by Carrie Pack
“Is this Riot Grrrl?” Leather Jacket asks.
“Sure is, girlfriend,” Marty says. She’s trying too hard as usual.
The glare that Buzz Cut sends in her direction is armed with a thousand knives, and I’m glad she’s turned her attention away from me so my heart rate can recover. Embarrassment keeps me silent as I catch her eye roll and stifle a laugh. She smiles in my direction, revealing bright white teeth. I catch myself staring, and my face burns as I turn to face Marty.
“We want to join,” Leather Jacket says. She throws an arm around Buzz Cut. “I’m Venus and this is Jackie.” She points to the tall girl with the Afro, “And Monique.”
Kate steps in front of Marty and holds out her hand. “I’m sorry about Marty. Sometimes I swear she was raised by wolves.” She laughs. “I’m Kate Goldberg. We just finished up but we’re always happy to have new faces.”
“We got lost or we would have been here earlier,” Jackie says. I can’t stop staring at her. She seems infinitely cool and it pulls me in like a moth to a flame.
“We didn’t get lost,” Venus says. “The address was wrong.”
“Oh, we just moved,” Marty says. “We used to meet at my house.”
“Figures,” Monique adds. “Two crazy white ladies have to be from the same family.”
Marty gapes at her like a fish out of water. I’ve never seen Marty speechless. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Your mom told us where you were,” Venus clarifies.
Kate clears her throat. “Where do you girls go to school?”
“Central,” Jackie says. “Me and Venus are seniors. Monique graduated last year.”
“I think we had gym together.” Cherie’s voice is barely a squeak, and I had almost forgotten she was there.
Jackie raises an eyebrow. “Gym. Right.” She rolls her eyes and huffs sharply. “Look, Vee, I think these Girl Scouts might be a little too vanilla for us.”
“I take offense to that,” Marty says. “We might be white, but we’re definitely not vanilla.” She thrusts her hands on her hips and gives Jackie her best punk glare. I can’t believe I used to find Marty intimidating. It’s hard to take her seriously when she’s acting like a spoiled toddler.
“Oh yeah?” Venus looks like she’s on the verge of laughter.
This time Cherie steps in front of Marty. “Why don’t you come to our meeting next week? You can meet the other girls and make your minds up then.”
“That’s not a bad idea, Vee.” Monique seems to be the voice of reason in their group, and for that I like her already. “And these girls seem cool. Anyone who will speak with Jack staring them down has to have some balls.”
“Why does everyone always say that when they mean someone’s tough?” Marty rants. “Shouldn’t we say, ‘She’s got ovaries,’ or something?”
Leave it to Marty to lose what little ground we gained in the last five minutes.
“Crazy girl’s got a point,” Jackie says. “Vaginas are way tougher than some saggy old balls.”
Kate and I both turn to stare, open-mouthed, at Jackie.
“What?” she says, and the glare is back. “She’s right.”
Marty beams proudly. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.” Marty’s too busy preening to see that the trio of girls are looking at her like she’s nuts. She holds up her hand for a high five and says, “See you guys next Tuesday, then?”
A bored-looking Jackie says, “Sure, whatever.” She ignores Marty’s raised hand, but her body language has changed. She seems more relaxed. I take that as a good sign.
“Kate, I got to get home,” I say. “My mom’s going to flip if I’m late again.”
“Sure thing, babe,” she says and kisses my forehead.
I see Jackie’s eyebrows rise, and my stomach flutters. I hope she’s not offended. But I prepare myself to defend our relationship.
“Look, Jackie, you’ve found your fellow rug-munchers.” Monique laughs.
I shoot glances from one to the other. From her appearance, I probably should have guessed Jackie was queer. But I had been too busy sneaking glances at Monique. I didn’t realize until that moment that I’d been flirting. But the way she smirked when she teased Jackie says she’s not on the same team. When I look back to Jackie, she’s got her head down, and she’s rummaging through her pockets.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. I’m not sure what’s okay exactly, but it seems like the right thing to say.
