The Princesses of Iowa

by M. Molly Backes

  Stella Austin opened the door. “Paige!” she said.

  “I need to see Jake.”

  Mrs. Austin smiled tightly. “We’re at dinner, dear.” Her voice was calm, with the faintest trace of a Southern accent.

  “It’s important.” I sounded like such a brat, I thought distantly. My mother would be horrified. I didn’t care. I pushed past Mrs. Austin into the house.

  Piped Vivaldi floated through hidden speakers. Candles flickered on the table. How many nights had I sat at this table, with this family, their evening ritual nearly a carbon copy of my own.

  Jake stood, taking the cloth napkin from his lap and laying it on the table. “Paige.”

  “How dare you!” I yelled, surprising even myself. Mrs. Austin looked like she’d been slapped. “What is wrong with you!”

  Mr. Austin appeared in the archway from the kitchen, nodding, a beer in his hand. “Here to dump his sorry ass? I don’t blame you.”

  Jake’s face turned white. Mrs. Austin held out her hands. “Now, Paige, dear . . .”

  “You have no right!” I cried. “The world doesn’t belong to you. You can’t just destroy people’s lives because you feel like it.”

  Mr. Austin grunted and took a step into the room.

  I ignored him. “For years, I’ve forgiven you, all of you! I looked away, pretended not to hear you.” I glanced at his parents, seeing a flash of myself in the ornamental mirror behind them. “The stupid racist comments, the snide, judgmental, self-satisfied conversations about those people — I never said anything because I was in love with Jake.”

  Vivaldi stopped, and my voice rang in the sudden silence.

  Jake held out his hands, echoing his mother’s gesture. “Paige —”

  “No!” I yelled, regaining my momentum. “You listen to me. I’ve looked away too many times.” My voice was low, on the verge of breaking. I took a ragged breath. “I will not let you hurt other people. Mr. Tremont didn’t attack you — you attacked him!” Somewhere in the distance, I thought I heard Stella Austin gasp. Ignoring her, I forced myself to keep going. To stay strong. “You lied to Dr. Coulter. I lied for you! I didn’t know you’d say —” I sputtered. “Mr. Tremont is a good teacher, a good person, and you have no right — no right!”

  “Paige —”

  “No!” I yelled. “We’re done, Jake.”

  The Austins all stared at me. In the mirror I looked like someone else. I turned to Mrs. Austin. “And you. You’ve been stringing my mother along for years! Making her jump through hoops for you! But we both know you have no plans of ever promoting her!”

  Mrs. Austin’s eyes were cold, her face unmoving. “Paige Renee Sheridan. You are out of control.”

  I spun on my heel and stormed out of the room. At the front door, I stopped and turned back. Jake had followed me halfway and stood at the edge of the dark foyer. “Paige, wait. I’m sorry about what I said. And the door . . . I don’t know what came over me —”

  Flashes of the night in the rain came back to me. His face. His angry voice. Who’s a fag now? I gasped. “It was you? On the door? You did that?!”

  “I’m sorry, babe. I —”

  “WHO ARE YOU?”

  Stella Austin appeared behind him. “I think you’d better leave.”

  “I’m leaving!” I yelled. She took a step back, and I sucked in a breath. “I’m leaving.”

  When I got home, my mother met me at the door, her face ghost white. “Stella Austin just called.”

  I nodded, waiting for the wrath. What is wrong with you? How dare you yell at the Austins! How dare you lose control of yourself! Are you on drugs? What happened to the perfect daughter I kept under my thumb all these years? It didn’t come. I looked up at her colorless eyes, her pale set mouth.

  “She fired me.”

  I was a ghost. I walked through the hallways Tuesday morning without creating a single ripple in space, without seeing myself reflected in anyone’s face. By the end of homeroom, I wasn’t even sure if my teachers saw me. I drifted back through the crowds to my locker. On the door, just below eye level, someone had written FAG HAG in thick black marker. My hands shook as I twisted the lock, and my mind tried to put together sentences to describe my situation. I’ve never — I don’t — This can’t be —

  I ditched physics, heading to the office instead. I would report the vandalism to Dr. Coulter. He liked me; he’d fix it. I’d explain — reasonably, adult to adult — that Jake had lied, that Mr. Tremont would never hurt a student, that Mr. Tremont was the best teacher we’d ever had. I clenched my jaw and focused on my mission. I could fix this. I could help Mr. Tremont. I had to.

