Rebels Like Us

by Liz Reinhardt

  “Afternoon, y’all. I’m Officer Tomlin. Station got a report there was an accident here. I’m gonna need y’all to stay put while we get your information. Don’t be nervous now. Just tell us whatever it is you might’ve seen, no matter how insignificant you might think it is. You never know what might help. Officer Washington will be helping me get down the information today.”

  He waves his hand at his squad car, and a young, seriously good-looking guy gets out and walks over without making eye contact. There’s an explosion of frantic whispers, and when I look to Doyle to explain, he leans down and says, “He’s Lonzo’s cousin. Went here a few years back. Heard he joined the air force, but I guess he’s on the police force now. Prolly partied with the brothers and sisters of half the kids here back in the day. He had a pretty wild rep.”

  The two of them make the rounds, and when Officer Tomlin gets to me, I offer up a wobbly, nervous smile. I wonder if it was on purpose that two black officers were sent out. How many of the force are minority? How many are women?

  When did I start thinking about things like the racial and gender breakdown of a local police force?

  I guess when it started mattering to me personally.

  “Your name, darlin’?” he asks.

  I ignore that he called me darlin’. It was a nice, fatherly kind of thing anyway, not at all pervy. “Agnes Murphy-Pujols.”

  He pauses, pen hovering over his pad. “You’re the young lady organizing the desegregated prom?”

  “One of them, sir,” I say, proud I remembered my sir.

  “Good work you’re doing. The force took up a collection to donate to your fund. I hope you kids have fun.” He smiles, and, stupidly, I’m choked with tears.

  “Thank you,” I croak out, and I have to roll my eyes to stop myself from bawling on his shoulder. To stop myself from sobbing in front of the kind officer, I picture him passing around a hat to collect funds for our alternaprom, and Hickox having to dig into his cowardly pockets to pull his donation out.

  Imagining the way he must have squirmed helps still my quivering emotions.

  The rest of the interview involves me telling the few things I know about what happened to Khalil. I’m not sure if I should, but I tell him about Ansley’s car, the Confederate flag bonanza, and Doyle’s talking to her (downplaying exactly how it was rumored he conducted the conversation). By the time I’m finishing up, Principal Armstrong is making his way to the lot.

  He looks beyond tired. He looks haggard.

  “How’s the Scott boy, Principal?” Officer Tomlin asks.

  “He’s badly burned, but he’s getting the best care there is, Officer Tomlin. The doctor assured us he’ll make a full recovery.” He eyes me and seems to buckle under an extra dose of weariness. “When you’re through, maybe we could take this to my office?”

  “I can come with you now.” Officer Tomlin gives me a parting smile. “Thank you for all your help, Agnes.”

  I feel another tiny burst of satisfaction when Principal Armstrong’s mouth twists, but it’s extinguished too fast to elevate my deflated feelings. Doyle is leaning against his truck, hands stuffed in his pockets, kicking gravel.

  I stand next to him and duck low to catch a glimpse of his glower. “You okay?”

  The way he shakes his head, it’s like the weight of this entire disaster is pinned on his shoulders. “Did you see the burns on his hand?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “I did.”

  He slides his hands out of his pockets and holds them open, palms up, staring at his calloused, unburned skin. “It was supposed to be me.”

  “It’s not your fault.” I press my hands, palm to palm, against his.

  “I’m the one got up in Ansley’s face.” He threads his fingers through mine, then lets out this heavy sigh like he’s been waiting for this, like he can breathe now that we’re touching each other this way again.

  “You think this was Ansley?” I’m tight-roping between the thrill of our closeness and the fear of having it snatched away.

  “Not exactly like I can picture her with a blowtorch, but, yeah, if I had to make a bet, I’d say it traces back to her. Most likely she asked someone to do it. Or paid ’em to.” He tugs me closer, tucks my head under his chin and blows out a breath that tickles my ear. “Problem is, when’s it gonna stop?”

  I wrap my arms around his waist. He was always thin, but now I can feel the bones of his hips and ribs. “We could call off the alternaprom.”

