When we leave, Jerry says to me, “See you next week.”
I nod, but I think maybe not. The truth is, I’d rather eat lunch with Conan.
We’re a few minutes late getting back to class. Emmy writes a note to Mr. Michaels, our choir teacher. It’s embarrassing that we’re all in the same class and have to walk in together.
Someone from the tenor section mutters, “Must be homo group today.”
Mr. Michaels looks up from his roll book, but I can tell he didn’t hear exactly what was said.
Even though it’s only October, we’re already working on Christmas music. Because Kit’s a soprano and I’m an alto, we don’t sit together. She’s in the very front, and I’m on the other side, a few rows back. I can see some of the boys looking at her, smirking, like someone’s said something rude. I bet it was Douglas West. He’s in the tenor section.
I’ve known Douglas since seventh grade and he always wants to be the clown. The trouble is, he hasn’t figured out yet that his smart mouth isn’t really funny. A lot of guys outgrow that stuff, but I bet he’ll still have a junior high school mentality when he’s getting those sixty-year-old senior discounts at the movies. I give him a dirty look. Not that he cares. Here’s what gets me, though.
He sings like some kind of angel. He has a solo part in “Shenandoah.” When he sings, “Oh, Shenandoah, I’m goin’ to leave you / Away, you rollin’ river,” it is so perfect and pure that I’m convinced of his absolute goodness. That only lasts while he’s singing, though.
On Monday there’s a notice in the bulletin about the new Hamilton High GSA group meeting. When Woodsy reads the notice in PC, Eric starts with his sin against God and nature thing again.
Woodsy reminds him for about the zillionth time that he’s entitled to his own beliefs and opinions, but he is not to express anything that puts another person down. I don’t think he gets it.
Our lunch group is changing. It used to be me, Kit, Holly, Nicole, Conan, and Robert—the six of us. We shared food and laughed and we were all together. Then, Frankie joined us and now Nora and Caitlin sit with us, too. Even though we all still sit together now, our conversation is fragmented. Conan and I usually just talk to each other.
“I found another Fluffy for Sabina,” he says, looking down at his double helping of pizza.
“Great. I’ll give you Wilma’s old license for the new Fluffy.”
“That’d be good. I told Sabina Fluffy must have got loose, and without a license, we couldn’t find her.”
“Why didn’t you tell her the truth?”
Conan looks at me like I’ve just said something in a foreign language.
“Well?”
“She ain’t needin’ to hear that mess o’ shit yet.”
Speak of a foreign language. I never hear Conan talk like that. I look at him, surprised. His face has that frozen look again, like it did the other night, when we were stopped by the sheriffs.
“Conan?”
“I hate those honky cops!”
“My mom wants to file a complaint against them.”
“Oh, man. How to make things worse! Then they’ll be stopping me every time I leave my house!!”
“She says it’s a case of racial profiling.”
“No shit.” Conan laughs, but it’s not a happy sound.
I don’t know what to say—he seems so far away from me right now, with his cynical laughter and his frozen face.
I slip my hand into his. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t let me make eye contact, either. He lets out a deep sigh.
“Tell your mom to let it rest. I know she’s coming from a good place, but . . .”
“It’s not fair, though.”
Conan sits gazing at a tree over by the administration building.
At the other end of the table. Robert is talking to Holly. He finally gave up on Kit when she showed up with her close buzz and rainbow stuff. In the middle, Kit, Frankie, and Nora talk about e-mails and chat rooms, gay websites and GSA stuff. They also spend a lot of time talking about where the best gay coffee places are. Caitlin always sits next to Nora, listening. But I still haven’t heard her talk.
Kit is finding the “fit” she’s not found before in high school. Not that she hasn’t always been one of the core players on the volleyball team, or an important singer in choir, but I mean socially. When I think about how things have been in the past, I realize that Kit’s main social life has been with me. That’s sort of been true for me, too, I guess. Except that I’ve had boyfriends, and done some extra stuff. Last year I was in the school play. I may try out again this year.
Anyway. Kit is in the middle of things with these new friends. But I miss the all-together feeling I had when just the six of us ate lunch together.
Conan’s got that far away look. I squeeze his hand, hoping to bring him back from wherever he’s gone in his mind—that place he’s not invited me to be.
He concentrates on stuffing his garbage into a paper bag, then throws it, about fifty feet, into the trash can. Eric and Justin, both over at the jock table, give him thumbs up signs and Conan smiles. Then, finally, he looks at me. I lean into him and rest my head against his shoulder.
“What did your folks tell you about cops when you were a little kid?” he says.
“You know. If I was lost or in trouble, I should go to a policeman. Policemen were my friends. The usual.”
“See that wasn’t the usual in my family. They told me if I was lost, find an older black woman and she’d help me. Stay away from policemen. Stay away from whitey. If for any reason a policeman approached me, be polite, give my name and address, but no more.”
Like in the old war movies, I think, where prisoners gave only name, rank and serial number.
“When I got my driver’s license, my grampa made me go through this whole routine. First he showed me tapes of that guy, Rodney King, being beaten practically to death by L.A. cops. ‘That’s what happens to niggas who never learned what I’m about to teach you,’ he told me. Then he made me practice what I’d do in all kinds of circumstances.”
