Brownie Points

by Jennifer Coburn

  “A demurrer?” I asked.

  “English,” Kate urged, never looking up from her work.

  “Sorry, Lisa,” Wax said. “You know I filed the complaint last week. I’ve got to give credit to these speedy scouts. They whipped out a demurrer darned fast. Basically it means they’re asking the court to dismiss Logan’s claim.”

  “What?!” I cried.

  “Lisa, darlin’, you can’t let these things ruffle your feathers,” Wax said. “I expected them to file a demurrer. They filed their demurrer. I’ll file an opposition to it, they’ll reply, then we’ll probably have a hearing. All part of the game, Lisa.” He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. “How’s Jason holding up?” Wax asked.

  “Jason?” Was Wax having a senior moment and confusing my husband with my son?

  “Yes, Lisa. I’m hoping he’s not letting those bullies down at City Hall worry him. I mean, legally they could fire him, but they’ll never do it. It’d be a PR disaster with Jason being the first African-American fire captain and all.”

  Fire him? Fire him!? Was Jason in jeopardy of losing the job we’d moved here for?

  ™˜

  Jason paced across our bedroom floor, his gaze fixed at his feet. “I didn’t tell you ’cause I didn’t want you to worry,” he explained.

  “You didn’t want me to worry?!” I screamed, grateful that the kids were at Michelle’s. “You didn’t want me to worry about you losing your job?! What am I, a child who needs to be protected from the truth? I thought we were a team!”

  “Look, baby, I didn’t want you to freak out,” Jason explained.

  “What makes you think I’d freak out?!” I yelled, arms flailing.

  “Lisa, I can handle this. Can you trust me on this? I am not gonna get fired.”

  I sighed as I dropped onto the bed. What more could go wrong for us in this so-called Utopia?

  I walked over to him and looked in his eyes. “We need to put an end to this, Jason,” I said, gripping his arms tightly. “He’ll listen to you. Tell him he can’t sue the Girl Scouts. He’ll be reasonable.”

  Jason shook his head. “Baby, you seen that boy since this all began with Girl Scouts?” I knew what he meant. These girls were Logan’s lifeline. Jason looked at me intently. “Lisa, I took Logan to Dempsey’s to teach him how to fight. And now he’s teaching me the same thing.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The January Bunco game was poorly attended. I knew it was because I was hosting, though Michelle tried to convince me that people were just “super busy.” I’d like to believe that my home wasn’t being boycotted, but I’d never heard of a post-holiday rush. What could they be doing, double cardio funk classes to burn off the eggnog? When I posed this rhetorical question, Michelle replied, “The Ladies’ Club has been shut down since Christmas.”

  “It has?” I asked, not sure why this struck me.

  “Mold.”

  “Mold?” I asked.

  “A lot of mold.”

  Only Marni, Michelle, Barb and Cara showed up, which made a Bunco game impossible. No one seemed terribly concerned. Barb confessed she never liked the game anyway, and Marni admitted she was only coming for the free wine. With that we laughed and uncorked a bottle.

  “I think Logan kicks ass for suing the Girl Scouts,” Marni said. “Stick it to those Goody Two-Shoes.”

  “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way,” Barb began, “but I hope Logan loses. It’s nothing personal, but if they let one boy in, they’ll have to let any boy in and then it would be just another co-ed kids’ club.”

  Cara asked, “What’s wrong with that, Barb?”

  “What’s wrong with it is that some girls are very shy and don’t need the pressure of having to look cool in front of boys,” she explained. “I’m not going to do anything to stand in your way, Lisa. I just want to be honest. I’m not for it, but we can agree to disagree on this one, okay?”

  I nodded, wishing Olivia could be more like Barb.

  “I love the cookie wall, though,” she continued.

  “I took a ton of pictures of it for the website,” Michelle said, sipping the sulfite-free red wine she’d brought.

  “Website?” I asked.

  “I’ve been meaning to start a troop site forever,” Michelle said. “Guess whose kids taught me how to set it up?”

  “Mine?” I squeaked.

  Michelle nodded enthusiastically.

  “And it discusses Logan’s case?” I asked, horrified.

  “They didn’t tell you?” Michelle asked.

  “Never mind that now,” I said, flipping open the laptop sitting on our countertop. “Show me the site.” The women peered over my shoulder as I tapped in the address.

