For Girls Who Walk Through Fire

by Kim DeRose

Genres: YA Paranormal

Synopsis

Elliott D’Angelo-Brandt is sick and tired of putting up with it all. Every week, she attends a support group for teen victims of sexual assault, but all they do is talk. Elliott’s done with talking. What she wants is justice. And she has a plan for getting it: a spell book that she found in her late mom’s belongings that actually works. Elliott recruits a coven of fellow survivors from the group. She, Madeline, Chloe, and Bea don’t have much in common, but they are united in their rage at a system that heaps judgments on victims and never seems to punish those who deserve it. As they each take a turn casting a hex against their unrepentant assailants, the girls find themselves leaning on each other in ways they never expected—and realizing that revenge has heavy implications. Each member of the coven will have to make a choice: continue down the path of magical vigilantism or discover what it truly means to claim their power. For Girls Who Walk Through Fire is a fierce and deeply moving novel about perseverance in the face of injustice and the transformational power of friendship.

Release date: September 26, 2023

Publisher: Union Square & Co.

Print pages: 317

Sample

1

Elliott couldn’t imagine anything more depressing than attending a sexual abuse and assault support group for Santa Barbara County teen girls housed in a kindergarten classroom.

No, that wasn’t true; she could easily name half a dozen things way more depressing, and that was sourcing from her own life alone.

But that wasn’t the point.

The point was that sitting in a miniature chair, listening to other girls detail all the ways their lives had been ruined by douchebag boyfriends and random assholes, abusive babysitters, and creepy neighbors (not to mention family members), all while Crayola stick figure families and five-year-old-sized handprint butterflies smiled down on you was goddamn tragic.

Elementary schoolteacher Mary Yoshida, fearless leader of said Tragic Kindergarten Kingdom, was nodding as Emma, a new girl with curly red hair and pale freckled skin, detailed how the scummy college freshman she’d met at her best friend’s Fourth of July party got her drunk and then forced himself on her behind the garden shed. As Emma spoke, Elliott picked at her black nail polish, the flakes collecting on her vintage Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt.

“. . . and I just, I don’t know,” Emma concluded, pulling her shirt sleeves down over her hands. “I feel like I should be angry? But instead, I just feel . . . numb? Or maybe . . . I don’t know. I don’t even know how to feel.” Emma wrapped her arms around her stomach and let out a shuddering sigh. “So that’s it. That’s me. I’ve never really said any of that out loud before.”

“Thank you, Emma.” Mary smiled warmly, leaning toward the girl. “We’re so glad you shared with us. And it’s okay not to know. These things take time to process. That’s why we’re all here. To share, to listen, to process. Thank you for being so honest and brave.”

Emma gave a quick nod, staring at her scuffed-up Converse.

Mary cupped her hands in her lap and looked out at the group, which changed in size week to week. Most of the time they numbered about a dozen, but today there were closer to twenty-five. The start of the school year had everyone triggered.

Mary had perfect posture and this preternatural Zen quality that Elliott couldn’t decide if she detested or admired. (Is that what came of being a rape survivor for over two decades, Elliott wondered. Or had Mary gone to some weird, serene place just to survive? And was it racist to call her Zen? Or was it fine since she was, in fact, a Buddhist?) Mary had been a counselor before becoming a kindergarten teacher, and once upon a time she’d apparently known Elliott’s mom when they were both college students at UCSB. Which intrigued Elliott . . . but not enough to speak.

Mary calmly surveyed the girls. “So? Who else would like to share?”

Silence fell upon the circle. There was the squeak of people shifting in their chairs.

Mary’s eyes moved clockwise and landed on Elliott. Elliott stared back. No fucking way.

“Well,” Mary

offered gently, adjusting her cat eyeglasses. “I think it’s worth discussing what I know we’re all thinking about. And, Kaylie.” She looked toward the blond girl seated three seats to Elliott’s left. “I’m so glad you decided to attend group today. I can only imagine how difficult this past week has been for you.”