  Dr. Coulter’s secretary wasn’t there, so I went to the open door of his office and peeked in. “Hello there, Paige,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come in!”

  “Hi, Dr. Coulter,” I said, fighting nervousness. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  “Of course,” he said grandly. “Come on in! What can I do for you? More streamers for homecoming? Worried that the float won’t be pretty enough?” He winked at me.

  “Um, no,” I said. “Actually, it’s . . .” My mother played tennis with Lydia Coulter. Stella Austin Events had done their twentieth anniversary party last spring. She was going to kill me. I took a deep breath. “You said to come see you if I thought of anything else? Last weekend? It’s about Mr. Tremont.”

  Dr. Coulter frowned. “That’s not anything you have to worry about, Paige. You’re not in danger. We’ve, uh, taken care of the problem.”

  I was thrown off course. “In danger?”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Paige,” he repeated. “Now, why don’t you get back to class? Mrs. Manning will write you a pass.”

  “Dr. Coulter,” I said, trying to keep the note of urgency out of my voice. “Sir. What Jake said — it’s not true. Mr. Tremont would never do anything like that. Jake lied.”

  His face pulled together in a hundred fierce wrinkles. “It’s none of your concern, Miss Sheridan.”

  “But Dr. Coulter —”

  “Mrs. Manning will write you a pass,” he said again, and turned back to his computer.

  Shaken, I stood and hurried out of the office. No one had ever called me “Miss Sheridan” in that tone of voice before. I’d always been one of Dr. Coulter’s favorites. The hallways were empty, so at least I didn’t have to hear the accusing silence of conversations ending as I went by. There was no way I was going to physics. I just wanted to get out. I headed for an obscure back door in the east wing, planning to slip out and drive around for a while. Maybe I’d write. Maybe I’d disappear altogether.

  Jeremy caught me in the hallway just before I could escape. “What are you doing?” His voice was lower than normal, rougher.

  “I, uh . . .” I said.

  Jeremy shifted the stack of papers he was holding. “Running away?” He was accusing, the triumphant prosecuting attorney.

  “No,” I said. “I just — I talked to Dr. Coulter. I tried to help . . .”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And?”

  “And nothing,” I said. “He called me Miss Sheridan.” My voice choked on the shame of it. The injustice.

  Jeremy was quiet for a moment, looking at me.

  “Someone wrote on my locker,” I whispered. I looked down at my feet in their black boots.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I saw.”

  I bit my lip.

  “This is what your friends do to people,” he said. “It sucks, doesn’t it?”

  “Not just my friends,” I said quietly. “About Friday, what I said — I’m so sorry.”

  Jeremy sighed. “Me too.”

  “I wish there was something I could do,” I said. “I tried — but Dr. Coulter —”

  “You want to help? You can start by getting over yourself.” Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes. My throat was tight.

  He softened. “We’re going to fight for Mr. Tremont. Come help?”

  I nodded, concentrating o
n not crying.

  “Great,” he said.

  I followed him down the hall into the staff room. Five or six people were crowded around a central table, flipping through thick books and scribbling in notebooks. Several more were scattered at computers throughout the room, scrolling through pages online. I expected to see Shanti and Ethan, but they weren’t there.

  “I went to the law library on campus yesterday,” Jeremy explained, gesturing to the pile of thick leather books. “We’re going to fight this.”

  “Yesterday? How did you —?” I asked.

  Jeremy smiled for the first time. “I have my sources. I’m not the editor in chief for nothing.” He sat me down next to Elizabeth, who was scrolling through an online news site. “We’re calling everyone,” Jeremy said.

  Without taking her eyes off the screen, Elizabeth nodded. Beside her hand lay a notebook, quickly filling up with precise notes. She glanced at me. “I’m compiling the names and numbers of influential people in the media and community. You can work with me, if you want.”