  A photo of Logan and the girls posing in front of the cookie wall immediately appeared on-screen. A few seconds later a rap beat began as a Photoshopped image of Ronald Reagan — with long cornrows and a grill — strutted onto the scene. The girls used a sound clip of the late president urging Mikhail Gorbachev to tear down the Berlin Wall, made it repeat the phrase amid record-scratching noise, and added a backbeat that could hold its own at TRL. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Ghetto Ronnie began to bust a move and sing, “Yo, yo, yo, Girl Scouts of America, listen up here … .”

  I snapped closed the laptop. “Michelle, this is a disaster!” I yelled.

  “I’m sorry,” Michelle said, close to tears. “I’ll take it down right now.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to focus on all of the things I’d grown to love about Michelle over the last few months.

  “Don’t worry, Lisa. I’m sure no one’s even seen it. It’s only been up a week,” Michelle assured me. “Besides, who cares about our little old Girl Scout troop?”

  ™˜

  The Great Wall of Cookies had been up a little less than a week before it made the front cover of the Los Corderos Clarion. I don’t know how in God’s name Val Monroe got herself quoted in the article, but she got as much ink as the mayor. There aren’t even CC&Rs in greater Los Corderos, yet the enforcer of McMansionville was asked to weigh in on this.

  Both Kate and I thought that erecting a wall was such a clever idea, but no one understood what the heck we were trying to communicate. Logan smiled as he read the article aloud.

  Los Corderos—If you’re driving down El Camino Real and suddenly get a hankering for Thin Mints, don’t blame the Girl Scouts. The ten-foot wall of cookie boxes isn’t a creative advertising campaign by the local troop. In fact, it’s a political protest by artist Katherine Parr and her assistant, Lisa Taylor. Both women are upset that Girl Scouts of America has rejected the membership of Logan Taylor, 14. Taylor is a boy.

  Logan Taylor is the first male to seek membership to the all-girl organization since its inception in 1912. Organization officials declined to comment since Taylor has filed a lawsuit with the Superior Court of Los Corderos County alleging gender discrimination. Clare Parkins, attorney for Girl Scouts of America, said the organization permits males to serve as leaders and volunteers. “Girl Scouts employs men in every facet of the organization except for troop membership, which is designed exclusively for the empowerment of girls. Logan sounds like a delightful young man who would be an asset to any Boy Scout troop.”

  “What we have here is a wall of shame,” said Los Corderos community leader Valerie Monroe. “This is an eyesore and danger to anyone driving down El Camino Real. We should all be outraged that radicals like Katherine Parr and Lisa Taylor are using our peaceful community as a platform for their personal agenda.”

  The issue came to the attention of the City Council Tuesday when an ad hoc group calling itself “Girls Are Girls” presented their case during the open forum. In a written statement, group president Olivia McDoyle said, “What part of the term Girl Scout makes it unclear that this organization is for girls? What’s wrong with America today is no one wants to play by the rules.”

  Mayor Ron Savron says he’s sympathetic to McDoyle’s caus
e, but cannot officially take action. “While not everyone likes the Girl Scout cookie wall, it is situated on private property and is protected political speech,” said Mayor Savron. “Personally I think it’s ugly, but in America we have a right to be ugly and we have the right to be wrong.”

  Others are baffled by the new cookie monument. “I don’t get it,” said Ida Baker, longtime Los Corderos resident, echoing the sentiments of several passersby. “Why do they want the Girl Scouts to tear down a wall of cookie boxes? I think those lady artists are on drugs.”

  Many things about the article struck both Jason and me as we discussed it in bed that evening:

  1) What the hell happened to Logan as a John Doe plaintiff?

  2) The Girl Scouts came across as very reasonable.

  3) Girls Are Girls?! Dear God, please let them start using the acronym for Olivia’s new group.

  4) Did our mayor just say that in America we have a right to be ugly and wrong?

  Logan didn’t seem to mind seeing his name in the paper. He told Jason and me that he never wanted to be known as John Doe in his lawsuit. “Who the heck is that, anyway?” he asked before breaking out into a booming verse of “I’ve got to be me,” fittingly enough, from the Broadway musical The Golden Rainbow. I can’t believe Jason ever doubted that Logan was gay. Our son could sing show tunes from forty years ago. He was like a gay superhero. Queer Boy can leap tall buildings while singing Cabaret better than Liza herself.