Jackie’s eyes meet mine and, beneath her cool exterior, I can see tears beginning to form. She blinks to hold them back the way I always do. I try to smile, but only one side of my mouth cooperates. I probably look like a moron.
“Thanks,” she says, raising her head. She seems to regain some of her composure and all of her attitude. “Monique, stop being such a bitch, okay?”
Monique holds up her hands. “It was a joke. Jeez.”
“We didn’t find it very funny,” I say. “And anyway, Kate and I are bi.”
It’s only the second time I’ve admitted it to myself and the first time I’ve said the word out loud. I brace myself for the laughter. It never comes. Jackie smiles at me, and her entire face lights up. She has a stunning smile. Monique rolls her eyes, and I think I might have to reconsider my initial impression of her. Kate simply threads her arm through mine and leads me to the car while I steal glances over my shoulder at Jackie.
When I close the door, I release a burst of air. I have to struggle to catch my breath.
“You okay?” Kate asks as she turns the key in the ignition.
“Kate,” I say, my eyes glued to the dashboard, “I think I just came out to a complete stranger.”
“Yeah, so?” She narrows her eyes at me. “Wait… was that the first time you said it? The word ‘bi’ I mean.”
I nod. My face is hot but my hands are cold. My stomach flops around as though I drank a double espresso.
“How does it feel?”
I swallow. “I think I might throw up.”
Kate’s laughter is drowned out by the radio as I try not to burst into tears. Happy tears.
Decked Out No. 3
Girly doesn’t mean weak!
Just because I wear lipstick and paint my nails doesn’t mean I’m not a feminist and I wish people would figure that out. I shouldn’t have to explain myself because these things make me feel good. I’m not doing it because the makeup ads say I have to. I’m not wearing designer jeans because some cracked-out supermodel told me to. I do this for me and it’s none of your damn business.
I don’t do it for boys and I won’t stop doing it for girls. I do it for me. I like the way I look in eyeliner and lipstick. I like wearing sparkly nail polish. I don’t have to cut my hair short and burn my bra, which by the way is lacy and pretty, just to prove something to the rest of you.
I’m starting a zine to prove that you can be a Material Grrrl and a feminist grrrl. I can be who I want to be. I’m going to include fashion tips and makeup recommendations and all-around “girly” stuff. Whatever stuff I’m into.
And if you don’t like that, then you can, in the immortal words of Bikini Kill, “suck my left one.” ~ Cherie Wong
P.S. You can subscribe to my zine, Material Grrrl, by writing to the address on the back. Just send $1 and two stamps.
And now, a special note from Marty, who promises not to swear…
I promise no such thing, but I’ll try my best.
We’d love to see more of you at our Riot Grrrl meetings. We’ve moved to the Decker rec center on Collins so we have lots more room. I’m ready for a revolution and we need awesome girls like you. I promise it’s not a clique or anything. We want as many girls in Decker to join as possible. Our youngest girls are in middle school and some of us are in college. There’s no age limit. The only requirement to join is that you�
��re a girl and you want to put a stop to all the girl hate in the world. We’re girls supporting girls and WE WANT YOU.
Oh, by the way, Kate, Cherie and I are starting band rehearsals soon and we’ve narrowed our name down to two choices: Menstrual Weekend or The Claires. If anyone plays drums or guitar, we need a couple more chicks to round out our sound. Rock on! ~Marty
Chapter 5
“Tabitha, did you walk the dog? I don’t want him peeing on the carpet again.” My mom’s voice echoes up the stairs, and my heart stops.
“She’s home early.” My voice breaks on the last syllable. I freeze. My pants are unbuttoned and Kate is practically naked from the waist up. Her nipples stand erect through a lacy white bra. We’ve been making out for a good twenty minutes. “Shit.” Mom doesn’t know about me and Kate. She doesn’t even know about me yet.
