Grrrls on the Side Read online

  Copyright © 2017 Carrie Pack

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-21-4 (trade)

  ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-37-5(ebook)

  Published by Duet, an imprint of Interlude Press

  www.duetbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All trademarks and registered trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  Book and Cover Design by CB Messer

  Book Photography ©Depositphotos.com/applea/MartiniDry/different_nata/ABBPhoto/whynotme.cz/Ksania/verywell/IgorBukhlin/creatista/stokkete/AntonioGuillemF/pxhidalgo/dstaerk/Amelie1/Sashatigar/Katja87/c-foto

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  Interlude Press, New York

  To all Riot Grrrls, past, present and future.

  “The early ‘90s were a difficult time to be a woman, especially a young one, and too little has changed in the intervening decades.”

  —Sara Marcus, Girls to the Front: The True Story of the Riot Grrrl Revolution

  Contents

  Author's Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Author's Note

  Riot Grrrl was a moment in time that represented what being young and female meant within the greater context of our society. It also helped a lot of us to understand what was possible. Many of us knew that even though significant strides had been made for gender and racial equality, the world was far from equal. In the early 1990s, a group of socially aware young women created (some would argue that they stumbled upon) a feminist movement they dubbed Riot Grrrl.

  When I starting writing Grrrls on the Side more than a year ago, the world was a different place for women. As we approached the 2016 election, it seemed we were on the cusp of having our first female president. Progress had been made. Our voices were being heard. I had nostalgia for Riot Grrrl. The moment felt ripe for a book that reflected on how far we’ve come as feminists and the role that young women and girls have played in that journey. Now, I believe, this book may have a different purpose. I sincerely hope Grrrls serves as a reminder of the power that women carry within ourselves, of the joy, kindness and ferocity we bring to everything we do, and of the hope that it can and will get better because we have each other.

  With the historic Women’s March on Washington in January 2017, I once again saw the power of women and girls to influence change on a grand scale. We still have a long way to go, but there are always other women out there, fighting the good fight, who will stand up and have your back, who will call you out on your crap, and who will remind you that you are not alone.

  So thank you so much for giving Grrrls on the Side a chance. Tabitha’s story represents a journey that a lot of young women take on their path to finding their place in the world, and I believe that is an important message for young adults. Unfortunately, for one in six American women, that journey is often derailed by sexual assault1. So it would be impossible to talk about feminism and Riot Grrrl without addressing that very real and important issue.

  While there are no specific depictions of rape in my novel, there is discussion of the rape of an underage girl. There is also one scene where a character experiences unwanted kissing and touching. If you think this might be harmful or triggering to you, please feel free to give this book a pass. Or if you’d like to know what page numbers to skip or want to contact me for more details, please visit my website at carriepack.com.

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  1 https://www.rainn.org/statistics/victims-sexual-violence

  Chapter 1

  Heather’s got her stupid flannel shirt tied around her stupid, tiny waist. I don’t know if I’m more annoyed that she looks cuter like that than I do or if it’s because I know she’s only wearing it as a fashion statement. She’s no more into grunge music than I am into Ace of Base. It’s been like this all year. Heather and her cronies walking around pretending to give a shit about music and social causes. In reality, they only care about that stuff so they can meet boys and go shopping.

  We used to be best friends. We used to do everything together: We played softball in middle school, rode bikes around the neighborhood, went camping with our Brownie troop. Everything. Then Heather’s mom bought her some lipstick and a bra, and it was like I didn’t exist. She started hanging out with Adina Monroe, Jen Radford and Molly Zawicky, whose mothers also bought them makeup and adult underwear, and left me sitting at the bus stop with my Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers and my Discman.

  In a weird sort of way, I guess I have her to thank for my flawless taste in music and absolute disdain for all that is mainstream, but sometimes—although I would never admit it to her—sometimes, I miss my best friend.

