Rebels Like Us

by Liz Reinhardt

  One more time.

  But nothing comes out.

  My heart dances a bachata at the look on his face, and I have to get my composure together when I walk his way. We’ve waited such a long time for this. Now that tonight’s the night, it doesn’t feel real.

  “You wore a white suit.” I make it over to him and adjust his black tie, running my hands over his shirtfront. “You look amazing.”

  “Y-y-you look… That dress… Damn, Nes. I don’t have a word for how beautiful you look.” His eyes rake up and down my dress like he can’t look enough.

  “Don’t you want to compare me to a speckled pup or something?” I ask, but he reaches out, dips me low, and kisses me, so long and hot and sweet, it takes my breath away. And he does it right in front of my mother.

  Who snaps a picture.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Your daughter makes me go crazy.” He sets me on my feet and gives my mother this sheepish look he knows helps him get away with murder.

  And, of course, my mother thinks his whole “aw, shucks, ma’am” routine is adorable.

  Before the charm is even faded from his kiss and phony apology, he whips out the most gorgeous orchid I’ve ever seen. The petals are every shade of purple with soft hints of pale pink and cream stripes. He takes it from the box and ties it on my wrist with a silk ribbon.

  “Doyle, this is gorgeous.” He’s a plant person; I’m not, but you’d have to be blind to not see this flower is a natural work of art.

  “Hope so. I been growing it for four years.”

  “And you killed it for a corsage?” I gasp, feeling like I have the flower equivalent of the Mona Lisa just hanging out on my wrist.

  “Hell yeah.” He laughs softly and drops his voice so only I can hear. “I like flowers and all, but every time I see one that’s ’specially beautiful, it reminds me of you. Trust me, that old orchid ain’t nearly pretty enough to be sittin’ on your wrist tonight.”

  This is why I can’t keep my hands off this guy. I’m reduced to a whispered thanks and a watery smile. I guess my teenage hormones can’t resist prom fever and Doyle Rahn.

  I’m only human after all.

  Mom takes her job as photographer seriously, snapping so many pictures, I can’t believe she hasn’t blown through all the memory on her card. When I tell her we need to go, she gives us long, slightly tipsy hugs. This time though, I’m glad she dug into the chardonnay. I know she wishes Dad was here so they could see me off together. I know she misses Ollie’s always-happy chatter and our cozy apartment home and Grandmother coming over to try to pin my dress up so less cleavage shows.

  We’re both still deep in the throes of homesickness, and she doesn’t have a Doyle in her life to take the edge off. I give her one last long hug and a kiss goodbye, then walk out the door Doyle holds open for me.

  “I can’t stop lookin’ atcha.” He leads me to his truck, which I insisted we take instead of wasting money on a limo.

  “Thank you. You look pretty damn fine yourself.” I let him twirl me before he helps me climb up into the cab.

  “Are you excited?” He starts the engine, patting his pockets before he steps on the Gas. “Aha. Here it is.”

  I can’t stop laughing the second I see what he has clamped between his teeth. “Is that a corncob pipe?”

  “I hope this is doin’ it for ya in a big way, ’cause you have no idea what a pain in the ass it was to find this thing.” He holds his arms out and grins, the pipe rising up with his lips. “I hope I look like the Southern gentleman of your dreams.”

  “You look like something out of Scarlett O’Hara’s dreams maybe. And every chicken’s nightmares, Colonel Sanders.” He makes me howl with laughter when he waggles his eyebrows.

  “You got it all wrong. Colonel Sanders never smoked a pipe. That was Popeye.” He flexes his biceps, and I laugh so hard, I have to lean against the window. Doyle shakes his head as he pulls out of the driveway. “The things I do for you, woman.”

  He lets me fake-smoke his corncob pipe and we don’t listen to music. We roll down the windows and listen instead to the never-ending hum and screech of the bugs and birds in the fields we pass because it’s a sound he’s loved since birth and one I’ve grown to love. I lean my head back, not caring that my carefully set hair is blowing all over my perfectly made-up face. I want to breathe deep the warm almost-summer air and feel the freedom that’s so close, I swear I could close my fingers around it.

