Love Rules

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “Fine. When you’re the teacher in this classroom, you can put it back up.”

  I can tell this will be a no nonsense day in PC. Woodsy hands out a list of what’s required for the next notebook check. In the front of our notebooks we keep a laminated copy of our PC contract—the one we all signed at the beginning of the semester, promising to maintain confidentiality, and to treat one another, and guests, with respect. The next notebook section contains a daily activity log, telling what we did and rating that period on a scale of one to ten. Then we have sections for speakers, group projects, class discus­sion, individual reading and other comments.

  “What do you have in your log for November 3?” Conan asks.

  I turn to my log sheet. “That was the day we did the role play thing, remember? You were the mean dad, and Tiffany was out way past her curfew?”

  Conan laughs. “And you were the pesty little sister, and Kendra was trying to talk you out of tattling,” he says, filling in the 11/3 blank in his log sheet.

  “What about 10/30?” I ask.

  “Individual reading,” he says.

  We go through the rest of the period, working back and forth to fill in the blanks.

  Nora is at our lunch table today, but Caitlin is not. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one without the other before.

  Conan and I sit side by side, sharing lunches. Well . . . mostly I share mine.

  “Mom sent extra brownies for you,” I say, passing a couple of

  brownies his way.

  He takes a bite and rolls his eyes skyward, chewing slowly, appreciating every last crumb.

  “I love your mom.”

  “And . . .?”

  “And what?”

  “And what about ME?” I ask, acting all jealous.

  “Ummm. You, too,” he says, then takes another bite of brownie.

  At the other end of the table, I see Kit showing Nora the printout she’d read to us earlier. Nora nods her head and looks away. Frankie, looking over Kit’s shoulder, doesn’t seem surprised. I wonder if he’s known all along.

  In the choir room, Mr. Michaels has a NO ROOM FOR HOMOPHOBIA sign exactly like Woodsy’s. His is prominently displayed across the top of the choir bulletin board.

  We rehearse the Christmas music again, but we don’t sound as good as when Caitlin’s here.

  Before we start volleyball practice, Coach Terry calls us together.

  “I think by now everyone’s heard of a couple of malicious incidents that have taken place on our campus, but just in case . . .”

  She relates the details of the locker incident, and also of the vandalized display case and the hate message left on the GSA poster.

  “These are serious, disturbing events,” Coach Terry says, “and they must not be tolerated. Anyone who thinks this kind of behavior is a joke needs to adjust her attitudes.”

  I glance over at Nicole, who is staring at the ground.

  “Women athletes often are the targets of dyke jokes,” Coach Terry says, looking at each of us individually before she continues. “This is unacceptable. No one . . . NO ONE! . . . has the right to ridicule another person.”

  Gail, great spiker, slow thinker, says “But what if the person really is a . . .”

  “Dyke? Lesbian? Woman who is attracted to women?” Coach Terry prompts.

  Gail nods.

  “Is it acceptable for a straight male to be taunted and harassed because he is attracted to women?”

  All eyes are on Terry, who looks directly at Gail.

  “Is it?” she asks.

  Gail shakes her head no.

  “Listen. We are all creatures of the earth, and as such we are entitled to the utmost respect. On this team, such respect is mandated.”

  Terry puts us through a tough workout, calls us back together, and talks about our coming game.

  “Franklin’s the toughest team we’ve played. But we’re the toughest team they’ve played. Tomorrow afternoon’s game will either take us to the playoffs, or be our last of the season. You’re awesome,” she says. “It’s an honor to work with you.” She reminds us of the respect mandate and sends us off to shower.

  In the gym, after showers, we towel off and dress, all of us near the middle of the room, instead of me and Kit at one end and the whole rest of the team at the other. I guess Coach Terry’s talk helped close the great divide.

  When I stop by the library after practice, I notice there are three NO ROOM FOR HOMOPHOBIA signs posted at various places in the main room. I guess Frankie’s been busy printing signs.

  We are an awesome volleyball team. But so is Franklin. In spite of all the conditioning, Kit’s amazing serve, my set-ups, Gail’s spikes, we lose by two points. The season is over for us. When I realize I’ve played my last high school volleyball game . . . I don’t want to get all blubbery about it, but it’s been a big part of my life, and it’s a strange feeling to know it’s over.