Kaylie was slunk down in her chair, mouth clamped shut, arms crossed over her chest, wearing a hoodie and rumpled pajama bottoms. She and Elliott were both seniors at Santa Barbara High and had gone to school together since elementary—though it’s not like they were actually friends. Kaylie had always been your classic girly-girl; showing off her gymnastic moves at recess and collecting American Girl dolls back in the day, breezing through the halls of Santa Barbara High with her vast array of friends, and cheering at all the games. Not exactly Elliott’s vibe.

Not that Kaylie wasn’t nice—she was. She was cheerful. And sparkly. And basically, the poster child for well-adjusted adolescence and All-American high school life.

Which was why it had been such a shock the first time Elliott came to group and spotted her, of all people.

“If you want to process things together,” Mary offered. “We’re here to listen.”

Kaylie remained silent, eyes fixed on the rainbow rug their chairs were circled around.

“Well, I just wanted

 to say that I feel horrible about it,” Chatty Charlotte leapt in, her eyes brimming with tears. “And I am so, so sorry, Kaylie.”

Chatty Charlotte was always feeling. If Elliott had a nickel for every time Charlotte emoted all over somebody else’s problems, she’d ship Charlotte off to a remote desert island. Definitely not a candidate for the List.

“It’s just so messed up,” Charlotte continued. “I can’t get over it. How could he . . . I mean, how could that be the verdict?” She covered her mouth with both hands like she might cry.

A few girls murmured their agreement.

Never Have I Ever Raya, who just could never believe the reactions of outside people (Raya was second only to Charlotte when it came to sharing in group, and therefore a hard no for the List), cleared their throat. “When I heard the verdict . . . I just couldn’t believe it. It just made me feel like nobody even cares. Like, all this bad stuff can happen to us, and no matter how much we speak up, the world just keeps going. You were so brave, Kaylie. You deserved better.”

“Yeah,” agreed Church-Mouse Maritza, who was waaayyy too meek for the List. She always spoke like she was sitting in the first pew at mass. “You did. And it sucks.”

“It totally sucks, and I’m so sorry,” added Miss Prima Ballerina Madeline, a straitlaced senior at private Catholic school Bishop Garcia Diego. Madeline was new to group, but from the little Elliott had seen, she was in zero way List material.

Girl after girl jumped in with their heartfelt condolences, assuring Kaylie that the verdict was totally unfair and reminding her that she was so awesome and brave.

Elliott stayed silent, finding each girl more irritating than the last.

The thing is, they weren’t wrong. Kaylie was brave. And it was unfair. Start of junior year, Kaylie gets raped by a senior while drunk at a party, has the whole thing filmed and shared with the varsity baseball team, is brave enough to go to the police and press charges, takes the stand as “Emily Doe,” and the judge decides he doesn’t want the guy to have his entire life ruined “by one mistake” just because he “has potential” and “a future ahead of him”? What about Kaylie’s potential? What about Kaylie’s future? Did she get a vote on having her life ruined? Did any of them?

It was kind of amazing to Elliott that after everything Kaylie had been through, she kept showing up to school every day acting bubbly and totally normal. Especially given the trial’s recent blowback: supporters of Kaylie’s rapist had taken to social media and were buzzing in the halls about how #MeToo had gone too far and how that “slut” was just trying to take some poor guy down. Maybe they didn’t know that “slut” was Kaylie—the video didn’t show her face, and she’d managed to remain anonymous, except to her immediate family and two of her closest friends—but she knew. She still had to hear all that crap.

But the Kaylie in group was always a stark contrast to the Kaylie at school. In group she let her cheerful persona drop, her face relaxing into a serious expression so that her outsides more closely matched her insides (or so Elliott assumed).

And yet this dead-eyed version of Kaylie was something else entirely. Was this the new Kaylie, Elliott wondered. The Kaylie who’d given up? The Kaylie after?

Chatty Charlotte was launching into round two of her condolences, and

it was more than Elliott could bear. “This,” she burst out, “is bullshit.”

The girls flinched and looked over at her, like they hadn’t realized she could even speak. A marble statue come to life. Charlotte glanced at Mary, wondering if this outburst would be sanctioned or scolded.

“Elliott,” Mary said proudly, as if Elliott had just waltzed in and announced she was running for Tragic Kindergarten Kingdom president. “Tell me more. Let’s talk about what you’re—”

“No.” Elliott shook her head. “You see, that’s the whole point. All this talking gets us absolutely nowhere. And I’m sick of it.”

