Love Rules

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “They won’t get away with this, Sweetheart. They definitely shouldn’t be playing in the game tonight.”

  “Now, David. We’ve been through that already. Pulling those boys from the game could only make things worse . . .”

  David turns to Jessie, as if to say something to her, then changes his mind.

  “Let’s take a look at your witness statements,” he says.

  I get mine from my backpack and Kit takes hers, all folded up, from her jeans pocket. David spreads them out on the table and starts reading out loud. Suddenly, I notice the time.

  “Excuse me,” I whisper to Mom. “Conan’ll be here in about five minutes.”

  I rush into my room and do a quick change of clothes, a gold fleece top with blue jeans, my answer to the blue and gold dress expectations. Brush my teeth, brush my hair, deodorant, breath freshener. I’m set. When David sees me in school colors he looks incredulous.

  “You’re going to the game? After today?”

  “I go to all the games now. To watch Conan.”

  “The Barbarian?”

  “Not exactly,” I say. I guess David’s been reading too much of the Daily News sports page lately.

  I honestly don’t want to go to the game, but at least I’ll be with Conan after the game. And more than not wanting to go to the game tonight, I don’t want to stay home, caught in reliving everything at our kitchen table.

  Conan knocks at the back door, on time as usual. Usually he comes in to say hello to Mom, and to pet Wilma, but tonight I say my good-byes as I open the door and lead Conan back to his car. Maybe David would be nice, but maybe he thinks Conan is like the other jocks. And who knows how Jessie would act? There’s too much heavy drama in our kitchen right now.

  Just out the driveway and onto the street, Conan reaches his warm hand to the back of my neck. He runs his fingers gently through my hair. I take his hand and kiss it. He pulls my head over against his shoulder.

  “I heard,” he says.

  “I suppose everyone’s heard by now.”

  “Yep. How’s Kit?”

  “She totally freaked out,” I say. “But she’s better now. Her dad says he’s not going to let those guys get away with it.”

  “Her dad the sheriff?”

  “Yeah. David.”

  “What’s he gonna do?’

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry they did that,” Conan says. “It makes the whole team look bad.”

  “Not to mention how it made Kit feel,” I say.

  “That, too.”

  We ride the rest of the way to school in silence.

  CHAPTER

  17

  Conan has to be at the gym hours before the game, so I always hang with Nicole and Holly. They get here early too, because they ride with Robert. I’m not sure, but I think Robert and Holly are kind of together now. I guess he’s over the heartbreak of Kit.

  We usually get corn dogs and sodas and then stand in the parking lot watching Frankie put the band through various drills, practicing for half-time.

  Band and choir kids respect Frankie’s talent. When choir goes to festivals, we don’t just stand and sing. We move. And we look good. And it’s Frankie that comes up with the moves, and teaches them to us. Same thing with band. Some of the half-time stuff they do looks as good as college. Too bad they sound so awful. They’d be marching in the Rose Parade this year if they could only play the music.

  Anyway, tonight I don’t want to be hanging around out there, maybe having to answer a bunch of questions about what went on today. Some people live on that kind of drama, but I don’t like it. I’ve brought my book and a flashlight. Because she knows

  how much I loved The Color Purple, Emmy gave me The Way Forward Is with a Broken Heart, which is by the same author.

  I read until I hear the band start “The Star Spangled Banner,” then go to the bleachers. Mr. Maxwell is standing on the sidelines, hand over his heart, singing out. Nicole and Holly wave to me from the cheering section and I make my way up to them.

  I try to tell myself it’s my imagination, but it seems like everyone is looking at me. I slide in next to Holly.

  “Where were you?” she asks.

  “I was reading.”

  “Reading?”

  “Yeah, you know, deciphering those small black marks on pages of paper . . . You should try it sometime.”

  “Very funny,” she says.

  Drum rolls call our attention to the kickoff.

  Robert receives the ball and carries it for fifteen yards. Long enough for me to be deafened by Holly screaming, “BOBBY! BOBBY! BOBBY!” Even after everyone else sits down, Holly is still standing and screaming.

