by Nicole Maggi
It didn’t escape me that Delia had changed the subject. She always deflects when something makes her uncomfortable. I totally get it, Ms. Tilson. I really do. If it hadn’t been for what happened to me, I probably wouldn’t be questioning the pamphlets either. But now I can’t help it. I see questions in everything I used to think was true beyond reason.
“Oh…yeah,” I said weakly, hoping if I was noncommittal enough, Delia would change the subject again.
“I can’t believe her parents let her out of the house looking like that.”
“Mmmm.” I glanced at the clock to see how much time was left.
“You know, I heard she’s done it with at least three guys.”
I sucked in a breath. “That’s not really our business, is it?”
Delia arched an eyebrow at me. She doesn’t like it when I call her out. She pinched her lips together and looked back at Cara. “Someday she’s going to go on one of those spring break trips and be raped and left for dead on a beach.”
“Delia.” My voice came out so sharp that Delia leaned away from me. “Don’t joke about that.”
“I wasn’t joking. I was stating a probability.” Her lip curled. “Lighten up.”
My red-hot anger was back, pulsing inside my chest. “Don’t ever, ever joke about rape. It’s not funny.”
Delia stared at me for a moment before holding up her hands. “Okay, okay. Cheese Louise. Calm down.”
My jaw clenched so tight my teeth scraped against each other. In that instant, Ms. Tilson, I hated Delia. I hated her stupid “Cheese Louise” expression, I hated her mom and her mom’s sanctimonious pamphlets, and I hated her for being so judgmental about people she didn’t know. If she knew, if she only knew…then what? What would she say about me if she knew the truth?
She would stop speaking to me. She would call me a liar, a fraud, a sinner, and then she would walk away. Our friendship was based on what we had in common, and anything outside of those boundaries would destroy it.
I took another swig of my water. The nausea was back. Delia leaned against the table. “What’s with you lately? You’ve been really moody and, like, dark.”
Moody and dark, huh? I could feel the angry confession bubbling at my lips, like a pot threatening to boil over. Part of me didn’t care about destroying our friendship. I just wanted it out there. I sucked in a breath and held it. This wasn’t the way to do it. Not here, not now, not in the middle of the crowded gym where anyone could overhear and where Delia wouldn’t hesitate to make a scene. “I’m just stressed.”
Delia gave me a sympathetic look. “The wedding? I’m sure Hannah is wigging out over every last detail.”
I forced a half laugh that came out like a snort. “Hannah and my mom are superstressed.” This wasn’t true, but it was an easy lie. “I guess it must be rubbing off on me. Sorry if I’ve been a pill.”
Been a pill? Since when did I say things like that? That was something my mother would say. I wrapped my arms around my stomach. Wasn’t there a pill you could take to get rid of a baby? You probably needed a prescription…and I couldn’t exactly go to my pediatrician. What was I thinking? Could I actually do what I was considering doing?
“Hey, Delia,” I said before I could change my mind. “Do you think there’s ever a case when having an abortion is okay?”
Delia’s eyes widened. “Where the heck is that question coming from?”
I shrugged, trying to look casual. “I was thinking about what you said about Cara. What if someone was raped, and they got pregnant? Do you think abortion is justifiable in that situation?”
“No,” Delia said, her voice flat and firm. “It’s never justifiable.”
My insides felt hot and itchy, like I was wearing them on the outside of my body.
Delia tossed her head, flinging her long braid over her shoulder. “Don’t punish the child for the sin of the father, right? You could always place the baby for adoption if you don’t want to keep it.”
I knew that she was saying you like it was anyone in the world, but it felt as if she was slapping me across the face. “But…she’d still have to carry the baby, go through nine months of constant reminders of what happened…and what if it was incest or something? Or what if something was wrong with the kid?”