  CHAPTER

  24

  We’ve posted flyers in all of the English classrooms—everyone has an English class.

  7:00 PM TUESDAY

  SAFE SCHOOLS:

  EVERYONE’S RIGHT.

  EVERYONE’S RESPONSIBILITY

  Bring parents and other concerned adults. Refreshments will include delicious homemade cookies. Sponsored by: H.H.S. GAY STRAIGHT ALLIANCE

  Three days after posting flyers in English classes, probably less than half still remain in classrooms. When I ask Miss Banks what happened to hers, she gives me a blank look.

  “What flyer, dear?”

  “The one that announced the special GSA meeting.”

  She looks around the room. “Well, I don’t know. Someone must have taken it down when I wasn’t looking.”

  It’s not until later in the period that I wonder about Miss Banks’ explanation for the missing poster. Someone must have taken it when she wasn’t looking? She’s always looking.

  Tuesday evening Kit, Frankie, Star, Emmy and I get to the library early to set things up. We’re arranging chairs in a circle when Frankie points to the NO ROOM FOR HOMOPHOBIA sign at the far end of the library. Emmy groans.

  “How could that have happened without me seeing it?”

  PHOBIA has been blacked out, and in its place there is a big, glittery, silver S. So now the sign reads NO ROOM FOR HOMOS.

  Emmy pulls a chair over next to the wall, climbs up on it, and tears the defaced sign down.

  “I’m sure it wasn’t like this when I left for lunch.”

  She rips the sign into little pieces and shoves the pieces into the trash.

  “There are more where that came from,” Frankie says, grinning. “They mess them up, we replace them.”

  “You must be spending a fortune on printing costs,” Emmy says.

  “It’s cool,” he says. “I’m doing some design work for Kinkos, and they’re letting me use their stuff.”

  “Great, Frankie!” Emmy says. “A job where you get to use your talent!”

  Frankie does a Fred Astaire shuffle and turn, bows low, and says, “One of my talents.”

  We all laugh, then the ever-practical Star reminds us of the time, and we get back to rearranging the room. Guy shows up with dozens of cookies and china plates and cups. Jerry is right behind him, carrying a huge coffee maker.

  “Let’s put this table over to the side, where it will be easy for people to serve themselves,” Guy says.

  Kit and I move the table while Guy shakes out a tablecloth. He covers the table, then sets out china cups and saucers and two large, matching plates.

  “Hey, Guy—We’ve got plenty of plastic plates and cups,” Emmy says, walking toward the back where she keeps such sup­plies. “We’ve even got a paper tablecloth . . .”

  “Stop! Do not take another step! I do not drink from plastic and my cookies will not be displayed on plastic . . .”

  “I’m only thinking about clean up,” Emmy says.

  “And I’m thinking about the whole experience,” Guy says, rea
ching into a large paper bag and carefully arranging cookies on the plates.

  “Try this,” he says to Jerry, handing him a cookie.

  Jerry looks at the cookie with suspicion, then takes a small bite.

  “Wow! Macaroons!” he says.

  At that moment, Jerry looks like he’s about five years old, all innocent, and caring only about a cookie. I know that sounds strange—Jerry with his green Mohawk and piercings, his eye make-up, spiked collar and wristband. It’s true, though. The macaroon moment flashed an image of an earlier Jerry.

  “Hey, man. Thanks,” he says, giving Guy a quick hug.

  Guy passes the plate to the rest of us. “Anyone else want a pre­meeting cookie?”

  Of course, we all do. Guy replenishes the plate and takes a long look at the table, then rearranges the coffee cups. I stack extra chairs back by the computers, so people will have to sit in the circle. Star cleans the dry erase board and makes sure the markers are good. Kit’s wandering through the stacks.

  “Hey, Emmy. You should have that Our Bodies Ourselves book in here.”

  “I do,” Emmy says.

  “Where?”

  “Look in reference.”

  A large woman comes in carrying a khaki shoulder bag and a clipboard.

