Red Hood

by Elana K. Arnold

  “Des bisous de ma Bisou,” she says, then turns for her room.

  Then you are alone, and you look out the kitchen window, above the sink. The rain has stopped; the sky has cleared; the moon, waxing gibbous, spies down.

  Keep the Wolf from the Door

  “What do you mean there’s not enough evidence?”

  “That’s what they said. They were really nice about it, but that’s what they said.”

  Maggie’s voice sounds tinny and far away, even though she’s sitting right next to you on the couch in her front room. Her arms are folded across her chest.

  “What about the target?” You don’t mean it to come out like an attack, like an accusation, but Maggie recoils from your words as if she’s been struck.

  “Babe,” James says, his hand on your arm, “give her a minute. Let her talk.”

  You had been in James’s car on the way home from school when Maggie had called, and instead of taking you home, James navigated the car here, to Maggie’s house. Her parents aren’t yet home from work, and Maggie pulled back the curtain of the window near the front door to see who was there before she let you in. There was another window that was peered through, another time. You blinked, and you saw your mother stroke the broken ridge of her nose. You blinked again, and she was gone.

  “It’s my own fault,” Maggie says. “I threw away the condom and the picture. I should have kept them, they said.”

  “Jeez, Mags, who would have held on to a nasty used condom?” James wrinkles up his face. “I would have thrown it away, too.”

  Nine days. That’s how much time has passed since Maggie appeared at your house with the shooting target, and in that time the police have collected her statement, visited Graham and his parents to hear what he had to say, referred the issue to the prosecutor, and have decided there isn’t “enough cause” to move forward.

  You have told James about the condom, and the photo, and the target. You have told him about the letters to the editor, and all the times Graham had pushed Maggie for a date since Tucker died. You told him about incels, but he didn’t need the term defined; he’d heard it already.

  “Like that guy out in California, in Santa Barbara, who killed those girls and left behind, like, a manifesto,” he said.

  “It’s not your fault, Maggie,” you say. “It’s his fault, for doing all that shitty stuff to you.”

  “I don’t have the condom or the picture, and it turned out the target wasn’t really shot at. The holes had graphite around the edges, not gunpowder.”

  “Like, from a pencil?” James asks.

  She nods. “It was illegal to put the target in the mailbox, because only mail is supposed to go in the mailbox, so that’s actually a federal crime, and the other things were against the law, too—but there’s no proof that Graham did it, and none of the texts he sent were ‘explicitly threatening,’ they said, and Officer Vasquez said that there was no way the prosecutor could build a case. And she said that an officer would talk to Graham and his parents, but probably they’d ‘lawyer up,’ and until he did something—violent—there was nothing they could do.”

  “Officer Vasquez said that?”

  She nods, miserable. “She corrected herself pretty fast. Said she’d meant to say ‘unless,’ not ‘until,’ but that doesn’t make it that much better anyway, does it?” Maggie shrugs.

  “Did they give you any helpful advice?” James asks.

  “They said we can apply for a restraining order.” Maggie dabs the corners of her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Oh, and they told us that maybe we should get a dog.”

  “Let me do something, Mags,” James says. He is holding your hand, and you can tell by how tight he is squeezing it that he is white-hot mad. “Me and Big Mac can go over to his place and have words.”

  Maggie shakes her head, vehement. “No,” she says. “I don’t want you to do that.”

  “But Mags,” James says, “it’ll be okay. Just let me—”

  Her mouth is a tight line, and she shakes her head again.

  You can feel James ready to push, and you know his intentions are good. But you tell him, “James, she says no.”

  And he deflates a little, and leans back, and his grip on your hand grows softer. “I just can’t believe we can’t do anything,” he says.

  “You can keep being my friend,” Maggie says.

  “Of course, Mags,” James says. “I’m just so sorry that you have to deal with this shit. I never knew . . .” He pauses, and you see a storm behind his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “They told her to get a dog,” James says. You are back in his car. His eyes are on the road, but he grips the wheel tightly and shakes his head. “A fucking dog.”

  “Maggie doesn’t need a dog,” you tell James.

  That night, just past ten, after Mémé has gone to bed, you pull out your mother’s poems. You read her words again, and yours. Then you turn to the fourth poem. You take up your pen.

  IV

  Maybe people break things

  Maybe that’s the truth

  But they make things, too

  Promises

  Bread

  Friendships

  Families

  Love

  I can break things

  I can make things, too.

  I stand

  On two strong legs

  I kill

  With two strong hands

  I bleed

  From one strong womb

  I wish

  With one red heart

  That you could see me now.

  You read it over, then refold the stack of papers and tuck them safely away before you slip outside. The night is clear, and your eyes go straight to the bright full moon. You wander in the trees, waiting, even hoping, but there is nothing that needs you here, not tonight. All is well in the woods.

  Then, you head to Maggie’s house, wanting to see it safe and quiet and shuttered. And that is how you find it, each window dark, a sense of sleep scrimmed across it. She is safe, she is abed.