  “Who do you have so far?” I asked, pulling the list toward me. Many of the names I recognized, Iowa City news anchors and journalists.

  “We need to talk to everyone,” Elizabeth said. “The news media, the mayor, the city council, the school board, everyone.”

  “I can help find names and numbers. My parents are friends with most of them.”

  “Great! Can you call them?”

  I heard my mother’s voice from last night. She fired me. “No . . . I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’m up to that.”

  “That’s okay,” Elizabeth said, her eyes turning back to the screen. “Just making a list will be really helpful.”

  It was nice of her to say. But making a list, I knew, wasn’t enough. Ashamed, I ducked my head and pretended to look for a pen until I was sure I wouldn’t cry.

  Jeremy ordered pizza, and we all worked through lunch. Someone brought in a radio, tuning it to the college station out of Iowa City. The energy in the room was grimly festive; the reason for our gathering was terrible, but there was pleasure in the meeting itself, the rush of working toward a goal in a room of like-minded people. I tried to explain it to Jeremy, but he looked puzzled. “You’re on student council, aren’t you?”

  “Just the social committee stuff,” I said.

  “Oh, right.” He looked at me as if seeing two people at once, overlaid. I knew the feeling. “Well, the education committee is doing some really cool stuff. They’re bringing in this presentation on Friday morning. . . .”

  I remembered Ethan saying something about a project he was doing in his student council committee. Nikki’s presentation. All my ex-friends teaming up to change the world. Before Jeremy even had a chance to finish, I smiled my princess smile. “Sounds really great!”

  “Yeah,” Jeremy said slowly, with a strange look. “Anyway, do you want to help me round everyone up for seventh period?”

  Under Jeremy’s leadership, we picked up the whole operation and moved it to our creative writing classroom. The room that — until yesterday — had been Mr. Tremont’s. His plants were still on the desk, but the room had a slightly stale, empty feeling, like an old-time ghost town. “We should water the plants,” I said.

  “It feels so empty,” Jenna said, rubbing her arms.

  The sub, a young Asian woman named Ms. Chen, laughed. “He just left yesterday, didn’t he?”

  “She’s right, though,” Elizabeth said. “This used to be more than just a room.”

  Ms. Chen cocked an amused eyebrow at us and offered to take a seat while Jeremy addressed the class.

  “Great,” Jeremy said, taking charge. In the front of the classroom, he laid out his plans on the chalkboard, his authority more natural than the sub’s. He delegated responsibilities quickly and efficiently. A few minutes later I found myself bowed over a large placard with Shanti, sketching out the letters of protest in light pencil.

  “Where’s Ethan?” I asked, overly casual, tracing a giant H across the tagboard.

  Shanti didn’t mince words. “Between you and Mr. Tremont, he’s pretty devastated.”

  I winced, searching my mind for anything that wouldn’t just make her hate me more.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally said.

  Shanti sat back, perching on her heels. “What’s wrong with you, Paige?”

  I laughed bitterly. “Funny you should ask. . . .”

  “I’m serious.” She caught my eye, holding my gaze until I had to look away. “How could you reject him like that?”

  I pulled the thick paint marker over shadowy outlines and shook my head, letting my hair fall across my face. “He’s a great friend,” I told the tagboard. “I just don’t feel that way about him.”

  “Like hell you don’t,” Shanti said. She walked away, leaving me on the floor with my traced outlines, empty words.

  Lying in bed that night, I heard a faint tap on my door. “It’s me,” my sister said, pushing the door open a crack.

  “Come in.” I wiggled over, making space for her on the edge of the bed. “What’s up?”

  She looked sad. When we were little, she used to come into my room like this, late at night, when our parents would fight. She’d crawl under the covers and look to me to make everything okay, and I’d whisper stories to her, stories I’d make up on the spot, about princesses who didn’t need any princes to rescue them, they could rescue themselves just fine, thank you. I hadn’t thought of those nights in years.

  Mirror settled herself nervously on the edge of my bed. “I heard what you did. At the Austins’? Sorry I wouldn’t let you use the phone last night.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  “I’m serious,” my sister said, looking like every word was a struggle. “I’m really impressed. I never thought you . . . you know.”

