Queer Greer

by A J Walkley

  Our mother had left Emily and me a note before speed-walking off to her aerobics class Thursday, explaining that we were to come home directly from school because she had a surprise for us.

  “I wonder if it’s an early birthday present!” Em had predicted.

  “A birthday present for both of us when the nearest birthday is two months away, and its Dad’s?” I shook my head at her as I pushed her toward the door. “I’ll bet it’s a Mom Bonding Night.”

  Every so often Karen MacManus would get the urge to spend time with her daughters, as if a little voice spoke up saying, ‘Hey, you haven’t seen them in awhile. Take them out!’ Even if the places she took us were fun or fancy, the experience was always dulled by the thought that my mom felt the need to do so not because she wanted to, but because she was obligated to as a mother. Every time I wondered why she had even bothered having kids at all.

  A few months ago, at the end of summer vacation, she took us to a water park near Phoenix. It was a long ride and the AC farted out three-quarters of the way there. By the time we arrived, Em and I were too moody to enjoy the day. How could we when we knew the ride back would be just as bad, if not worse?

  This time we came home to find our kitchen table sheathed in a white tablecloth, platters of homemade Chinese food covering its surface.

  “Oh, you’re home!” My mom walked in from the bathroom. “I thought we could have an early dinner and go see a movie. What do you think?”

  “Awesome!” Emily sat down at her requisite spot and began loading her plate.

  I took my seat while Mom gathered the water glasses and filled them from the Brita in the fridge.

  “I practically just ate lunch, Mom.” I looked over at her, her smile faltering just a shadow. “But this looks really good,” I added.

  “I’ve been cooking all day for you girls. I hope you like it.” Taking her chair at the head of the table, we ate.

  “I don’t know about the movie though. I have a shitload -”

  “Greer! Language!”

  “Sorry. I have a lot of homework and swim practice in the morning, remember?”

  “That’s right,” she said, attempting to appear as though she had anticipated this the whole time. “Well, Em and I will just have to report back on how it is, won’t we?”

  “Sure,” my little sister answered. “What are we gonna see?”

  “‘Going to’ not ‘gonna’, Emily. And it’s your pick. We’ll look at the movie listings after we finish dinner.”

  “Nice! Can we get candy and popcorn, too?” Ah, to be a kid again, when your mood was dependent on your sugar intake.

  “Yes, but only one. So, Greer, how was school today?”

  I mentally cringed. How fake can you get, Mom? “School was nothing special.” I didn’t mean to be one of those children who could only give their parents one-word answers to every question. These occasions were just so few and far between that it felt contrived. “Got a test back in math,” I offered.

  “How’d you do?” she asked in between dainty mouthfuls of Lo Mein.

  “B minus.”

  “Greer, you can do better than that,” she frowned, saying the stereotypical, prescribed motherly line.

  “How would you know?” I mumbled into a dumpling.

  “What was that, sweetie?”

  “I’ll do better next time,” I lied, shoving the rest of my forkful into my mouth.

  “How about you, Emsicle? What did you do?”

  I zoned out when she began to speak, thinking, She doesn’t even realize we’re being gypped. All she sees is her mom paying attention to her right here and now, not the countless other days that have gone by with no communication other than a note saying GOOD MORNING on the table.

  “I really have to get going on this essay for English,” I said suddenly, interrupting their conversation.

  “But, Greer, you haven’t finished your plate.” If she had been around more often, she would have noticed that I never do; that being a little hungry all day is better than gaining weight when you’re a teenager.

  “It’s okay. I’ll eat again later,” I assured her. “Have fun at the theatre.” I ruffled Em’s hair and left for the privacy of my room.

  ***

  That weekend I had one of the craziest, heart-pounding, pants-shitting experiences of my life.

  The usual group was at Cam’s when Brian came over with two cases of beer his older brother had bought for us. Becca, Liza and I were the most sober people there. Since Becca was the only one with a car, she agreed to drive to some party a town over.

