The Change

by Kirsten Miller

“How about that? We’ve only just met, and yet you know so much about me.” Harriett leaned lazily against the doorframe. “How do you do it, Mr. Baker? Are you psychic? Have you hacked into my accounts? Or are you just one of those men who thinks he’s an expert on women?”

Jo knew how to give her clients exactly what they were after—and it wasn’t exercise. Almost all of them wanted things to punch, pound, and kick. Even in the dead of winter, her air-conditioning bill was often higher than the rent. The energy released in that one little building could have powered most of Mattauk—or, as Jo sometimes fantasized, burned the whole fucking town down.

They were almost always in their mid- to late forties, and they all arrived looking lost. No wonder, Jo thought. For decades, they’d been dutifully following the map the world laid out for them. School led to work. Dating led to marriage and then to motherhood. But now those milestones were behind them, and they’d entered uncharted territory. Somewhere in the distance lay the final destination, but that was decades away, and a featureless wasteland seemed to stretch in between. These women, who’d done everything that had ever been asked of them, now felt forsaken. Just when they were reaching the height of their powers, they felt like life had led them astray.

How many years—how much energy—had she lost trying to control something that could not be controlled? How long had she feared being outed as female? How much frustration had she endured, inhabiting a world that wasn’t designed for her kind? How long had she prayed to be seen and accepted as more than a body? How hard had she tried to fix things that simply refused to be fixed?

But the problem wasn’t her body. The problem was the companies that sold shitty sanitary pads. Otherwise reasonable adults who believed tampons stole a girl’s virginity. Doctors who didn’t bother to solve common problems. Birth control that could kill you. Boys who were told that they couldn’t control themselves. A society that couldn’t handle the fact that roughly half of all humans menstruate at some point in their lives.

As an only child, she’d spent too much time in the company of adults to be properly intimidated by them.

I feel like I spent the first twenty years of my life trying to figure shit out. The second twenty, I wasted on the wrong people—my husband, the assholes I worked with. Then I reached this stage of my life, and all of that fell away. For the first time in my life, I was alone. And for the first time in my life, I knew what the hell I was doing.

God needed some people to look at things the rest of the world couldn’t face.

“Just imagine our heroines the way you’d like to see them.” “As badass bitches who keep the world running and never get their due?”

She’d let men take credit for her work assuming they would be grateful and her contributions acknowledged.

women purchase or directly influence the purchase of 80 percent of all goods—and the women dropping serious change are usually over thirty-five. Whenever a man questioned this, she’d ask him when he last bought toilet paper. What brand was it? How much did it cost? Nine times out of ten, they couldn’t answer.

“You’re afraid of me,” Harriett observed. It was hard to believe it had taken her so long to see it. “That’s why you have to keep me in my place.” “I’m afraid of you?” “Yes, you’re afraid of me because I’m better than you are. And if you give one talented woman the power she deserves, another will follow. Then another. And together they’ll show that their way is better. Then your whole fake fucking world will come tumbling down.”

“Nothing ages a person like poverty and misery,” Harriett said. “Despite what all the ads claim, it’s not skin cream that helps some women keep their glow. The only true youth serum has two ingredients—luck and money.”

‘Witch’ is the label society slaps on women it can’t understand or control. But feel free to call me Harriett.

“Of course we’re allowed,” Harriett replied. “Women are allowed everywhere these days. Golf courses, nudie bars, the Racquet and Tennis Club. It would be scandalous if we weren’t allowed. So instead, we’re just not invited.”

“Let them underestimate us,” her father said with a shrug. “That’s how we’ll win.”

A woman had to be ready to look out for herself.

“Anyone who needs a reward to be good isn’t good. They just like rewards. Good people do the right thing because it’s the right thing to do.”

All I do is stand back and let nature take its course.”

Taking matters into my own hands? If the system functioned the way it should, I wouldn’t be necessary. None of us would.”

“Those who deserve punishment will receive it,” Harriett assured her. “I’m getting pretty sick of waiting for justice,” Jo said. “Justice may be relentless, as Franklin says, but she’s also hobbled by rules,” Harriett noted. “That’s why I choose vengeance. She’s the only mistress I serve.”

“He’s rewriting the story,” Harriett explained in a tone that suggested she shouldn’t have to. “You guys have been around the block a few times. Don’t you know this is what they do? By the end of this, we’ll have a whole new set of heroes and villains.”

But it didn’t seem to matter where a woman was—there was always someone waiting to shove her out of the spotlight and into a steaming pile of shit.

No one teaches girls how to take care of themselves. We train them to be pretty and kind and polite right before we set them loose in a world filled with wolves. Then we act surprised and horrified when some of them get eaten.

A child and a dog frolicked in the sand, while the boy’s mother watched from the porch, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. In her wide-legged white sailor pants and navy boatneck shirt, she radiated old Hollywood glamour. Harriett had once envied such women—so perfectly turned out. In her youth, she’d imagined birds and woodland creatures doting on them, Cinderella-style, each morning. As she got older, she realized the secret wasn’t magic. It was underpaid servants.

“Are you going to kill him?” Nessa asked. “No,” Harriett replied, as though the result wouldn’t be worth the effort. “If I killed people for being morons, I would have murdered Chase years ago.” She opened the door and slid out. “But I’ll give you a shout if I need any help with a body.”

“How’s she going to protect you? Rich white ladies generating their own force fields these days?”

“Think of it as a recipe for the last thing you’ll ever need to bake,” Harriett told her. “But the truth is, Ms. Rocca—and I suspect deep down, you already know this—every recipe is a spell. And all cooks are witches.”

“This is what you were made for,” she told her. “Why do you think women are designed to outlive men? Why do we keep going for thirty years after our bodies can no longer reproduce? Do you think nature meant for those years to be useless? No, of course not. Our lives our designed to have three parts. The first is education. The second, creation. And in part three, we put our experience to use and protect those who are weaker. This third stage, which you have entered, can be one of incredible power.”

“There have always been those who want to deny women power. And there are also women who refuse to accept it. Some, who’ve mastered the games men play, choose to betray their own kind. These women are our most dangerous enemies. But many women are simply too frightened to see things as they really are—or to accept that the world men have made must be destroyed.” “Destroyed?” Jo had been listening closely. “The day is coming,” Isabel said. “When I was a girl, bad men didn’t need to hide what they did to women. Now they must keep it behind closed doors. There are more of us than ever. For every woman of my generation, there are three of you.” “Yes, but are we really supposed to destroy the world?” Jo asked. “Not the world—their world,” Isabel said. “The world men built to suit their needs and desires. As soon as it’s in ashes, we can build a better world to replace it.”