Rebels Like Us

by Liz Reinhardt

  Ma’am Lovett smiles reassuringly. “You’re doing just fine. Sometimes stretching yourself hurts, Agnes. But it’s always worth the pain. Are you ready for more?”

  Between studying for finals, planning this crazy prom, and dealing with the fact that Doyle and I are still on shaky ground, the last thing I need is extra reading from my English teacher.

  But I’m always up for a challenge.

  “Sure.”

  She hands me Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon, Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God, and Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man.

  “Enjoy.” She laces that command around the kind of wicked smile that lets me know she’s using the cruelest form of irony.

  “That one made me stay up every night for the last week trying to think things out till my brain hurt.” I nod at the copy of Passing on her desk, and she points to the books tucked into the crook of my elbow.

  “Get ready for more sleepless nights. Scoot before you’re late.”

  I drop the books into my bag and start down the hall, trying to convince myself I’m not looking for Doyle. I’m still not over the fact that he isn’t magically there wherever I am, popping out from a classroom as I’m walking by or rounding a corner just in time to catch me in his arms. I was spoiled by the way he treated me, and I never realized it. Apparently I’m pretty good at brushing off the people who love me most.

  He’s not at my locker at the end of the day, and he’s nowhere near his when I check either. By the time I make it to the parking lot, more than half the cars are long gone, his truck included, and my stomach drops.

  Then tightens when I hear screams. Ansley Strickland is hopping up and down in her cheer uniform, white foam all over her hands and arms. My first instinct is to run over to help, but since it’s Ansley and there doesn’t seem to be any blood or danger to compel me to intercede as a Good Samaritan, I make my way to my own car and lean against the side to watch this spectacle unfold.

  A group of her cheer cohorts stampedes to her rescue. They yank all the doors of her Jeep open, and foam spills out everywhere, covering them while they scream and slide around on the asphalt like some kind of twisted Monty Python sketch gone bad.

  “Who filled my Jeep with shaving cream?” Ansley shrieks. Her entire group runs around her car, flapping their arms like a flock of headless chickens.

  Khabria jogs over to them just as the wailing and hand wringing reaches its peak.

  Don’t these twits use shaving cream every day in the shower? It’s not a burning cross, for God’s sake.

  That’s what I expect Khabria to say (or some version of that at least), but she doesn’t. She’s not freaking out like the other dimwits, but she seems concerned. When she attempts to help sop up some shaving cream, Ansley turns on her like a rabid dog.

  “Don’t you even, Khabria! I bet you were in on this!”

  I move a few steps closer and overhear Khabria explain that she has no idea who did this or why.

  “You have no idea? Really? You must think I’m a damn idiot.” Ansley brushes shaving cream off her arms and shakes it off her fingertips, flecking foam on the other girls, who don’t mutter a single protest. Ansley is like the Red Queen in Alice in Wonderland, terrifying her minions.

  “Ansley, if I had any idea someone was about to do this, I would’ve stopped them or let you know. I don’t think this is funny at all.” Khabria holds up her hands, palms out. Innocent stance.

  But Ansley has already decided Khabria is guilty, and she’s not even contemplating another possible scenario.

  “This Jeep has leather seats. My daddy had seat heaters set in it last winter. If that got screwed up, your daddy’s getting the bill, I swear to God.” She turns to the cowering girls behind her. “Help me clean it out!” she snaps.

  Apparently help me means do it for me in Ansley’s world because while the other girls sprint into action collecting paper towels to deal with the foamy mess, Ansley turns back to Khabria.

  “No one cares about your pathetic little prom, Khabria. I don’t know why y’all gotta attack us because we want to do things according to our traditions.” She wrings out her ponytail and fluffs it. “And if this is about the Rose Court thing, I’m sorry if you’re mad I’m in the lead. I don’t know what to say about that, ’cept when you try to change the way things have always been done, you’re gonna rub people the wrong way.”

  “I have no clue who did this or why, but you need to stop pointing fingers when you have zero facts.” Khabria watches the girls detail Ansley’s car like…well, like cheerleaders at a carwash. She shifts on her white sneakers, not sure where to go because she has no place. I recognize a comrade in total ostracization.

