Rebels Like Us

by Liz Reinhardt

  “What’s this thing called?” I point so I don’t have to play botanical Mad Libs based on the plant unit I completed back in fourth grade.

  “The stigma.” He runs the tip of one finger across it, and the whorls of his fingertip are dusted in gold pollen.

  “These are gorgeous, Doyle. What are they? Did you plant them?”

  “They’re swamp hibiscuses, and I did. Usually the Rose Court nominees sell carnations for Valentine’s Day—”

  “Not roses?” I ask.

  “Too expensive, I guess.

  “Other than that, there’s always a bake sale table for the Daughters of Georgia. The drama club does these romantic fortune cookies, and there’s a dunking booth run by the captains of the guys’ sports teams—”

  “A dunking booth?” I interrupt.

  “Yeah. Sports are pretty big ’round here, in case you didn’t notice—”

  “You don’t say,” I drawl as I roll my eyes.

  His grin is laced with evil. “Think for a second ’bout all the girls who’ve been burned by these guys who think they’re God’s gift to women jest ’cause they have decent hand-eye coordination. Now imagine what a girl’d pay for tickets to toss baseballs at ’em and watch ’em get half-drowned on Valentine’s Day.”

  “That’s so sexist and crazy and—”

  “Genius?” He waits for my reluctant nod before he informs me, “Dunking booth always makes a killing.”

  “You didn’t want to run a kissing booth? I bet you’d have a line out the door.” I smile like I love my joke, even though the thought of Doyle doling out his kisses drives me insane.

  “Would’ya buy a ticket?” He waggles his eyebrows. “Mebbe all the tickets?”

  “In your dreams, Rahn.” Or mine. But he doesn’t have to know that…

  “Ansley and the cheerleaders usually corner the flower market with the Rose Court’s carnations ’cause they sell ’em so cheap, but I wanted to do something a li’l different this year.” He tugs my hand and we stroll up and down the rows. Delicate pink petals nod as we pass and release an intoxicating perfume. “Anyway, kissing booths ain’t really my thing. Now, flowers…?”

  “You have more than a green thumb. You’ve got…like, a Doyle and the Beanstalk thing going here.” I drag my fingers along loamy dirt and across terra-cotta pots. “This…this is definitely your thing.”

  “What grows is, yeah.” He stops and examines one wilted-looking flower with the care a doctor would lavish on a preemie. “If I could live in the dirt year-round, I would. It’s like my whole world can be crumbling ’round me, but I get to digging, bring something to life from dirt and seeds, and I feel like a whole man. You know what I mean?”

  “I do.” Theoretically. It’s been a while since I’ve done anything I feel that passionate about. “So what’s the plan for these bad boys?”

  “They’re on the buy slips for Valentine’s, and the proceeds’ll go to more greenhouse equipment for the Ag Club.” He draws the edge of this thumb along one thin stem, and I find myself feeling jealous of a flower.

  “Very noble. I’ll make sure I buy one for somebody.” I turn and pretend to be engrossed in a flower.

  “Somebody? You got a sweetheart?” He leans back with his hands on the table behind us, lifting himself on his arms. Every muscle in his upper body bulges, and I flip-flop between the urge to roll my eyes and taking a long look.

  “Maybe I do. A lady never tells.” I peek at him from the corner of my eye. “How about you? Do you think you’ll be getting a carnation from someone special? A dozen someone specials? The Doyle Rahn fan club has to be reaching maximum membership at this point. I mean, you are the reigning Homecoming King…”

  He rolls his eyes and turns to the flowers as I giggle-snort over the same joke I’ve been softballing at him since Ansley’s little theatrical stunt in English.

  “You’re never gonna let me live it down, are ya?” he sighs.

  “I just feel so misled.” I snicker. “I mean, if I knew I was in the presence of the all-powerful Homecoming King, I might have shown some proper respect. You’re Ebenezer royalty after all,” I tease. “Lonzo seemed bummed about losing. We didn’t have homecoming at Newington. Was it that big of a deal here?”

  “More stupid traditions people take way too seriously is all.” He stops arranging the leaves under one flower and says, “Tell ya the truth, I don’t think I won fair and square.”

