The Nowhere Girls(42)

The Real Men of Prescott

We have to stop letting the bitches manipulate us. They think their passive-aggressive games are going to force us to behave how they want, but we’re stronger than that. We call the shots, not them. We will not bow to a mob of feminazis. We don’t need them. They’re too much trouble.

Don’t worry, men. In the great scheme of things, these girls are nothing. Real women want a strong man to take control. They want to please. They want to be wanted. They’ll do anything to get you to say you love them.

So let’s move on. These bitches aren’t worth our time. There’s plenty of other pussy out there, and we know how to grab it.

—AlphaGuy541





ROSINA.


Fuck this school. Fuck Principal Slatterly.

“Come on, Miss Suarez,” says the dopey security guard. “I don’t have all day.”

Fuck you.

A handful of girls sit on the plastic seats in the school office, the best selection of burnouts and antisocial weirdos the school has to offer.

“What is this?” Rosina says to the black-haired girl with white streaks sitting next to her—Serina Barlow, the girl who notoriously just got back from a summer in rehab.

“I have no idea,” Serina says.

Mrs. Poole steps out from the back, fanning herself with her short chubby fingers. Her forehead shines with beads of sweat.

“You all right, Denise?” the security guard asks her.

“Yeah, Denise,” one of the burnouts says, and a couple of others cackle with her.

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Poole chirps. “Busy day, that’s all.”

“What are we here for?” Serina asks. “I haven’t done anything.”

“I haven’t done anything,” one of the burnouts mocks. “You think you’re some kind of princess just because you have three months sober? All of a sudden you’re better than us?”

Serina ignores the girls’ hateful stares. Rosina likes her immediately.

“Hey,” Rosina says. “Did you know our names are almost the same if you rearrange the letters?” Serina just looks at her and blinks. “If we get out of here alive,” Rosina whispers, “I have something I want to talk to you about.”

“Rosina Suarez.” Mrs. Poole sighs. “Why don’t you go next?” She waves her in the direction of Principal Slatterly’s office.

This isn’t the first time Rosina’s been in the principal’s office. There was that time she spit in Eric Jordan’s face, of course. There was also the time she defaced the library book about Intelligent Design as a birthday present to Erin (which Erin did not appreciate nearly as much as she should have). There was the time she called her PE teacher an asshole when he shouted “Hurry up, hot tamale!” at her during a running test.

“Why am I here?” Rosina says as she sinks into the way-too-soft armchair across the desk from Principal Slatterly. Everything in the room is floral patterned and wicker. An oil painting of baby rabbits in a gaudy gold frame hangs above a filing cabinet. If a person didn’t know any better, they might think this was the office of a sweet old grandma. But they would be oh so wrong.

“I was hoping you could tell me that,” Slatterly says, leaning forward in her chair and folding her hands on top of her desk.

“I’m here because you told the security guard to come get me out of class.”

“And why do you suppose I did that?”

There are a lot of things Rosina could say, most of which would probably get her suspended. So Rosina says nothing. She leans back, shoulders relaxed, and looks out the window at the dreary wet parking lot as if she couldn’t care less. This is a look she has perfected, which comes in especially handy in moments like this, when she cares way too much.

“You were quite vocal last spring about how you felt about those allegations against three of our male students,” Principal Slatterly says. “You created quite a few disturbances.”

“I created one disturbance,” Rosina says. “And it wasn’t much of a disturbance.”

“There have been quite a few disturbances lately,” Slatterly says. “Would you agree that I am justified in suspecting you might be behind those?”

“Really?” Rosina laughs. “You think I’m a part of this protest or whatever?”

Slatterly doesn’t blink.

“Dude, I’m not a part of anything,” Rosina says. “It’s like a group, right? Like a bunch of dumb girls got together and decided to play pretend freedom fighters and change the world? Do you really think I’d be a part of that? Nobody likes me. I like nobody. I don’t do groups, and I definitely don’t do optimism or whatever it is you need to believe anything you do can actually make a difference.”

Slatterly’s lips go tight and thin. Rosina can’t help but smile a little—no doubt she won that round. But then the principal hoists her chin in the air and raises her eyebrows. Round two.

Slatterly takes a deep breath. If Rosina didn’t know any better, she might think the gesture seemed sad.

“You may not believe this,” Slatterly says, “but I was young once too.”

It takes all Rosina’s strength to not laugh in the principal’s face.