  “Oh look, it’s Flabby Tabby.” Heather tosses her freshly dyed blonde hair over her shoulder and giggles. Her friends all follow suit. Molly oinks.

  And sometimes I want to punch her in the face.

  I duck my head and pretend not to hear her as I forge my way toward first period trigonometry. Sure, I’m fat, whatever. That doesn’t bother me nearly as much as the nonstop judgment I get for it. Heather knows it bothers me; that’s why she does it so I can hear. I still don’t understand why she turned on me. Most days I don’t care. I just keep my head down and ignore her, but some days it’s tougher than others—especially on the days I’m an alien life-form walking alongside perfect specimens of the human race.

  I’m starting to think this is just how life will be: fat and friendless. My only friend nowadays is Mike Bernbaum. And I use the term “friend” loosely. He’s more like my music dealer. We swap CDs and the occasional cigarette behind the 7-Eleven. He works at the video store, and the only reason I talk to him at all is because he’s not a girl.

  As I edge my way past a cheerleader, a cloud of perfume assaults my nose and I hold my breath to keep from inhaling any more of it than I absolutely have to. The cheerleader’s blocking the doorway to my classroom so she can passionately make out with her boyfriend for a few minutes before they’re separated for a whole stupid hour. I mutter, “Excuse me,” but they don’t move.

  I rub against the cheerleader as I pass. It’s an accident, but she doesn’t seem to think so.

  “Watch it, fatso!” she says with a sneer. “That lesbo grabbed my ass,” she says to her boyfriend.

  “I can’t blame her, babe.” The boyfriend takes a squeeze for himself. She giggles, and he goes back to eating her face.

  It’s not a new thing, me getting called a lesbian. I confessed to Heather once that I thought Winona Ryder was cute, and now she tells everyone I’m gay. Some kid in my Spanish class asked me if he could watch me make out with another girl, so I’m pretty sure the whole school heard Heather’s rumor. Truth is, I’m not sure if I’m gay or not. But I wish she’d shut her stupid mouth.

  “Sorry,” I mumble as I roll my eyes and snake my way through the rows of desks to find my seat near the front
. It’s easier to concentrate up here, and I don’t have to serve as go-between for everyone passing notes. The teacher, Mrs. Sansone, is writing problems on the board.

  “Hey, Tabitha,” she says with a smile. “I swear one day you’re going to get here earlier than me.”

  I smile. Why not? Mrs. Sansone is nice enough. Sure, her breath always smells of stale cigarettes and gallons of black coffee, but she’s good at explaining complex equations and she never makes us do problems at the board. I like her. And she likes me because I answer questions when no one else will. Teachers generally like me because I’m quiet and get my work done on time.

  The classroom slowly fills up and then the bell rings. Mrs. Sansone is still writing a problem on the board when Brad Mason slams his backpack onto his desk and kicks the back of my chair. I don’t bother saying anything. If I do, he’ll just kick harder. Asshole.

  The rest of the day is just as bad. I manage to drop my lunch—bland, freezer-burned cafeteria pizza—in my lap, leaving a nice blobby dark stain across my thighs. I can still smell the fake cheese and tasteless marinara in seventh period. I hear Heather giggling. I think Molly says something about me being “flabby and sloppy,” but I do my best to ignore them by sitting on the other side of the classroom. By the time I meet up with Mike behind the 7-Eleven after school, I’m pissed off, sweaty, and, in true Tabitha Denton fashion, my eyeliner has migrated from my eyelids to just above my cheekbones. I don’t know why I bother.

  Mike must see on my face that I’m in no mood for small talk. He hands me an already-lit cigarette and nods once. I inhale deeply while trying not to cough. I hate smoking. I don’t know why I do it, other than it gives me something to do with my hands. And I only do it when I hang out with Mike.

