Men lied. I knew this.
The Girls and I sat around swapping stories about what had happened to so-and-so—our sisters, our friends, our mothers. And if the evidence around me weren’t enough, I thought back to the stories I’d read, remembered how often the gods were cruel. I thought of Hades and the trouble he’d caused poor Persephone with his sugared-up pomegranate seeds. I thought of Nancy Drew and that boyfriend of hers. Ned Nickerson was polite and handsome, sure—but in the end, she was always left saving him. Even Wonder Woman could never trust Steve Trevor with who she really was.
We’d gather on porches and talk about strong women and weak women, swearing we’d never be like everyone else.
When someone got pregnant and dropped out of high school, she was no longer worth the time of day. When someone gave in and met a man in the back lot, we called her a whore behind her back. A girl who let a boy come between her and her friends was nothing but a bitch.
We were cold-blooded.
But our cruelty was a prayer, recited time and again. For protection. Salvation. And hope.