  By noon we had four of the Girl Scouts at our house, all giggling uproariously over the article. “My mom is such a dork,” Bianca said. Rustling the newspaper for effect, she read her mother’s quote. “What we have here is a wall of shame,” she began. The girls laughed at Val’s pithy sound bite. I almost felt sorry for her. Then I heard Bianca telling the kids what her mother told Ellie and Stacey. “She said that the only reason Mrs. Taylor is putting her garbage art on display in town is ’cause no one wants to see it in a gallery.” Then again, maybe Val Monroe could fuck off.

  I desperately wanted to take Bianca aside and ask whether or not her parents had discussed the cutting with her. I looked at her leg, covered by denim, and wondered how she was doing. I copied the Internet article on self-mutilation that I had stuck in Val’s purse that night at Bunco, and slipped it in Bianca’s backpack, hoping she would read it and call me as my scrawled note urged.

  ™˜

  After dinner Thursday night, Michelle called the house panicked. “I just got a call from Bob O’Mally’s producer, and he wants—”

  “Bob O’Mally?” I interrupted. “Where have I heard that name?”

  “Lisa, he’s got a news show on Fox with, like, twenty million viewers!”

  “Oh God, that blowhard? What did he want?” I asked, trying to shake off the vile image of Bob O’Mally’s bloated face spraying spit as he shouted his ultraconservative views.

  “Lisa!” Michelle snapped. “Lisa, you need to listen to me. Bob O’Mally is doing his show on Logan this Monday. His producer saw my name as the Girl Scout troop leader listed on the website, and got my number from Information. He wants me to be a guest on his show and talk about Logan’s lawsuit.”

  “You’re not going to do it, are you?” I responded, thankful that our phone number was unlisted.

  “No, but this producer said they’re doing the show with or without our help. Lisa, this man was horrible. He was so aggressive, I’m still shaking.”

  “Take a few breaths, Michelle,” I instructed, as both my children and husband watched me intently. Trying to clue them in, I said, “Who cares if Bob O’Mally talks about Logan on his show? No one takes that guy seriously anyway. He’s a one-man freak show who’s going to shout about Logan for a few minutes, then scream about someone else,” I assured her. Jason raised an eyebrow as if to say he wasn’t sure about all of this, but the kids turned to each other and began hugging as if they’d just tied for Miss America. “Having that loud-mouth sound off about Logan only makes Logan more sympathetic. People aren’t going to like some old bag of wind beating up on a little kid. It’ll be fine.”

  “Lisa, I don’t think you understand,” Michelle said. “Bob O’Mally is on our side.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  February

  “Maya, why is there a South African flag in front of our house?” I asked as I began unloading groceries from the car.

  Sitting at the kitchen counter in her “What Would Malcolm Do?” t-shirt, she replied, “Did you even notice the American flag?”

  “No, I didn’t,” I said. Logan looked up from his homework and smiled, amused.

  “It’s sewn onto the back of the South African flag, Mom,” Maya said indignantly. “It’s African-American, get it? It’s Black History Month and I noticed that no one around here has anything on their lawns except for white babies shooting arrows.”

  “Now that’s not fair, Maya,” I said, my voice mocking the Utopians. “Marni has that sweet marriage proposal scene with the old fashioned couple.”

  Logan could barely control his laughter. “Yeah, Mom, you’d better check that out again,” he said.

  Maya began laughing too. “I don’t think that dude’s on his knee proposing marriage.”

  “What the …?” I muttered, rushing to the window. “Oh my God!” I shouted upon seeing that some neighborhood kids had lifted the woman’s petticoat over the dapper lad’s head.

  Hey, wait a minute …

  “Were you two the ones who mounted Michelle’s reindeer?!”

  Maya smirked, busted. “The song says, ‘Then how the reindeer loved him …’ We were just trying to keep it real.”

  “And you want to hang a South African flag from our house to keep it real?” I asked.

  “Is that okay?” she asked, this time quite sweetly.

  “Yeah, what the hell. Why not?”

  ™˜

  “I’m Bob O’Mally and welcome to Hot Under the Collar. It’s Groundhog Day and I’m seeing a long, cold winter ahead for feminists, liberals and all the other sniveling whiners who cried gender discrimination when the Citadel tried to maintain its tradition of being an all-male military school, when Augusta wanted to keep its golf course estrogen-free and when the Dallas Men’s Club had the audacity to limit its membership— TO MEN!!!”

