Love Rules

by Marilyn Reynolds

  We laugh ’til we’re weak over the chickens, but it’s not just a comedy. It gives us a lot to think about. And I don’t know about Conan, but for me, it’ll be a long time before I eat another Clucker’s.

  CHAPTER

  21

  Kit and I,plus my mom and her dad, show up at Mr. Maxwell’s office at 7:45 Monday morning. Kit’s dad wears his sheriff’s uniform, which I think is a nice touch.

  Kit is wearing gray cargo pants, a gray turtleneck tee shirt, and her Monarchs sports jacket. She has a rainbow headband around her shaved head. Silver studs line the edges of her left ear, from top to lobe. Besides rainbow Pride bracelets on each wrist, she’s wearing two heavy, metal-studded leather bracelets.

  Mom’s in her usual business attire, a tailored skirt and jacket, silk blouse, and stylishly sensible shoes. I’m wearing nondescript.

  Yesterday, Mom, David, and Jessie met to talk through their “strategy.” Jessie’s strategy is to wish Kit would blend into the woodwork. For a Cherokee, she sure isn’t much of a fighter. (Oh- my-gosh. Why do stereotypes keep invading my brain? I make a silent apology to Jessie, and to the Cherokee Nation.)

  Anyway. Mom and David decided that since Woodsy was the only faculty person who witnessed the ugly scene at Kit’s locker, it would be good if she could be at the meeting with us. Mom left a message on Woodsy’s voice mail. She’s waiting, roll book open on her lap, reading student papers. The adults do the introduction thing. Woodsy’s brought copies of our witness statements, in case we don’t have our own copies with us. We don’t.

  Mr. Maxwell comes out to greet us, then ushers us into his office.

  As soon as everyone is seated, he says, “What we have here is a difficult situation.”

  “And it’s been made more difficult by the way in which it was handled,” David says.

  There’s a lot of back and forth banter and then Mom asks Mr. Maxwell to show her, in the education code, what grounds he has for my suspension. He talks about principal discretion, and Kit’s defiance of authority.

  David says Kit, and everyone else, has a right to be safe at school.

  “I’m sure you’re aware, Mr. Maxwell, that harassment of anyone based on race, sex, gender or sexual orientation is a criminal act,” David says, sounding more like a lawyer than a cop. “Schools are legally required to protect students from such harassment.”

  Manly Max sputters around about making mountains out of molehills. Then he gets all heated about how Kit should do her part by dressing appropriately.

  We’re in Maxwell’s office for over thirty minutes. He suspends our suspension, but when David demands that the worst of the boys, Brian, Anthony, and Justin, be suspended, he gets nowhere.

  “I’ll handle the boys in an appropriate manner,” Mr. Maxwell says.

  “What they’ve done is grounds for suspension, Mr. Maxwell,” David says.

  Mr. Maxwell stands, walks around his desk and opens the door.

  “Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Wright, and Mr. Dandridge. I always appreciate talking with parents who care. Teachers, too,” he says, giving a nod toward Woodsy.

  He shakes hands with Mom and David on the way out. Woodsy rushes off to class. Kit and I get tardy excuses from Miss Ramirez and head toward our first period classes. Only a few latecomers are in the halls now, and Kit and I amble along, talking.

  “I like that your dad came in his uniform,” I tell Kit. “He’s so cool with you.”

  “In some ways. But we got in a huge fight this morning. My mom, too.”

  “About what?”

  “About the way I dress. Underneath it all, Dad agrees with Mr. Maxwell that I shouldn’t be calling attention to myself. And Mom . . . she’d actually laid clothes out for me to wear this morning, like I was five years old and she could still be my fashion boss. I told her those days were over.

  “Then she started crying about how hard she tried to be a good mother, and where did she go wrong. That’s all I hear from her anymore.”

  “But your dad?”

  “He’d like me to ‘be more subtle.’ Keep a lid on it until I’m in college, then it might not be such a big deal.”

  When I don’t say anything more, Kit accuses me of thinking the same thing.

  “That’s not fair,” I tell her.

  “When I first told you, you even said . . .”