  You could go home. You should, most likely. But you do not. Instead, you picture Graham and the things he has done, and you wonder—though not a wolf, how far off is he from one? Left alone, might he change with the next moon? Or the moon after that? Or five years down the road, when he has, perhaps, moved across the country, or across the world?

  What turns someone from man to wolf? And might it be better, even, than slaying a wolf, to catch the boy before he changes? To catch him, perhaps, in the throat? With a claw?

  These are dangerous thoughts. And yet, you think them.

  You have picked up a slow jog, and then a lope, and then a flat-out run, hands cutting the air like knives, to Graham’s house. You’ve made it your business to know where it is. Why do you run? Why do you run, when Keisha is safe in her bed, when the forest is still, when there is no need for running?

  You run because you want it—the fight. The kill. The blood.

  You stop. Breathe hard.

  You are around the corner from Graham’s house. The street is bathed in light from the streetlamps and light from the moon, the whole quiet scene glowing and beautiful. Your breath clouds out in puffs.

  You want it. Whether Graham is a wolf, whether or not he will become one, you want his blood. That is something to consider.

  Slowly, now, you walk in the direction of his house. You force your hands into pockets. You stand on the sidewalk, across the street. Though it’s late, the windows are bright. There is movement in a front window—the kitchen.

  You stand, and you watch the shadow figure in the window as it moves about the room. Fixing a snack, perhaps?

  Your nails bite crescents into your palms.

  The light goes out. The house is dark. And still, you stand, and you wait, and you watch, and you hope, until the sun begins to rise.

  Graham is at school the next day. Infuriatingly, there he is, as if he hasn’t done anything. But he has, even if the police won
’t press charges, and you feel trapped and powerless and a hot ball of rage fills your throat as you watch him maneuver through the hallway toward his locker.

  James is beside you, his hand on your shoulder, and he squeezes, and you know that he is angry, too, restraining himself only because Maggie has asked him to.

  Graham is opening his locker, right there in the place you came across Maggie and Tucker, that long-ago day. You remember his hand up her skirt. You remember the look on her face. Shock? Shame? Fear?

  And you remember what you did. You turned away.

  A sickness spreads through you and you shiver with revulsion. You turned away.

  Complicit. That is the word. You raise your hand to James’s, resting on your shoulder. You squeeze it. And then you say, “I have to go find Keisha.”

  She is in the journalism room, sitting at a computer station. Today she is wearing her white frames, and behind them, her eyes stare, unblinking, at the screen. Her fingers hover above the keys as she reads something, then she types, hard and fast.

  “Keisha.” You weave through the computer stations and hover over her. “The cops told Maggie there’s nothing they can do.”

  “I know,” Keisha says. She doesn’t look up from her work.

  “They told her to get a dog,” you say.

  “I know, Bisou,” Keisha says.

  You sit in the chair next to Keisha and lean in. “I went to his house last night,” you whisper.

  “Full moon,” Keisha says, eyes still on her work.

  You nod.

  “They’re not all wolves, you know,” Keisha says.

  “They all could be.”

  Finally, Keisha turns to you. “Is that really what you think?”

  You picture James. His eyes. His hands. The way he looks at you. “No.”

  Keisha turns back to her work. “Not everything is up to you, Bisou. You’re not alone. Maggie’s not alone. Remember?”

  She looks up, and the lenses of her glasses catch the light, and for a second, they flash, bright as the sun, bright as the moon.

  And when the final class of the day is over, and you go out into the hallway, it is to find that Keisha is right.

  There is one taped to every locker. SPECIAL EDITION, the front page reads, in extra-large print.

  You peel a copy from the bank of lockers.

  Incel-ence: An Unacceptable Idea That Deserves to Die

  By Keisha Montgomery

  If you’re an observant reader of this paper—and I know you are—then you have no doubt noted letters we’ve published from a self-proclaimed incel, a boy who considers himself to be deprived of the sex he believes he is entitled to, and the response I wrote to one of those letters.

  This idea is a dangerous virus. No one is entitled to anyone else’s body. And I call this a virus because that’s what it is: it is a sickness, and when a virus gets into a body, the body is endangered. The body can die.

  And not only do we have an incel in our student body, we have among us girls who have been harmed by incel poison. I know one of them personally. She has been threatened and harassed by text and deed; I have seen evidence of this myself. I wouldn’t share her name unless she gave her consent, which she has. She wants a voice in these halls, even though she no longer wants to be present here. Her name is Maggie Williams.

  Several months ago, Maggie chose to take a break from our school, in part because she didn’t feel safe here anymore. That is one effect of the virus.

  And in her own words, this is what Maggie has to say:

  “Graham Keller has been harassing me since September. He has sent me dozens of texts, even though I told him to stop. After someone put a used condom in my backpack and a picture of a penis and a knife in my locker, I decided I’d had enough and left school. Some of you probably think I’m weak for dropping out, but taking care of myself is the strongest thing I’ve ever done. I don’t know for sure who left me those ‘presents,’ but I do know that Graham harassed me with unwanted pushy texts and inappropriate behavior, and I’ll bet I’m not the only one. The cops say they can’t help me, but we can help each other.

