Ricky:

            Art school wasn’t really panning out. It wasn’t so much the art that wasn’t working, it wasn’t so much the school either, it was homelessness that came from behind and attacked. It pulled her out of class, smothered her, drained her, beat her, then put her back in that same class room like she was just another student.

            The dorms didn’t allow sleepovers, but when her options were gone, she slept over. She had found that couches were actually pretty comfortable when the day had exhausted her past the point of comfort. A warm bed of her own; a classmate's couch? They were one in the same if she fell asleep fast enough. So she did. If she needed art supplies for class, she worked an extra shift. If she didn’t want to sleep in a strange place, she fell asleep before she could realize how strange it was.

            When the school staff finally showed up for a surprise inspection and caught a mouse looking girl, startled, curled up around her only belongings, she ran. When the school didn’t help, she stopped asking. Art school wasn’t panning out, but it wasn’t the art, and it wasn’t exactly the school, it was the system. No sleepovers were a ruthless and unjust rule to enforce, but the strict hand of the enforcers never missed. The mouse trap was always loaded, and always sprung on time, just in the right moment to catch a mouse in its pursuit of survival.

            At school, during the day, when she had a place she belonged, she would paint. The evenings always came but so did the mornings. Art school wasn’t exactly panning out, but it also wasn’t going to kill her. She hoped.

Dina:

            The cash register rang, spurting out a receipt as the drawer shot open, exposing itself. Dina pulled out two twenties and shooed the customer out the door with a fake smile and polite giggles. “Have a good one!” She said, but the second the customer was out of the cafe, she turned and rolled her eyes at the colleagues standing behind her.

            “Finally,” Her coworker, Kristie, started, “so what were you saying?”

            “He took me to lunch right, mimosas of course--”

            “--Of course,” Her coworkers echoed.

            “Got to wear my new heels and everything. Perfect morning.”
            “So,” Kristie inquired, “when does this get bad? What were you dying to tell us?”

            Dina pulled out her phone, scrolling, clicking, until she finally found what she was looking for. Sliding her phone across the table, Kristie and Annabelle peered down. Immediately, Kristie closed her eyes, upset. Annabelle’s jaw dropped.

            “No,” Annabelle said.

            “Yes,” Dina replied. “Positive. Found out on our fucking anniversary.”

            “So… What’re you going to do?”

            “Already done.”

            “Stop!” Kristie started awkwardly giggling. There was an immediate laughter: shocked, genuine, uneasy laughter shared between the three girls.

            “Does he know?”

            “Yep. Said it was my decision to make.”

            “How do you feel?” Annabelle asked. She had somehow found her way to Dina’s side, her hand resting upon her co-worker's arm.

            “Weird, but glad. I don’t need that right now. Right before I’m supposed to go away to college? Fuck no.” They all shared another laugh. No one wanted to let it die down, and let the silence return.

            “You did what you had to, sis.” Kristie smiled and it was immediately returned by Dina. But the silence had somehow found its way back into the conversation, as had the doubts, and the judgements. Where there was judgment there was someone who would’ve made a different decision. Where there was concern there was pity. So when the front bell-- the one fixed to the door that alerts of a customer-- rang, and Annabelle took her hand off Dina, Dina could finally breathe again. She went back before the register as assuredly now as when she went through those double doors two weeks prior.

No Name:

End. End. End.

The thoughts were flooded, overwhelming, and cloudy, but consistent. End. End. End. The thoughts were not a command, they were not even a cry; they were an unanswered prayer. It did not end. Not fast enough. But eventually, much later when he was done, she got the chance to get up and use the restroom. There were tears in her eyes, but under the cover of sweat and adrenaline they went unnoticed.

Her hand shook as she turned on the facet.

Water was capable of healing, but when the pain was too strong, water didn’t heal, it hid.

On the ground, gripping the cabinet doors, she cried unafraid of being heard. The mirror hid her face-- who she saw did not have a name, or a life, or a mom or a dad, who she saw was not a person.

“I’m gonna go,” She said, sliding the bathroom door closed.

“Do you want me to walk you out?”

“It’s okay, I know my way out. Thanks.”

His blonde hair flopped onto the pillow, exhausted. He didn’t give her a second glance. She wasn’t owed one; she didn’t receive one.

Outside she ran. Her car wouldn’t unlock. Her hand was missing the keyhole repeatedly, scratching the paint of her silver car. She didn’t care, though-- not until she remembered his nails on her skin, scratching her paint. So, she slowed her pace, got it right, opened the door up, wide, without its consent. Got inside.

She wouldn’t allow herself the time to calm down once in the car. Before she could so much as swallow, she was speeding away from the suburban home. His parent’s home. Parent’s who ought to be proud of the son they created and raised. A son who didn’t respect his mother.

Outside the car was cold, but inside was warm. The windshield was heating up while the fog outside crept across its surface. Water droplets flew off the car, one after another. She watched as one traveled across her driver’s side window, gripping the window with the tips of its fingers, holding on for everything it had until. Release. Her tears did the same-- until she couldn’t tell herself from her car anymore.

There was no real comfort in this moment. No solace she could find in anything. The only thing she had was the knowledge that she was feeling the same fright and anger as all the women who came before her, and all the women that will undoubtedly come after. While no two girls were seen as being the exact same, every last girl was treated alike. There was no true safe space for poor, broken college girls.