  “Don’t start throwing stuff in my face that I said months ago. I’m standing by you now, all the way, and you know it!”

  I don’t mean to be yelling but my gosh she pisses me off sometimes. I’m going to her damn group. I’m taking shit from Manly Max, right along with her . . .

  “Sorry. SORRY!” she says, then lowers her voice. “I was so freaked Friday, in your kitchen—and you were totally there for me. . .”

  We turn the corner into the main hall and stop. The display case is shattered. One of the custodians is sweeping up glass while a campus supervisor directs straggling students around the mess.

  Kit and I check it out. Nothing in the case is disturbed, except Frankie’s poster. FLATTEN FAGGOT FILTH is written across it, in large, heavy black strokes. In the corner is a stick figure hanging from a gallows, like in the hangman game. Underneath are seven separate lines, with three letters filled in. F R _ _ K _ _.

  Kit wants an emergency GSA meeting at lunchtime. We get an okay from Emmy to meet in the library, then let people know, word of mouth.

  In peer communications, I start telling Conan about the broken display case, but he already knows.

  “Who did it?” I ask.

  “Round up the usual suspects,” he says, glancing across the room toward Brian and Eric.

  Conan won’t name anyone, but I think he could if he wanted to.

  I tell him I’ll be in the library during lunch.

  “Leaving me to eat alone?” he says.

  “Like you don’t always have a mob of hero worshipers wanting to hang around with you.”

  “But there’s only one hero worshiper I want to eat lunch with,” he says, smiling at me in that way he has—the way that still warms my soul and kicks up my heart rate.

  “Come with me to the meeting,” I say.

  It looks as if he’s thinking about it. Then he shakes his head.

  “I’ll be at the usual table if you change your mind about the meeting,” he says. “Otherwise, I’ll meet you outside the library after lunch.”

  Woodsy gives us the same assignment she gave to her afternoon class on Friday—write about homophobia. She offers a brief definition of homophobia—fear of homosexuals—and tells us to write our opinions, observations, and experiences.

  Brian puts pencil to paper and acts like he’s spelling out a title.

  “F-a-g-o-p-h-o-b-i-a. Fagophobia,” he calls out.

  Eric laughs the loudest, but others laugh, too.

  “Brian, please step into my office,” Woodsy says. Her manner is stern.

  She opens the door and stands waiting for Brian to enter. She walks in behind him, but is only gone a moment. Returning, she closes the door behind her.

  “Please write freely, fully, and from your hearts,” Woodsy says. “When you’ve finished writing, reread your paper and be sure it says what you want it to. After you’ve given me your papers you

  may use whatever time is left for study or free reading.”

  I have a hard time getting started. What can I say? I don’t think I can relate to homophobia. I mean, what’s to be afraid of just because a person is only attracted to people of the same sex? I don’t get it. It’s not like I ever see anyone standing back, quivering in fear when Frankie walks down the hall. It’s more like they’re laughing, or putting him down—like they’re so much better than he is.

  I’m still mulling this stuff over when I remember what Raymond said about how gay bashers are on shaky ground with their own sexual orientation. I don’t exactly understand it, but what if some of the guys who pick on Frankie are afraid they’re like him in some way? And by picking on
him they’re trying to prove they’re not like him at all. But then, what does it mean when they pick on Kit? Are they afraid they might be like a lesbian? I’ve got to start writing. I’m only confusing myself. That’s a start: “Homophobia is confusing to me . . .”

  After we’ve both turned in our papers, Conan and I talk quietly.

  “What did you write?” he asks me.

  “I mostly wrote about how I don’t understand homophobia. I know some people hate homosexuals—like it’s immoral and against God. Like they hate evil. The fear part, though—what’s that about?”

  Conan says fear and hatred are part of the same thing. I still don’t get it.

  “What did you write?” I ask him.

  “I didn’t write about fear of homosexuals. I wrote about fear of Homo Sapiens.”

  “Fear of people???”

  Conan nods.

  “I don’t think that’s what Woodsy meant.”

  “Look at the word. Homophobia. It could mean that, couldn’t it?”

  “I guess. But it doesn’t.”

