Love Rules

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “That’s sick.” Brian says.

  “I think it’s sweet.” Tiffany says, batting her eyelashes at Raymond in her cheerleader style.

  “It’s disgusting,” Eric says, flashing Tiffany a look that is less than affectionate.

  Woodsy walks over to where Brian and Eric are sitting, as if to reprimand them.

  “It’s okay,” Raymond says to Woodsy. “I choose to be open about my life, which means I occasionally get labeled ‘sick,’ or ‘disgusting,’ or worse.”

  Raymond puts the pictures back in his folder, then looks at each of us in the classroom, one by one.

  “Ten percent,” he says. “Chances are, two or three of you in this classroom today, know you are gay, or bi, or have some heavy questions about your sexual orientation. And you’re wondering if what your fellow students say about you is true. Are you sick? Are you disgusting?”

  We are all quiet, sort of sneaking looks around the room, wondering who the two or three might be.

  “If my being here lets you know life can be as good for you as it can for the other ninety percent, it’s worth it to me to hear the labels. If it lets you know you’re not alone, that’s what I care about. You have every right to be who you want to be.”

  “Yeah, well don’t get close to me any of you ten percenters or you’ll wish you hadn’t!” Brian says, fist closed, macho football biceps flexed.

  Eric laughs, as do a few others—mostly boys.

  Raymond asks, “Do you ever wonder why homosexuality brings out such anger in certain people?”

  No one answers.

  “The worst gay bashers are usually people who are uncertain about their own sexual orientation. So if they fight noisily and fiercely to stamp out homosexuality, that must prove they’re the straightest of the straight. Right?”

  He looks directly at Brian, then Eric.

  “More likely, it proves the gay bashers are on shaky ground with their own sexual orientation.”

  Raymond sits down, and one of the women starts talking. I’m watching Brian and Eric, who are both looking at Raymond as if he were raw sewage. I wonder about Raymond’s theory. Brian’s had practically every H.H.S. girl who’s haveable, so he must like girls. But then, I wonder. Maybe it’s more like he uses girls to prove a point. Maybe that’s why he’s still angry with Kit, because he couldn’t prove anything with her.

  I’ve lost track of what’s going on. The younger woman panelist is talking about her parents. Leona is listening intently, her neatly manicured hands folded sedately on the table in front of her. I go back to the daydream about what if my dad showed up one day as a woman, so I miss most of the rest of the talks. One thing grabs my attention, though. They say that gay/lesbian teens try to commit suicide a lot more often than other teens, especially if they are rejected by family and friends. I remember the remark Kit made about trying to figure out if life as a lesbian was even worth it.

  The straight woman, Julie, talks about how important it is for us to be supportive of our gay/lesbian/bi/trans friends.

  “What do you mean, bi?” Nicole asks.

  “Bisexual . . .”

  “Someone who swings both ways,” Steven says.

  “Right,” Julie says. “Someone who may have sexual feelings for both men and women.”

  She’s a member of a group called PFLAG—Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays. Her son is gay, and she talks about how hard it was for her to accept that, and how important PFLAG has been to her. She hands out information about various groups and re­sources for gay/lesbian youth. I’m amazed at the length of the list. She talks about high school groups, like Project Ten, and GSA—Gay Straight Alliances, and free counseling services. There are also numbers for a suicide hotline, and child protection services. I guess some kids get beaten up when their parents discover that they’re gay.

  On the way out of class I hear Eric say to Tiffany, “Homosexu­ality is as much of a sin as murder.”

  Conan asks him, “How do you figure?”

  “It’s all in the Bible.”

  “Lots of stuff’s in the Bible,” Conan says.

  “Yeah. And it’s all the word of God. And people like those fags and dykes and that other pervert had better start facing up.”

  Something must have happened to Eric over the summer. I don’t think he was like that before. I watch as he and Tiffany walk down the hall together, holding hands. Eric is talking a mile a minute and Tiffany is nodding her head in what I guess is agreement. Better her than me.