  He makes a gruff sound deep in his throat. “We can’t. It’s the one good thing I’ve ever done. It’s something we need to do, no matter what anyone else says.”

  “I don’t know if we can clean up a couple of centuries of residual craziness in the last few weeks before graduation.” I tilt my head back and look up at him. “Maybe we just keep our heads down until this is all done with.”

  Finally, like the first sunny day of spring after a polar-vortex winter, Doyle Rahn cracks the widest, warmest smile I’ve ever seen. “Agnes Murphy-Pujols thinks we should keep our heads down.” He tilts his face to the sky and stays that way for a few long seconds.

  “What?” I ask, looking up and failing to see what he’s staring at.

  “Aw, I was waiting for the bolt of lightning to come crack us on the head or somethin’. Never thought I’d hear those words outta your mouth.” He laughs as I deliver a few light jabs to his bony ribs.

  “I can change,” I mutter as he bats away my hands.

  He abandons the smile and goes serious. “Don’t.”

  “Change?” The word barely squeaks out.

  “Never.” He drops those lilac eyes like he’s ashamed. “Even if some asshole tells you to. Don’t listen to ’im.”

  “I won’t then.” I attempt a laugh, but it gets tangled, and he winds up making the same confused sound.

  Somewhere, in the midst of that uncertainty, a chunk of tension melts away. I decide to seize the moment.

  “I may be perfect the way I am, but you need some work.” I pop a hip to the side and cross my arms, studying beautiful, complicated Doyle Rahn.

  “Is that right?” He strokes his chin, thinking. “You got somethin’ specific in mind?”

  “I think you need to go on a date.”

  Those blond eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “We’re in the middle of the second War of Northern Aggression, and you wanna go muddin’?”

  “What’s going on here isn’t something either one of us can fix. And I have no intention of going muddin’, Doyle. I’m asking you on an honest to God, dress-up-nice, go-out-somewhere-with-cloth-napkins-and-low-lighting date. Would you like to go out with me Friday night?”

  “I work this Friday,” he says, staring at me with a look I interpret as slightly mesmerized and totally confused.

  “Saturday night then.” I was so sure he’d jump on the invite, I’m a little nervous now.

  “Do you want me to wear a white suit and bring my corncob pipe?” I calm down a little at how cartoonishly huge his eyes are.

  So huge they might explode into animated beating hearts at any second. It’s a good sign, I think.

  “Save it for the prom. Casual nice.”

  “Like khakis?” He frowns.

  “Less Future Farmers of America conference, more night in Savannah with your hot—” I’m about to say girlfriend, but I’m not. Am I? Whether or not I am or will be, it’s not something I’m wasting time figuring out now. “—date. Your hot date.”

  He nods like a fool. “She sure is.” Then he grabs me by the wrist and inches me to him until we’re as close as we can get.

  For one blink of his golden lashes, I’m sure he’ll pull back the way he has been these past weeks, but he leans in and kisses me, soft and sweet on the lips like he means it this time, and my blood crackles like it’s been lit on fire. When he pulls back to speak, it’s in the intimate space between our pressed-together foreheads.

  “I never thought I’d be lucky enough to have a girl like you a
sk me on a date.”

  “What does that even mean?” Stars spin inside my cranium. “‘A girl like me’?”

  He stops short and kisses me again, not stopping until he wrangles a moan from me. “Good point. There ain’t no other girl like you. Thank the Lord.”

  I’m pretty sure it’s a compliment, so I take it and another kiss—still sweeter than I really want, but deeper and hotter than the last one—before I watch him pause, grip the now-cooled door handle, and drive a little too fast out of the parking lot of mayhem, honking and waving like a fool as he goes.

  THIRTY-TWO

  “Oh my God. Was he badly hurt? Will he be okay?” Ollie’s voice is a huge comfort, as always. These last months have helped me realize how important the people I love are to me.

  Tonight I multitask, filling her in on every crazy thing that’s gone down recently as I put on my makeup and try to decide what I’m going to wear on my date with Doyle. Getting ready for a date is stressful, but wholly unlike what I’ve gone through lately at school. It’s the good kind of stress.

  Mostly.