  The weather was heinous, fog causing any driver to see only about three or four feet in front of them. It was hard for me to see out the back window so I was sure Becs was having trouble in the front. When Cam told her to take a left, she swerved a bit.

  Just our luck, there was a cop right there at the corner. I started panicking when he began tailing us. Becca was trying to calm me down, telling me everything would be fine, that we hadn’t done anything wrong. After turning down a couple of streets, the cop put his lights on and Becs pulled over. My heart was beating like mad, so I could only imagine what she was feeling when the cop tapped on the window and asked for her license and registration.

  Officer Landon, as his uniform announced, saw the beer at Cameron’s feet and asked if he had a license. He handed him a fake he had bought off some townie the week before. Landon looked skeptical and went back to his car. While we waited, wouldn’t you know, another cop pulled up. This one, Officer Moore, told Cameron to get out of the car with the beer.

  “We’re confiscating this,” Moore said.

  “They’ll drink all of that shit,” Brian whispered to me in the back seat. I shoved him in the ribs in an effort to shut him up.

  Landon returned and told us, “It’s very hard to believe all this beer is only for Mr. Keeting.” He shined his flashlight into the back at Brian, Liza and me. “Now, who’s been drinking tonight?”

  We all said we hadn’t.

  Cam was still outside being questioned by Moore.

  “You go to Prescott High?” he asked, and Cameron nodded.

  “Then why, Mr. Keeting, does your license say you are from New Jersey?”

  “Shit,” he responded.

  “Excuse me? Did you use this to buy this alcohol?” Moore waved the fake ID in front of his face.

  “I bought the beer!” Brian shouted from the backseat. I cringed. What an idiot!

  “Step out of the car and let’s have your license,” Landon said.

  Brian did as he was told and gave him the same Jersey ID Cam had paid $200 bucks for. I was shaking, knowing the situation could not possibly end well.

  Becca turned around and bit her lip, reaching her hand back to grasp mine.

  I could practically hear her thinking, “Just don’t say anything and we’ll be fine.”

  Meanwhile, Brian was only making things worse.

  “Lisssten,” he said to Landon, slurring the word. “I’m 21, I don’t even go to the high ssschool.”

  “Yeah, alright, follow my finger with your eyes,” the officer told him, starting a routine field sobriety test.

  He wasn’t driving, so they wouldn’t get him for that, but underage drinking? Absolutely. Plus, Brian was definitely on the books for selling marijuana, I knew that.

  Moore made him stand on one leg and then the other. He wobbled on both, but on his left leg he stumbled into the car.

  “Okay, buddy. We know this is a fake, so where’s your real ID,” Moore asked him.

  “I have no idea WHAT you’re talking ‘bout,” Brian said, trying to get back into the car.

  “Whoa there, not so fast. No license, then you’re coming with us.”

  “Just give it to him, Brian!” Liza shouted.

  “Shut it, Li. I know what I’m doin’,” he said, then to the officer, “If you don’t like that license, you ain’t gonna like the other one.”

  I slapped my hands over my f
ace. ‘Really, Brian?’

  “Alright, time to take a ride.” Moore led Brian by the shoulder back to his car and shoved him in the back.

  Landon turned to Cam, still standing outside, and asked, “I don’t suppose you have another form of identification on you, do you Mr. Keeting?”

  “Uh…” he mumbled.

  “Right. You, too. In the car.”

  And Cameron was taken into the back of his cruiser.

  Landon walked back to Becca’s window.

  “Be a little more careful in this weather,” he said, handing her license back. “Maybe you should rethink who you’re hanging out with,” he added before taking Cameron to the station.

  I thought I was going to have a heart attack.

  Becca stayed parked on the side of the road until both cops had left.

  “Holy shit, what are we supposed to do?” I asked, not really sure whether Becca would have an answer, and certain Liza wouldn’t.

  “It’s fine. Let’s just, go back to my house and chill or something,” Becs offered.

  “No way. Take me home. This is nuts,” Liza chimed in.

