Monday morning, in peer communications, Woodsy’s aide,
Janet, reads the daily bulletin to the class. Woodsy sits at her desk marking attendance in her roll book.
The bulletin is full of praise for Hamilton High’s football team, and for the great display of school spirit shown at Friday’s game. There are announcements of coming events, scholarship applications, and club meetings. This week’s GSA announcement says the club is open to everyone, and invites students to come show their support for a safe school environment for all students. The Christ First club invites students to “join them in their fight against the rising tide of perversion at Hamilton High School.”
Woodsy looks up from her desk, obviously surprised.
“May I see that?” she asks.
Brian and Eric exchange quick, barely noticeable thumbs-ups.
Janet hands Woodsy the bulletin. She reads it silently, shakes her head, then hands out information outlining the week’s schedule and related assignments. There are a bunch of magazines, books, pamphlets, and newspaper articles spread out on a table in the front of the room. The topic is eating disorders, and we’re to read and take notes on two or three articles, in preparation for Thursday’s panel of speakers.
About halfway through class, when I go to the table to get another article, I notice one of those anti-gay signs stuck to the front of Woodsy’s desk. I’m sure it wasn’t there when we came in. How could it just suddenly appear? Then I remember seeing Eric and Brian hovering around Woodsy’s desk, like they were waiting to use the pencil sharpener. I pass a note back to Conan, telling him to look at Woodsy’s desk.
I remove one of my three remaining “embrace diversity” signs and show it to Conan. We laugh.
“Let me,” he says, taking the sticker from me.
Near the end of the period, Emmy comes into the classroom.
Woodsy glances at the clock. We have less than ten minutes left until the bell rings.
“Continue your reading. Be sure to put the materials back up on the table and write in your activity log before you leave.”
She and Emmy walk into her office and close the door. Through the large window that allows her to look out on the classroom, I see Emmy hand Woodsy some papers. They both look angry. I wish I could hear what they’re saying.
At lunch, Frankie tells us that Emmy called Mr. Cordova to see how such obviously inflammatory language as “the rising tide of perversion” could possibly have been okayed for the bulletin.
“Cordova told her he was no longer the person who gives final approval on the bulletin. Mr. Maxwell is. But get this, she talked with a student from the Christ First club, and found out that some of the Americans for Family Values people are helping them organize against GSA.”
Frankie glances over at the jock table and lowers his voice. “Eric’s father is one of the main people behind all of this, and I guess Jerry’s dad’s involved, too.”
“Did Emmy say anything about the complaints we filed?”
“Just that Mr. Cordova will be calling people in.”
“Maybe he already has,” Conan says. “Our friends at the other table are pretty quiet today.”
They are quiet, but I notice that when they leave, there are two of the anti-gay stickers on the table. That takes care of the last of my ‘embrace diversity’ stickers.
Those of us who filed complaints stop in the library after school to see if Emmy has heard anything.
“I think Mr. Cordova will probably be calling you to his office tomorrow. He talked with the other side today.”
“What’d they say?”
“Mr. Cordova didn’t reveal any conversation. All he told me was that he’d given them each very strong warnings. He let them know that their behavior was very serious and could be categorized as hate crimes.”
By the time we’ve finished talking about the complaints, and the new hate signs, and things in general, it’s nearly time for football practice to be over.
Since I drove today, I offer to take everyone home. We walk out to the parking lot to wait for Conan. It’s nice outside. Brisk and clear, but not cold. The field is empty and all the equipment has been brought in. so I know it’s only a matter of minutes before Conan comes out. We stand outside the gym, talking and waiting.
Frankie is all excited about play-offs, and the band’s half-time performance.
“We’re going to look so much better than Serrano,” he says. “The play-offs aren’t only about football.”