  After school, I meet Kit on the volleyball court. We’re the first ones there so we decide to practice serves. Kit’s across the court from me, volleyball in hand. I wait for the serve while she talks on and on about the speakers in PC, like she’s on some kind of natural high or something.

  “Were the same people in period two?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. Did you see Leonard who turned into Leona?”

  “Yeah, and Raymond, the gay guy, and Heather, the lesbian, and the other older woman, Julie?”

  “Ummm. I think so. I don’t remember anyone’s name, except Leona and Raymond.”

  “It’s so cool that they came to talk to us! You know, what Heather said, about how hard it was to tell her parents but now they’re her best support . . .”

  “I got distracted wondering what it would be like to have a dad turn into a mom.”

  “You mean, you weren’t even interested enough in a lesbian’s experience to listen?”

  “It’s not that. I was just distracted.”

  Kit bounces the ball once, tosses it high in the air and slams it across the net in her strongest power serve. I catch it and serve it back, trying, and failing, to match her power. She lets the ball bounce past her and stands looking at me.

  “It doesn’t seem right, that Heather is up there pouring her heart out and you’re too distracted to listen.”

  “Don’t take it all personal,” I say.

  “It’s just . . . it’s so important . .”

  She looks like she might cry.

  “Sometimes I feel so alone . . . and Heather . . . talking about . . . you know . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Tell me everything Heather said. I’ll listen. I won’t daydream . . .”

  “ALL RIGHT GIRLS!” Coach Terry’s voice booms across the court. Some of the others who’ve gathered by the benches sprint out to the court and I know that’s the end of any conversation for at least an hour.

  Terry lines us up for a pep talk about the coming game with San Martino.

  “They’re tough, but we’re tougher. This is going to be our best season yet.”

  She leads us through a series of stretches, then says, “Kit, opposite side hitter. Carmen, setter, Lynn, middle blocker . . .” until she’s designated all positions for an hour’s worth of practice games. After the games, we go to the weight room and do a circuit that Coach Terry has set up especially for her volleyball players. Then sprints and finally, more stretches.

  By the time Coach Terry is through with us, we are worn out and sweaty. We shower and change, then decide we need to replenish our energy and spirits with a stop at Barb ’n Edie’s. Over garbage-burgers and Cokes, we talk about PC.

  “It’s good to hear about other people’s problems,” I say.

  “Does that mean you think being a lesbian is a problem?”

  “Hey—it would be for me. But if it’s not for you, or for Heather, then cool.”

  Kit takes a big bite of her juicy garbageburger and munches thoughtfully.

  “I felt so good today in PC, hearing those people talk about finding the strength to be themselves—how everyone has that right.”

  “It seemed strange to me,” I say.

  “Right,” she says, getting that look on her face that tells me I’ve said the wrong thing.

  “So now, when I’m sitting here with you, I don’t feel so good anymore. Like you think I’m strange.”

  “You’re so sensitive these days! Whatever
I say, you take it the wrong way!”

  “Listen to what you’re saying, though! First you can’t be bothered to pay attention to someone who’s talking about an issue of huge importance to me, and now you’re saying that the gay/ lesbian thing was strange?”

  I am surprised at the strength of Kit’s emotion. We’ve never had one of those roller coaster friendships where we’re mad and yell at each other, and then don’t speak, and then make up. We’ve never been like that. I don’t want it to be like that.

  “Are we fighting?” I say. “Because if we are, I don’t want to.”

  We look straight at each other for about a minute, trying to decide.

  “I guess if we have to ask if we’re fighting, we must not be fighting,” Kit says.

  “Guess not,” I say.

  That gives us both a much needed laugh.

  Later that night, just before bedtime, I check my e-mail. There’s something from Dad, saying he’ll pick me up on Saturday and take me to his company’s family picnic. I guess I’ll have to go. I’ve outgrown my dad, but he doesn’t know it yet.

