“That’s how it is with Conan,” I say.
“Yeah? Well then you know how nice it can be.”
After about twenty more frisbee throws, Wilma deposits the frisbee at the back gate instead of bringing it back to me. It’s her way of letting me know she’s finally had enough. She comes back to the tree and wedges her way between me and Kit. As Kit reaches down to pet Wilma, I stare at her bracelet.
“All of the colors,” she says, “Each as beautiful as the other. Like all of the different kinds of people in the world.”
“Right. Like you see a bunch of purple people running around,” I say, knowing how stupid I sound.
“Get a clue! It’s symbolic! It stands for all kinds of diversity—race, color, gender, culture—you know.”
“But doesn’t it sort of . . . stereotype you?”
Kit gives me a disgusted look.
“Really, half the kids at that GSA meeting were wearing those rainbow things.”
“I don’t care about that. I’m sick of looking like Barbie in my little skirt and sweater. I’m sick of the little gold charm bracelet my mother always wants me to wear. I’m sick of looking like some girly-girl. That’s SO who I’m NOT. I’m finding my own way. That’s all.”
We hear a car come into the driveway.
“That would be Mom,” Kit says. “Time for the great unveiling.”
“Are you worried?”
“Well . . . Look.”
Kit lays her hands flat on her jeans—each upper thigh. When she moves them away, they leave two distinct, damp, sweaty imprints.
“Shall I go in with you?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I think I’m on my own with this one.”
I get up, relieved, and brush my hands clean.
“Call me later,” I say.
“I’ll e-mail. It’s more private. . . See you in the morning?” she asks, reaching for her backpack.
“Sure. Conan’ll pick us up.”
I walk to the gate. Wilma follows.
“Good luck,” I call back to Kit.
“Thanks,” she yells back.
I go into the house and start my homework, but it’s hard to concentrate. My head is full of worry for Kit, and love for Conan, and will I get into a good nursing program, and what will we have for dinner, and why all of a sudden am I getting these zits on my face when it’s not even near my period and I’ve not eaten any chocolate in weeks.
It is after midnight by the time I’ve finished my homework and get around to checking e-mail. That’s sort of a deal I’ve made with myself. I don’t open e-mail until my homework is done—like a reward from me to me. I’ve got a message from Haley. She was one of the ten-year-olds in my cabin at summer camp. I taught her to swim, so now we’re friends forever. I’m e-mailing her back when the flag comes up that I have a new message. It’s from Kit.
When my mom saw my hair she went into total meltdown. She kept screaming, my beautiful baby, my beautiful baby! What’s to become of you? My dad said nothing. I mean NOTHING! He just sat there, looking at me. It’s like he wasn’t even hearing my mom. She kept asking me where she’d gone wrong, why would I want to hurt her like that. I told her, It’s not about you Mom. I got my hair cut is all. That’s not all, my dad said. You think I’m on the donut and coffee patrol? I’m out there, on the streets. I know what’s up. The rainbow necklace, the Pride bracelet, the haircut, is not all. All the time he was saying this, he was calm, and sort of distant, but then it looked like he might cry. DAMN! I haven’t seen my dad cry since the last time I saw him drunk.
There’s more to tell you, but I’m tired of writing. The worst thing is that my dad left without saying where he was going. Like in the old days. Mom’s all worried, crying about how if Dad starts drinking again it’s all my fault.
I immediately e-mail back to Kit, telling her to come over so we can talk—I’ll leave my bedroom window open for her. I stay awake for a long time, and even when I sleep I’m only half-sleeping. The other half is listening for Kit. She doesn’t show up.
CHAPTER
10
When I pour my morning glass of orange juice, I find a note from Mom on the kitchen table. Her friend from work made a batch of lasagna for us, way too much for two. Why not invite my new boyfriend over to help us with it?
Mom’s been hinting around that it’s time for her to meet Conan. At first I told her Conan and I were just friends. Which was true, at first, sort of.
The other night she told me, “I don’t care if you are just friends. You talk to him every night on the phone, he takes you to school, you spend a lot of time together on weekends, and I want to meet him.”
Mom has this thing about knowing all of my friends. It was okay when I was ten, but I don’t think it’s necessary now. In six months I’ll be legally classified as an adult.
Kit looks haggard when she shows up in the morning. We sit on the steps, waiting for Conan.
“How’re things at your house this morning?”
“Quiet,” Kit says.
“Your dad?”
“He was there this morning, when I got up.”
“And?”
“Not drunk. But his sponsor was sitting at the table with him, drinking coffee. Judging from the way they looked, they’d been up all night.”
“His sponsor?”
“You know. The twelve-step thing. Everyone has a sponsor to help them stay on program. I guess he’d been tempted to drink, so he called this poor guy in the middle of the night.”
“How about your mom?”
Kit starts laughing a kind of sad, hysterical laugh.
“What?”
“You know how I told you Dad was talking about the rainbow stuff last night?” she gasps out.
I nod. Kit struggles to catch her breath.