  “Emmy?” she says, looking around the room.

  Emmy walks over to her and shakes hands.

  “Benny Foster, from GLSEN.”

  “I’m Emmy Saunders, and this is Guy Reyes. We’re the GSA co­-advisors. This is Star, and . . .”

  Emmy introduces each of us, except Kit, who’s still hidden somewhere in the stacks.

  Benny unloads her bag, putting various books and flyers on a table near the back of the room. I guess she’s probably about my mom’s age. Her hair is cropped short and her face is plain and weathered. She’s wearing jeans, a heavy flannel shirt, and industrial style boots. Maybe she just got off lumberjack duties and didn’t have time to change her clothes? Maybe I was expecting the GLSEN version of Barbie? Maybe I should get a grip?

  “You know you’ve got picketers out there?” Benny asks, con­tinuing to set out materials.

  “Who are they?” Guy says.

  “The ‘God made Adam and Eve, Not Adam and Steve,’ bunch.”

  Emmy picks up the school phone and calls for security. No answer.

  “There’s got to be someone around here,” she says. “We’ve got Adult Ed classes, and ROP, and . . .”

  Mr. Cordova comes in, accompanied by a student I’ve seen around but don’t really know.

  “Oh, Victor. I’m glad you’re here. We have picketers . . .”

  “I know. I’ve been out there.”

  Mr. Cordova motions me over.

  “Lynn, this is Felicia. I talked her into coming, but she’s reluctant. Watch out for her, will you?”

  “Sure.” I say.

  “Do we need security out front?” Guy asks Mr. Cordova.

  “I’ve got Larry coming up, and the new woman, Kelly. Just a precaution, though.”

  “How many are there?” Frankie asks.

  “Umm, maybe about twenty. I warned them against blocking the entrance.”

  A few more people come in and now there’s a buzz of voices as people talk and help themselves to coffee and cookies.

  “Do you want a cookie?” I ask Felicia.

  She shakes her head no.

  “Are you a sophomore?” I ask, making a wild guess—well, except how wild can you be, when you’ve only got four choices?

  This time, Felicia nods her head yes. I wonder if our whole means of communication will be me talking, she nodding. She’s quite thin, and pale—birdlike, in a graceful, fragile way. She’s wearing a necklace with a cross, like the ones Eric and Tiffany wear.

  “The cookies are really good. Guy made them.”

  She shakes her head again, but this time utters a faint no thank you.

  Kit finally emerges from her exploration of the stacks.

  “There’s some good ten percenter stuff in here,” she says.

  Emmy looks Kit’s way. “And that surprises you?”

  “Well . . . I just never found it before.”

  “And you never asked . . .”

  “I bet there are plenty of others around who aren’t asking, either,” Kit says.

  “But you finally asked.”

  “Because it was safe. It may not have felt safe during school hours.”

  From the expression on Emmy’s face, it’s as if Kit just sent a news flash her way. She walks toward us, but is interrupted by a couple of parent types who’ve just entered.

  I introduce Kit to Felicia. Kit sits with us for a few minutes, but then Star motions her to sit by her, across the room. That’s cool. If Conan were here, I’d want to sit with him, too.

  It is nearly seven now, and the place is filling up. Nora and Caitlin come in with someone I think must be Caitlin’s parents, because Caitlin and the woman look like they could be clones.

  Frankie’s mom is here, looking nervous. Star’s “adopted” mom is here, too. Both of Kit’s parents and my mom come in together and sit over near the Ratchfords. Kit’s mom looks about as comfortable here as Mrs. Sanchez does. Kit goes over to talk to them, then returns to her place next to Star. Mom gives me a quick wave, and a smile. I smile back, glad she’s come.

  Frankie and Dawn take a few more chairs from the stack to enlarge the circle. Emmy introduces herself, welcomes people to the library, then introduces Benny, who will be offering strategies meant to achieve a safe school environment for all students. I catch Kit’s mom staring at Jerry, then at Benny, as if she’s never seen anyone like them. She gives Dawn an appraising look, too. The one person she doesn’t seem to notice is Kit, sitting close to Star, with Star’s arm around her shoulders.