  Doyle drives into the beautiful, throbbingly alive heart of historic Savannah, where everything is cobblestoned and columned, overhung with low-branched magnolias draped with Spanish moss and accented with two-sided marble staircases that lead to huge, glass-door-fronted foyers.

  “The two sets of stairs was so that ladies could walk up one side and the guys the other, so they couldn’t peek up under their big hoopskirt things,” Doyle explains.

  “I thought you guys were supposed to be gentlemen.” I’m about to say something else about Peeping Toms and hoopskirts, but we pull up to a huge, Antebellum-style mansion, lit up and spilling over with music and dressed-up students. “Holy crap. Is this Tara?”

  “No.” He laughs and rolls his eyes. “Tara was near Atlanta. Also it was just a place in a book.”

  “You know a lot about Gone with the Wind,” I say.

  “My gram watches it every single year at Christmas, and we all gotta sit through the whole freaking three-hour deal.” The thought of Doyle sitting through a three-hour epic romance with his gram is almost more than my overfull heart can deal with tonight.

  Doyle parks, and I hang out the window, staring, mouth hanging open, and I don’t care who sees me. This place is that impressive. Sure, Ollie sent us tons of pictures of the kind of decorating and setup they do for formal events like prom, but it’s not the same as seeing it in real life. There are herds of people heading in, and I should recognize them, but everyone is too gorgeously decked out.

  Doyle shoos me from the window and opens the door, then helps me down. He shuts the door behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “Hey, beautiful, how ’bout you and me find somewhere to park for a while?”

  It feels like a flock of rabid seagulls is beating its wings inside my stomach. “Oh, we’re hard-core making out later, don’t worry about that. All this romantic crap makes me crazy horny. But Ollie worked hard on this, and even though we cut back, this is like some raja’s version of a prom, so I’d die of guilt if we didn’t go enjoy.”

  “You’re right.” He offers me his arm. “Shall we?”

  “Let’s do this.”

  We smile at each other, then stand up straight and walk slowly up the stairs and into the massive black-and-white, marble-tiled foyer with enormous, sparkling crystal chandeliers. As I’m craning my neck back like an idiot to take it all in, a local reporter sticks a microphone in my face and asks for a comment.

  For a second all the glitz and finery fades away, and I remember that if Doyle and I hadn’t started this whole thing rolling, we wouldn’t have been allowed to have this moment. The rules set in place by tradition would have dictated he and I go to separate proms. He never would have gone adorably stupid over my dress, I never would have laughed at his corncob pipe, there would have been no breathtaking moment walking up the stairs, arm in arm—and it would have been because the amount of pigment in our skin doesn’t match.

  I’ve been fairly tongue-tied around reporters since this all started, but something about being in the middle of what we worked so hard for opens me wide up.

  I smile, I look at the camera, and I say, “Fifty years ago Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. gave his ‘I Have a Dream’ speech. Fifty years seems like a long time, until you consider this is Ebenezer High’s first ever desegregated prom. I think Dr. King would have been proud that the students of Ebenezer finally made this happen.”

  The woman tells me she loves my quote and, when she takes my name, asks, “Aren’t you one of the students behind all this?”

  I
stare at her blinding smile and glossy newscaster hair in a daze. Doyle nudges me gently. “This? Yes! I mean, I did. Help.”

  Her nod is pure approval. “Brava, Agnes. Well done.”

  Doyle gives her a quick wave as he pulls me away, and I feel floaty. And a little piece of me wonders if I should have given a few more interviews instead of avoiding it all. I should have let people know the crazy story of what we almost couldn’t have for reasons so absurd we couldn’t stand for it. But I have no time to think about any official regrets because I’m instantly hit in the face with so much pure, amazing, overwhelming prom!

  There are so many brilliant, swishy dresses, it looks like a tank of tropical fish. The sweet smell of roses and lilies is wafting from the huge bouquets that are drooping with their lush, heavy blooms everywhere. There’s bone china, gleaming silver, pristine white linens, a DJ playing something fast and danceable, and every single person we know is on the wooden dance floor, shaking what their mamas gave them.