From the corner of her eye, Elliott saw Kaylie turn her head. Elliott glanced at her and for a moment their eyes met. Kaylie looked away.

Mary nodded slowly, a solemn expression on her face. “Yes. I hear you, Elliott. I really do. It’s normal to have a lot of strong feelings when triggered.”

Elliott rolled her eyes. This wasn’t triggered; this was fed the hell up.

“Is anyone else feeling this way?” Mary asked the group. “Let’s talk about our feelings of powerlessness and frustration.”

Unsurprisingly, Chatty Charlotte piped up. “I’m feeling super powerless and—”

Elliott groaned as she got to her feet. “Screw”—she snatched up her backpack—“this.”

And with that, she strode out of the room.

 

***

Outside, leaning against one of the waist-high brick posts at the edge of the school parking lot, earbuds firmly in place, Elliott blasted Joy Division and shoved her hands into the pockets of her vintage leather jacket, eyes trained on busy Las Positas Street for her grandma’s Honda Accord.

Elliott had attended group every Thursday evening for over three months, and so far, as expected, it had gotten her squat. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. It had provided a few potential names for her List. But it hadn’t, like, improved her life. The truth was, if it weren’t for her grandmother’s insistence that she go somewhere for “girls like her”—a contentious bargain made from pure desperation and the need to shut her grandmother up—there’s no way she’d ever attend group on her own.

Girls like her. God. Such a classic judgy Prudence statement.

Not that Prudence D’Angelo’s judginess was anything new. Whenever Elliott was with her, Elliott could feel the disapproval rolling off her grandmother, who, based on her many hushed comments to Elliott’s father, seemed to object to everything about Elliott. There was Elliott’s nose ring (“I just worry that hoop is going to get infected, Daniel. That’s all.”), her constantly changing hair (“It’s just such a bright shade of pink. Does it always have to be so abnormal?”), not to mention every single thing Elliott wore (“Couldn’t those ugly boots and flannel shirts stay where they belong, in the nineties? It was bad enough when Veronica wore outfits like that, God bless her soul.”).

But the thing Prudence most objected to was the thing she and Elliott never discussed. The thing Elliott’s father didn’t know about. The thing that prompted Prudence to show up every Thursday evening at Adams Elementary School to pick up Elliott.

Soon enough the other girls began to trickle out, heads down as they hurried along the covered outdoor corridor that led to the parking lot, quickly angling toward their parked cars or rushing toward idling vehicles. Elliott searched for Kaylie in her peripheral vision and spotted her making a beeline for her mom’s SUV.

Elliott became aware that one of the girls was walking directly toward her. When she looked, she was surprised to find it was Miss Prima Ballerina Madeline. Elliott had to wonder what had happened to her. Like Elliott, and only a couple of the other girls, Madeline had yet to share her story.

Madeline stopped in front of Elliott, arms folded over her long-sleeved ruffly pink blouse.

Elliott lowered the volume on “She’s Lost Control” and pulled out one earbud. She could hear the cars rushing by on Las Positas and the flagpole clinking in the wind as she raised her eyebrows in a question. Yes?

“It is bullshit,” Madeline said evenly.

Elliott eyed her, in her expensive leather riding boots and designer jeans, her long glossy chestnut hair carefully arranged over one shoulder, her pale skin accented with just a hint of tasteful makeup. Was she for real?

At that moment a silver Honda Accord pulled into the parking lot and flashed its lights at Elliott. Elliott pulled out her other earbud and picked up the backpack at her Doc Martens–clad feet. She gave Madeline one last assessing glance before heading to the  car.

***

“Make a salad, will you?” Prudence instructed Elliott as she slid a casserole dish from the oven.

“Yes, master,” Elliott muttered as she set the final napkin on the table and then went to the cabinet to pull out a large glass bowl.

Ever since Elliott’s mom’s death seven years ago, Prudence had become a fixture in their house. Cooking up meals to put in the freezer, doing all the ironing, cleaning out and organizing the cupboards. Tasks that no one had asked her to do or even cared about but that she took upon herself for the sake of her poor widowed son-in-law and her wayward granddaughter.