  So I guess I was right. They’re a couple.

  “Enough,” I say, tugging at her jeans pocket.

  She looks around, embarrassed, and sits down.

  While the players are getting their act together on the field, Holly tells me she heard what happened at Kit’s locker today. Nicole leans in to hear what I have to say.

  “It was gross.”

  “I heard there was some kind of . . . thing,” Nicole whispers.

  I nod.

  “Was it a joke?”

  “Would you think it was a joke if you’d found a plastic penis on your locker?”

  We turn back to the game in time to see a red and white jersey zipping out in front of everyone, weaving his way to a touch­down. The other side, Rancho Verde, goes nuts.

  This time, Brian receives the ball and Conan runs interfer­ence, stepping out of flying tackles as if they’re nothing, keeping the way open for Brian. He is finally stopped by two tackles hitting him at once, but Brian is already free, into the end zone. Now it’s our side’s turn to go crazy. The cheerleaders run out, Tammy smack in the middle, and lead the “BRIAN, BRIAN HE’S OUR MAN!” chant.

  In my mind I see Brian’s crude gestures, hear the chant he led earlier today, “Something for Kitty’s pussy!” I’m angry all over again! Butthole Brian’s being treated like a hero, and Kit and I are suspended? The whole thing sucks. Nicole and Holly are on their feet, yelling for Brian. Whose side are they on anyway?

  Now comes the “Barbarian” chant. It starts low and slow, then ends in a roar.

  “baaarRRRRR BARIAN!!”

  Even though I’m not wild about the whole barbarian thing, I yell it out anyway, because it’s for Conan.

  Another play. Another cheer for Brian, who just gained six yards. The team is filled with the enthusiasm of winners. That’s how they’ve been since their second practice game win. But tonight they’re over the top. High fives all around. Thumbs ups. Laughter. Back slaps and butt pats. I get a quick image of Kit, collapsed in quaking sobs on our kitchen floor just hours ago. But Brian and Justin and the rest of them, the perpetrators, in Woodsy’s words, are so energized you could hook them up to a generator and light all of Hamilton Heights tonight.

  Conan’s family is sitting off to the side, down close to the front, with the families of some of the other black players.

  I haven’t met Conan’s parents or his grampa, yet. I just know it’s them because I’ve seen a picture in Conan’s wallet. Also they’re passing Sabina back and forth between them, holding her high so she can see the field. Sabina waves Fluffy over her head whenever Conan’s name or number is mentioned.

  At half-time I walk down to see Sabina. As soon as she sees me, Sabina jumps from her mother’s lap and comes running to me, arms out. I pick her up, happy to see her.

  “Fluffy seems to be enjoying the game,” I say, rubbing my face against the stuffed dog.

  “She cheers for Conan.”

  “Ummm. You too. I could hear you from way . . .”

  “Sabina. Come here, Baby,” her mother says, suddenly stand­ing in front of me, reaching for Sabina.

  “Oh, hi,” I say, smiling. I shift Sabina to my left side and extend my right hand to Mrs. Parker. “I’m Lynn.”

  “Hello,” she says, looking at me blank
ly, not taking my hand.

  She moves closer to Sabina and takes her from me.

  “I’m Conan’s . . .”

  Mrs. Parker’s look stops me. Conan’s what? What was I going to say. Girlfriend? Friend?

  “Lynn has fingernails, Mama. And she has a soft cheek,” Sabina tells her mother.

  “That’s nice, Baby,” Mrs. Parker says, turning away and walking back to her seat.

  “Don’t forget Fluffy,” I say, following after them. I hand Fluffy to Sabina.

  “Hi,” I say, as the dad glances toward me. He gives me a silent lift of the chin, then looks away.

  “Thank the nice girl for bringing Fluffy to you.”

  “Thank you,” Sabina says.

  I turn to go back up to my seat, wondering what’s with Conan’s family. It’s like they don’t know I exist! Or worse, they know I exist and they don’t like it. I’m mulling it all over, trudging back to Nicole and Holly, when someone calls my name and grabs my arm at the same time.