  “Well, it does to me. I wrote about how fear of people messes up the whole world. Think about it. If that cop hadn’t been afraid of Mark, then Mark’d still be alive today. And if white people hadn’t been afraid of black people, we’d have been free of all that segregation shit a hundred years ago. We’d never even have had it in the first place.”

  “And if black people weren’t afraid of white people, I wouldn’t have to pick you up at the corner on the days I drive. I could pull right into your driveway, instead.”

  Conan gives me a look. There’s a long pause. Then he says, “Maybe.” That’s all he says, but I can see my remark got to him.

  CHAPTER

  22

  All of the GSA members show up in the library for the lunch­time meeting. I see the Sojourner group got the word. There’s Jerry, and Dawn, all Harleyed-out in her leathers. Even Susan, Conan’s neighbor who eats Rice Krispies Treats with peanut butter and jelly for dinner. I haven’t seen her since that first meeting at Sojourner High.

  Mr. Cordova’s here, too, and so is Woodsy.

  “Sorry I didn’t have time to make cookies,” Guy says, as he passes out store bought cookies.

  “At least they’re not those dry old Mother’s things.”

  “I like those cookies,” I say, wanting to be supportive of Emmy.

  Jerry says he wishes we could have macaroons sometime.

  “So bring some,” Star says.

  Frankie stands. “We have more important things to talk about today than cookies,” he says.

  We go over the ground rules, like we do at the beginning of each meeting.

  “Anything to add to the ground rules before we get started?” Frankie asks.

  Mr. Cordova stands. “Not all of you know me, since I don’t usually get to your meetings. But I want to assure you I’m here as a GSA supporter. I will adhere to your ground rules. EXCEPT . . .” he pauses to be sure we’re all paying attention. “EXCEPT that I am compelled by law to report anything that would indicate you might be a threat to yourself or to others, or that your life is in any way endangered.”

  This is not exactly news to us. Emmy and Guy tell us the same thing at every meeting.

  Frankie suggests we get caught up with what’s been going on. He asks that Kit or I tell about the penis on the locker incident. Kit nods to me from across the room, where she’s sitting next to Star. I guess she’d rather not be put on the spot. I start talking about seeing a group near our lockers. When I get to the part about the plastic penis and the white glue, the meeting comes undone, everyone talking at once.

  “Those assholes!”

  “That sucks!”

  “Jock jerks! . . .”

  Frankie finally makes himself heard over the angry roar.

  “Can we please calm down? Let’s get through this without interruption, then we’ll open discussion.”

  There are a few more grumbles.

  “Listen and reflect,” Frankie says, which is what he always says when things get out of hand.

  I continue then, telling the rest of the details, even though my face is burning with embarrassment. Our group is mainly student run, with advisors in the background, but it’s a huge relief to me when Woodsy offers to tell the part about meeting with Mr. Maxwell. She takes notes from a folder, then stands and tells about our session with Mr. Maxwell.

  “We should get caught up on the display case incident, too.” she says to Frankie, then sits down.

  Frankie sits looking at the floor.

  “Who saw it?” Emmy asks.

  Caitlin is, as usual, sitting off to one side, with Nora. In a voice that is barely audible, she says, “I saw it.”

  Everyone gets real quiet.

  “So tell us,” Jerry says.

  Caitlin talks in a quiet monotone, as if she were a beginning reader, reading out loud for the first time. Weird. Her speaking voice is as weak as her singing voice is strong. Those of us on the other side of the room stretch forward across library tables, straining to hear. When she gets to the part about the hangman business she pauses. Tears well in her eyes. Nora fishes around in her backpack for a packet of tissues and hands it to Caitlin. Caitlin takes one, wipes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and finishes her account.

  Frankie’s still looking at the floor. He’s slumped down in his chair, as if drained of all energy. I hope he’s kept his promise about not replacing the razor blades.

  In the silence that follows, Mr. Cordova says, “I know something about the display case incident.”

  “What?” Jerry asks.

  “I have to trust that you’ll hold to that ground rule—what’s said here stays here.”