  Now that the floodgates in my brain have opened and Ma’am Lovett has pumped me full of mind-altering fiction and we might be on the brink of martial law at Ebenezer High—where fury seems to be constantly bubbling just under the surface of every interaction—I can’t look at anything the same way I did before.

  Tiny things dig at me, like the fact that none of the upscale drugstores my mom loves in Savannah carry the kind of makeup that works for my skin tone. On a totally ordinary shopping trip, I find myself wondering why the black beauty products are all clumped in one specific section, like no one white or Asian might want a do-rag or olive oil–based conditioner. Or maybe they’re being hidden—or maybe there’s no way they could be placed next to all the “normal” hair-care products? I don’t know what the real answer is, but the ones I come up with make me sick to my stomach.

  I start to notice the people who see me as a smart-mouthed black girl instead of a nice, upstanding young lady. There are the clerks who eye me warily when I run my fingers over racks of expensive jeans they assume I can’t afford and might steal. Or the guys who check me out but look undecided—black guys, white guys, and every color in between—like they’re not sure if they’re supposed to like what they see. I always walk away with my chin up, but it isn’t always easy.

  For every person who excludes me or acts like I don’t fit, there’s someone reaching out to claim me as a member of their tribe. I’m not sure if I fit or don’t fit, who I belong with, if I’m passing, or what exactly I could be passing as…if that’s what’s going on in the first place.

  My brain hurts. I need a night of pure, mindless fun to clear it and hit the reset button.

  “Khalil was hurt pretty badly, but Khabria said he should be able to play basketball in the winter. Which is good, because he’s really bummed he won’t be healed in time for football training camp this summer.” My hands shake a little as I mix two foundations together in my palm, trying to get the perfect match for my freckled, dark-but-not-that-dark, light-but-not-that-light skin. “There was more crap. Sugar in gas tanks. Lug nuts that got loosened. Lockers broken into, bleach poured on uniforms, laxatives in water bottles. Bad, bad crap.”

  Ollie gasps, pulling the phone too close to her face, and it’s disarming the way she seems so close. Even though I know, sadly, she’s not. “Why didn’t you call?”

  “Because you had to practice for the senior showcase. Thao just got back from his tournament—tell him I said congratulations on placing third by the way! You already spent a ton of time on the website for the alternaprom—have I thanked you for that lately?”

  Her grin is shy and completely pleased. “Only a million times in the last week. I told you, no sweat.”

  “Lots of sweat,” I counter. “Buckets of it, and you could have been using that sweat practicing. The good news is, I get out of this hellhole in May, so I’ll be there for senior recitals.”

  I watch Ollie’s eyes widen. “Wha…? Are you serious?” She pops up on her knees and bounces on her bed, excited as a puppy.

  I miss her excitement! I miss all the uncomplicated, constant fun we had. I miss her unwavering loyalty and the way she understood—with a single look—me, the real me, the me I wish everyone else could step back and see. I miss my best friend so badly, I ache.

  “Yep. Graduation is earlier here, thank God.” She purses her lips at me, and I suck my cheeks in and brush blush on the apples with slow sweeps. I avoid her eyes and, ultimately, her scary judgment. “What? Why the disapproving look?”

  “Not disapproving. Just… I know it’s been, like, a big, crazy ball of stress for you lately. I mean, did that lady from CNN finally stop calling?”

  “I passed her info on to Khabria. She’s a way better public speaker than I am.” I whip out my mascara wand because my lashes need some serious help, but, also, I don’t want to see that look on Ollie’s face. The one that means she’s disappointed in me.

  “It’s gotta be so much.” Her voice oozes pure sympathy, not judgment.

  I stop coating my eyelashes and look at her perfect face on the screen, ashamed I doubted the most loyal person I’ve ever known.

  Attempted truth time. This is never easy, but Ollie makes it possible. “I guess I wanted to come here and disappear, you know? After everything that was going on in my life, getting out of Brooklyn and coming to Nowhere, Georgia, felt like the way to go if that’s what I wanted. Funny how that turned out,” I grumble.