  There’s another thing about how to make $$$ over the Internet. Delete! Then—a note from Kit:

  There’s a big Gay Pride celebration over at Griffith Park this Saturday. Will you go with me? You don’t have to be gay to go. All kinds of people will be there. — Kit

  I e-mail her back that I’ve got to go to that stupid annual company picnic for my dad’s work. She knows that’s not a lie because I complain about it every year. This year I’m relieved to be going, though. As out of place as I feel at my dad’s company picnic—Daddy’s little girl and all that phoniness—I’d feel like I was from another planet at a Gay Pride gathering.

  I want to be Kit’s spirit sister, but I don’t want to get all involved with Gay Pride stuff. I can’t believe she does either. She even says she doesn’t want anyone besides me to know right now. If she does go to the park on Saturday, I hope she’ll stay away from the TV cameras.

  Kit shows up at my house Sunday morning. My mom and I are doing our traditional Sunday thing, eating pancakes and bacon and watching the Sunday morning show.

  “Hey, Always,” Kit says to my mom, flopping down on the couch beside her.

  Here’s something else I need to tell you. About five years ago, Kit nicknamed Mom “Always,” because we could never beat her in Trivial Pursuit. Always Wright. Get it? Mom refuses to play Trivial Pursuit with us anymore, since the time she almost lost. She says she doesn’t want Kit to start calling her “Sometimes.” “Always” is bad enough. Her real name is Claire, but Kit likes Always better. Mom’s a good sport about it.

  “Join us for breakfast?” Mom asks.

  “Sure,” Kit says.

  “Well . . . get up off your cute little duff and go fix it,” Mom laughs, giving Kit a playful poke. Really, sometimes I think Mom likes Kit better than me.

  “Pancake mix is in the bowl on the sink and the bacon’s in the bottom drawer of the fridge,” Mom says.

  Kit goes bounding into the kitchen and I follow. She grabs the package of bacon, pulls off four pieces, tosses them into the frying pan, turns up the gas on the two front burners and stirs the pancake mix.

  “You should have been at Griffith Park yesterday,” Kit says, talking low so Mom can’t hear. “It was soooo cool!”

  Kit reaches into her jeans and empties a pocket full of telephone numbers and e-mail addresses on cards, or tiny slips of paper. One number is on the back of a matchbook cover. I thought people only did that in movies from the fifties.

  “Look! All of these people want to talk to me! Yesterday, at Gay Pride, I was an insider.”

  I flip the pancakes Kit seems to have forgotten in her enthusiasm for being in the middle of things. She turns the bacon. I notice she’s smiling. She looks happy. I always think of Kit as a happy person. That’s how she was when we started being friends and that’s how she’s always seemed to me. But seeing her happy now, I realize that she’s been on the quiet side for—how long? Last year, after a choir party had mostly ended with couples, I asked her if anything was wrong. Was she worried about anything? She brushed it off, and I didn’t pursue it. I guess maybe I didn’t want to know—I wanted to keep thinking she was happy, that everything was fine.

  “Fry up a few more slices of bacon for me, would you?” Mom calls from the family room.

  “You got it, Always,” Kit says.

  She adds bacon to the skillet and stands over it, cooking first one side, then the other. When it is exactly the way Mom likes it,. Kit picks up the scraps of paper from the counter and shoves them back into her pocket. Smiling, she gives me a thumbs up sign and carries her plate of pancakes and bacon, plus extras for Mom, back to the other room. There is a lightness to her walk that I’ve not seen for a long time. I hadn’t even noticed it was missing. For a spirit sister, there’s a lot I haven’t noticed.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Mom is off to San Jose on some kind of business trip, so I get to drive her car today. It’s a Lexus, not new, but way more comfortable than Conan’s Hyundai. I’m in the driver’s seat, waiting for Kit. The first thing I notice about Kit when she walks through our back gate is that she is not smiling.

  “Hi,” I say, as she reaches the car.

  “Hi.”

  She tosses her backpack in and climbs into the back seat. It’s funny, that unspoken recognition of who belongs where. When Conan first started hanging out with me and Kit, whoever got to the passenger seat first took it. Now, if Conan is driving, the seat next to him is saved for me, and vice versa.

  “Hard times?” I ask Kit as I ease out the driveway.