“Well, for a minute it was like Mom got her hopes up. She stopped screaming and sobbing and she said, ‘Rainbow? Rainbow?’ And she got this sort of hopeful smile on her face.”
Kit is again consumed by laughter. But it’s more of a harsh laughter than a fun laughter.
“I don’t get it.”
“She thought it had something to do with Rainbow Girls. Remember how she tried to get us to join that group, where they have secret handshakes or something and they’re always running around in formals? Remember?”
“When we were in the eighth grade?”
“Yeah. She had this plan for us, to help us become ladies. Rainbow Girls!” She points to her bracelet. “Rainbow Girls!” She laughs.
I laugh, too, but at the same time I feel sort of sorry for Kit’s mom.
“She doesn’t still think you’re wanting to be a Rainbow Girl does she?”
Kit gets serious.
“No. Dad told her she was way off base. She was so far off base she wasn’t even on the field.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know. Then I came in and e-mailed you and Star and went to bed.”
“I left my window open for you all night,” I tell her.
“Thanks.”
“Do you want to stay at our house tonight?”
“No. We’ve moved into the not speaking phase now. When I passed them in the kitchen this morning it was like I was invisible. That’s okay. It’s easier.”
From the look on Kit’s face, I’m not convinced things are easier.
Conan pulls into the driveway, all smiles. He gives me a big kiss as soon as I get in the car, then looks back to greet Kit, who looks all tense and worried.
“Hey. Who died?” he says with a laugh.
When she doesn’t respond he says, “That’s a joke. At least, I hope it is!”
“Sorry,” Kit says. “I guess I’m not in a joking mood.”
“What’s up?”
Kit sighs. “Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Conan is quiet for a while, as if all he’s thinking about is driving. Then he glances in the rear view mirror. “I thought we were friends. I thought I was more t
han just a ride to school.”
While we’re waiting at a signal, Conan turns around and looks at Kit. She looks out the window.
“Just a family fight,” she says. “That’s all.”
In PC, during journal writing time, Conan whispers, “What’s with Kit?”
“A big argument.”
“Yeah? . . . And?”
“I guess her mom went over the edge about Kit’s new look—wants to know where she went wrong. And her dad’s not speaking. That stuff.”
Conan nods his head as if he understands. “I hate when my family gets all on my case about stuff that’s really none of their business.”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . just stuff,” he says, and turns back to his journal writing. Conan doesn’t talk much about family things, except for his sister. I wonder if his dad is doing more of that barbarian stuff, or if something else is going on.
Between second and third period I catch up to Kit on the way upstairs.
“Are you worried about the fight with your parents?” I ask.
“We never fight. Everything’s been good for the past four years. And now . . . seeing my parents all down . . .”
Kit is on the verge of tears. By this time we’re near the library. I lead her inside, to a table in a far corner. We sit next to one another and I wait to hear what Kit will say next. The warning bell rings, signifying five minutes to class time, but we don’t move. Kit takes a series of slow, deep breaths, trying, I think, to avoid a real cry fest.
“All I’m trying to do is be who I am, and my parents are going nuts—just because I got a haircut!”
“And the rainbow stuff,” I remind her.
“Is it wrong for me to be who I am? Should I keep pretending to be someone else?” she asks in a strained whisper.
One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to deal with has been Kit’s “I like girls” revelation. I’ve wished she would just keep going along with things, the old way, like she’s one of the crowd. But now, if I’m honest with myself, I know I was wrong.
“Don’t pretend,” I tell her. “Be you—awesome volleyball player, budding psychologist, true friend, spirit sister, Star’s love, lesbian—be your own true self.”
Tears are streaming down Kit’s face, full force now. I’m all teary, too.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
Emmy walks past our table, barely pausing, and sets a box of tissue down between us. We wipe our faces dry and for the first time today I see Kit smile. Then the smile fades.
“I don’t want people to be hurt, or angry. I don’t want my mom to be all sad about me, and worried about Dad falling into his old ways. What if he really does start drinking again? Because of me?”
“One day at a time. Isn’t that what your parents always say?”
Now Kit does smile, full out.
“I wish I’d thought to remind them of that last night when mom was carrying on about what was to become of me and Dad was acting like there’d been a death in the family!”
Emmy stops by the table again. She glances at Kit, hair, bracelet, clothes, looks at me, then back to Kit.
“Can I help?”
Kit shakes her head.
Emmy sits down across from us.
“That old cliché about these being the best years of your life—what a joke, huh?”
“So far,” Kit says.
Emmy glances around the library, as if to be certain everything is going smoothly. She pulls a pencil out of her pocket and erases a mark on the table. She takes one of those deep, yoga breaths.
“Rosie was born the summer before my junior year,” she says.
I don’t know why that should shock me. It’s not like the days of the Scarlet Letter or anything. But Emmy seems so . . . together.
“You were a teen mom?” I ask, like she didn’t just tell us that.
“Neither of us is pregnant if that’s what you’re thinking,” Kit
says.
“What I’m thinking is that you’re upset. And that life in high
school is not always easy.”
“Well, duh,” Kit says.