  “Oh my God, he’s screaming already,” Maya squealed with delight.

  O’Mally continued. “Tonight, I’m devoting the entire show to a case in Northern California where a brave little soldier is shining a light on liberal hypocrisy by giving those feminists a bitter taste of their own medicine.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing,” said Logan. Suddenly a photo of Logan appeared.

  Jason buried his head in his hands. “Oh shit.”

  Logan screeched, “That picture is a disaster!” He collapsed and buried his head into his sister’s shoulder. As O’Mally continued, another photo of Logan and Spencer at a Girl Scout meeting appeared on screen.

  “Oh my God!” Maya said. “Spencer?! There were like six great pictures of me and Logan on that website, and they take the one of him and Spencer and that stupid hat. Damn media can’t get enough of white girls.”

  “That’s enough, young lady,” Jason snapped.

  “Shhh!” I demanded.

  “Last month, this little scrapper, Logan Taylor, filed a lawsuit against the Girl Scouts of America because they said they were discriminating against him because he’s a boy. Is that terrific or what?!” O’Mally said, guffawing. “How’d you like dem apples, gender equity feminists?”

  The phone rang. “Li-li, are you watching Logan on the television right now?” Jorge said, breathless.

  “It’s on, lemme call you back,” I replied, hanging up.

  “This kid’s a genius!” O’Mally shouted. “He’s a certifiable, grade-A, flippin’ genius to come up with an idea like this. The only problem I have with the kid is that I’m jealous I didn’t come up with this stunt first.” He started laughing uproariously. “So, Logan, if y
ou’re out there listening, you’re my kind of guy!”

  At this, Jason laughed for the first time. “Oh yeah, they’re two peas in a pod.”

  O’Mally raised the volume yet again. “We all need to stand behind Logan’s fight against the Fem Scouts. Let’s stick it to ’em once and for all, ay? My idea, after this break.”

  It was surreal watching Bob O’Mally talk about my son as if the two of them were comrades in the war for the soul of America. The screen went dark momentarily before a pinch-faced woman appeared asking, “Do you have irritable bowel syndrome?”

  Just as I wondered if I was dreaming this whole episode, the phone rang.

  “Oh hi, Mom,” I said.

  “Your father and I just got a call from Sylvia Drucker, who said Logan’s on television. Bob O’Mally is talking about him suing the Girl Scouts.”

  “She’s right but I need to go. I’ve got another call.” Click. “Hello.”

  “That is a horrible picture of Logan!” Jason’s mother said without introduction.

  “Betty, I totally agree, but I need to run, the other line is ringing.” Click.

  “Hello … Why yes, Olivia, I have completely lost my mind. Thank you so much for your concern.”

  Ring.

  “I know,” I said to Michelle. “He does look terrific. I know, I can’t believe it either. The whole half-hour show, go figure. Gotta get the other line.” Click.

  “Shhh!” Jason urged. “He’s coming back.”

  “… so ask your doctor if Relaxa’s right for you,” said a talking mallard.

  O’Mally’s face reappeared on the screen with a vengeance. “Welcome back, everyone. You’ve been calling, emailing and texting like crazy here during the break. People want to know how they can help this kid’s cause. Girl Scout cookie season starts tomorrow, so if you want to let these folks know what you think, here’s what you do. When one of these little green-skirts comes to your door all sweet-faced, sporting all her merit badges, you look ’er right in the eye and you tell ’er, ‘No justice, no cookies.’ That’s right, in this great nation of ours, we have the right, no, we have a duty to support those who support our values.” Up went the volume. “Let the Girl Scouts know that they can take their male-bashing agenda and stuff cookies up it because we are not going to stand for the gender equity radicals and their double standards anymore! Folks, what I am telling you tonight is to just say no to Girl Scout cookies. Let’s send a message with our over-taxed dollars that enough is enough!” Wow, he could blow a lung. “I’m not advocating a boycott, oh no, no, no. I know better than to ever tell my viewers to boycott Girl Scout cookies until every last crumb of their peanut butter cookies rots in the box. That would be ill-eeeeegal. I’m calling for a girl-cott. Got it? A girl-cott. We’ll be back in a moment with your calls.”