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We were girls. That’s what they called us in their articles and their speeches and their files: bad girls, neurotic girls, needy girls, wayward girls, selfish girls, girls with Electra complexes, girls trying to fill a void, girls who needed attention, girls with pasts, girls from broken homes, girls who needed discipline, girls desperate to fit in, girls in trouble, girls who couldn’t say no.
It isn’t too smart for a girl to be smart, her mom had always said. So she just made herself very, very small.
“I guess Buddha was right,” Rose said. “Life really is suffering.”
Happiness isn’t about doing what you like, but learning to like what you have to do.
“You’re a witch,” Fern said. “No, dear,” Miss Parcae said. “I’m a librarian.”
There was an angry red welt across her belly from the pantyhose, her gray pubic hair was sparse, her stomach sagged, her thighs were dimpled, but she stood with her spine straight like she was proud. She noticed the girls staring at her. “Would you prefer me to be ashamed?” she asked. “My appearance is the least of my qualities.”
Now she’d seen Myrtle have her baby in the bathroom, and learned about Reverend Jerry, and seen what they did to Rose, and she had failed her daughter, and learned the truth about witches, and how could she ever care about high school again?