  Everyone nods, except Star, who says, “Yeah. Unless it’s infor­mation that says you’re a threat to your own life . . .”

  Guy shoots her such a look she stops mid-sentence. I’ve never seen such a nasty look on such a nice face.

  “Only kidding,” Star says to Mr. Cordova.

  He waits, looking into her eyes as if he’s trying to read her sincerity.

  “Really,” Star says. “I was out of line.”

  Another pause, then Mr. Cordova says, “There’s a witness to the breaking of the display case, and the defacing of the poster. But the witness is afraid to come forward, so all we can get is an anonymous report. It’s better than nothing because it offers important informa­tion, but we can’t discipline anyone based on it.”

  Jerry says, “So nothing’s going to happen to whoever did it?”

  “Without real evidence, our hands are tied.”

  “Frankie’s life’s been threatened, and the school’s just going to drop it?” Kit says.

  There’s a frenzy of outrage.

  “If the school won’t protect us, we better freakin’ protect ourselves!” Star says, slamming her fist down on the table for emphasis.

  Finally, Frankie looks up. “We need to stay united and come up with some workable strategies—not just vent.”

  “I’ll strategize those guys if they come after Kit again,” Star says.

  Dawn stands. “And I’ll give them a little extra strategy for you too, Frankie! I’ve got friends. You all know that!”

  “C’mon, Dawn,” Jerry says. “Now you’re threatening the threat­ened?”

  “Yeah, well I’m not one of those turn the other cheek chicks. Any more of this shit . . .”

  “Dawn,” Frankie says, pointing to the “share the air” ground rule. “Let’s hear from everybody. Okay?”

  Dawn takes her time sitting down. “I mean it,” she says.

  Star nods in agreement.

  Jerry asks Frankie, “Are you and Kit the only ones taking shit?”

  “I don’t know,” Frankie says.

  “Maybe a place to start is to try to get an idea of the extent of harassment here at Hamilton High, or at Sojourner, for that matter,” Guy says.

  Emmy goes to the dry erase board with markers.


  “C’mon. We’ve put our stories out there,” Frankie says, showing more life now. “Anyone else being harassed? Put down? Pushed around? Think about it. Is this our school, too, or are we in enemy territory?”

  Woodsy suggests we hand out cards for people who don’t want to speak out. Even though it doesn’t deal with the gay/lesbian stuff, I have a put-down that’s been bugging me. On my card I write: “White meat.” Then I fold the card and put it in my pocket.

  Students begin talking, hesitantly at first, but soon the room is buzzing with the need to speak and be heard. Emmy writes short­ened accounts of abuse, both verbal and physical.

  In an amazingly short time, the board is filled.

  “Let’s read these back,” Frankie says to Emmy.

  “Name calling, as in dyke, faggot, queer, fudge-packer, carpet muncher, pervert, anti-Christ, girly boy, butt-fucker . . .” she goes through the list as if she were reading off a list of innocuous spelling words for a coming test—perfectly calm, except for the slightest quiver of her lower lip.

  “A teacher laughing when one student calls another a faggot. Another teacher using the term ‘that’s so gay’—like gay is a synonym for dumb, or stupid. Lots of anti-gay stuff in the boys’ gym. Graffiti—fuck dykes ’til they’re straight,’’ she says, the quiver more noticeable now. Silently, she hands her marker to Guy and sits down. He continues reading from the board.

  “Shoving gay, or thought to be gay, students in the halls, pretending it’s accidental. Threatening remarks—See you tonight, Fag-bo, then yelling out the person’s address or place of work. In gym, girls refusing to dress anywhere near someone they say is a ‘clit-licker.’”

  No one says anything for a long time after Guy finishes reading from the board. I don’t know about the others, but I feel sick.

  Caitlin has her head down on the desk, resting on her arms. Her eyes are closed. Frankie pulls a chair up next to her, on the other side of Nora. He whispers something and Caitlin nods, still with her head down.

  Woodsy stands and looks around the room.

  “The bell’s going to ring in about five minutes,’’ she says. “I don’t want us to leave here on such a discouraging note. Look around the room and remember that we are here for one another.” She pauses, following her own advice to look around the room.