Adam’s. His brow was furrowed, his eyes dancing between my nervously clutched speech and my face with something like encouragement.
“If there’s no further—”
I stood. “I have a matter to bring before the school board!”
10
All the blood in my body rushed downward, making it excruciating to stand, like my feet were on searing coals instead of musty brown carpet.
As the school board shuffled in their seats, Cindy Beck leaned forward and nodded down the table to the suited man. I squinted at the two of them in panic, wondering whether that was some sort of secret signal.
Then Mrs. Beck looked right at me and smiled, calming my nerves. She wasn’t surprised to see me.
She half rose to reach her microphone. “For those who don’t know, this is Daisy Beaumont-Smith, one of our eleventh-grade students at Palmetto High School. Go ahead, sweetie.”
The crowd behind me murmured appreciatively. I drew a grateful breath, pulse stabilizing, remembering suddenly all those times she’d fixed me lunch and patted my head and tucked me into sleepover trundle beds.
“Thank you, Mrs. Beck.”
Beside me, I could hear Adam scribbling.
I cleared my throat and blinked down at my notes. Focus.
“I’m here today to request that the Palmetto School Board repeal an unjust and unlawful regulation now in existence that restricts students from bringing same-sex dates to school functions, such as the homecoming dance and prom.”
A wave of sound rippled through the room. I glanced over my shoulder, my eyes alighting on Old Mr. Woodshop, who looked like he’d been sucker-punched. In fact, other than the Alliance, the only ones who didn’t seem surprised were the six members of the Palmetto School Board. They watched me with indulgent smiles and glassy patience—listening but not listening.
And it dawned on me.
They’ve already decided. Mrs. Beck practically rolled out the red carpet for me with that intro. Natalie must have spoken to her mother and her mother spoke to them. Whatever I say . . . we’ve already won!
I stifled an exultant yawp, reeling with a strange new sensation—gratitude toward Natalie Beck. Then I smiled politely and continued my formality of a speech.
“In 1979, a group of students in Rhode Island were denied the opportunity to bring same-sex dates to school dances. Instead of backing down, they took the battle to the courtroom. The next year, that state’s Supreme Court found that the school district was denying gay and lesbian students their right to free speech, as well as violating the Fourteenth Amendment, which states that the government may not ‘deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.’”
Here I’d written “DRAMATIC PAUSE.” I used the opportunity to draw a breath. In the back of the room, someone coughed.
“This was long before I was born. Thirty-six years before the United States Supreme Court ruled that all Americans have the right to marry the partner they choose, regardless of gender. And yet I stand here today asking for the same rights that were guaranteed by a courtroom during the early days of the gay rights movement. I know that my request may still seem controversial to some of you . . .”
I glanced at Mr. Woodshop. He blinked.
“. . . but the truth is, it’s embarrassingly overdue.”
My confidence growing, I stepped closer to the table and smiled at each member of the school board, pretending I was on one of those legal shows where the sexy attorneys all wear designer suits to deliver their final arguments.
“I recognize that we live in a community with strong ties to the values of the past. I could list the many ways in which enacting a more progressive policy for Palmetto students would benefit the school and create a more effective learning environment for students.”
I held up my speech to show them my list of pluses, which I was totally going to skip now, because I was on a roll.
“But there is a more important fact that overshadows all of that. By denying all students the right to enjoy themselves as equals at a school function, you are denying a group of Americans the rights guaranteed them by the Constitution of the United States. Those are the values we should cling to and uphold—the ones our forefathers fought for. The ones we still fight for today. And so, on behalf of all of the students of Palmetto High School, I ask you to repeal this unjust regulation and allow same-sex dates to dances—effective immediately.”
Behind me, I heard a mass shuffling. Just as I froze, wondering if everyone was leaving the room in disgust, there came as much of a roar as a crowd of twenty-four could make. They were standing, cheering. Jack was wolf-whistling. Old Mr. Woodshop was grudgingly clapping. My mother was hyperventicrying! And in the back row . . . was that Hannah?
“That was very nicely put, Miss Beaumont-Smith,” said the suited man, his grin bright, but his voice wooden, as if he were reading from a printout of his own. “And it’s always an honor to hear from our students directly. Can we get one more round of applause?”
They clapped. I nodded graciously. Then he cleared his throat.
“As you yourself acknowledged, this is a controversial issue with no clear path to take.”
No clear path? Obviously, repealing the rule was the clear path. Did he not just hear my awesome speech? I opened my mouth to retort, but he spoke into the microphone again, sending a squeal of feedback through the speakers.
“As a matter of fact, we discussed the rule prohibiting same sex dates in a special session yesterday evening . . .” Nailed it! “And it’s our collective decision that we don’t want our schools to be caught in the middle of such a hot-button issue. It would be a distraction to students and a headache for our community.”
A headache? This dude’s announcement was taking a strange turn.
Whatever, I thought, lacing my fingers behind my back. Just get to the part where you change the rule.