  “Hey, Khabria!” I call out before I think through the ramifications.

  A smug smile curls over Ansley’s face. She raises her eyebrows high and waves Khabria away with her hand. “Go plan your next hilarious prank. But, Khabria?” She waits until she has our undivided attention. “Y’all best watch your backs.”

  Ansley goes back to hyperventilating about the possibility of the foam discoloring the Jeep’s stitching.

  “Sorry.” I lean on my car’s hood and Khabria leans against the bumper.

  “For what?”

  “For making it look like I was your accomplice.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Ansley loves drama, but even she would need evidence she won’t get, since I didn’t do it.” She asks, shaking her head, “How did everything spiral out of control so fast?”

  “No clue.” I squint as the cheerleaders back away from the scrubbed-down Jeep, hands clasped, waiting for the inspection to be complete. Ansley gives a loud whoop when the Jeep’s engine roars to life with no problems. “Although I heard two girls from my computer science class whispering about finding empty chest freezers in the home ec room the other day.” When Khabria gives me a confused look, I nod to the foam slowly melting in the sun. “Frozen shaving cream. My ex did it to his best friend when he graduated. It takes dozens of cans. You break the frozen cream out of the container and…”

  “So, you know how to do this?” Khabria’s voice hitches right on the edge of accusation.

  “Yes.” I clear my throat. “It’s a really common prank, actually.”

  “I never heard of it.” Khabria’s voice is soft. She adjusts her backpack on her shoulders and shrugs. “I gotta go.”

  “I didn’t do it,” I confess, sounding like a criminal who’s trying to weasel out of trouble.

  “I didn’t ask.” She examines her navy fingernail polish.

  “No, but you definitely insinuated. If I did this, I’d fess up. Trust me, I’d want credit. That had to take tons of prep work to pull off. And I don’t think it’s such a huge deal. It’s a prank. And a funny one.”

  “’Cept whoever did it hurt Ansley’s pride. She’s gonna retaliate, and it may not be so innocent when she does.”

  “Do you think she did the thing with the cross at my house?” I ask just as she’s turning on her heel to leave.

  Her shoulders buckle. “I don’t know what I think about anyone or anything anymore. I don’t know how it went from wantin’ to go to some stupid dance with someone I love to everything I care about falling apart.” She opens her mouth to say more, then seems to think better of it.

  I watch as she marches away, then I get in my car.

  But not before I check it carefully, inside and out…for what, I don’t know.

  THIRTY

  To think this started when a bunch of jerks of all races got together to whine about prom colors and themes.

  After someone interrupted our pity party with a hate crime, Alonzo and his posse went roaming, but I didn’t hear about it resulting in anything more than cruising around and talking crap.

  What I told Khabria is true; I did overhear Telly and Manda—a couple in my computer science class who had recently come out and wanted to attend the alternaprom—making plans to freeze a ton of something just before
a ton of frozen shaving cream wound up in Ansley’s Jeep. There wasn’t a race issue keeping Telly and Manda from prom, but I asked around and no queer student had ever gone to prom with his or her partner in the history of Ebenezer proms, black or white. Bids to both segregated proms were sold one per couple, and it was an unwritten rule that the couple had to consist of one guy and one girl. Single prom goers had to pay the two-person bid price even if they couldn’t find anyone to go with them. We made sure it was clear that alternaprom welcomed any Ebenezer student regardless of race or sexual orientation, and our bids were sold as single tickets.

  Ansley drove home in a fury once her Jeep was clean, clearly with thoughts of revenge dancing in her head. She got online and, through the almighty power of social media, whipped up a frenzy she labeled “promoting school pride” with her long-winded “keep Ebenezer great and respect our traditions” posts. The next day Ebenezer looked like a Dukes of Hazzard promotional tour gone so, so wrong.

  Before I moved to Georgia, I rarely saw a Confederate flag, and every time I see one here, I flinch. It’s like a blasé reminder that I’m not welcome or should be on guard or have to watch my back. But, the day after Ansley’s Jeep debacle, I had only to walk the halls of Ebenezer for a single hour surrounded by Confederate flag handkerchiefs, belt buckles, Tshirts, and stickers on binders, before I was cured of Confederate-flag flinching for the rest of my life.