  “Wait. What?” Doyle has this “knights of Camelot” sense of honor and justice. I cannot imagine he’d throw that out the window for a stupid high school popularity contest.

  “Ansley honestly and truly thought if she and I paraded around with those goofy crowns on our heads and danced in the school gym as Homecoming King and Queen, I’d forget she thought I was trash that needed fixin’.” He sinks his fingers into the dark soil and his face instantly relaxes, like the soil is calming. “Like Lonzo says, you don’t run. You get nominated. Ansley made all my posters and talked her cronies into voting for me. I wanted nothing to do with it, and I was pretty sure I’d never win. When they called my name and led me up to the stage, she whispered that she ‘made sure it happened for us.’ That it was ‘part of our fate.’”

  “Well, that makes sense, at least for Ansley. I’m positive corruption will be a huge part of her fate.” I can’t help a little dig. “But did she think you’d be happy she… What did she even do? Stuff the ballot boxes?”

  “I don’t have a clue, but I hate that I got up there and accepted what was probably Lonzo’s crown.” He balls his soil-dusted fingers into a tight fist. “If I had any way to prove it wasn’t legit or figure out what Ansley coulda done, I would’ve blown the whole thing wide-open. But she’s sneaky, and the last thing I wanted to do was show more interest in the whole homecoming mess.”

  “That’s crazy.” I lean closer to him.

  “Yeah. E’rybody thought I was the one’d be broken up when Ansley and I weren’t a couple, but the truth was, I prolly coulda gotten a restraining order. Ansley Strickland’s not used to hearin’ the word no.”

  “Definitely noticed she doesn’t give up easily.” I give him a wicked grin. “Do you think you’ll wind up with an unwanted bouquet of carnations from a persistent ex?”

  “Nah. Ansley ain’t gonna send me crap. Never did when we were together. Ansley’s of the opinion that men give presents and women receive, period. She’ll get Clint and a few of her ‘secret admirers’ to buy a whole flat. She’d never dare walk around with less than a couple pounds of flowers on Valentine’s.” There’s a soggy bitterness to his retelling, like he’s both disappointed and bored by it all.

  “Well, I’m perfectly happy knowing I’ll probably be flowerless tomorrow.”

  I cringe. I meant to say it with this kind of swagger, a badass-single-lady-feminist vibe but I gave off more of an I’m-desperate-for-you-to-buy-me-flowers jam. Gross.

  Doyle doesn’t seem to overthink it though. He stops showing off his impressive pecs and leans close to me. “No way in hell you won’t get a flower tomorrow, Nes.”

  So, yes, I’m a little giddy when ballots are passed out at afternoon homeroom, and I see people scribbling down the orders they’ll pick up at the booths tomorrow. It’s only when I actually read the form that I get a sick feeling. I find Doyle by his truck when the bell rings, but he doesn’t look freaked out, and I relax. Maybe I misread?

  “Hey, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” His grin is so happy, I’m sure I made a mistake.

  But the pessimist in me wants to double-check.

  “I tried to order one of your flowers, but they weren’t on the form.”

  His smile collapses. Dammit. I was right.

  I hold out the red photocopied order form, and it lists the four other items that can be purchased for Valentine’s Day and the clubs the money will go to—but Doyle’s Ag Club swamp hibiscus is missing.

  “I was in the greenhouse during homeroom, so I didn’t see this. I don’t get it.
” He flips the paper over, like he’s expecting to find something hidden in the fine print. “I put the paperwork in weeks ago. Never even thought to check it. I jest assumed… Dammit! What am I gonna do with all them flowers if nobody ordered any?” He half crumples the form, but I pluck it from his hand.

  “Who runs off the forms?” I demand.

  “I don’t know. School spirit club?”

  “Spirit club?” I cock an eyebrow. “So cheerleaders?”

  He smacks the flat of his palm to his forehead. “What the hell did I ever see in that snake of a girl?”

  “Maybe she’s trying to force you to share a table with her any way she can.”

  “All those weeks spent growing all them plants for nothing.” He looks exactly as crestfallen as he looked excited in the greenhouse.

  “Not for nothing. So you’re not on the paper ballot. Okay, it’s not like people leave school and go milk cows and read by candlelight. They have phones. And laptops. And social media.”