  “When I was growing up, people taught me all the things I should do to avoid being harmed by men: No short shorts. No belly shirts. Stay with a group. Don’t go out alone. Don’t say anything if a guy catcalls on the street. Don’t be too quiet. Don’t be too loud.

  “But are people telling guys how to not harm girls? It’s one thing to tell a girl how not to get raped or harassed—is anyone telling the guys not to rape us or harass us?

  “I’m tired of being quiet. I’m tired of keeping secrets. I’m tired of feeling ashamed for choices that other people make about me and for me. And I’m tired of being tired.”

  I, for one, am proud of Maggie for speaking up. And we don’t have to stand by and watch this virus harm our student body. We don’t. There are ways we can fight it, just as the scientific community has discovered ways to combat viruses that threaten human bodies.

  Understanding is part of it. We need to understand what motivates and drives toxic masculinity.

  We must be willing to look for it and call it out whenever it appears, whether it’s presented as jokes or as something else.

  And we must act. When we see it, we must protect those who are its victims. We must tell the boys who hold these ideas—the carriers of this virus—to stop. To go elsewhere. To work on healing and educating themselves.

  This is how communities stay whole and safe. We all need each other. To see, to believe, to hold wrongdoers accountable. Women and girls are every bit as important and valuable as boys and men.

  If you stand with Maggie, if you stand with girls and women, then let’s stand up together. Incel thinking is a virus, but we don’t have to let it spread.

  Tomorrow, let’s show the toxic minority how many of us stand against them. If you stand with Maggie, paint your nails BLACK. Let’s show them our claws. And from this moment on—today, tomorrow, forever—let’s be loud. Together.

  You look up from the paper. All around, people are reading—students, teachers. Principal Evans comes out of the administration office, a copy in his hand. He looks around, as if searching for someone—Keisha, most likely—and then heads off at a fast walk in the direction of the journalism room.

  You pull your phone from the back pocket of your jeans and send her a text. Evans is looking for you. Are you going to get in trouble?

  She texts back. I’m waiting for him in the journalism room. We shall see.

  Next, you text Maggie. Just three words. I love you.

  A moment later, she texts back. I love you too.

  That evening, after supper, Maggie and Keisha come over. Together with Mémé, you sit at the kitchen table. You soak your hands in warm soapy water. You push back cuticles. You file and buff. And you take turns painting one another’s nails with polish from the same pot. Black.

  “So, what happened with the principal?” you ask Keisha, who has clipped her nails short and square. She’s stopped biting them, you notice suddenly.

  “Principal Evans asked us to go to his office—Ms. Kang went with me—and he didn’t sound angry, exactly, just worried. He said Graham Keller could have a defamation case, if he or his parents want to get litigious. Ms. Kang pointed out how I had receipts for everything we’d printed. Graham did send those texts, after all, and neither Maggie nor I said he was the one who did those other things, the things we can’t prove, but Principal Evans said that we implied it, even if we didn’t say it outright. And he’s not wrong. But I stand by everything I wrote, and Ms. Kang said she’d stand with me. Changes don’t get made without people taking risks.” She sets down the nail polish. “In the middle of it, Graham’s dad showed up all loud and aggressive, and even though Principal Evans’s assistant told him the principal was busy, he just burst in like a closed door didn’t mean a thing to him.”

  “What did he say?” Maggie asks. She is holding Mémé’s hand and painting her nails,
long even strokes of black.

  “He saw me sitting there and he asked if I was the troublemaker who was spreading lies about his son. ‘They aren’t lies,’ I told him, and he said that the police had been satisfied that there was no case, so I was slandering his son. I tried to explain that slander is spoken, that when it’s put in print it’s called libel, and that it has to be false in order to be considered either one, and anyway it would be up to them to prove that what I’d written wasn’t true, but he cut me off and said to Principal Evans, ‘Even if he did pull a couple of silly pranks—and I’m not saying he did, but just for the sake of argument—even if he did, what’s the real harm?’”

  Mémé’s jaw clenches, but her fingers, in Maggie’s hand, stay soft.

  “Then he said—sorry, Maggie—he said, like, ‘It’s not like the girl was some prize scholar to begin with, there’s no reason my boy, who has a solid future, should have his whole life thrown off track just because he has a sense of humor, not that he did those things anyway.’”

  “Wow. Sounds like we know where Graham gets it, huh?” says Maggie. Her tone is light, but her expression is strained—brows knit, as if to hold in tears.

  “Anyway,” Keisha continues, “Principal Evans kind of puffed up after that. He said that you had the right to a safe learning environment, and that the school should have done a better job of protecting you. And that even though they hadn’t been paying enough attention before, they were now. And that I was totally within my legal rights with my editorial, even if my approach could have been ‘less confrontational.’” Here, Keisha rolls her eyes. “Whatever,” she says.

  Maggie has finished Mémé’s last nail, and Mémé holds her hand out to admire them. “Look how pretty,” she murmurs. She blows on her nails. When they are dry, she taps them on the table—one two three four, one two three four.

  “When I was a girl,” Mémé says, “we didn’t have the language your generation has. In many ways, the world was a different place. In some ways, it’s the same as it’s always been. But you girls, you are changing it.”