“Hey, El,” her dad greeted her as he came into the kitchen from his home office. Daniel Brandt had been so handsome when Elliott’s mom was still alive, with his shock of black hair and twinkly eyes set behind Buddy Holly glasses. And he still was, just an unshaven, wounded sort of handsome. He placed a kiss on the top of her head. “Sorry, I got a call from a client right when you—” He stopped short, eyeing the casserole dish on the counter. “Prudence, what is that?”

“What?” Prudence asked innocently, wiping her manicured hands on the KISS ME, I’M SICILIAN apron she always insisted on wearing. “It’s lasagna.”

“I told her,” Elliott warned as she chopped up a carrot.

“Prudence, we talked about this. El and I are going vegetarian. We can’t eat this.” He motioned at the lasagna.

“Well, I used ground turkey, Daniel,” Prudence defended, managing to sound like both a martyr and a matriarch. Characteristics, Elliott noticed, that often went hand in hand.

Elliott’s dad shook his head as he walked to the fridge. “I’m ordering us Thai,” he informed Elliott, pulling out his phone as he grabbed a beer. “Hey, how was your SAT prep course? Boring as always?”

“Pretty much,” Elliott lied as she abandoned her salad making, aware of her grandmother quietly Saran Wrapping her precious lasagna just a few feet away.

It was both a blessing and a curse that Prudence, of all people, had been the one home that morning when Elliott came in after . . . after what had happened to her. Just seeing someone familiar had caused Elliott to burst into tears.

“Ellie?” her grandma had asked in concern, pulling her into an embrace.

“Something happened,” Elliott had sobbed. “This guy . . .” She couldn’t even complete the sentence.

Prudence had suddenly held Elliott at arm’s length. “Did he hurt you?” she’d asked in concern.

Elliott had nodded, mascara streaking down her cheeks.

“Well, did you do something?” her grandmother had asked softly. Her voice was gentle, but her words were an accusation as she gripped Elliott a little too tight.

Elliott had sobered a bit. “No . . . it wasn’t my fault,” she’d managed.

Prudence had pressed her lips together, like she had her doubts.

Elliott had anticipated the lecture that was sure to come—she was positive her grandmother had a lot of ideas and assumptions about her, even before this crisis—but to Elliott’s great surprise and relief, Prudence had remained silent.

“Just . . . please don’t say anything to Dad,” Elliott had begged, wiping her eyes. “He’s dealt with enough already.”

“Of course I won’t,” Prudence had agreed, as if doing so was completely out of the question. Which had only made Elliott feel worse. It was an acknowledgment of what she’d already known: she was a burden, something from which

her father must be protected.

Lying faceup on her bed that night, Elliott listened to Bjork’s “Army of Me” while staring idly at the vintage movie posters on her wall—Agnès Varda’s Cléo from 5 to 7, Leos Carax’s Mauvais Sang, Jacque Rivette’s Céline and Julie Go Boating, some of her mom’s favorites. Her mother, Veronica—Ronnie to her close friends—majored in film studies, writing her thesis on the representation of women in late twentieth-century French cinema. She’d gone on to become a film editor, mostly editing commercials, but she’d done a few documentaries, too.

If her mom were still alive, Elliott often wondered, would Elliott be brave enough to tell her about what had happened to her? And if she did, what would her mother think? On the one hand, her mom had been an artist and a free thinker, so maybe she’d be open and understanding. On the other hand, she’d had a strict upbringing under Prudence’s iron thumb, and her Catholic roots ran deep.

It is bullshit.

Madeline’s words rang through Elliott’s head. Something about her had seemed surprisingly . . . resolute.

Rolling onto her stomach, Elliott opened her nightstand drawer, pulled out a battered leather journal, and flipped to the most recent entry. At the top of the page was the heading POSSIBILITIES and listed below were three different initials.

Clicking on her pen, Elliott added one more—M for Madeline—which she circled in bold.

 

2

The following Thursday at five forty-five, Elliott paced the edge of the Adam’s Elementary School parking lot, clutching the straps of her backpack. Her shoulder-length pink hair was tucked behind her ears, and her earbuds were firmly in place lest one of the Tragic Kindergarten Kingdom citizens, who were already trickling in and heading down the covered corridor, took it upon themselves to brave a greeting. Not that she expected them to. No one was particularly eager to associate with anyone else in group, except Chatty Charlotte, who was desperate enough to talk to just about anyone.