“In the end, with the additional tightening of school budgets, the decision that makes the most sense is to abbreviate this year’s homecoming festivities. All other homecoming activities will proceed as planned—the football game, the parade and court, et cetera—but there will be no dance. I hope that answers your question.”
I either sat down or my seat rose to greet me. Either way, I couldn’t move.
No. Dance.
So I was half right. The school board had known in advance. They’d held a “special session.” But the answer wasn’t yes. It was the opposite of yes.
And Cindy Beck was still smiling serenely.
I lifted my printout and tried to control the shaking in my hands long enough to read it, desperate for more talking points, any viable ammunition. But there was nothing written there that could possibly uncancel the homecoming dance.
Behind me, I heard the room bubbling with dissent, gasps becoming angry grumbles. The suited man ignored them.
“If there are no more questions, we’ll proceed to regular—”
“I have a question!”
Adam stood, his iPhone outstretched like a real reporter. His hands were shaking too. I wondered numbly if he’d remembered to hit .
“A clarification, really. Are you saying, sir, that you are preemptively canceling the homecoming dance . . . in order to prevent gay and lesbian students from attending?”
Red crept up the suited man’s neck. “They can attend. They were always welcome to attend.” And now his forehead was beading with sweat. “But if they want to bring a date . . .”
Cindy Beck caught the eye of the suited man and his words faded to nothing. Relieved, he slumped into his chair. Mrs. Beck leaned calmly into her microphone.
I wondered if she would acknowledge the elephant in the room—that her own daughter had come out of the closet less than a week ago. But there was something strange glittering in her mascaraed eyes. Something like triumph.
“We’re a little community, Mr. . . . ?”
Adam swallowed hard. “Cohen.”
Her smile became a wince, as if she pitied him. “I’m guessing you’re not from around here. We don’t like to stir the pot. Make waves.”
She was really laying the Charleston accent on thick.
“We prefer to keep school operations as removed from politics as possible.”
She wrinkled her nose on the word “politics,” like it was a dirty diaper. This wasn’t about politics, though. This was about the lives of students like her daughter. How could she not see that?
Adam perked up. “In that case, follow-up question! Is it true that you’re planning to run for Congress in the next election?”
Cindy Beck pretended to blush. “I have no comment about that at this time.”
A murmur ran through the mini-crowd.
She was running for office. As a conservative, no doubt. And so, to further her political aspirations, she was holding this issue hostage. Her daughter’s issue. My issue.
The room was in an uproar, at least. This time people really were getting up to leave in orderly disgust. I waited for someone to hoist their folding chair and chuck it across the room, starting an uprising, but that didn’t quite happen. All I saw were heads shaking. People picking up their purses.
And in the back, Hannah von Linden rising from her seat, her disappointed smile gleaming across the room. She’d seen me try.
Try and fail.
Worst of all, she’d seen exactly what her community thought of her. To them, she was an Issue. Capital I. A nuisance. A headache.
“No,” I muttered. Adam was putting away his phone, but, glancing at me, he hesitated.
This couldn’t be it. All this build-up, to get shut down on a technicality?
Up at the table, the school board had returned to scheduled business, the mousy woman squeaking into her microphone.
I stood up, and said, again, louder, “No.”
Adam’s eyebrows were raised. He gave a little motion with his head.
Do it.
I drew in a breath. “I have an announcement!”
Now everyone else in the room seemed to freeze, locked in expectant silence. In the back, Hannah mouthed “Daisy,” her eyes flashing alarm and head shaking no.
I was alarmed too. I didn’t have an announcement. My announcement was that I was so mad.
But instead of stomping my feet, I clenched my fist—and said the first thing that popped into my head.
“The homecoming dance will go on!”
Cindy Beck tittered, then grabbed the microphone, nails scratching against it with a long thud. “We just said it won’t, Daisy. Now please—”
“It will not be the official Palmetto High School homecoming dance.”
Somehow I’d found myself standing on my chair, facing the back of the room. Facing Hannah. My voice was erupting out of me without direction from my brain, a medium channeling an avenging spirit.
“It will be better! It will be a homecoming that welcomes home all students, regardless of race, creed, or sexual orientation.”
This was surprisingly good.
Before my brain could catch up with my mouth and shut it down, I said it. The idea. The only possible solution.
“On October twenty-second, we will throw our own homecoming, open to LGBTQIA students and alumni, their same-sex dates, and . . . anyone else who wants to attend.” That didn’t seem like a conclusion, so I nodded seriously and added, “Thank you for your attention to this matter!”
It proved harder to climb down from the chair than onto it. As the room became louder than ever, Adam hurried to offer me a hand, and I thought he was just being nice until he lifted his iPhone to my mouth.
“Have you really just announced a competing homecoming weekend for gay students?”
“Yep,” I said, my cheeks burning with elation. “And you can quote me!”
That was what you were supposed to say to reporters, right? Adam seemed to like it. He trailed me down the aisle as I marched out, flanked by a radiant Sophie and whooping Sean.
“While we’re at it, do you think I could get a follow-up interview?”