  He’s taller than me, but only because he’s standing on the curb. It probably bothers him that we’re the same height; I’m not really a fan either. If I have to be bigger horizontally, I’d rather be smaller vertically. Looking up at him, I wonder if he has a former friend who turned on him, too. I don’t remember him from middle school. One day he was just there, wearing a faded Stüssy shirt and jeans that were made of more holes than denim.

  He’s wearing that same shirt today, but his jeans have been swapped for a newer pair. His nearly black hair obscures his eyes as he wraps his full lips around his cigarette. He hums to himself while he finishes his cigarette and lights another. He finally speaks.

  “You interested in going to a concert with me on Saturday?”

  I quirk an eyebrow. “Maybe. Who’s playing?”

  “A couple of local punk bands and that girl band you like, Bikini Kill.”

  “Yeah, sounds cool.”

  I try to hide my excitement to save face, but I’ve been dying to go to a Bikini Kill show since I found a dog-eared copy of a zine plastered with song lyrics and feminist rants in varying degrees of poor grammar. The writing was a rambling miasma of personal manifesto, crazed fangirl doodles and important social commentary that made me both want to edit it for them and write my own angry punk music. I take another drag and exhale slowly, savoring the tiny puff of white as it curls around my face and dissipates.

  Mike hops down from the curb and kicks the toe of my boot. “Those new?” he asks.

  “New to me. I got them from a thrift store. I’m pretty sure they were someone’s work boots.” I bang the toe of my left boot against the side of the building as hard I as I can.

  “Steel toe. Nice.” Mike’s words are decorated with smoke as the acrid smell floats between us.

  The boots look awesome, but my feet are sweating, and I’m sure they’ll reek when I take them off. Doesn’t matter. It’s a statement. A statement that maybe got me an invite to a Bikini Kill show.

  “I didn’t know you liked girl bands.” I’m digging but I’m trying to get a read on Mike. We don’t usually talk too much, and that’s the way I like it. But today, there’s something he’s not telling me.

  “I’m into whatever,” he says with an air of fake nonchalance.

  Of course, I only know it’s fake because I saw him pull the same move on a girl he liked last year. Mike always says, “He who cares least has the least to lose.” So he’s trying to show me he cares less than I do? Okay. Two can play that game—even if his dark eyes are pulling me in. Did he always have those dimples?

  “Yeah well, maybe I can go. I’ll have to see.” I scuff the heel of my boot on the bright yellow curb at the head of the parking space we’re standing in. It leaves a satisfying black streak on the painted concrete.

  Mike and I finish our cigarettes, and he says he’ll try to call me about the concert. He throws in a few “whatevers” to sound bored, and I pretend not to notice.

  I take my time getting home.

  My house is on a tree-lined street in a neighborhood of older homes. The shag carpet and linoleum sport putrid shades of brown, orange and green that haven’t been in style since the Nixon administration. I’m not sure they were in style then. Who would ever want their house to look like someone vomited pea soup everywhere? My parents, apparently.

  As I hit the edge of our cul-de-sac, I pass Mrs. Zimmerman. She’s the lone retiree on our street and spends every afternoon either in her garden or reading on her front porch. Today she’s kneeling over her spring annuals and pulling up weeds.

  “Hi, Mrs. Z!” For her benefit, I force my natural scowl into the hint of a smile.

  She looks up and smiles at me from under her large sun hat. Her skin has the look of broken-in leather, so she only recently must have discovered the joys of UV protection. “Hello, Tabitha. Where’s your boyfriend?”

  I resist rolling my eyes and choose to shrug instead. In Mrs. Zimmerman’s world, every girl gets a boyfriend.

  “Ah, don’t worry,” she says. “A pretty thing like you? You’ll be beating them off with a stick before long.”

  God, I hope not. I’d prefer to stay invisible, thank you very much. But I don’t say this. I smile at Mrs. Zimmerman and continue toward my house.

  There aren’t any cars in the driveways on our cul-de-sac. Everyone’s still at work, but by six, the street will be swarming with four-door sedans, minivans and station wagons. Lots of working parents where I live. Tons. Heaps. A plethora. It seems like my parents are the only ones divorced, though. Of course, Heather’s perfect parents still hold hands in public. Barf.

