Love Rules

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “It’s just that, what’s in the note . . . I don’t like to talk about it . . . sometimes I cry, and you know, it’s okay for you to cry,” he says, wiping my tears with the back of his hand, “but for a guy? I don’t want you to see me cry. That’s all,” he says.

  “Let’s take a break,” Conan says.

  We go around to the double doors closest to the gym, where Larry, one of the campus supervisors, stands guard. He’s leaning against a table when we come through the doors.

  “Conan, my man,” he says, all smiles, shaking Conan’s hand

  and clapping him on the shoulder at the same time.

  “We gonna beat Wilson Friday night?”

  “Count on it,” Conan says.

  They do a high five and laugh.

  “We gonna take CIF this year?”

  “Count on it,” Conan repeats.

  “My man! I’m bankin’ on you to deliver!”

  “Count on it!”

  They high five again, laughing.

  “Hey, Larry. Me’n Lynn gotta get something from my house. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  Larry’s smile fades.

  “Oh, Conan, you know the rules, man.”

  “Yeah, but this is important. I’m not leavin’ to make trouble. You know that.”

  Larry nods. He looks around, then, seeing no one else, waves us on.

  “Be quick,” he says.

  I can’t believe how Conan managed to get us through the gates of our tightly closed campus. I guess football players have a lot more power than volleyball players.

  We go to Starbucks and sit at a back table.

  “Read it,” Conan says, nodding at the note I still have clutched in my hand.

  I unfold the note and start reading, while Conan goes to get lattes for us.

  Dear Lynnie, I’m writing this because it’s so hard for me to talk about what happened, but I want you to know. I don’t want us ever to hide anything from each other. Getting stopped by the cops the other night, and having them rip apart the stuffed dog my sister loved so much, made me think about some things I’ve been trying to forget. Things I’ve not had to think about too much since we moved to Hamilton Heights. Where I lived before was in what’s considered a bad part of L.A. Drive-by shootings, drugs, gang stuff, poverty, you know. I pretty much stayed out of trouble—it helps to be big. I went to a magnet school in another part of town, played football, avoided that gang shit. My best friend Mark, from when I was five, did the same. My grampa met us at the bus every day, walked us home, made sure we did our homework. Mark’s mom worked until late, so he usually had dinner with us. When I went to a magnet school, Mark did too. When he signed up for football, I did too. That’s how it was. No drugs, no alcohol, no gangs, just clean-cut American boys, living a clean-cut American life.

  Conan brings my drink to me. I watch as he gets a newspaper from the basket by the door, then takes it and his cup to another table, where he starts reading. I, too, go back to my reading.

  Mark’s dad was almost never around, but now and then he’d show up and try to make up for lost time, be the big man—he’d bring video games, or take Mark to a Lakers game or a Rams game. They usually invited me to go, too, but my grampa always said no. When I appealed to my mom and dad, they said no, too. When I asked why it was “because I said so, that’s why.” So one day Mark’s dad showed up in this black Lincoln Continental, straight off the showroom it looked like. And he tossed Mark the keys. Told him to be back by midnight. Mark came straight to my house. It was one of those rare times when no one was home to tell me no. I climbed into the passenger side and we took off. We drove to the beach, and up in the Hollywood Hills, then around the observatory. It was like riding on air. Mark wasn’t a reckless driver. We didn’t speed, we just took it easy and drove all over, feeling good. We were on our way back to my place about eleven or so, allowing plenty of time for Mark to get the car back. Cops pulled us over on a side street off Vermont—a dark, industrial area. As soon as the red lights hit, I put my hands on the dashboard, fingers spread apart. We didn’t do nothin’! What kinda shit is this? Mark said. I told him to calm down, put his hands on the steering wheel, but he opened the door and got out.