  Was it because I was forced to face the root of my discomfort or simple desensitization?

  “What’s going on?” I ask Doyle, hating that one of the few precious minutes I get with him is being bogged down with this particular craziness.

  Short the white students who signed up to go to alternaprom, every other one of my pigment-deprived classmates is decked out like the star of some hokey honky-tonk video. The defiant flag wearers are met with curled lips and sneers from a pretty wide spectrum of the rest of the school population, and the vibe is more tense than ever in the halls of Ebenezer.

  Doyle’s expression is grim. “More of Ansley’s damn nonsense. I’ll see if I can talk some sense into her.”

  “Isn’t it against dress code to wear the Confederate flag?” I get it’s a long shot, since I’ve seen kids with Confederate flag paraphernalia before today, but I figure it might be one of those things teachers ignore every now and then. En masse, maybe it’s a violation the administration can enforce. Any hopes that this might get handled by semireasonable adults before it causes a riot are dashed by Doyle’s wry look. “I mean, it wasn’t allowed at my old school,” I finish lamely.

  “Nes, you know you ain’t in Brooklyn anymore.”

  He hesitates before he leans in to me like he wants to kiss me, then backs out after an awkward hug. As he rushes off, I attempt to squash the feeling of intense jealousy that wells up in me. I know he’s going to find Ansley to have an argument, but I guess it’s the point that he’s on a mission to hunt her down while he’s simultaneously attempting to avoid me.

  Two periods later, as we walk into the cafeteria together, Alonzo fills me in on everything that went down. “Your boy was pissed off. He got right up in Princess Ansley’s face and let her have it until the art teacher came and told him to get to class.” Alonzo puts a hand up to his mouth and laughs, shaking his head. “You should’ve seen her opening and shutting those big ole pouty lips like some giant blond trout. Even her little friends were laughin’ at her. Funny as hell.”

  I should be happy, I guess, but I’m not. I’m just waiting for what’s next. Khabria pointed out that Ansley doesn’t deal well with hurt pride, and now Doyle will be in her crosshairs.

  I can’t help looking over my shoulder obsessively for the next few days. Doyle’s busy with his ag project and getting the word out about the winning song/theme for alternaprom—“Stand by Me,” chosen by Doyle himself and sung to me soulfully in his truck one day after school. When I hesitated, he put it on repeat until he had me singing along and agreeing it was crazy brilliant.

  Who can argue with Ben E. King?

  And I can’t argue with Doyle Rahn, especially not when he’s on fire.

  Doyle says I’m going to need to lock myself in a panic room if I don’t calm down and stop assuming some kind of crazy backlash is coming after his confrontation with Ansley.

  But I can’t help waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  THIRTY-ONE

  It’s the end of another long, tense, hot-as-hell school day. Khabria’s little brother, Khalil, is hoping we’ll let sophomores attend the alternaprom so that he can impress his new girlfriend, who’s on the cheer team. We’re working on the bids in an empty classroom, and, mostly to get Khalil to stop whining, Doyle tosses him the keys and sends him to grab the binder that’s on the seat of his truck.

  “I guess I’m missing my Future Farmers guest speaker,” Doyle whispers as he glances at the time on his phone. “But if I had to hear that kid mope about prom for another second, I was gonna lose it.”

  “You’re missing a Future Farmers meeting?” I feign shock. “But what if the speaker is addressing cotton fleahoppers?”

  “Impossible.” Doyle grins. “I’m giving that talk at the next meeting. This’ll be the first meeting I’ve missed since freshman year. I hope this prom is worth it.” He winks at me, and my heart truffle shuffles shamelessly.

  A minute later, frantic screams send chills rushing up and down my neck. We all go still and stare at each other before everyone jumps up and rushes to the door.

  “Khalil!” Khabria screams as Alonzo runs into the classroom, Khalil in his arms.

  “I called 911! Ambulance is on its way! We need cold water, ice, now!”