  Our house isn’t anything special—small with no frills—but I’ve always liked it better than Heather’s house. Her house is positively cavernous with its big, sweeping staircase and five bedrooms. When we were kids, she was always over at my place, though. She said our house was cozier. Whatever. I would have killed for her bedroom with the window seat and canopy bed. Doesn’t matter now, though. One more thing to add to the “Reasons I hate Heather Davidson” list. It’s a long list.

  My key sticks in the latch, so I have to jiggle the handle to get the tumbler to engage. Sparky, our ten-year-old mutt with a spot-on impression of a dirty mop, barks from inside.

  “Shut up, you dumb dog!”

  Sparky barks louder as I stumble through the door. Then, with his dog genius, he realizes it’s me and jumps up to lick my face.

  “Ugh! Get off!”

  Sparky sulks into the corner and flops down. We both know he’ll find his way into my bed tonight, and I’ll wake up tomorrow with a face full of fur.

  “Dumb dog,” I mutter.

  I dump my backpack in the foyer and grab a bag of chips from the kitchen to go with my usual Dr. Pepper. Then I go upstairs to get my homework out of the way.

  The phone rings before I even rip the potato chip bag open.

  “Hey,” Mike’s voice drawls over the line. He always sounds like he’s high, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smoke anything other than his usual menthols. He’s simply that laid back, or at least he’s trying to be. His immediate phone call says
otherwise. “We can pay the cover at the door for ten bucks, but if you can get a fake ID, it’s only five.”

  “I’ve got the ten,” I say, not wanting Mike to know I tried to get a fake ID once. It cost me fifty dollars for a faded picture of an Indian guy named Mark Chaudhary, who was very obviously not me. It’s in my bottom desk drawer under some old coloring books. It will never see the light of day.

  “Cool,” he says. “I’ll meet you behind the store at nine-thirty. Bring the boots.” The wink in his voice makes me cringe.

  “Okay.” When did we start doing the flirty thing? I didn’t sign up for this.

  “See you Saturday,” he says, and the line goes dead.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon wrestling with an essay for English and errant, interrupting wonderings: “Is this a date?” and “Do I want it to be a date?”

  Eventually I give up on both and fall asleep in my clothes. I never hear my mom come in.

  The club is dirty and small, and I have to stand on my tiptoes to see the stage, but I don’t care because these are my people: the hardscrabble freaks and losers who are angry at the world for their lot in life. Dramatic? Sure. But no one here looks at me like I’m some sort of zoo animal. An elephant with too much hair. A rhinoceros missing her horn. Here I am just a girl with cool boots, who maybe looks like she could kick your ass.

  Mike seems in his element, too, and taller somehow, protective almost. When a guy with a safety pin through his left eyebrow bumps into me during the opening act, Mike shoves him back. At first I think we’ve won, but Eyebrow Piercing continues to thrash. I step to the side and let him go crazy. Who cares? This band is shit anyway. Mike lifts his brow as if to say, “Want me to kick his ass?” But I shake my head. No point in getting kicked out before the good bands start. We make our way to the other side of the venue where I can see the stage a little better.

  We stand there for a while, taking in the scene. The opening band continues to suck. I’m not even sure the bass player’s amp is on. Their sound is top-heavy, like a car stereo with the speakers blown out. Mike nods in the direction of the merch tables. Looks like all the bands are selling tapes and a couple of girls are handing out flyers. We sidestep the thrashing masses to get a better look. I pass up the tapes; I don’t get my allowance until Monday, and I already blew my savings on the boots. A girl about my age catches my eye and smiles. Her brown hair is barely past shoulder length and much shinier than mine. Bright pink barrettes frame her pale face near her forehead. It should make her look childish, but instead she looks cool. I smile back.