  “Mr. Maxwell wants to see you.”

  It’s Larry, the campus security guy who hero worships Conan.

  “Let go!” I say, shaking my arm loose.

  He grabs my arm again, then lets go when he recognizes me.

  “I’m supposed to walk you down to see Mr. Maxwell,” he says, his voice friendly now.

  “I don’t want to see him.”

  “No, come on. You have to. Don’t make things difficult.”

  On the sidelines, Coach Ruggles and the old coach, Coach Howard, are conferring. Even though Howard’s retired now, he still comes to every football game—half the practices, too, from what I hear. Standing next to them, but looking up at me, scowling, is Manly Max. He gestures for me to get down there. Conan’s parents and grandfather, who wouldn’t look at me when I tried to talk to them, now can’t take their eyes off me. How embarrassing. I drag along behind Larry, wanting to be invisible.

  As soon as I step off the lowest bleacher, Mr. Maxwell is in my face. “You are not to be present at any school functions until Tuesday, Miss Wright.”

  “Why? I’m not officially suspended,” I remind him.

  “Suspended, nonetheless.”

  “But. . .”

  “Leave. Now.”

  “What did I do? I didn’t do anything wrong!”

  “You’ve defied my authority by coming onto school grounds when you’re SUSPENDED! GET OFF THIS CAMPUS IMME­DIATELY!”

  I run down the sidelines, out the gate, and into the parking lot. I’m vaguely aware of the noise in the bleachers, everyone cheering the teams as they come onto the field for the second half.

  Conan’s car is parked in the back, close to the gym. By the time I get there I’m way out of breath. I fumble around for Conan’s key, then open the passenger side door. As I’m getting into the car, Larry comes running up. He stands, gasping, blocking the door with his body so I can’t possibly pull it closed.

  When he finally catches his breath he tells me, “Mr. Maxwell wants me to make sure you leave campus.”

  “I’m not going back in there. Don’t worry.”

  “But you’re still on campus. You’ve got to get off campus.”

  What’s with these people? It’s like I’m public enemy number one.

  “It’s my job,” Larry says. “I don’t even know what this is all about. I’ve got to see you off campus right now, though.”

  He holds the door open, waiting. I wait. He waits. Finally I get out of the car, slam the door shut, and walk to the back gate.

  “Don’t even think about coming back,” he calls after me.

  I’ve already thought about it. I walk out the gate and down the street. What I know about Larry is he’s not going to miss any more of the game than he has to. He’s probably already back there, talking jock talk with Manly Maxwell. I round the corner and check things out. Larry’s nowhere to be seen. I go back to Conan’s car. This time I get into the back seat. I open the window, just a crack, and sit slumped down, out of sight. I hold my book low and read by the dim flashlight glow. The muffled sounds from the game—announcer, cheers, drums—rumble through me, like thunder from a distant storm.

  I turn off the flashlight and close the book, allowing myself to think the thoughts I keep pushing aside. I relive the day, trying to make sense of all that’s happened. What do those guys get from being so cruel? Why are we being punished? What’s the deal with Conan’s family? What did Kit’s dad mean when he said this thing isn’t over yet?

  The crowd is louder now—lots of Barbarian cheers. Lots of Brian cheers. Trumpets blast into the CHARGE! yell, and suddenly, I understand. Our suspension has nothing to do with us. It has to do with football. No way was Manly going to suspend the players and risk tonight’s game. Justice is definitely not as important as football. I’ll bet if the cholos or the skaters had been involved, they’d all be suspended and Mr. Maxwell would have been a lot nicer to me and Kit.

  A louder than usual cheer erupts, signifying another victory for the Hamilton High team, another step toward the champion­ship. The band starts up on the one piece they do well, the alma mater. I sing along softly, remembering the times we’ve sung it in choir, at the end of our concerts, when Hamilton High alumni all crowd onto the stage and sing with us. Maybe it sounds phony, but there’ve been times when we sang the alma mater and my heart filled with pride.