  “No kidding. It’s like you have social-justice, newshound paparazzi following you around wherever you go now. So awful and weird.” I watch her play with the corner of her paisley quilt, avoiding asking whatever question is eating her alive.

  I carefully coat the lashes on my other eye. “Ask.”

  “What?”

  “Whatever it is you want to ask. We don’t need to play these games, babydoll.” I flutter my lashes at her and she laughs.

  “You know what I’m going to ask about. Or, better yet who…”

  “Why do you think I’m getting all dressed up?” I tease.

  “Oh my God, a date?” Her voice could possibly shatter glass, and I resist the urge to cover my ears. “With Doyle? Do you know where he’s taking you? Oh my God, I need to breathe.”

  I fall back on the bed, my toes curling with giddiness. “Breathe, Olls. Your brain needs the oxygen. Of course I know where we’re going. I’m the one taking him on the date. All of your romantic Thao stories inspired me. I mean, I’m not going to put Doyle on the handlebars of my bike or anything…”

  “Holy crap, you have no idea the price I’d pay to see that!” She screams with laughter imagining it, and her laugh makes me smile through my nerves.

  I put a hand up to touch my hair, tamed into soft waves that fall down past my shoulders. I might pin it up just because Doyle’s mentioned how much he likes my tattoo.

  My heart stutters. Romance is dangerous.

  “I’m super proud of you for asking him!” Ollie sounds shocked with a side screech of impressed. “That was bold.”

  “Necessary,” I correct before I come off sounding more impressive than I am. “Things have been strange with him and me. With all this other stuff going on, I guess we’ve kind of grown apart.”

  I don’t have to finish my thought, because Ollie gets it. “Not good. Especially when you don’t have much time left. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. When I leave here I get to come home to you.”

  I don’t expect leave here to twist my heart. I don’t expect home to have such a murky meaning.

  “Will your mother come visit this summer? Are you guys planning to do your family vacation in Santo Domingo?” Ollie’s happiness is renewed by all this good news. Exciting news.

  News I don’t want to think about right now.

  “I’m not sure what she has planned. I’ll go when you and I get back from Vietnam, but I don’t know ab
out Mom. I mean, is my father going to invite Celeste?”

  Ollie sighs. “Yikes. That would be so weird. Would that be weird for you?”

  “Yeah, it would be. But my grandmother is facing her fear of flying to go for the first time in years, so I definitely want to be there, no matter who Dad decides to bring along.” I hear the roar of a truck in the driveway. “Crap, that’s Doyle! I’ll call you later. Text you sooner!” I smack a kiss on the screen before we sign off.

  Doyle knocks while I tear my old tank over my head and kick off my tiny cotton shorts. As my mother greets him, I whimper and reach for one outfit, then another.

  “Damn, damn, damn…”

  I know this decision isn’t as important as I’m making it, but I’m tired of thinking about inequity and injustice and the tiny wars we wage with the people we just don’t understand. I want to worry about whether I should wear the demure purple flowered one-piece that’s gorgeous but hard to pee in or the scandalously tight black skirt and white top that has a high collar but shows off a slice of skin right at my midriff.

  “Doyle, don’t you look handsome. Are those cowboy boots? Very rugged,” Mom says.

  Cowboy boots? Well, well, well, Doyle Rahn’s bringing his A game tonight.

  Decision made, game on.

  I slip into the black skirt, pull on the white top, slide my feet into dangerously tall red heels, and apply lipstick that matches. When I stride into the hall, Doyle stops midsentence.

  “You were saying something incredibly boring about irrigation?” I prompt in my best vixen voice.

  I think he tries to smile, but it’s like he’s had a stroke. One side of his mouth jerks up, but he seems to forget what he wants the other side to do.

  “My granddaddy’d say you look prettier than a speckled pup,” he finally manages.

  “In the South, telling a girl she looks like a dog is a compliment? How the hell did you guys get a reputation for being gentlemen?” I ask.

  “I think it’s kind of sweet,” Mom ventures, then looks me over with an indulgent smile. She’s not big on midriff baring, but she tries to give me space when it comes to fashion. “You look ready to dance the night away.”