  This is my dad’s car! he yelled. I’ve got a license! I saw him reach into his jacket pocket, to show I.D. Don’t! I hollered—but my voice was lost in gunfire. I saw him fall and I knew he’d never be up again. I sat there, frozen, my hands still on the dash, my fingers still wide open, like my grampa taught me. They handcuffed me. Made me sit on the curb, like the other night. Only that night I watched the cops take their time calling an ambulance. I watched them step over Mark’s body like it was nothing more than a dog turd in the street. I watched the ambulance attendants look for a pulse, then pull a blanket over him. It took hours for the coroner to arrive, before Mark could be moved. It turned out the car’d been stolen. They said the cop thought Mark was reaching for a gun when he reached into his jacket. All I know is Mark’s dead, and he didn’t deserve it. That’s what I couldn’t tell you. No one else here knows, and I don’t want them to. But it’s different with you.

  I fold the note back up and sit looking across the room at Conan’s broad back. I am so sad, for him, and for Mark, and even for the policeman who made the mistake. I wonder why life has to be so hard. Conan turns and looks at me. I walk over to him. He gets up and takes my hand and we walk back to his car.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  We get in the Hyundai. Conan sinks heavily into the driver’s seat.

  “The last thing Mark ever said to me was ‘what’s this shit?’ I keep wondering the same thing.”

  Tears well in his dark eyes. He looks away.

  “You can cry with me,” I tell him.

  “I don’t want to” he says, and then he’s sobbing. We hold one another, in the Hyundai, in the Starbucks parking lot, both of us crying—Conan for his friend, and me for Conan and the whole sadness of the world.

  When our tears subside, I tell Conan I can’t go back to school. My eyes are so puffy they look like slits. I’m all shaky. We go to my house, where we finish off the leftover Chinese food. Conan is still hungry, so I introduce him to Clucker’s Chicken Pot Pies. That’s a hit.

  When he’s finally licked the tin clean, we stretch out on the floor next to the stereo and listen to whatever disks my mom left in the player. It starts with Otis Redding, “Sittin’ on the Dock o’ the Bay.”

  Conan starts laughing. “My folks always have this on, too. They’re big Otis Redding fans.”

  “You know what you told me? About your grampa?”

  “You mean how he made me practice what I’d do before I could drive?”

  “Yeah. And what he said about whitey and all that?”

  “Ummmm,” Conan says, scooting a little closer to me.

  “Does he hate white people?”

  Conan doesn’t answer immediately. Which makes me think his grampa probably does hate white people.

  “I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” he says. “It’s just . . . my grampa’s got a history. He was in the Black Panthers back in the sixties, so he was kind of a radical.”

  “Maybe he won’t like me,” I say.

  “But maybe he will. I like you,” he says, nuzzling his head up against my neck. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Conan. I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

  We kiss, long and deep, and one thing leads to another. We do a lot to get close, skin to skin, kisses, caresses. We don’t have sex, like the whole intercourse thing, partly because we don’t have any protection, and partly because I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Conan says he can wait. Besides, he knows lots of other ways to help us feel good.

  After we’ve both . . . you know . . .been satisfied . . . we lie next to one another, our clothes all unbuttoned and half off, breathing together as if we share some deep, internal rhythm. Right now, I feel closer to Conan than I ever have anyone else in the world. Right now, life doesn�
�t seem quite so sad.

  In the evening, while Kit and I are cleaning up the dishes, her dad knocks on our back door.

  “David,” Mom says, sounding surprised. “Come in.”

  Kit stops drying the pitcher and stands listening intently.

  “Is Katherine here?”

  “She and Lynn are in the kitchen, cleaning up.”

  Kit sets the dishtowel and the half-dried pitcher on the counter and stands facing the doorway. David walks in, then stops. His worry lines have deepened.

  I return to my dishwashing task. The only sound is of muffled news from the TV. David takes a step toward Kit.

  “Katherine,” he says, in a soft, strained voice.

  For a moment she’s frozen. Then she steps forward into her dad’s waiting arms. Mom gestures me toward the family room.

  “Leave them alone, so they can talk,” she says.

  I go to my room and start my homework. Halfway through English, Kit comes in and starts packing her stuff up.

  “He wants me to come home,” she says.