  I rolled my eyes in the rear-view mirror at Becca who smiled and started to drive.

  I had told Cam that his ID looked fake, but he said it was worth the money and the risk. Well, apparently not. My mom would have killed me if she had known the situation I had gotten myself into, and she certainly would have put the blame on Cameron.

  We weren’t far from Liza’s house, and we arrived without another word said between us.

  “Later,” she mumbled before getting out and running to her front door.

  I got out and took shotgun.

  “I thought it would be kinda weird if you were chauffeuring me around,” I said, putting on my seatbelt. Becca laughed.

  “Well, my house then?”

  I nodded and we were off, just as “Teenage Wasteland” came on the radio.

  Coincidence? Irony? Who knows, but isn’t it funny how things like that happen?

  ***

  “I think I’m still in shock,” I told Becca once we were in her room. “Did that really just happen?”

  I collapsed on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She had glow-in-the-dark stars in the forms of constellations up there. I hadn’t noticed them before.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry, but those two are idiots,” she said, lying beside me.

  “Well, Brian, yeah, definitely. But Cameron’s not. He just didn’t think fast enough.” I tried to defend him even though I was really thinking what a dumbass he was for getting that stupid ID in the first place.

  “Whatever. That’s the last time I’m driving them anywhere,” Becca said.

  “Should we, I don’t know, go to the police station or something?”

  She scoffed and turned her head towards me. “No way. Let their parents deal with it. They practically got us arrested, too. Think about it.”

  I was pissed. I felt bad that Cam was where he was, but I was angry that he put all of us in that fucked up situation. It was my fault for going along with it, though.

  “You’re right,” I said and raised myself on my elbows. I looked across the room at her bookshelf and got up to peruse. “You have a pretty good collection here.”

  When I turned to my left, Becca was next to me.

  “Yeah, I like to read from time to time,” she smiled. “Ever read this?”

  She pulled down a book called Odd Girls and Twilight Lovers by Lillian Faderman.

  “Nope. Never heard of it,” I replied, taking the book and turning it over to read the back: The definitive study of modern lesbian life from the turn of the century through today’s diverse life-styles.

  I looked at Becca and raised my eyebrows.

  “Don’t look so shocked, Greer! Just take it. You’ll like it. It was the first book I got when I started thinking that girls might be, you know, my thing.” Becca winked and went back to lie on her bed.

  I took another minute or so to look over the rest of the titles in her collection: Wet, A Wrinkle in Time, I Dare You, Harriet the Spy, My Little Secret, First-Timers, Annie On My Mind, To Kill a Mockingbird, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  Eclectic, though a majority definitely had a gay theme from what I could tell. I thought to myself that I’d have to borrow a few more sometime.

  ***

  Cameron didn’t call me when he got home from the station that night, nor did he call the next day. I finally texted him on Sunday afternoon after working on a history paper all day. I asked him how he was and what happened. His response?

  Sun, Nov 18 4:15 pm

  From : Cameron

  thanks for caring. im fine.

  Such a drama queen, seriously. Despite feeling like he was overreacting and didn’t deserve any kind of apology from me, I called him.

  He let it ring four times before he answered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh, come on Cam. I thought you’d call me.”

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  Not taking his bait, I said, “So, how are you? What happened?”

  After a pause, I heard Cameron sigh. “It wasn’t that big a deal. They took the fake and gave me an infraction for purchasing alcohol by a minor. I have to pay, like, a hundred bucks by the end of the month.”

  “That’s not bad! That probably won’t even go on your record.” I waited for him to say something, then, hearing nothing, I asked, “What about Brian?”

  “He’s okay. He got the same, plus interfering with an officer which just means he has to pay more.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s pretty pissed he lost his ID. I think he’s getting a new one though. He already placed an order with that kid we know.”

  “Are you kidding me? That’s the dumbest thing I have ever heard!”

  “No way! We already got caught once, so, like, what’s the chance it’ll happen again?” Cam asked rhetorically.