“What kind of circumstances?”
“You know. Circumstances like when we were stopped the other night . . . My grampa made me sit in the car, at the end of our driveway. He drove up behind me and flashed his lights. ‘I’m a honky cop,’ he yelled. ‘What’re you gonna do?’ I opened the door to get out and he yelled ‘You’re dead! Assaulting an officer with intent to do bodily harm!”’
“That’s sick,” I say.
“He wanted to keep me safe. He made me practice sitting still in the car, with my hands resting open fingered on the steering wheel—not moving until he gave me instructions, and then I was to follow those instructions to the absolute letter.”
“It sounds like that training stuff they did during Vietnam—what to do when captured by the enemy.”
“Absolutely. We practiced for two weeks, every day, before I was allowed to drive on the streets.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”
“Maybe. But I’m still alive. Not like my friend,” he says, once again turning his attention toward the tree.
The warning bell rings. I want to stay right at this table, next to Conan, and hear the rest of his story. I want to know about his friend who’s no longer alive. But he’s already standing and has his backpack slipped over a shoulder.
“Gotta go.”
“Don’t forget to drop by later for the dog license,” I tell him.
“Okay,” he says, but I wonder if he’ll remember. He seems so far away from me right now.
As he walks past the jock table, Justin gets up to join him. I watch them walk away toward the gym. Justin jabs Conan in the arm and nods in the direction of our table. Conan keeps walking. The rest of the guys still sitting there are looking toward our table. Brian is looking directly at Kit. The others are laughing in that mean way people laugh when they’ve been putting someone else down.
“Let’s get to
class,” I say to Kit. We walk off together, with Frankie, Caitlin and Nora following right behind. I hear more harsh laughter and something about fairy tales . . . or is it tails? No one acknowledges they’ve heard anything, but there is no more conversation. My face grows hot, and I look down at the ground in front of me. Why is it I’m blushing, when the jocks are the ones who are being buttholes?
CHAPTER
13
When Conan stops by in the late afternoon, he has Sabina with him. They stand on the porch, Sabina clutching the new Fluffy to her chest and standing as close to Conan as she can get.
“This is my friend, Lynn,” Conan says, lifting Sabina up so she and I are eye level.
“Hi, Sabina.”
She hides her face in Conan’s jacket.
“Shy,” Conan says with a bright, gentle smile. I’m so relieved to see Conan relaxed and smiling, I give him a big kiss on the cheek. Sabina shoots me such a look!
“Shy, and jealous, too, I guess.”
She wraps her little four-year-old arms around his tree-stump thick neck.
“My Conan,” she says.
“We have to share,” I tell her. Then I run back into the house to get Wilma’s old dog license. Wilma follows me back outside. As soon as Sabina sees Wilma, she wants to get down and play. I show her how to throw the frisbee and she and Wilma are instant friends. Conan puts the license on Fluffy’s collar and pretends Fluffy is jumping for the frisbee. This causes Wilma to race around the yard in wide circles, barking at the toy dog from a safe distance. We laugh until we are out of breath—Sabina, too. She leaves Conan’s side and comes to sit next to me on the lawn. She runs her hand lightly across the back of my own hand.
“My mommy has fingernails, too,” she says. “And my Aunt Brenda, too.”
“My mommy has fingernails, too,” I say, wondering if we’re playing that Sesame Street game about what’s the same and what’s different.
Conan and I watch Sabina and Wilma play while we talk about the football game coming up. Until now they’ve been playing practice games, but this one counts. There’s also talk of some college recruiters being there to watch two of Hamilton’s major players. Conan is one of them. Brian Marsters is the other.
“I guess it would be good if I could get a scholarship,” Conan says. “But I don’t want college to be only about football for me. I don’t know if I can play serious football and keep up with classes at the same time.”
“What if you don’t get a football scholarship? Or what if you don’t take a football scholarship?”
“Other than that my dad would disown me? I’m not sure. I might go to community college.”
Selfishly, I hope he does end up at community college, because that’s probably where I’ll be studying nursing. I don’t even want to think about Conan leaving town.
It is nearly dark when Conan and Sabina leave. He gives me a quick kiss, and a smile, and I don’t feel so insecure with him anymore. Sabina also gives me a kiss.
“My mommie has a soft cheek, too,” she says.
“Mine, too,” I tell her.
She waves to me until they turn the corner, and I go back to my room for a long session of homework.
Late at night, just as I’m getting ready for bed, Kit knocks at
my window. I open it and let her in.
“I can’t go home until I straighten up—which is exactly what she means—straighten!”
“Does this mean you’ve started talking again?”
“Screaming’s more like it—at least with my mom. Get rid of the rainbow necklace and bracelets. Let my hair grow. Dress right. Get rid of these . . .”
Kit turns to face me and I see that she now has a row of five silver studs embedded in the curve of her left ear.
“Quit staring.” she says.
“Sorry. It’s just . . . doesn’t it hurt?”
“Not as much as pretending to be straight.”