  “What about your mom?”

  “He says we have to all work it out together.”

  “But . . . does he know?”

  “He knows certain styles.”

  “But . . .”

  “He asked if I thought I was a lesbian. I told him I didn’t think, I knew.”

  “And he’s cool?”

  “He’s sad. He says life will be harder for me. But he said . . .” She struggled, trying not to lose control—that steady breathing thing again.

  “ . . . he said he loved me to the depths of his soul . . . and nothing, no matter what, would ever change that.”

  She cried then. I did too. We cried from relief that she could be herself with her father, and that they would work things out as a family. But I was also crying for what I’ve never known—a father who loved me to the depths of his soul.

  CHAPTER

  14

  Okay. I’m back. We left off weeks ago, the end of October, and now it’s almost Thanksgiving. First quarter is over. I got an A in physiology, PE, peer communications and Bs in the rest. Miss Banks gave me an A for originality of thought on my Color Purple paper, but only a C on organization—“RAMBLING AND DISJOINTED,” she’d scrawled across the top in her bright green, fine-tipped marker. So, there went my A in English.

  When I reread the paper, I could see what Banks meant, though. I don’t care. I’m glad I followed my “originality of thought” ideas, rather than choosing an easier theme.

  I could easily have written about racism, or sexism. But I decided to write about how when love followed the rules of the day, with men being dictators in marriages and families, every­thing turned sour. But when it went beyond the rules, like with Celie and Shug, and others, love blossomed. Okay, so I’m still rambling. But I’ve been wondering lately about all the rules that are attached to love—wondering if we need them. Anyway, I still have a chance for an A in English on my semester grade. We’ll see.

  I’m kind of sorry to be finished with The Color Purple. Those two characters, Celie and Shug, made a big impression on me. I’ll miss them.

  I’ve added a medical careers course to my schedule. It meets on Saturdays, which isn’t all that great, but if I do well in it, along with physiology, I’m almost certain of getting into the RN program at the HHCC.

  Things with Conan? Cool! I can’t believe how I jumped to the conclusion that he wanted to break up with me. That’s so not Conan.

  Speaking of Conan, though, we’ve won our last two football games against teams that decimated us last year. Everyone says Conan and Brian make the team. The Hamilton Heights Daily News is playing up the barbarian thing—THE BUCK STOPS AT THE BARBARIAN! BARBARIAN BATTERS BRU­INS! Conan claims he hates that stuff, that it’s a team thing and no one person is any good without the others. I think he likes the attention, though. And his dad is all happy because it looks as if Conan will be getting at least three or four offers for football scholarships.

  Anyway, Conan’s a hero. Everyone at the whole school knows him. Of course, he’s hard to miss because he is literally the biggest man on campus. As much of a hero as he is at school, he’s the biggest hero of all to Sabina. Finally, after lots of visits to our house, and frisbee throws with Wilma, she tolerates seeing me kiss her brother. She and I have become great friends, but she’d still prefer to be the only love in Conan’s life.

  At school, some of Conan’s fame slops over to me. The “in” kids go out of their way to say hello to me now. I was invisible to them before Conan. Not that I cared. That group always seemed kind of phony to me. The first time I heard Tammy Spears, the Barbie-style cheerleader that half the guys on this campus are ga-ga over, yell “Hi, Lynn,” in her sweet, chipper voice, I looked all around to see where the other Lynn was. I’m used to it now, though. I smile and wave and say hi back, knowing I would become invisible again if Conan and I were no longer a couple. Never happen.

  What else is new? Remember how I thought Eric must have had a big change over the summer? I was right. He had some kind of religious experience. We don’t talk much anymore, but one day he asked me if I knew Christ.

  “I know of him,” I’d said.

  “But does he live in your heart?”

  “Not that I know of,” I told him.

  He launched into a mini-sermon about finding the way, and being saved, and I don’t know what else. He’s president of the Christ First club now. Tiffany’s in it, too. They wear necklaces with little gold crosses. Everyone in Christ First wears them.