“Sure!”
“I’m free Friday, if you are. Around five? Moonlight Coffee Shop . . . scene of the incident?”
“Yeah. Fine. Sounds good.” We’d reached the back of the room, and Hannah was gone. Had she ducked out before or after my announcement?
“See you there.” Adam waved over the heads of the people pushing in front of him.
Mom was waiting for me outside, alone. I braced myself for more tears of maternal pride, but right now, she just looked stunned.
It wasn’t until we’d pulled into our driveway that she cut the ignition and stared at me.
“Honey,” she said. “Do you realize what you’ve just committed to?”
“Yeah.” I shrugged. “Our own homecoming.”
A weekend-long event. Not just a dance. A parade. A court. A football game. Rallies. The whole high school nightmare in one rowdy, impossible to coordinate package.
“Oh my God.” I dropped my head to the dashboard, all the nerves, adrenaline, and seven Coke Zeros finally dropping away.
“I have to throw homecoming.”
11
I assume big news has always traveled fast, via horses, homing pigeons, that Greek guy who died after running a marathon . . .
What the people spilling out of the school board meeting had were cell phones, so my news traveled across James Island in an instant. By the next morning, “Daisy Beaumont-Smith” was a household name—like Rosie the Riveter or Lysol. But was she the brave champion of student rights who defied the bigotry of our school board?
Nah.
I was the girl who got the homecoming dance canceled.
The backlash began before I even got out of Hannah’s car. In fact, it started with Hannah herself.
“I have a question,” she said. “What were you thinking? Exactly?”
There were so many possible responses that I didn’t know which one to grab from the bag, so I pounded on the dashboard and said, “I didn’t want them to win!”
“This was about winning, then.” Hannah shook her head, as if it were so typical of me.
But I was an extremely uncompetitive person. I used to get bored with Monopoly and give my property away to the Community Chest. My scorekeeping in golf was: Let’s see how many times we can hit it back and forth! Hannah was the one in Varsity Tennis and Chess Club, for God’s sake. Didn’t she know me at all?
“No, Hannah,” I blurted. “It was about . . .”
I couldn’t bring myself to say “you.” Even though it was the truth, I knew it would sound like I blamed her, which I didn’t.
“About what’s right. Doing what’s right. For all students. I’d think you would appreciate that.”
She let out her breath, her head lolling toward me. “I do appreciate it. I’m proud of you. Trust me, I am a Daisy aficionado.” Her nose wrinkled. “Did I pronounce that right? You’re the one who did Pimsleur Italian.”
“Perfetto.” I unfastened my seat belt. “Except I’m like eighty-seven percent sure aficionado is Spanish? I could be wrong . . .” But Hannah was still talking.
“I mean . . .” Hannah looked away. “I’m always proud of you. Every time you . . .” She collapsed against the steering wheel. Scrunched her hair. Then sat straight up and stared at me. “Why do you do this to yourself?”
I shook my head. “What?”
“Paint a target on yourself.” Her eyes were glistening. “We go along, everything’s fine and normal, and then you . . .” She waved her hands in the air. “Make a huge announcement. Start an international society of beekeepers—”
“I’ve never done that.” I woul
dn’t rule it out in the future, but . . .
“Decide that you’re going to take over the world—whatever that world is. And people notice. How could they not? It’s like . . .” She stared at her lap, then back up at me. “It’s like you want to be picked on.”
“That’s not true. At all.” I leaned against the door, as far from her as I could get. “That’s what you think of me?”
“No! I . . .” She sighed. “I guess I don’t know what I think. You’re an enigma.”
I snorted, but I kind of liked the sound of it. Eniiiiiigma.
“I just need to put this out there,” she went on. “If you’re doing this for me? You really, really, really don’t have to.”
I slumped against my bag. “What do you mean?”
“I’m good. I am fine. I don’t need all this.”
I shook my head, preparing to lie again. “It’s not just for—”
“Okay,” she interrupted, grabbing her keys. “I get it. We don’t need to talk about it anymore. I just hope you know what you’re doing. And that you’re ready for the pushback.”
Of course I am, I thought. Jeez. What could be worse than the pushback I’d just gotten?
Halfway across the parking lot, I found out.
“Hope you’re happy!” A frizzy-haired senior from the cheerleading team smiled at me with all her teeth, her head cocked way over like a velociraptor.
The petite girl next to her slammed her car door so hard the Hawaiian dancer on the dashboard did a shimmy.
“Way to ruin the year, ho-bag.”
“What did you use to dye your hair, toilet cleaner?”
“Whoa.” I eyed them warily as we passed, muttering, “Do I know you?”
Hannah put her arm around me. “This is what I’m saying. Brace yourself.”
“Nice going,” said some puny freshman, shoulder-checking me as he passed.
“Is that her?” A huddle of sophomore girls glared across the courtyard, then dissolved into snickers. I heard the words “nasty” and “shoes” and stared at my Chucks in alarm. They were a little old, I supposed, but . . .
The Inside of Out Page 9