  She sighs. “My dad is being such a shit! He’s complaining that I spend too much time on my computer. This guy they arrested yesterday had gone nuts, got all violent in a coffee shop, thinking he was some character in a computer game.”

  “What’s that got to do with you?”

  “Nothing! I don’t even play computer games! But now he’s checking on me every ten minutes or so, to see what’s on my screen. Puhlease! Hasn’t he heard of the right to privacy? All I need is for him to come in and see an e-mail message about gay pride!”

  We swing by for Conan. Sabina watches from the doorway as Conan gets into the passenger seat Kit has left vacant for him.

  I put the car in reverse and wave to Sabina. She doesn’t even notice me, she’s so busy blowing kisses to Conan. Conan laughs and blows about a million kisses back to her.

  “She’s cute, isn’t she?” he asks, his eyes all dancing. “She loves me, too,” he says to me.

  From the back seat, Kit groans. “The sugar content in this car is giving me diabetes,” she laughs, punching Conan on the shoulder.

  Myself, I like the sugar content.

  Today is a minimum day—teacher workshops or some­thing. We’re out by noon and decide to go to the beach.

  “Is it okay with Always?”

  “She didn’t tell me not to take the car to the beach.”

  “She didn’t tell you not to jump off a bridge, but you’ve got sense enough not to do it, don’t you?” Kit says, mimicking every mom in the world.

  That gets us laughing.

  Then Kit says “In your heart you know Always won’t like it.”

  So then we have to explain to Conan why Kit calls my mom Always, which gets us laughing again.

  I’m pretty sure my mom won’t care if I drive to the beach. Besides, it’s a perfect day. We stop at our houses for the necessities—bathing suits, towels, sunscreen, and then we’re off. We take the 10 to the 605, then south to the 405, and down to Huntington Beach. It’s got to be one of California’s all-time ugliest drives. My great-aunt Doreen says this used to be beau­tiful, all orange groves and avocado orchards, strawberry farms, and, best of all, blue skies. Hard to believe. Now it’s look-alike houses and strip malls, warehouses and factories. The skies are so thick with pollutants that just breathing leaves a nasty taste in your mouth an
d a heaviness in your lungs.

  Hardly anyone is on the beach today. Not like the middle of summer, when you can hardly find room to spread out a towel. Here, because of ocean breezes, the sky is blue, the air clean. It is totally worth the drive through heavy grayness to reach this place.

  “C’mon!” Kit challenges, rushing into the surf. Conan and I follow her lead, racing to the white foamed waves, diving beneath them, breathless with the first shock of cold water. We swim out past the breakers, where Kit lies floating on her back, as still as a piece of driftwood, bobbing on the surface of gentle swells.

  The green flag is up, meaning the surf is gentle today. No riptides or undertow, no huge waves to turn you upside down and slam you head first into the sand. At the other end of the beach, a few surfers wait lazily on their boards, hoping for a wave big enough to be worthy of their energy. Surfers don’t much like the green flag days.

  Conan swims closer in, catching a breaking wave and stiffen­ing his body for the ride to shore. I tread water, watching as he rises to his feet and turns to wave at me. I wave back, then look toward the horizon. Two small sailboats bob slowly along, somewhere between here and Catalina Island. I think how this ocean reaches to Japan and beyond, up to the Arctic and down to Antarctica. I wonder where the water that now holds me up has been.

  I’m lost in thought, totally peaceful, when Kit swims in front of me, splashes me full in the face, then swims away at top speed. I swim after her, gaining, until I’m even with her shoulders. I heave myself over, shoving her under. She comes up sputtering and laughing, masses of hair hanging down in her face.

  “Even?”

  “Even,” I agree.

  She leans her head back in the water, then comes up with her hair hanging neatly down her back.

  Conan swims out to us, his big body graceful in the water. The three of us form a sort of circle, treading water, not talking, feeling the rise and fall of the powerful sea. Later, when my fingers are as wrinkled as prunes, I swim to shore and flop down on my beach towel. The sun is warm on my back, the salt air refreshing to my smog weary lungs.