Would Kaylie show up to group this week, Elliott wondered. She’d been back at school as of Monday and, shockingly, seemed entirely back to normal. Elliott had spotted her that very afternoon, laughing with Breanna Hernandez as they walked down to the field house for cheer practice.

How Kaylie could haul her ass out of bed after all she’d endured was a marvel to Elliott. It was like she had a full-time job publicly being varsity cheer captain, a competitive gymnast, and a member of both the National Honor Society and Associated Student Body and a side hustle privately dealing with the trauma around her rape and the subsequent court case. Elliott decided she either must be totally dissociating or actually tough as shit.

At two minutes to six, a sea-green Prius pulled into the lot and parked in a spot at the far end, near the edge of the stucco cafeteria building. Madeline climbed out, adjusting the hem of her J.Crew cardigan before carefully pulling her mane over one shoulder and beeping her car locked.

Elliott popped out her earbuds, pausing PJ Harvey in the midst of crooning to Thom Yorke about the mess they were in, and strode across the lot.

“Hey,” she called out.

Madeline glanced around before realizing Elliott was addressing her. “Hey,” she said in surprise, adjusting the strap of her purse as she surreptitiously assessed Elliott’s outfit: Nirvana T-shirt and oversized grandpa cardigan, black tights under cutoffs, black fedora, and well-worn burgundy Docs. Not exactly Bishop Garcia Diego attire.

Elliott stopped before her and glanced back at the buildings to ensure Mary wasn’t snooping around. When she looked again at Madeline, she was sure to keep her voice low. “How’d you like to skip group and actually do something about shit for once?”

***

Ten minutes and a short drive later, Elliott led Madeline to the back room of Anastasia’s Asylum, a small café on upper State Street, where they settled into oversized velvet chairs straight out of Friends’ coffee shop, Central Perk. A decaf sugar-free vanilla chai latte with almond milk for Madeline; a double Americano for Elliott. The music, which was way too loud, was all ’90s all the time—the Cranberries’ “Dreams” at the moment—but both the volume and the era suited Elliott just fine.

“You ever been here?” Elliott asked Madeline, who was taking in the décor: white Christmas lights strung across the ceiling, bohemian tapestries, posters for ’90s indie films like The Doom Generation and The Virgin Suicides, a framed black-and-white photo of Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love.

“Actually, no. But it seems . . . cool,” Madeline replied, her gaze landing on An American Girl in Italy, a famous ’50s-era black-and-white photograph of a young woman walking down an Italian street clogged with men. She frowned a little.

“You know”—Elliott leaned toward Madeline over the small mosaic-tiled table so she’d be heard—“I used to like that photo. I used to think that girl was so sophisticated and cool, catching all the guys’ attention. But now I look at it and she just seems disturbed. Trying to escape all those leering creeps.”

Madeline gazed at the photo, taking a sip of her chai latte. “I watched that old eighties movie Say Anything with my parents the other day? And all I could think was, yeah, it’s romantic if it’s Lloyd Dobler standing outside your window with a boom box, but ninety-nine percent of the time it’s some jerk who can’t take no for an answer and is now officially stalking you.”

Elliott snorted in appreciation.

“Here’s your chocolate cake,” said the waitress, coming up to their table and handing a chipped plate to Elliott. “You two need anything else?”

“Nope, but thanks,” Elliott replied. She waited until the waitress disappeared into the café’s front room.

“So, listen,” Elliott whispered confidentially, hands wrapped around her coffee mug. Her nails were painted deep indigo blue today and she had a silver ring on every finger. “I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of watching all these assholes just waltz away from the damage they’ve done, completely unpunished or unfazed. I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and I think it’s time we take matters into our own hands.”

Madeline’s eyes lit up like someone had set her insides on fire, a wide grin slowly spreading across her face. For the first time, Elliott sensed there might be something a little wicked buried underneath that prissy, type-A surface. She was also highly aware of the dark purple circles under Madeline’s eyes, ...