While I’m busy imitating a statue, Kate tugs her T-shirt back over her head and leaps off my bed. “I thought you said she wasn’t getting home until seven.”
Kate’s voice pulls me out of my stupor. “She wasn’t.” I glance at my alarm clock. It’s five forty-five. “She’s never home this early.”
“Never say never.” Kate’s breathless as she bends over to put on her shoes. Her hair is a matted mess in the back and her shirt is on backward.
“Kate, slow down. You look like…” I can’t say the words.
“Like we’ve been making out?”
I nod, dumbfounded. I was making out with my girlfriend. Are we girlfriends? We haven’t really had that talk. We’ve been too busy with our tongues in each other’s mouths. And my tongue on her—
“Tabitha, will you—” My mom appears in my doorway and stares from me to Kate and back again. Her sentence hangs unfinished. “I didn’t know you had company.”
“Mom, this is Kate.” And she’s a really good kisser.
“Hi, Kate.” Mom blinks and looks at me with a question in her eyes. Does she know? Can she see Kate’s lipstick on my neck? Is it obvious that we’ve been making out half naked on my bed? I can’t tell if my heart is beating double time or if it’s skipping beats. Blood pounds in my ears, so it’s definitely still working. Mom’s eyes wander my room as if she’s seeing it for the first time. Her gaze finally lands on Kate. “Do you go to school with Tabitha?”
“Um, no. I graduated last year.”
My mom nods. She looks unsure of what to say next.
“I’ve really got to run,” Kate says, her mouth drawn into a frown. Her lower lip forms a soft pout, and I notice her lipstick is completely gone. I rub the spot on my neck she had been kissing, hoping she didn’t leave marks. “I’ll call you later?”
I nod, but I really want to jump up and kiss her. I lock my fingers together to keep myself from moving. I shift nervously as I brace for my mom’s questions.
When Kate is gone, my mother says, “She seems nice.” Her awkward smile tells me she doesn’t know what else to say. Margaret Denton is good at a lot of things: baking cookies, selling houses, running her own business and making a life for herself after a messy divorce. Not on that list: talking to her teenaged daughter. But at least she speaks to me. Dad hasn’t called in two years.
“Did you want something?” I ask, rescuing her from herself.
“Oh, yes,” she says as if she just remembered. “I’m going out tonight, so I left you some money on the counter for pizza.”
“Out?”
“Yes.”
“As in, a date?” I narrow my eyes at her. “So that’s why you’re home early.”
Mom laughs and fidgets with a bracelet. “Well, sort of. I don’t know. It might be a date.”
I’m not sure about the etiquette here. Am I supposed to be a disgruntled teenager? Should I be supportive? Honestly, if she’s happy I don’t care. I just wish she’d told me this before Kate rushed out. We could have had the house to ourselves tonight.
“You going to be okay here by yourself?”
“Mom, I’m here by myself every day.” I can’t remember my mom ever being home before seven. I started staying home alone when I was in fifth grade, right after the divorce. I’ve had my own key to the house as long as I can remember. I learned to cook when I was eleven. I started doing my own laundry at thirteen. If I had my own car, I’d do the grocery shopping. I want to tell her about Kate and me. Instead I say, “Go. Have a good time.”
She turns to go, but at the last minute she pauses in my doorway. “Um, if you want to invite Kate over, she’s welcome any time.”
“Okay.”
“She’s cute,” Mom adds. “You’re, uh… cute together?” She raises her voice on the last word as if she’s testing out the phrase.
My heart beats double time. This time I can feel it, hot and persistent.
“Thanks.” My voice comes out in a raspy whisper.
Mom nods. I’m not sure which of us feels more awkward. Finally, she says, “Okay. Money’s on the counter. I should be home around eleven. I’ll call if I’m going to be later than that.” She steps back into my room and bends to scoop me up in a hug. “Love you, kid.”
It takes me a second, but when my arms cooperate, I wrap them around her and squeeze hard. “Love you, too.”