  Enough about that. Where was I? Oh, yeah—our winning football team. That’s not Hamilton High’s only winning team. Our volleyball team’s won every league game so far. Even so, the Daily News doesn’t bother to report girls’ volleyball events. The Hamilton High Times does, but that’s because Nicole’s the editor. I don’t care. I’m in it for the game, not the glory. Good thing!

  Kit seems pretty happy. We’ve been through some changes these past months, but we’re both pretty happy. Kit spends a lot of time with Star, and I spend a lot of time with Conan. Our Friday nights aren’t the same. I go to the football games, so I can cheer wildly for Conan. Then there’s always a party somewhere, after a game.

  Kit and Star go to a gay coffee bar in Pasadena. It’s become kind of a Friday night thing for them, and also for others in the GSA group.

  At first I didn’t like Star. But I’m over that now. She includes me in her “stupid jokes” weekly e-mail messages, like “What did the fish say when it swam into the wall? Dam!” And “What do

  you get from a pampered cow? Spoiled milk.”

  Besides the laughs, I respect how Star hasn’t let life get her down. When her mother found out Star was a ten percenter, she threw all of Star’s clothes out on the front lawn. Star was only fifteen, but her mother told her to think of herself as an orphan from that time forward. Guy Reyes helped her find a place to stay at a church sponsored shelter. Then a PFLAG woman took her in. Star works full-time at an electronics store, installing car stereos. She’s nineteen and she’s just this June going to graduate, but she’s done it all on her own.

  Star told me about the PFLAG woman—her adopted mother, is how she refers to her. The rest I learned from Kit. We still usually sit out under her tree when we get home from school. And we still call each other at the same time. And I still go to GSA meetings with Kit, because we’re spirit sisters. For life.

  Last Saturday night Kit stayed over at my house, like old times. We ate pizza and watched “My Life as a Dog.” It was one of those movies we’d never have rented, except it had “dog” in the title. It turned out to be a perfect choice—really funny and really sad in the way good movies can be. It also had some “gender identity” stuff in it. (See how I can throw that term around now?)

  One of the main characters was a girl who pretended to be a boy. She was a real roughneck on the soccer field, and at boxing—probably Dawn was like that when she was younger.
Anyway, get this, when the girl in the movie started getting boobs, she bound her chest with tight ace bandages so no one would know, and she kept playing soccer on the boys’ team.

  It seems like everywhere I look now, movies, TV, life, I see examples of people who are not exactly of the straight and narrow 100 percent heterosexual persuasion. I wonder why I never noticed before?

  After the movie we crawled into bed, each on our own side, with plenty of space between us. We turned off the lights. It’s easier to talk in the dark.

  Kit told me what a hard time her mom is having with her “new look.” Kit hasn’t even used the “L” word with her mom. Neither of her parents know about Star.

  “It’s strange,” Kit said. “Star’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. Sometimes, it’s like I’m exploding with happiness. The sad thing is, I can’t begin to share that with my parents.”

  “Not even your dad?”

  “My dad accepts the idea of me being a lesbian, but I think it’d send him over the edge if he thought I was acting like a lesbian.”

  The conversation drifted to S-E-X.

  “I can’t explain how I feel with Conan. I don’t even know the words . . .”

  Psychologist Kit went to work.

  “Try excite,” Kit said.

  “Ummm. Yeah.”

  “Try arouse.”

  “Ummm.”

  “Try you love your hands and your mouth all over him. Try you love his hands and his mouth all over you.”

  “KIT!”

  “Try, WATCH OUT, THERE’S A FIRE DOWN BELOW!” “STOP!” I said, laughing.

  “BLAST OFF!”

  “STOP NOW!” I begged, laughing even harder, Kit joining in.

  We caught our breath.

  “You better be using protection.”

  “We’re not doing it the make babies way,” I told her.

  “Oh, so you’re doing it our way?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?” I said, not sure I wanted my sex life with Conan to be compared to lesbian sex. Whatever that is.