I don’t know why Kit has to be so rude. Just because she’s in the middle of a big drama, doesn’t mean she has to take it out on Emmy. I try to smooth things over.
“Was it hard being a mom when you were still in high school?” I ask.
“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do—so far anyway. I was always tired, trying to take care of a baby, and keep up with school. I never had any money. I didn’t even graduate on stage, with my class. It was a big disappointment at the time, but . . . it doesn’t seem like such a big deal now.”
“Why didn’t you graduate on stage?” Kit asks, her tone more civil now.
“I took the proficiency test and transferred to community college after my junior year. I needed to get on with things.”
Emmy goes to check out a book for a student, then returns.
“All I’m trying to say is, things can be hard, and they can get better. I love my life now—Rosie, and Carl, and my job.”
She looks intently at Kit.
“Whatever the problem is, don’t give up hope.”
Kit nods.
“It was hard being one of those girls. Some of my teachers said I’d ruined my life, I’d never make it to college . . .”
“That sucks,” Kit says.
“But there were others, too, like Woodsy, and Mr. Michaels, who encouraged me . . . I want to be more like them than like the others. That’s why, when Frankie asked, I agreed to be an advisor for GSA . . .”
“Mrs. Saunders?” a frail looking freshman boy asks. “Can you help me find a book?”
Emmy gets up to help him.
“I didn’t mean to get carried away with my life story,” she says, smiling as she gets up from her chair.
I smile back. Even Kit smiles back. In a few minutes Emmy stops by our table with passes back to class.
“We can take a hint,” I say, laughing.
Kit and I gather our things.
“You okay?” I ask.
Kit nods. We exchange a quick hug and go on to our third period classes.
It’s silent reading time in English. I open The Color Purple and look at the page. I’m not actually reading. I’m thinking about Kit, and what a terrible denial of a person it is to expect them to pretend to be something they’re not. It’s like saying “I can’t accept you the way you are. You’re not worthy.”
Kit’s never asked me to be anything other than myself. I’m glad I didn’t ask that of her either. What do I care if she’s a lesbian? She’s Kit.
Miss Banks gives me a look, like she knows I’m not reading. I don’t get how she can tell from such a distance whether or not my eyes are moving across the page, but she can. Maybe that’s something teachers learn in college—or at least back when she was in college.
Another look from her. A major frown. I turn my attention to The Color Purple.
I’m at a part where Celie and Shug, the woman Celie’s husband really loves, are having a heart to heart. Celie tells Shug about a terrible time, when she was fourteen, and her father raped her. Shug holds Celie and comforts her and then—they get all sexy with one another. I’m so surprised! Is Celie a lesbian? Is Shug? How is it I never notice something’s up before I’m hit over the head with it?
I reread a couple of pages. I’m happy for Celie, that she finally has a chance to feel love, and show it. That’s the important thing, love. Not the rules of love, but love itself. I’m going to remember that whenever I’m uncomfortable seeing Star and Kit being affectionate with one another.
Conan meets me after school, just before he has to go off to football practice. He tells me he loves lasagna, so I guess I’ll set the table for three tonight. I shouldn’t be nervous. I know my mom’s not racist. My stomach feels kind of fluttery, though. I don’t think Conan will be exactly what she’s expecting.
As soon as I get home from s
chool, I call Mom.
“I’ve got to tell you something about Conan before you meet him tonight.’’
“It sounds like he’s got two heads or something.”
“He’s black.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t want you to be surprised.”
“Thanks, but remember, I teethed on the civil rights movement.” She laughs. “Whenever there was a demonstration against segregation. Gramma and Grampa were right there, marching, pushing me along in my stroller. By the time I was three I knew every single verse to ‘We Shall Overcome.’”
By the time dinner’s over, it’s as if Mom and Conan are best friends. As far as I’m concerned she asks way too many questions. Conan doesn’t seem to mind, though. He just smiles and keeps answering. That is, between bites of lasagna. It’s pretty amazing to see how much food he can eat in one sitting.
Conan asks Mom about her work, which she loves to talk about. He even turns the tables on her and asks her about her goals in life.
“Well, for the past several years my boss has been trying to get me to move up to a job that requires a fair amount of travel. I’ve not felt like I should be running off and leaving Lynn on her own. But now . . . I’m thinking about taking it next fall.”
“You never told me that!” I say.
“You never asked.”
“What would you be doing?”
“Workshops. Training people how to use our software. My territory would be the west coast and Hawaii.”
“Mom! That would be so cool!”
She laughs. “It’s not certain yet. Don’t start packing your bags
to join me on a business trip.”
After dinner Conan and I clear the table and load the dishwasher. Then we go outside and sit on the steps. It’s cold out, and Conan pulls me close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body.
“You’re never cold, are you?” I ask.
“Never around you,” he says, giving me a long, slow kiss.
“Now I’m not cold, either,” I tell him.
We kiss again and he puts his hand under my sweater and lightly caresses my back. The feel of his warm hand on my skin is pure pleasure. He knows that.
“More?” he whispers.
Love Rules Page 9