He puts an imaginary flute up to his lips, draws himself up to his full height, and high-steps out, humming the first bars of “Seventy-six Trombones.” We’re doubled over with laughter at Frankie’s act when suddenly, a bunch of football players burst through the gym doors. It’s the wrong bunch. Justin. Brian, Anthony and Eric are around Frankie in a flash. Justin grabs Frankie’s head and forces it downward.
“You want something to blow on? Blow on this!” Justin says, thrusting his crotch in Frankie’s face.
We rush at them, trying to pull Justin off. He pushes me back, but loses his grip on Frankie. Brian pushes Frankie to the cement and Kit and Caitlin shove him away from Frankie. Anthony shoulders Caitlin away. Brian turns on Kit.
“Wanna play, Squaw?”
Kit pushes at him. He grabs her butt and pulls her into him, thrusting toward her. He shoves her to the pavement, pins her arms back and straddles her.
“I’ll show you what you need.” he says, ripping her jeans open.
Frankie struggles to get to his feet but Eric kicks him down. Justin gives him another kick. I shove Justin away. Frankie jumps up, lunges at Brian. Pulling. Kicking. Biting. Frantic to get Brian off Kit.
Eric runs toward Frankie and I shoulder him aside.
Frankie has Brian around the neck from behind, yelling, “Leave her alone! LEAVE HER ALONE!! WHAT KINDA SHIT IS THIS?”
As if out of nowhere, Conan jumps in. He grabs Brian by the arm and yanks him aside, momentarily throwing him off balance. Brian turns back to Kit, ripping at her shirt. Conan pulls Brian off. Kit gets to her feet. Brian stands facing her, his face distorted with anger. He reaches for her. She kicks him, hard, in the groin, and he’s down on the pavement, doubled in pain. Mr. Cordova runs up to us, panting hard from what must have been a sprint clear across the length of the parking lot. Larry is right behind him as Coach Ruggles rushes out of the gym.
Justin spits at Frankie. “Freakin’ faggot!” he screams. “Stay outa my space!”
Conan steps between them, nose to nose with Justin.
“NO MORE!” he says.
“This is not your business,” Justin says.
Conan stands, still and solid.
Larry takes Justin by the arm and guides him over to the steps.
“Sit here. Cool down,” he says. “You, too,” he motions to Eric. “Keep your distance, Conan.”
Coach Ruggles is bending over Brian, telling him to take deep breaths, try to relax, move a little. Brian is groaning, curled into himself.
Mr. Cordova tells the coach and Larry to walk Brian, Eric, Justin, and Anthony up to the office, and motions for the rest of us to walk with him.
“I’ve got an injured player here,” Coach Ruggles says. “I don’t think he can walk to your office.”
“Then call 911 and get him out of the parking lot,” Mr. Cordova says. “Ambulance, or my office. That’s it.”
Brian rolls over on his hands and knees and Coach Ruggles helps him straighten up.
According to Mr. Cordova’s instructions, the football players are seated in his office, and the GSA kids are on a bench on the other side of the room. Larry takes something that looks like baby wipes from a big first aid kit and hands them out for us to clean up with.
Mr. Cordova comes out of his office.
“Are you okay?” he asks, first turning his attention to Kit.
“Maybe a little bruised,” she says, rubbing the back of her head.
“How about you, Frankie?”
“Any other damage?” he says, looking from me to Caitlin and back again.
We both shake our heads no.
“Okay, so we need written reports.”
He gives us each a clipboard with paper and pen and tells us to include specifics, who did what to whom, what was said, as many details as possible.
“What about them!” Kit says, pointing in the direction of Mr. Cordova’s office.
“Coach Ruggles is in there with them. They’re writing statements, too.”
My hands are shaky and I’m having trouble thinking, so it takes a while to write what happened.
When we’ve finally all stopped writing, Mr. Cordova collects our statements and reads through them, occasionally asking for clarification, mostly nodding his head.
“Okay. Thank you. You can go now.”
“What’s going to happen to them?” Kit asks, motioning toward Mr. Cordova’s office.