  We introduce ourselves around the circle, each telling our name, and something we like—an activity, food, color, any one thing.

  Jerry says he likes macaroons, holding one out for all to see, then popping the whole thing in his mouth. Everyone laughs, even Jessie. That can’t hurt. When it’s David’s turn, he says he likes his daughter. Kit smiles, but it’s an embarrassed kind of smile. When it’s Star’s turn, she says she likes David’s daughter, too. That brings another laugh, although this time Jessie’s laugh is less than hearty.

  Mr. Harper and Woodsy come in just after introductions, but we pause for them each to say who they are and what they like.

  Guy explains that GSA is a student run organization, and suggests that adults listen first, then talk if there’s something new to be said. Frankie goes over the ground rules, asks if there are any additions, or objections, and then Benny hauls her big lumberjack body out of her chair. She starts with national statistics regarding experiences of LGBT youth. (No—LGBT is not a sandwich. It’s an acronym for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transsexual.)

  Benny reads from a pamphlet. “Ninety percent of LGBT youth hear homophobic remarks in their schools—words such as faggot, dyke, or queer. Thirty-six percent hear such remarks from faculty or school staff. Sixty-one percent experience verbal harassment. Forty-six percent experience sexual harassment—including com­ments and touching. Twenty-seven percent experience physical harassment. Fourteen percent experience physical assault. Forty-one percent do not feel safe in their school because of their sexual orientation. Gay/lesbian teens attempt suicide at much higher rates than others, especially if they are rejected by their family and friends. LGBT youth are four times more likely to skip school because they feel unsafe.”

  Pause.

  Jessie says, “Then why are they like that if it’s so awful?”

  Benny waits a moment, seemingly gathering her thoughts. Then she asks, “When you woke up this morning, did you decide to be heterosexual?”

  “No,” Jessie says.

  “When you wake up tomorrow morning, will you decide to be

  homosexual?”

  “No! Why would I?”

  “Could you, if you wanted to?”


  “No!”

  “Well then, does it make sense to you that I, or others like me, could wake up in the morning and decide to be heterosexual?”

  Benny and Jessie maintain eye contact for a long time. Finally, Jessie looks away.

  “I suppose not,” Jessie says, but I’m not sure she believes it. Kit slides down in her seat. Are we off to a good start here, or what?

  Frankie says to Benny, “The statistics you just read scare me. They’re my friends, they’re me.”

  “Our son is a statistic,” Mr. Ratchford says.

  Pause.

  He has our attention.

  “Dead six years now.”

  Another pause.

  “I’m terrified that my daughter could become a statistic, too, if we can’t somehow deal with the tragedy of Vincent’s murder.”

  Pin drop silence. And more silence. Mr. Ratchford puts his arm around Caitlin. Mrs. Ratchford sits looking straight ahead, at nothing, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  The door opens and a tall woman in a red wool suit, silk blouse and red leather shoes stands frozen, taking in the scene. Her nails are manicured and her soft brown hair, complete with highlights, is neatly styled. “Classic” would be the advertising term if she were a featured model.

  Jerry eases out of his chair and walks over to her.

  “It’s okay, Mom. Come on in,” he says in a whisper. He leads her to his chair, then pulls up another and sits directly behind her.

  As caught as I am by the Ratchford drama unfolding before me, I can’t help also being caught by the contrast between Jerry and his mom. She looks as if she’s just stepped out of a high-powered executive meeting, and he looks as if he’s the cover child for Beyond Bizarre.

  As far as the meeting goes, it’s too late to make a long story short. I can at least try to condense a few things for you, though.

  It turns out that the Ratchfords came to Hamilton Heights for a fresh start, after their son, Caitlin’s brother, was murdered. For Caitlin’s sake, they didn’t want to dwell on their sorrow, so no one ever talked about Vincent, or his death. But for days, ever since the threat to Frankie, Caitlin’s been begging her parents to stop acting as if nothing happened. She loved her brother, loves him still. She misses him every day. She wants to be able to talk about him with her parents. She wants pictures of him back up in the house. She wants to keep him alive in her heart and in her memory. If she can’t even have that much of him . . .