“Every baby is a blessing from God,” Delia said in a singsong voice, and I swear at that moment I could see the sanctimonious light shining from her face. I wanted to punch that light right out of existence. I don’t think this baby is blessing. Maybe someone else in my situation would, but I definitely don’t. And maybe someone else would make a different choice, but it’s her body. This is my body, and no one has the right to tell me what to do with it.
Holy crap.
This is my body, and no one has the right to tell me what to do with it.
Did I just write that?
Am I…pro-choice?
Okay, you’re probably sitting there reading this like, Well, duh. And maybe I have been all along. But in my family, in my circle, you’re just…not. People from our church sit outside the Whole Women’s Health Clinic almost every day, reading from the Bible as women go in and out. My dad talks about closing down that clinic as part of his campaign platform. That clinic and every other clinic that perform abortions in Colorado. He talks about making abortion illegal here like it is in so many other states. And my mom…
My mom had one.
It’s family lore. How she was going down a dark path and my dad’s love saved her. How not having that baby is her biggest regret. She’s given speeches at pro-life rallies about it. Paraded out onto the stage next to my dad as an example of “Abortion Regret.”
You can’t be pro-choice in my family. It’s pro-life or bust.
But it’s now starting to hit me how hypocritical that term is. Pro-life. There is only one life they are pro, and it’s not mine.
Signed,
Mellie Rivers
February 21
Dear Ms. Tilson—
Jason Bellows is an asshole. Do you have him in any of your classes? If you do, I’m sorry. He’s the worst. He probably sits there the whole time making doodles of girls’ breasts. He is a walking definition of toxic masculinity. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women, when in fact, he’s a curse. A black magic, helter-skelter curse.
I can’t believe I dated him two years ago. UGH. Seriously, just writing that makes me embarrassed. What was I thinking? I guess I can chalk it up to being fourteen and an idiot. Thank God we never did anything major, physically. Just some over-the-clothes stuff. He wanted more. That’s pretty much why I broke up with him. He kept talking about it. Like, every conversation we had would turn to sex. Who was doing it, who wasn’t doing it, why weren’t we doing it, and when would we do it? One weekend his parents went out of town, and I knew he was expecting it to happen. AS IF.
I’m pretty sure if I had ever been alone with him, and said no, he would’ve forced me.
It makes me wonder if there are girls at school who he did force. The thought makes me sick.
Anyway, backing up, today was the Women’s Day Fair! The culmination of my hard work. Okay, it wasn’t that hard. I got people to sign up to host tables, and I got the maintenance staff to set up the tables. But still—it was my idea! It was the first time a Women’s Day Fair has ever been held at Wolverton High, and even if it wasn’t on the actual Women’s Day because of scheduling, I did this. I made this happen. I’m not too modest to say I’m proud of that.
Cara and I hosted the RAINN table. We got a pretty steady stream of people. Most of them came to chat with us, but we did get some people who were interested in Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network. I mean, you hope it hasn’t happened to people you know, and it’s not like someone is going to necessarily walk up and talk about being raped. Although, we did have one girl who did do that! I’m not going to say who. But sh
e was pretty open about it. I thought that was really brave. She was mainly interested in RAINN because she wants to volunteer when she’s older, share her experience so she can help others. Which is awesome.
I want to be the kind of person who volunteers and helps people. Maybe our table helped some people today, but one table at one event seems really insignificant. Especially because it wasn’t the table I wanted to host. That would have been too dangerous. I can’t even tell you why, because as open as I want to be in these pages, I can’t be open about that. Besides, the school probably wouldn’t have let me.
Anyway, the reason I bring up Jason Bellows is because he pulled Delia Talbot’s braid in front of my table. True, who hasn’t wanted to pull that stupid-looking braid of hers to see if it would wipe that smug look off her face. But he did it because he’s an ASSHOLE, and he thinks he has the right to put his hands on a girl’s body whenever and wherever he wants. He’s disgusting. Delia tried to pull away from him, and he snapped her braid like it was reins on a horse. I was out of my chair in a flash to push him off her, and he tells me, “Go back to your RAPE TABLE”—as if that’s an acceptable thing to say—so I knocked him and his dumb, hipster messenger bag on the floor.