I can tell she’s upset by the way she breathes. It’s her trick to keep from crying, or losing her temper—very deep, regular breaths.
A long time ago, back when her dad was still drinking, she told me that when he and her mom would get into screaming fits, she concentrated on breathing. It didn’t change things, but it made them less noticeable.
She stands there, still by the window, holding her backpack and a little suitcase.
“So can I stay or not? I can go to Star’s if you don’t want me to stay.”
“No. I mean, yes, stay. Don’t go to Star’s.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
“How about Always?”
“She won’t care,” I say, though I’m not certain how she’ll feel once she gets a look at the new Kit. She hasn’t even seen the haircut yet.
Kit flops down on the bed, pulling a pillow over her head. I sit down next to her. She moves the pillow and looks up at me, her eyes glistening with tears.
“Mom says I’m ruining their lives.”
“What does your dad say?”
“Nothing. At least not to me. As far as I can tell, he’s staying away from home.”
Kit pulls the pillow back up over her head. By the time I’ve brushed, flossed, and put on my pajamas, Kit is sound asleep. I lie in the dark for a while, thinking how quickly families can change. Only a few weeks ago I was thinking how perfect things were at Kit’s house.
As soon as I hear Mom’s alarm go off, I get up and go into her room. She’s still in bed. I want to prepare her for the new Kit, before they meet in the kitchen and Mom goes into cardiac arrest.
“Mom?”
She half opens her eyes.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
She nods, patting the edge of her bed and motioning for me to sit down.
“Kit spent the night last night.”
“That’s fine,” she says, sounding groggy.
“Her mom kicked her out.”
She leans up on her elbow, her eyes fully open.
“Why?”
“She’s mad at her.”
“I could have guessed that, if she kicked her out. Why is Jessie so angry? It doesn’t sound like something she’d do.”
I wish I’d planned what I was going to say. It seems too complicated now that I’ve started the conversation.
“Lynn? Why is Jessie mad at Kit? Is Kit in some kind of trouble?”
“Not exactly.”
“Is she pregnant?”
“No way.”
“Well, then?”
Mom nudges me over and gets out of bed. She’s wearing a giant T-shirt that she’s had forever. It says, “A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.” I don’t exactly get it, but
I think it has something to do with my mom deciding single was better than married.
“I’ve got to get going, Lynn. Can you come to the point?”
Mom gets her underwear and pantyhose from the dresser, then turns back to me.
“Why did Kit get kicked out?”
“Well . . . I guess her parents don’t like the way she looks.”
“Oh, come on! They’ve been looking at her all her life, and suddenly they don’t like the way she looks? Could I get a little more of the story here?”
Mom reaches into her closet for one of her many “business” suits and hangs it on the door. I know she’s in a hurry, but it’s hard for me to figure out what to tell her. I mean, I’m not just going to blurt out that Kit’s a lesbian.
“Kit got her hair cut real short, and . . . some other stuff.”
“What other stuff?”
“Just don’t be shocked when you see her. That’s all. And can she stay here again tonight?”
“Yes. But she’s got to let David and Jessie know where she is.”
“Why? They don’t care or they wouldn’t have kicked her out.”
“I don’t know exactly what’s going on here, but I’m pretty sure they care.” Mom glances at the clock. “We’ll talk more this evening. Right now I’ve
got to hurry or I’ll be late.”
Kit and I are in the kitchen, drinking orange juice, when Mom comes in for a quick cup of coffee. In spite of my earlier warning, when Mom sees Kit she lets out a piercing scream.
“Your hair! Your beautiful hair!”
Then she takes in the rest, the piercings, the rainbow necklace.
“Oh, Kit,” she says.
Mom pours a cup of coffee and stands sipping it, looking from Kit to me and back again. Then she rinses her cup, puts it in the dishwasher, and grabs her keys from the holder near the door.
“Well . . . I’ll see you both this evening. I’ll bring home chicken pot pies. Okay?”
In PC Conan hands me a big fat note, all folded up, and asks me to read it later. My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach. Okay, so I’m going to be a nurse and I know that doesn’t really happen, but I swear I feel my heart sink. He’s going to break up with me. I know it. I haven’t even told him how much I love him yet, and he’s breaking up with me.
“Can’t I just read it now, and get it over with?” I ask, barely able to hold back tears.
“No. Read it when I’m not around.”
I face forward. The note sits folded on my desk, “Lynnie” printed across the top fold. Woodsy is saying something to the class, but all I hear is a buzzing in my head—breaking up, breaking up, breaking up. Then Conan taps me on the shoulder. I can’t look.
He leans forward and whispers, “What do you mean, ‘get it over with’?”
I shake my head. What’s to talk about?
“Lynnie—you said you wanted to read it and get it over with. Get what over with?”
I turn to look at him and I guess my face shows a lot.
“Oh, Lynnie. It’s not that!”
It’s like a dam bursts and rivers of tears rush down my cheeks. I grab the note and run out into the hall, so relieved, embarrassed, overcome with tears, that I can’t possibly sit in a classroom. I’m leaning against the wall, trying to get control, when Conan comes out of the room. He puts his arms around me and holds me tight.
Love Rules Page 11