  “All right, let’s show them how it’s done,” Doyle says with a whoop, pulling me onto the dance floor.

  I love the way the boy moves, and I get drawn into moving with him. We dance hard, showing off in front of our cheering classmates and upping the ante with every new beat. When we’re about to tear a hole in the dance floor, the DJ announces the theme song and the opening strains of “Stand by Me” float through the air. There’s a roar of a cheer, and Doyle pulls me into his arms, grinning like the fool he is. My fool.

  What I feel for him is so overwhelming, it closes my throat.

  “I’m glad we didn’t stay out in the truck and make out,” he says. He’s flushed, and his eyes are bright. He looks happy. Like he belongs.

  I very much miss being somewhere I belong.

  The thing is, I blend in here as long as I’m in Doyle’s arms. But I don’t want to have to rely on him—or anyone—like that. I want to be who I am on my own and still find my place.

  “I’m really glad we came in too. After all the work and arguing over every tiny detail, this place is amazing, and everyone looks so fancy and happy.” We glance around and see Critter tugging at his camouflage bow tie, Alonzo—dapper and cool in white—and Khabria in a shimmering red dress with handsome Bo staring like he knows better than to let her out of his sight.

  I gaze around and see people I consider friends and people I only know by name or face, and they’re all, thankfully, getting along.

  “You did this, Nes. None of this would have happened without you.” Doyle runs a thumb over my cheekbone.

  “And you. And Khabria. And Ollie. I actually played a pretty minor part in this whole thing.” I wrap my arms tighter and sway to the music with him, inhaling his clean, green-leaves-and-just-Doyle smell.

  “You got it all wrong. We were jest a pile of useless gunpowder. You were the match, Nes.” He cups my face and tilts it up as Ben E. King croons that he won’t be afraid. “You were the fire.”

  Who can resist kissing a guy who tells you you’re the fire? I don’t even try.

  We’d probably have been attached at the mouth all night long if a peppy cheerleader type didn’t snare the DJ’s mic at the end of the song and yell, “Hey y’all!”

  “Hey!” the crowd roars back.

  “Is this the best prom ever or what?”

  The screams and hollers are so enthusiastic and intense, I cup my hands over my ears.

  “We’ve been collecting ballots since y’all came in, and we’re just about down to the final count. Put your hands together for Ebenezer High’s Rebel King and Queen!”

  The thunderous applause give me goose bumps.

  “All right, y’all, we got the official names. Our Rebel Queen by a landslide…”

  At my core, I’ve got a gooey, girlish heart, and there is a second where everything in me is hoping and wishing and praying—

  “Ms. Khabria Scott!”

  —for the impossible.

  But the feeling of wanting that crown for myself flies out the window when I see how ecstatic Khabria is. She fans her face and smiles so hard and wide, we all smile with her. Because, obviously, she’s our queen.

  “And to join Queen Khabria in the royal court…” The girl opens the ballot and blushes. “Mr. Doyle Rahn!”

  He sighs and gives me a distressed look.

  “Right. I’m sure it’s so hard being the most loved guy in the entire school. Stop pouting and go get your crown.” I shove him away, but it is a little shocking how completely I’ve started to consider Doyle mine. To the point where I forget lots of girls daydream about him and lots of guys wish they could be him.

  Doyle jogs onto the stage, smiles while the girl crowns him with shaking hands, and hugs Khabria so hard, he lifts her off her feet. They hold their joined hands up high and scream along with the crowd.

  The energy in the room buzzes like an open fuse, and I’m glad to be a part of it, but happier when Doyle comes down to take me back in his arms and Bo grabs Khabria and spins her around, laughing and congratulating her.

  “I think you’re supposed to dance one together,” I say, but he pulls me closer.

  “This whole prom exists because we wanted to be able to dance together in some fancy place, wearing dead-sexy clothes. Tonight I’m gonna dance with you every second I can, and screw anyone who don’t like it.”

  My face burns with the kind of embarrassed-but-pleased blush I get when Doyle’s take-charge attitude surfaces. I know it’s all lame mascot symbolism, but he truly does make an awesome Rebel King.