  His face brightens for a nanosecond before it falls. “But we’re so behind already. Do we have time to do this? Plus it ain’t jest sellin’. The spirit club helps with distribution and money and all that. I was planning to be at school by four to get the flowers all cut fresh, but I don’t have time to do the rest.”

  “If there’s one thing I’m gifted at, it’s figuring out an emergency plan B when my original plan falls apart.”

  “You’d help me?” His gives me a shameless puppy-dog grin.

  “Just because I don’t believe that stick in my backyard will grow doesn’t mean I’m a plant hater. I like flowers.”

  His smile pulls wider. “So, what do we do, boss?”

  I embrace the heady power of organizing. It’s strange to not have Ollie running interference for me like she usually would, and I recognize that will mean details will fall through the cracks. I’m okay with that. In the immortal words of Mark Zuckerberg, “Done is better than perfect.”

  And, holy crap, do Doyle and I get it done.

  “Meet me at the greenhouse in five, no shirt, with a marker.”

  “What was that now?” Doyle’s expression is half pleased, half terrified.

  “You. Biceps. Flowers. Marker. Five minutes. Go!” I shove him away and head to the cafeteria, where I notice some of the cardboard milk-delivery trays lying around. After batting my lashes at a friendly custodian, I walk away with my arms full.

  “Shirt off.” I nod to Doyle when I reach the greenhouse, and he tugs his shirt over his head from the neck, his face pink as a hibiscus. “Marker,” I demand, telling myself to stay professional while I ink his skin. “What are you charging for these?”

  “Two bucks each.” He holds his arms straight out on either side, and I neatly calligraph Southern Hibiscus for Your Belle, $2 each, All Proceeds to Support the Ag Club on his warm, tanned skin. I have to press a palm to the hard, flat expanse of his pecs to steady my hand.

  “Done. Pose.” I point my camera phone.

  “Pose?” He looks over his shoulder, like he’s hoping a troupe of male models is behind him.

  “Yes, Doyle Rahn. You. Pose. Now.” I sigh when he freezes, stiff as a statue. “Do that thing you did before.”

  “What thing?”

  Now it’s my turn to glow pink. “When you leaned. With your arms…and the muscles.” I sigh with impatience and demonstrate.

  “Aw, that?” He slides back on his hands and gives me a suggestive smile. “So you were eyein’ me before?”

  I snap clusters of pictures. “Well, it was hard to ignore your shameless posing. Yes, you got my attention for all the wrong reasons. I hope you’re proud.”

  “As a peacock.”

  I flip through the shots. Once he stopped posing like a spooked ice sculpture and started flirting with me, the camera ate him up. Choosing one shot isn’t easy, but I do the hard work and send him the best picture.

  “Who would be happy to get a sexy Doyle Rahn picture they could share on their social media?” He opens his mouth to protest, but I shake my head. “Don’t get all pretend-humble. Send. Now. To as many people as you can. And when you run out of Doyle admirers, send to Ansley haters.”

  After twenty nonstop minutes of texting and messaging across social media platforms, Doyle says, “Done. That all?”

  “Not quite. Rose Court, drama, sports, Daughters of Georgia, and Ag Club have booths. Who else is there who’s has never had a role in this whole Valentine’s mania but wants one?”

  Twenty minutes later, he has the glee club, the dance club, the majorettes, and the band geeks enlisted in his scheme. A posse agrees to get to school early, glitter in hand, and decorate.

  “You’ll be there, right?” Doyle’s dragging his shirt back over his head as we walk to the parking lot.

  I’d be proud for resisting the urge to sneak one last shirtless peek…if I didn’t have those pictures of him saved on my phone. “I’m going to see this campaign through,” I promise. When I get to my car, there’s an awkward moment where I feel like we both want to say or do something that’s probably not a good idea…

  It’s the flowers. The partial male nudity, the muscles. The single-on-V-Day blues. That’s what makes me think telling him he’s adorable and planting a kiss on that handsome mouth is a good idea when it’s obviously not.

  “See you in the morning,” I say instead. If I burn a little rubber leaving the lot, it’s all in the name of attempting to make good choices.

  I’m pissed about my choices when my alarm goes off at an ungodly hour the next morning. I try not to put too much thought into what I wear because this is just me helping a nice guy, not some whole thing where I’m buying into the Valentine’s Day romance machine.