  “This way!” Doyle knocks over a chair as he rushes to the cafeteria.

  “Go, go with them,” I urge Khabria, who’s doing that heartbreaking, openmouthed silent scream, hand clamped over her face. “I’ll wait for the ambulance.”

  I check the nurse’s office, but she left for the day. I pace just inside the front until the ambulance pulls up with a screech. I push through the doors and jog outside, waving my arms over my head like a castaway trying to get spotted by a ship.

  “Here! He’s in here!” I run, they follow, and we all burst into the cafeteria together.

  Khabria has her arms around her brother. She’s rocking him back and forth and running her hand over his head. Doyle holds a huge stainless-steel mixing bowl Alonzo dumps cupfuls of ice into.

  “It’s okay, little man. You’re gonna be fine,” Alonzo soothes.

  “What happened here?” the tiny female EMT asks, immediately moving in to check Khalil’s heart rate and blood pressure.

  Khalil is crying so hard, his face is coated in tears and snot. “I—I—I went to the parking lot. I opened the truck door and the handle…the handle was burnin’ up!”

  “It was pretty hot today,” the EMT says, nodding to her partner, a quiet, nervous-looking guy. Gently, he lifts Khalil’s hand from the water, and I’m not the only one who gasps.

  “This is third degree,” he says, his voice hardening. “This wasn’t just the sun. In fact, I can’t imagine this happening by accident.”

  The woman EMT gives her partner a death stare and shakes her head quickly, then asks if anyone put any ointment or cream of any kind on Khalil’s hand. I look over at Doyle, who’s already backing away, his eyes wide, his face pale.

  Alonzo has his arm around Khabria, and the EMTs are doing a solid job reassuring Khalil that he’s going to be fine. I follow Doyle.

  “Hey.” I grab him by the elbow. His entire body is shaking.

  “There’s dozens of people who know I never skip a Future Famers meeting. If it wasn’t an accident, then Khalil is hurt ’cause someone was goin’ after me. I plan to find out who that is.” He turns and runs, his boots thudding on the linoleum.

  I follow him to the parking lot where people are milling around, some with phones out, a few cheerleaders huddled and crying wetly.

  “Get the hell away
from my truck,” Doyle snarls, pushing past shocked classmates.

  He reaches a hand out, then hesitates. He brushes his fingertips over the metal door handle and snatches them back. He turns to glare at the group assembled, and the ferocious expression on his face sends more than a few people stumbling back. “Who did this?”

  No one answers. There’s a lot of murmuring, a lot of shuffling feet.

  “You damn cowards! Who did this?” Doyle bellows. “Khalil Scott is sitting in the cafeteria nursin’ some third-degree burns that were meant for me. So come on out, whoever did it! Come and let’s fight it out, here and now. ’Cause this shit ends today!”

  “Look, Doyle, no one saw nothin’, I swear. We all been out here since Lonzo brought the kid in, e’rybody’s been askin’ the same thing you are. Nobody’s happy ’bout what happened.” Critter tries to move closer to Doyle, but Doyle shoots daggers pointedly at the Confederate flag bandanna hanging out of Critter’s front pocket.

  I’m pretty sure Critter had that same bandanna tied around his biceps the day we went mudding, but everything’s been twisted a thousand different ways since that laid-back day of fun. Doyle snaps his arms out, daring anyone to come near.

  “Well, somebody heated that door handle up, likely with a blowtorch, so I don’t believe for a second none of y’all knows nothing about it. This wasn’t no accident. Now some kid got hurt over something that’s got nothing to do with him. I want this ended before another innocent kid pays the price.”

  Doyle glares in turn at each of his classmates, but no one meets his eyes or comes forward with any information. Not that they would after the way he cut Critter down.

  A squad car bumps along the gravel drive that leads to the parking lot, and my heart dives into my stomach. I close my eyes and ball my hands in Doyle’s T-shirt, shrinking behind him as panic sets in. He puts an arm around me and drags me to his side protectively. I turn my head into his chest and take deep, steady breaths. My body sags with relief when the door opens and it’s not Officer Hickox.