Melissa whispers to Rosina. “It’s brave of her to come. Girls hate her.”
“Do you?”
“No, of course not,” she says. “I feel sorry for her.”
“That’s worse,” Rosina says. “If someone hates you, at least they think you have some kind of power.”
Melissa looks at Rosina in a way she can’t read, forcing her to look away. For a moment Rosina wonders if maybe she’s a little autistic herself, like Erin. It was almost painful, that eye contact. She feels the ache somewhere in her chest, in the place Erin’s panic attacks start.
“Okay, ladies,” Margot Dillard says. “Everyone comfortable? Do we want to check in about how the sex strike is going for everyone? Has anyone experienced any pushback from their boyfriends?”
“You mean ex-boyfriend?” says head cheerleader Lisa Sutter. “I always knew he was an asshole, but this whole thing has brought it to a new level.” She looks at Amber with a homicidal gleam in her eye.
“Yeah, I had to dump mine, too,” says another girl. “He laughed at me when I told him I was doing the strike.”
“They’re like little kids,” Lisa says. “They don’t understand the word ‘no.’ It just, like, doesn’t compute in their tiny brains.”
“Not all guys,” another girl says. “My boyfriend’s being really supportive.”
“Yeah,” says Sam Robeson. “I still don’t understand why the nice guys have to suffer. I don’t understand why we have to suffer. Girls are being punished by this sex strike too, you know.”
“If it makes you feel any better, Sam,” Lisa says, “I don’t think Amber’s doing the sex strike.”
A few surprised gasps. A few nervous giggles.
“Amber still has sex with lots of guys, right?” Lisa says.
“Lisa,” Melissa says gently. “I think you need to drop it.”
“Drop it?” Lisa says. “Why should I drop it? You think I should be nice to her? She slept with my boyfriend.”
“Ladies,” Margot says in a high-pitched, nervous voice. “Let’s not forget that we’re here to connect and create a safe space for all girls. So let’s try to come together instead of driving one another away. Okay?”
Girls murmur. Some nod in agreement. Some roll their eyes. “Whatever,” Lisa says. “Majority rule, right? I’ll just keep my mouth shut for the rest of the meeting since no one wants to hear what I have to say.”
“That’s not true,” Margot says. “We still—”
Lisa puts her hand up like a stop sign. “It’s fine. Seriously. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m so sorry, Amber,” Grace whispers, but the room is so quiet everyone can hear her.
“It’s not like I don’t know what people say,” Amber says. “I know what you think of me. I know you all think I’m a slut.”
“No, we don’t,” someone says weakly.
“That’s sweet,” Amber says with a voice that is anything but sweet. “But you’re full of shit.”
“It’s not fair,” Sam Robeson says. “Guys can have as much sex as they want, but as soon as a girl does, she’s labeled a slut.”
“But they still want you to be sexy,” says another girl. “Or else they don’t even see you.”
“But not too sexy,” says Margot. “Especially if you want people to take you seriously.”
“So do you even like sex, Amber?” Connie Lancaster asks.
“Connie!” her friend Allison whispers.
“I’m curious,” Connie says. “Really. I’m not being mean.”
The room turns silent, waiting for an answer.
Amber doesn’t say anything for a long time, just looks around the room at everybody looking at her. Their eyes are more inquisitive than hostile, like they actually want to know what she thinks and feels, like they actually want to know her. “I don’t know,” Amber finally says. The eyes have softened her. The surprise of this strange place and these strange girls, looking at her in this strange new way.
“But you hook up with a lot of guys, right?” Connie says, her voice almost kind.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“But you don’t like it?”
“Sometimes,” Amber says. “But not always.”
“Why would you do it if you don’t like it?”
Amber takes a long time to answer, as if the question was in a foreign language and she is taking time to translate each word. “I don’t know,” she finally says. “I guess it just seems like . . . why wouldn’t I?”
A few almost imperceptible nods around the room. Hate turning into pity turning into something else entirely.
Amber straightens up, turns hard again. “Yeah, so maybe I don’t like it every time. So what? I just don’t think sex is all that special. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“No offense,” Sam says. “But that’s crap.”
“Amber,” Grace says. “We don’t have to talk about this anymore if you don’t want to.”
“I think we should stop talking about this entirely,” someone says.
“No,” Sam says. “This is exactly the kind of thing we need to talk about.”
“Well, I think we can all agree,” Lisa says, “if anyone needs to go on a sex strike, it’s Amber.”
“Lisa, stop,” says Melissa.
Lisa motions a zipper closing across her mouth.
“You really think a sex strike is going to make them respect you?” Amber laughs. “You think they could ever respect you? You think they respect any of us? It’s a waste of time trying to get guys to respect you. So I’m using them just like they’re using me. It’s totally equal.”
Somewhere in the shadows, someone whispers, “Poor Amber,” but it is loud enough to make Amber flinch, to remind her why she should never have come here, why she doesn’t belong with these people.
“You know what’s weird?” Connie says. “No one at school talks about Sam being a slut, but she totally sleeps around, right? Why is Amber a slut but Sam is not?”
“I’ve heard people call Sam a slut,” says one of Sam’s drama club friends.
“Thanks,” says Sam.
“But still not as much as Amber, right?” says Connie. “Like, not with as much hatred. Like if you had to choose who was considered a bigger slut by the majority of students at Prescott High School, Amber would win, even though they both have sex with lots of guys.”
“Can we stop using that word? Like right now?” Sam says. “Can we all agree to just stop using that horrible word? I mean, it’s bad enough what guys do, what they say about us. Do we really have to do this shit to each other?”
No one realizes that Amber is gone. They see her still sitting with them, but they do not know about her talent of leaving her body when it gets too painful to stay inside it. She doesn’t want to think about what makes her different from Sam. She doesn’t want to think about the hole inside her that nothing will fill.