Luckily, no teachers saw me, and Jason isn’t going to report that he got knocked down by a girl. Because you know what would’ve happened if a teacher had seen me? I would’ve been the one hauled into the principal’s office. Not Jason. It’s infuriating, and part of the double standard that made me protest the dress code.
I think if you had seen the whole incident, you might’ve sided with me. But you’d be one of the only teachers. Women need to stand up for each other. We get enough shit from guys. It pisses me off when I see girls putting each other down. There are so many good things we could do with that energy.
That’s why I stood up for Delia. She didn’t even say thank you, just walked off in a huff. But I didn’t do it for a thank-you. I would’ve been there for any girl.
Okay, so maybe part of me did it because I’m still mortified that I dated Bellows. But it was like 80 percent for the women of the world.
There’s one more thing I want to record here tonight. Remember how I told you I think something is going on with Mellie Rivers? I’m almost sure of it, and now I might have an idea what it is.
She took a pamphlet from my table. What to Do If You’ve Been Raped.
Was that why she was crying in the bathroom?
Are the two things connected?
What if they are? I can’t be sure. Picking up a pamphlet doesn’t prove anything. And it’s not my business. Not unless she talks to me, which she clearly doesn’t want to. But…I get the sense she’s not talking to anyone. She and Delia are best friends, but they seemed to have gotten into an argument at the end of the fair. When I saw Mellie afterward, I told her she could talk to me, anytime.
Why is this so important to me? Why do I keep pushing her to talk to me?
I can’t answer that, Ms. Tilson. My gut says I can help her, and that I have to keep trying.
I’ll end on that dramatic note.
Your Favorite Drama Queen and Do-Gooder
—Lise
February 21
Later
Dear Ms. Tilson,
I never told you about the rest of the Women’s Day Fair, and there was more to tell. I got distracted by the revelation that I’m pro-choice. Remember how I said I see questions in everything now? That’s one thing I never would’ve questioned. Because I never thought I would need to. I was never going to be in a position where I would need an abortion. All those mistakes that women make were going to happen to someone else. But I didn’t make any mistakes; I did everything right, and now here I am.
Delia left me alone at the table to explore the fair. It was a relief not to have her there. I watched her saunter through the crowd, her long braid swinging down her back. She disappeared behind a cluster of seniors, kids I didn’t know. I looked around. There were so many kids in this gymnasium who I didn’t know, who I’ve never bothered to know. Were any of them going through the same thing as me?
A shriek echoed off the gym walls, and the seniors scattered. Jason Bellows had grabbed Delia’s braid, tugging so hard her neck jerked back. My skin turned icy, breath frozen in my lungs. Him touching her like that, his hands on her like he had a right to her body—
“Let go, Jason,” Delia said. She was pissed, maybe even panicked—or maybe the panic was mine. I gripped my chair, wanting to get up to help her, but I couldn’t make myself move.
“Giddyup, horsey!” Jason laughed, slapping Delia’s braid up and down like a harness.
“Let go!” she shrieked, her neck and face flushed.
He laughed harder. “Shouldn’t be wearing reins if you don’t want to be bridled. Whoa, girl!”
That laughter—it broke me. I bolted from my chair. But before I reached Delia and Jason, Lise Grant slammed him in the side, knocking him away from Delia. “What the hell is your problem, Grant?” he shouted.
“My problem is you harassing her,” Lise said, facing off with Jason. She planted her hands on her hips. “You don’t touch a girl without her consent, and you stop touching her when she tells you to stop.”
“Whatever. Go back to your rape table.”
I gasped, but Lise never missed a beat. Before I could blink, Jason was on the floor, the contents of his messenger bag spilled next to him. His buddies clustered around him, laughing and pointing, while he turned a deep shade of red. Lise leaned over him. “Next time I’ll kick you in the balls.” Then she turned on her heel.