“You don’t need to worry about seeing them at school tomorrow, if that’s what you mean.”
“Why? Are you going to suspend us?” Kit says, in her most sarcastic tone.
Mr. Cordova gives her a long, hard look, finally staring her down.
“They won’t be at school tomorrow.”
“What if Mr. Maxwell . . .”
“Kit. Trust me on this one. They won’t be at school . . . now go home, take long showers, and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll probably be here until nine or so, if any of your parents want to call. I’ll see
you tomorrow.”
He turns toward his office.
“Wait,” I say. “What about Conan?”
“What about him?”
“He’s one of the good guys,” Frankie says.
“Hold on,” Mr. Cordova says, going into his office and closing the door.
After a few minutes, Conan comes out. I know what Cordova advised, home and a shower. But none of us is ready to go home yet. We’re all still buzzed on adrenaline. We go straight to Barb ‘n Edie’s. We each get sodas, then order three garbage burritos to share. Caitlin calls Nora from her cell phone, and Nora shows up about the same time as the burritos. Star comes in a few minutes later.
“Whoa,” she says, looking us over. “Was there a war or something, and I didn’t know it?”
I see what she means. Frankie’s forehead and cheek are scraped up. Kit’s shirt is torn. My lip is swollen. We’ve all got something to show for our struggle.
We tell Nora and Star the whole story, complete with details of Conan’s timely arrival and Kit’s well-placed kick to Brian’s groin. Star puts her arm around Kit.
“You okay, Kit-Kat?”
Kit nods her head.
“Wish I’d been there,” Star says.
“Coach Ruggles was demanding suspension for you,” Conan says to Kit. “He said you’d be better off at Sojourner, with the other misfits.”
“He said that?”
“Yep. Said any girl who was hostile enough to kick a guy you know where was too dangerous to have on campus.”
Star snorts. “Told you. That’s how they are.”
“What’d Cordova say?” Kit asks.
“He said you were acting in self-defense—appropriate behavior considering the situation.”
“What else did they say?” Kit asks.
“It was hella weird. Cordova was talking about suspension pending expulsion and Ruggles was talking about tomorrow night’s game. It’s like they weren’t even in the same conversation.”
“Can we beat Serrano if those guys are suspended?” Frankie asks.
Conan shakes his head. “No way.”
“But we’ve still got you.” Frankie whines. “Can’t the barbarian make it happen?”
“We’ll get trounced! The only thing that could save us would be if a bunch of their main players were as stupid as ours and got themselves suspended.”
“Who cares about a freakin’ football game, anyway,” Star says.
“Lots of people do,” Frankie says.
“Do you think Frankie and Kit’ll get blamed if we lose the championship?” Nora asks.
“Of course,” Frankie says. “Even though they’re the ones who messed up.”
Later, when Conan and I are parked down the street from his house, he tells me he knew something was going on in the parking lot. He could hear angry yelling but he took his time leaving the gym.
“That laying low thing,” he said. “No need to get involved.”
“But . . .”
“I didn’t know you were there . . . I was dressed and leaning up against the wall, waiting for things to get quiet, when I heard . . .”
He swallows, like there’s something in his throat that’s keeping him from going on. I snuggle closer to him, resting my hand on the back of his thick neck.
“When you heard what?”
“When I heard . . .”
He shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and tries again.
“When I heard Frankie yelling ‘What kinda shit is this’ it was like Mark all over again. I don’t even remember how I got from the gym to where he and Brian and Kit were piled up, but I knew I had to stop it before things got worse than they already were . . .”
“I was so glad to see you . . . I thought Brian was really going to hurt Kit . . . and everyone else was . . . Frankie . . .”
I don’t want to cry, but I can’t help it. Conan strokes my hair and kisses me, very gently, on my swollen lip.
“It’s over.’’ he says. “Everything’s okay.”
“I just . . . thank you. . .”