  As the song ends, “we’ll remember you all our lives, dear Hamilton High,” and the roar of triumph again fills the air, I rest my head on the back of the driver’s seat. I’ve loved this school. I really have. But now—it sucks.

  The tears I’ve been holding back all day come in a rush.

  CHAPTER

  18

  “Hey. Lynnie.”

  Conan shakes me gently. I open my eyes to see him leaning into the car on the passenger side. He smells of soap. There is a band-aid over his left eyebrow and his eye is swollen, but he’s wearing a very happy smile.

  “Sorry it took me so long. Were you sleeping?”

  “I guess,” I say, rubbing my eyes as I get out of the car and slide into the front seat.

  Larry comes rushing up to Conan.

  “Hey! My man! You kicked butt!”

  High five. Ten step handshake. Laughing. Larry glances at me, pauses for a nanosecond, high fives again.

  “Really, man. They was watchin’ you.”

  Conan laughs. “Yeah. Stanford and Ohio State.”

  “Keep it up! You got it made!”

  Larry glances at me again.

  “Hey. Gotta go. Great game,” he says.

  The parking lot is nearly empty now—just the coaches and a few players are left. Well, and security. I’m glad Larry decided to ignore me. Maybe when Conan’s around I don’t seem like such a danger to the campus.

  Conan gets in the car, leans over, and gives me a big, long kiss. “Love you,” he says.

  “Love you, too,” I say—a sense of well-being creeping back into my discouraged soul.

  “Big recruiters here tonight,” he says, beaming. “My intercep­tion and touchdown run—they liked it. And clearing the way for Brian’s two touchdowns—they liked that, too. Two major recruiters out watching me and Brian. My dad’s jazzed.”

  “Sounds like you’re jazzed, too,” I say, smiling.

  “I am! Aren’t you? Aren’t you jazzed for me?”

  “I love you so much. If you’re jazzed, I want to be jazzed.”

  Conan’s beaming smile fades.

  “But?”

  “But. . . I don’t want you to move far away. And I thought, you know, you might not want to be totally involved in football. Like you want a real education. Remember?”

  “Yeah. I know what I said. But I’m good at football. Really good. Better than anything else I know of. And these recruiters . . . this is the top! You saw me, you know how good I am.”

  “I didn’t actually see you out there tonight. At least not the second half.”

  “You didn’t see the in
terception and touchdown?”

  I shake my head.

  “Why not?”

  I catch him up on the continuing saga of my life as an enemy of Hamilton High, including being escorted from the bleachers and off school property.

  “That sucks. How can you be suspended when you didn’t do anything wrong?”

  “It’s like—there was this thing that happened, and someone had to be suspended, and it couldn’t be football players because of this big deal game. That’s what I think.”

  Conan shakes his head, frowning.

  “Well. . . at least you got to see the first half of the game,” he says, as if that’s the main thing.

  He starts the engine.

  “Victory party at Robert’s,” he says.

  “I suppose Brian and Justin and Anthony will be there.”

  “Well, yeah. It’s a VICTORY celebration. The whole team’ll be there.”

  “I can’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  “After what those guys did to Kit today? You think I’d go hang out with them, like nothing happened?”

  “Come on. There’ll be so many people there you probably won’t even see those guys. Holly’ll be there, and probably Nicole. All of our friends will be there.”

  “Sure. Kit, and Star, and Frankie. How about Nora and Caitlin?”

  Conan sighs. “I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry. But this was probably the best game of my whole life. I want to celebrate it with the team.”

  I’m remembering the ugly plastic penis, the ugly words, the crude gestures . . .

  “This party’s important to me, Lynn.”

  . . . the crude chants.

  “I go places you want to go sometimes, even if I don’t want to,” Conan says.

  “This is different! I don’t ask you to go with me to a KKK meeting!”

  “It’s not like that! They weren’t lynching anyone! They meant it as a joke!”

  “Joke!”

  “I know. It was stupid, but they were just trying to be funny.”

  “Conan . . .”

  I don’t know what else to say. It’s like I’m talking to a stranger. I can’t believe Conan thinks any of that locker business was just a joke.