The Chaperone

by M. Hendrix

Women aren’t allowed to carry firearms. It’s the job of men to protect us.

Adolescent girls are required to have a government-assigned chaperone.

She claimed the chaperone program was a godsend because it saved her from being responsible for my education.

That’s why women in Old America could do things women can’t do here—choose their husbands, have careers, drive cars, own guns, play sports, open bank accounts, even dress however they wanted. But some women didn’t want to give those things up, so they left when New America was founded. I was just three years old then, so I don’t really remember, but I guess a lot of younger women left. That’s why they want us to have babies right away.

Saying we’re not as good as men.” She pushes her glasses up her nose. “You think I’d be used to it by now.”

Boys take it in high school, but girls take Gynecological Fitness, which is more about keeping our bodies primed for pregnancy than exercising.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, they don’t care about women like me. Middle-aged women too old to have babies. They only care about young women like you. Women who can procreate.”

“Come on, Stella.” She nods toward the church. “We should get back. We don’t want anyone to know we have minds of our own, do we?”

I look Poole right in the eye and lie. “No, nothing like that.”

It’s easier than I expect.

“I don’t understand why girls aren’t more careful,” Dad says. Navigate the world with care. Mom’s lips flatten into a straight line. “Don’t they know how important it is to do what we say?”

“But she’s not really sick, is she? She just has her—” He doesn’t finish. “This is exactly why women can’t be trusted to hold positions of power.”

“Stella, this is Angel.

Angel.

That was the last thing Sister Helen said to me. She got it out one syllable at a time. Ain Jell. Angel. Is this what she was trying to tell me? Find Angel? Get out?

I did it. I escaped.

Was she pushing me away so I would leave?

Men there can legally kill a woman they believe has broken the rules of their society. They don’t even have to prove it. They can merely say they felt it to be true.”

“Six men in that town decided they were going to put women in their place. They went from house to house searching for women they could arrest. Or worse. They were vigilantes, plain and simple. They were out for blood and wouldn’t be stopped. They wanted to find women they could kill. They called themselves the Appomattox Six.”

The scarf he’s holding is my white scarf.

To Joseph, I’m nothing more than something to possess. A piece of art. A trophy.

“It’s fine. He’s harmless. Just a pest.” The truth is, I’m no longer sure.

This means all the rules—all the things they teach us—are just for show. When he’s alone, he’ll do whatever he wants. Curse. Grope me. Hurt me. I see how wrong I was to assume he was harmless.

The truth is, they don’t want to protect me from someone like Joseph. A constable. A Minuteman. They only want to protect me from myself.

Women are never believed. A man’s word is always taken over that of a woman.

“And I want to do that even if it comes at a cost. Even if I lose my life the way my first chaperone did.”

There are no men here. It’s just us. There’s no one watching. No one telling us what to do. No one telling us what we do wrong. We can be ourselves here. We are different here. Everything is different.

I’m one of them. I’m a chaperone.