When Conan finally gets out of the car to walk to his house, I tell him I can drive again tomorrow. I’ll meet him at the corner.
“See you here, then,” he says.
I watch him walk away, watch his long, sturdy strides, his broad back—just seeing Conan walk makes me feel safe.
When he rounds the corner, I start the car and drive home.
CHAPTER
28
My mom and I talk for a long time about all that’s been happening. I want so much to tell her about the visit from Gramma and Grampa, but it sounds so weird . . . Just as I’m getting my nerve up, we’re interrupted by the telephone. It’s Conan.
“About tomorrow morning,” he says. “Just pull into my driveway. I’ll wait for you on the porch.”
“But . . .”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says.
Even though it’s a quick conversation with Conan, when I get back to Mom, the sense of closeness has faded. I’ll tell her about my visit from Gramma and Grampa some other time.
When I check e-mail before bed, there’s a message there from Kit.
I won’t be riding with you in the morning. My parents set up a meeting with Mr. Cordova, to talk about Brian’s attack yesterday. My dad wants to file charges against him.
Also, this awesome thing happened. My mom went to a PFLAG meeting with Star’s “mom” and it’s like my mom’s had a major attitude adjustment. Can you believe it?
It feels strange, driving into Conan’s driveway. But he’s there, waiting for me. Sabina is inside, at the window, where she waves and throws kisses as we back out, like the first time I ever picked Conan up for school—back before he got weird about having his parents see me.
At the first stop sign, Conan gives me a big kiss, then backs away.
“Your lip’s not so swollen this morning,” he says.
“I’m back in kissing condition,” I tell him.
“We should take advantage of that right now,” he says. “If those guys are suspended, who knows what condition I’ll be in after the game.”
“If? I thought for sure they were being suspended.”
“Yeah. That’s what Cordova said. But Coach kept saying he wanted Mr. Maxwell to deal with his players.”
“That shouldn’t change anything,” I say.
“Shouldn’t,” Conan says.
“On the other hand . . .”
“Mr. Maxwell is totally into Hamilton High winning the championship.”
“What do you think should happen?” I ask Conan.
He is quiet for a long time.
“I want to be on the championship team. I want to play the big game and win. That’d be awesome. But . . . if you ask me what should happen—they shouldn’t get away with the kind of stuff they’ve been doing.”
I park as far away from the boys’ gym as I can, not wanting to go near that place. I turn toward Conan for one last kiss before we go to class, and I see rainbow-beaded bracelets lined up on both arms.
“Cool, huh?” he says, grinning.
“Way cool,” I say, counting ten on one arm and seven on the other.
“Makes your three look a little weak,” he teases.
He reaches into his backpack and pulls another handful of bracelets out.
“In case anyone else wants one.”
“Did you go out for those last night? After I left you off?”
He nods.
“You didn’t even want one yesterday,” I remind him.
“That was yesterday. Lunchtime, to be exact. But then all that stuff with Frankie and Kit—it hit me right in the gut—seeing them ganged up on, for no reason except for who they are. Harassed in the halls, beaten up in the parking lot, spit on, Kit practically raped . . . the way my brothers and sisters have been treated . . .”
“So . . . the bracelets?”
He takes a deep breath.
“I don’t know if I can explain it. I wouldn’t even try with anyone but you.”
I wait.
Another deep breath.
“When I got home last night, I went to my room, closed the door, and tried to read the econ assignment.”
“Like reading the phone book,” I say.
Conan smiles in agreement.
“But it could have been the most interesting story in the world and I still couldn’t have read it last night. I kept hearing Frankie yelling at Brian, asking ‘what kinda shit is this.’ And Frankie’s voice turned to Mark’s. Those were the very last words Mark ever said to me. And I kept hearing them over, and over, and over . . .”
Long pause. I’m aware that only a few stragglers are left in the parking lot, that we should be getting to first period, but I want to hear what it is Conan is struggling to tell me.
Love Rules Page 23