  “That’s awful logic, Cam. You should know that.”

  “Are you insulting me?”

  I was getting more and more frustrated with him the longer we spoke.

  “No, Cameron. Unless you’re placing an order, too?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Good.”

  “Yet.”

  I suddenly understood why people punched walls. Becca was right, it turned out. Cameron was an idiot.

  “If that’s true, then I definitely won’t be there the next time you’re in the shit,” I told him.

  “It’s not like you were there this time!” he shouted before hanging up on me.

  I didn’t understand what he could have expected. I didn’t have a car or even a license, so I couldn’t have followed him to the station. I supposed I could have called him earlier.

  I shook my head and sat down in my desk chair. I refused to blame myself for this fight.

  ***

  Cameron had given me the silent treatment for half of the next week. By Wednesday he figured out that I wasn’t going to give in and he actually apologized.

  “I overreacted,” he admitted as soon as I entered the cafeteria that morning.

  I forgave him, but there was no way I would forget the whole thing.

  By Friday afternoon I was grateful for my last period class: History with Mr. Riley, my favorite.

  We were headed into the middle of the term, and it seemed like I was the only one paying attention to a piece of the past not many knew about.

  “Who taught Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. his nonviolent ways?” he asked the room to no avail. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Not many people have ever heard of Bayard Rustin, but he was King’s right-hand man! He was a head organizer of the 1963 March on Washington. He helped set up the Montgomery Alabama bus boycott we discussed yesterday. He even debated Malcolm X about the pros of pacifism,” he said with enthusiasm, hoping to excite the class. Nothing doing when everyone was mere minutes away from the weekend.

  I raised my hand. “So, wh
y haven’t we heard of him if he was so important?”

  Mr. Riley smiled at me gratefully. “Good question, Greer. This is where history becomes a little heated. You see, Rustin had two traits working against him as an activist in 1950s and 60s America. Not only was he Black -”

  “African-American!” someone shouted from behind me.

  “Actually, Rustin was born in West Chester, Pennsylvania. A little far from Africa, no? As I was saying, not only was he Black, but he belonged to another minority group, too. Bayard Rustin was gay.”

  Mr. Riley paused for effect. Whispers broke out between the kids around me. I kept my eyes on my teacher, attempting to look nonchalant about this new piece of information, though my heart was beating a mile a minute.

  “Now, the problem wasn’t so much that Rustin was a homosexual, but that he was not secretive about it – at least in the standards of the time.”

  Can people see me sweating? I wondered. I felt like there was a spotlight on me, that Mr. Riley was discussing this for my benefit.

  “Unfortunately, Rustin’s comfort was short-lived after he was caught with two other men in 1953 in Pasadena, California.”

  “Fag!” came from the desk by the window. Without hesitation, Mr. Riley ordered the offender to the principal’s office.

  “Anyway, after Rustin was charged for his actions, he became much more covert, both in private and in public. Not long after, King and Rustin had a falling out. King couldn’t have Rustin’s ‘sexual deviation,’” Mr. Riley made scare quotes with his fingers, “undermining his fight for civil rights.

  “What may be even more significant is that Rustin continued to be an activist for a variety of disenfranchised groups, from the Soviet Jews and Israel to refugees and, of course, gay rights. He definitely went down swinging when he died in 1987!” Riley mimed swinging a baseball bat, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

  “So there you have it, one of history’s invisible heroes. Which leads me to your next essay topic!”

  Groans erupted from every desk but mine. Essays were a hundred times better than Scantron tests, in my opinion, and this was a topic I really wanted to know more about.

  Mr. Riley wrote the following on the board: “Bayard Rustin once said, ‘If you want to know whether people believe in democracy, if you want to know whether they are human rights activists, the question to ask is, “What about gay people,” because that is now the litmus paper by which this democracy is to be judged.’ Respond by giving your opinion. Is this true? Has the Black movement become today’s gay movement? Back it up with 2-3 sources.”