Despite her initial “acceptance,” Mom doesn’t mention Kate again. She’s out a lot with this dentist named Dan, and I spend a lot of time with Kate. Our conversations happen in passing and through messages on our answering machine.
On Monday I come home to, “Hey, hon. I’m working late and then meeting Dan for dinner. There’s leftovers in the fridge. I won’t be late. Love you.”
On Tuesday I call to say, “Hey, Mom, it’s me. Kate and I are going to some lecture at the community college. I’ll be home around eight-thirty.”
Wednesday, I get home around nine to both my message saying Kate and I are grabbing a pizza and Mom’s message saying she’s out with Dan. She sticks her head in my room around eleven. I’m lying on my bed trying to finish my homework, but instead I’m doodling hearts in the margins of my notebook. I’m a sappy doofus. I don’t think I care.
“Oh good. You’re up,” Mom says. “Sorry I’m so late. Did you have a good day?”
Her smile is sleepy but genuine. I haven’t met Dan, but if he can make my mom smile like that, I guess he can’t be all bad.
“It was good,” I say. And for once it’s not a lie. Kate and I ate out on what could almost be called a real date and then went to the park by my house and made out on the swings until it got too dark to see one another.
Even though we have the house to ourselves most evenings, Kate and I don’t make out nearly enough—at least not in my opinion. Kate has other priorities, though.
Mom yawns. “Well, I think I’m going to go to bed. You need anything before I hit the hay?”
“Nope, I’m good.”
She kisses the top of my head. “Good night. Don’t stay up too late.”
“I won’t.”
As soon as I hear her bedroom door close, I dial Kate’s number.
She doesn’t even say hello before asking, “Can you come to the protest tomorrow?”
I roll onto my back and throw my arm over my face. “I forgot to ask.”
Kate sighs. “Tabitha, this is important. Don’t you care about stopping animal testing?”
“Of course I do.” And it’s true. I don’t think cosmetics companies should use animals to test toxic chemicals on cute little bunnies and mice. I’ve seen the pictures: tiny, helpless things with their eyes swollen shut; formerly fluffy creatures subjected to so many caustic substances that they’re more raw meat than fur. It’s awful. But at the same time, I highly doubt that a protest organized by six girls at Northeast Illinois Community College is going to change much. I have to bite my lip to keep from vocalizing that. “My mom got home late again and she’s already in bed. I’ll ask tomorrow morning.
”
“She probably won’t notice anyway. It’s not like she’s been home any night this week.”
Kate’s right, but I can’t help but get defensive at her tone. “She’s been home.”
“You know what I mean.” I hear rustling in the background, and then Kate’s stereo kicks on. “Look, I need to get some sleep. I’ll pick you up after school, okay?”
I pause, waiting for her to say something else. Good night? I love you? I’m not sure what. The only noise coming over the line is the muted sound of The Slits’ cover of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.”
Trying to say something more romantic than “bye” or “later,” I whisper, “Sweet dreams.”
“Huh?” Kate says. “I was changing my shirt.”
“Never mind,” I mumble. “Good night.”
“Bye, Tab,” she says.
There’s a click and then silence. I can’t decide if I feel empty or embarrassed. I grab a bag of Oreos I’d left on my desk and shove one in my mouth. Between bites of chocolate cookie and sugary frosting, I stop thinking and savor the fact that Kate had been expecting my call. I turn out the light and toss my books to the floor. I’ll finish my homework in the morning. I keep the cookies nearby.
I hate it that Kate’s right about my mom. She isn’t home when Kate picks me up and she won’t be home until late, so I dash off a quick note and hop in Kate’s car. The crowd at the protest is bigger than I’d anticipated, and there are at least a dozen girls hoisting homemade signs sporting phrases like, “Fur on your back = Blood on your hands” and “Give voice to the voiceless!”
Kate pulls a sign from her trunk that reads, “Stop animal testing now!” in sparkly pink letters. She’s decorated it with stickers of cartoon bunnies and mice.