  “Thanks, Mirror,” I said, genuinely touched. “That means a lot.”

  “You know,” she said. “I think Mom’s going to be okay, in the end.” We were quiet for a moment, sitting together in my dark room, and all the walls we’d built between us in the last five years suddenly didn’t matter, didn’t even exist.

  I pulled the quilt between my thumb and finger. “I hope so.”

  “She will. Stella was never going to promote her.”

  “Tell that to her.”

  Mirror grinned. “I think I’ll leave that to you. I’m kind of enjoying being the good daughter for once.”

  I snorted, and she laughed, and then we were both laughing hysterically, pounding on the bed and falling on the floor and clutching our stomachs like we hadn’t done since we were little kids, giggling after lights out, with our mother screaming from the living room for us to settle down and go to sleep. It was wild, helpless laughter, a paper-thin edge from crying, and we laughed and choked and gasped for breath and wiped away tears until we were both lying on the floor, side by side, rubbing our abs. “Shit,” I finally said.

  She nodded solemnly. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  After she left, I lay in bed, feeling better than I had in days. At least I had my sister, I thought. I decided I’d ask her to blow off first period and go to breakfast with me the next morning. Maybe we could even get our dad to go with us.

  A cool breeze brought the tapping of raindrops against my bedroom window. Far in the distance, I could hear the static buzz of traffic on the highway, wet tires through water, the occasional semi. Here I am, I thought. All the questions of loyalty and identity seemed so unimportant at that moment, and I wondered how I’d wasted so much energy on them in the last few weeks. How I dressed, who I kissed, what I forgave, who I loved — what did it matter under the comfort of the late September night?

  My peace faded with the dawn. I woke up edgy, restless, dreading school and yet knowing that I couldn’t stay away. Jeremy needed me, my creative writing group needed me. Mr. Tremont needed me.

  I dressed in dark jeans and a black sweater. I couldn’t explain it, but the blac
k made me feel safer somehow, like I was shielded. The night before, I’d overheard my mother on the phone in the study as I padded downstairs for a glass of water. Her voice had been pinched. “Do you think she’s gone goth?”

  I had to tell Mirror that; she’d laugh and laugh.

  I missed my sister by a minute. “She just left,” my father said, lowering the Iowa City Press-Citizen and reaching blindly for his coffee.

  “Shoot,” I said. “I was going to take her out for breakfast.”

  “Can I make you something?” he asked, still holding the paper. “An omelet or something?”

  I grabbed a granola bar from the pantry. “No thanks.” I slung my messenger bag across my shoulder and hurried toward the back door, but then I stopped and turned. “Dad?” I asked.

  His face appeared over the paper once more. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry about Mom. I didn’t mean to get her fired.”

  He nodded. “I know. She’ll be okay, eventually.”

  I sighed. “I hope so.”

  The paper went up again.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you,” I said.

  He looked surprised, then pleased. “I love you too, honey.” He looked up at the ceiling, seeming to pull his words from somewhere above his head. “Paige?”

  “Yes?”

  He smiled. “Give ’em hell out there today.”

  School was a circus of color and shouting, TV news vans, giant protest placards. Two angry camps separated by news anchors and cameras camped out in the circle of benches at the front of the building. On one side, people carried signs that said GOD HATES FAGS. In freshman history, our teacher made us watch a documentary about Matthew Shepard, a gay college student who was tortured, beaten, and then tied to a fence and left to die in the cold Wyoming night. As we watched the video, the horror of it crept over me until the uncomfortable plastic chair and loud ticking of the school-issued clock disappeared. The worst part of it was at his funeral, where a small group of people actually protested with signs that said things like MATTHEW SHEPARD ROTS IN HELL and AIDS KILLS FAGS DEAD. I remember some girl in my class raised her hand and said, “Yeah, people used to be like that, back when the KKK was around and stuff, but, like, we’re not like that anymore, right?” Mrs. Fox shook her head sadly, “Kaitlyn, Matthew Shepard was killed in 1998.” I couldn’t believe that people could actually be that cruel.