  When we’ve danced until our feet ache, eaten until our stomachs hurt, and talked to pretty much everyone at the prom, we finally walk back down the marble stairs and away from the party still raging inside. It’s closer to dawn than it is to night, and Doyle drives to the beach without asking if that’s where I want to go, because he doesn’t need to ask.

  We park, and he strips off his jacket, shoes, socks, and tie and unbuttons the top buttons on his shirt. Oh, and Doyle takes off his regal crown, of course. I slip my heels off and tuck my glitzy jewelry in the glove compartment. We head down the dunes and walk along the wet sand, watching the first rays of the orange sun creep up over the horizon.

  “This night was amazing,” I say, leaning hard on his arm. He kisses my temple and stares at the rising sun.

  “Feels like so much happened to get to it. Fighting and planning and trouble. It was a whole lotta fun, but…”

  I laugh. “But it was also, like, all this effort and craziness for the most normal, cliché high school dance?”

  “Yeah.” He runs his hand through his hair and shakes his head. “I mean, I can’t bend my brain around how serious people have been about all this. Rules about who could come and who could bring who. All the squabbles and the pranks that got out of hand. Damn, someone went to the hospital. Someone went to jail. Over…what? A bunch of high school kids dancing to some cheesy music in their best duds, jest having a good time? God, it seems so stupid in the grand scheme of it all.”

  I let my toes sink into the damp sand and breathe the salty air into my lungs until it feels like they might pop. I don’t want to bad-mouth the place he grew up in, the place he loves, but sometimes it’s hard to see clearly what’s too close.

  I learned that lesson the hard way.

  “I think that’s the problem with not getting out of a town like this. You wind up with so little perspective, you’ll fight like crazy over the strangest things.”

  “Ain’t that the truth? Gotta say though, I’m glad I got to fight with you.” He bumps his shoulder against mine. “I would always want to have you on my team, Nes.”

  “I think we make sense together.” I stop and turn to him, brushing his hair back off his forehead and tugging his mouth close. “I never would have imagined we’d make such a good team.”

  He brushes his lips against mine. “I knew. From that first day I saw you in that red bikini. I knew.”

  “What, that you wanted to get in my pant
s?” I joke, kissing his neck.

  “Naw. That you weren’t like anyone I ever met before. That I was gonna fall in love for the first time, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. That you and me could change the world together.” The waves crash at our feet, soak the hem of my dress and the bottom of his pants, but neither one of us moves back. We’re wrapped completely in this moment together. “What I’m trying to say is I’ve never been so happy someone almost let an innocent tree die. What if I never jumped that fence to water that poor thing?” He swallows hard and licks his lips, looking at me with worried eyes when he says, “I don’t like the idea of my life without you in it.”

  “I love you too,” I answer back.

  And then his mouth finds mine and we kiss until we can’t keep our hands anywhere decent. We leave the beach and he drives me home, where I leave the window open.

  Before I manage to get out of my dress and under the blankets, he’s climbing over the sash. He crawls into bed next to me bringing in the cool, damp smell of earliest morning and the salty aftershocks of the beach. It’s silent in the room except for the sound of our breathing and the urgent words we whisper now and then.

  He reaches for me, and I roll into his waiting hands. We touch and move against each other until we have to muffle the noises we make and be satisfied pressing as close as we can. I arch my back when he buries his face in the side of my neck. When our hearts finally slow from a race to a crawl, he spoons his body around mine. In the cool, silent gray of late dawn, we nestle in the middle of my bed, two perfectly flawed souls who found out our love strengthened and multiplied when we stood by each other’s side.

  “I love you, forever,” I whisper when I’m sure he’s sound asleep. “No matter where I go, no matter how far away I am, you can know that I love you, Doyle.”

  And somewhere in the murky dark of my dreams, I hear Doyle Rahn tell me he loves me more than anything. That he’ll follow me to the ends of the earth. That our future together starts now, even if we have to be apart.

  The problem with these drowsy, sleep-drunk confessions is that they need to hold up in the coldest reality of the light of day. I turn in my sleep, closer to him, and hope with all my heart we figure it out before we’re out of time.