Lise grabbed a bottle of water from her table and handed it to Delia. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Delia snapped. “He was just teasing me; it was no big deal.” She pushed the water bottle away and stalked across the room.
What the hell is wrong with Delia? Lise stood up for her—something Delia had failed to do for herself—and Delia hadn’t even thanked her. I know we haven’t exactly been friends with Lise, but is Delia so judgmental she couldn’t even accept a kindness? And Jason’s behavior wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t “no big deal.” I now saw it for what it was—dangerous.
I watched Lise in conversation with Cara, who sat in another chair behind their table. The two of them were throwing dark looks at Jason, who was collecting everything that had fallen out of his bag. Lise didn’t agree with anything Delia believed, but she still defended her.
This is what I had to come back to write in my journal, Ms. Tilson. Delia is the daughter of our church’s pastor, but Lise acted way more Christian than her today.
It made me think. What type of person do I want to be friends with? And maybe more importantly, what kind of person do I want to be?
“Hey, Grant, I think you broke my fountain pen,” Jason called out.
“Hey, Bellows, I think you’re a sexist pig,” Lise called back. Cara burst out laughing. The two of them leaned into each other, talking trash about Jason in overly loud whispers, their attention turned away from the table. I sidled by, mixing in with a couple of other kids who were passing at the same time, and swiped a brochure. What to Do If You’ve Been Raped. It was light blue with dark gray block lettering. No pink or floral for RAINN. I tucked it into the pocket of my cardigan, hoping no one had seen me take it.
At the end of the fair, I threw all of our church pamphlets into the plastic storage bin, but before I could close it up, Delia snatched it away from me. “What is your problem, Mellie?”
I stared at her, my stomach all twisty. “What do you mean?”
“Last year you were in the middle of the gym, forcing those pamphlets into every student’s hand who passed. We didn’t have any left.” She slammed the lid on the bin. “This year you could barely be bothered to get off your butt. It’s like you don’t care anymore.”
Heat flamed in my cheeks. “I didn
’t see you in the middle of the gym either, handing them out,” I retorted.
“Well, I’m not the president of the club,” Delia snapped. “And I’m not the one moping around and being a bad friend.”
“I’m a bad friend?” I reached forward and yanked the bin out of her arms. “I’ll take this back to the church. Don’t do me any favors.”
“Cheese Louise,” Delia yelled. People turned to look. “I don’t know what is wrong with you, but I really don’t want to be around you until you figure it out.” She stomped out of the gym without once looking back, her braid swinging behind her.
I blinked, the corners of my eyes stinging. She’s right, of course—there is something wrong with me. She’s not the problem—I am. Hot shame snaked through my gut, leaving a roiling wave of nausea in its wake. I hurried toward the locker rooms as fast as that damn bin would allow me and slammed into the first stall. Everything I’d been holding in all afternoon came up in one rush. I vomited until my throat was sore. When I was sure my stomach was empty, I staggered out of the stall and rinsed my mouth at the sink. My tongue tasted rancid. I need to start carrying a toothbrush with me.
I picked up the bin and stumbled through the halls to the front doors of the school. I was almost there when a shadow fell into my path. “Hey.”
“Jeez!” The bin fell out of my arms and cracked open, the pamphlets spilling out in all their pink-and-floral glory on the floor. “Okay, you have got to stop sneaking up on me.”
“I’m sorry.” Lise squatted on the floor and began to gather up the pamphlets. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Well, you did a good job of it.” I lowered myself to her level, trying to move slow so the nausea didn’t come back. “How did things go at your table?”
“Okay, I guess.” Lise tossed a handful of the latest church newsletters into the bin. “Except for that idiot Jason Bellows.”
“Yeah.” I shivered. “Thanks for—what you did. For Delia.”
Lise shrugged. “Girls gotta stand up for each other.” She held up the Make the Promise: Save Yourself pamphlet and shook her head as she tossed it into the bin. “I’m sorry, I just can’t get behind that abstinence-only stuff.”