  I do select a very flattering pink V-neck and some lipstick Ollie swears makes me look ten times hotter instantly. It is a holiday after all. I listen to an old Fernando Villalona CD Mama Patria made for me years ago, and my feet tap out the unrushed step movements of the merengue I wish I could practice with a certain lavender-eyed partner.

  I get to school and am surprised at how full the parking lot is. When I push through the main doors, I’m doubly surprised to find Doyle standing in the middle of some serious controlled chaos, calling out orders and compliments like a jolly foreman.

  “What’s up?” I ask Doyle as I try to get a grip on all the crazy activity going on around him. The drab cardboard boxes I grabbed yesterday have been given a glitter-and-paint makeover. There’s an assembly line of hibiscus arrangers, a small section of the band practicing what sounds like Frankie Valli’s “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You,” a dance troupe arrangement, and a hibiscus face-painting station.

  Khabria is clapping her hands and shouting, “Okay, listen up for your duty station. I’m only telling you one time!” Groups of students scramble to their feet.

  “Your ideas, in motion.” He gestures at the sea of giggling students. “You’re a genius.”

  “I guess I am.” I’ve never had a campaign go so well so quickly… Doyle’s charisma is a powerful tool. The two hours to homeroom fly by because there’s glitter to sprinkle and signs to make and cash boxes to set up.

  A full-service dunking booth goes up outside the main entrance doors. Trays of fortune cookies with heart-shaped red paper slips are arranged. A huge table of sweet baked goods with lacy napkins and wax-paper wrappings is like a Pinterest dream. The saddest table by far is for the Rose Court’s carnations. It’s clear they’ve spent many years getting by on popularity instead of effort.

  Khabria holds a wax paper–covered treat out to me. “I saved you a lemon bar. Thought you’d be hungry after getting here at dawn to help Doyle.”

  “Khabria, this is amazing.” I nod to the Daughters of Georgia table. “So you didn’t want to sell with the other cheerleaders at the Rose Court table?”

  “Nah. My granny’s been on me to join the Daughters of Georgia since forever. Plus the Rose Court table’s always full. I’m just an extra there. Here? I�
�m kinda like a celebrity.” She waves at the group of beaming girls who are clearly over the moon that Khabria Scott decided to join their club.

  “And Ansley didn’t mind?” I ask, but back up when Khabria glares at me.

  “Ansley Stickland is not my keeper.” She grimaces at the table full of sulky cheerleaders, jealously looking at the fun going on around them while Ansley barks orders to try to last-minute resuscitate their anemic table. “Let’s just say I’m not too good at following rules, so I’m on the outs with my squad at the moment.”

  “I hear that. Thank you for the best freaking lemon bar in the world.” I’d rather be struck by lightning than admit this to my abuela, but these lemon bars are almost as good as her mantecaditos. Almost.

  Khabria smiles and heads back to her table, and we wait for the crowds with our breaths held.

  When students stream off buses and out of cars, Doyle’s Darlings (not my idea) get to work hocking their flowers with an enthusiasm that would’ve made Eliza Doolittle proud. Soon the halls bloom with pink hibiscus flowers tucked behind ears and stuck in buttonholes, on makeshift wrist corsages, or clutched in fists. Apparently the spirit table was a little elitist to potential shoppers. Our man-of-the-people advertising strategy gave Doyle a serious leg up. Everyone has from bus arrival to the end of homeroom bell to enjoy the festivities, and the atmosphere at Ebenezer feels distinctly carnivalesque.

  I watch a girl with an awesome arm hurl baseball after baseball at a target outside the dunking booth, dropping a tall, panicked-looking guy into the sloshing water over and over.

  “This is for standing me up last Friday! And this is for the Snapchats you sent that girl from Screven! And this is for saying I throw like a girl!” she screams as baseballs fly.

  Everyone cheers like it’s any other fun activity, and I hustle over to the fortune cookie table before I witness any more dunking booth drama. I grab one cookie for charity’s sake and crack it open to read my fortune.

  “‘The very essence of romance is uncertainty—Oscar Wilde,’” I read as I crunch on the cookie. Doyle does make me question everything I thought I knew… Is that how true romance begins?