Love Rules

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “Yes,” I say, even though I don’t know what he means by more.

  “Let’s find a better place,” he says, standing and holding his hand out to pull me up.

  I tell Mom I’ll be back in an hour or so, that we’re going to get ice cream. When I get in the car, I notice the dog Conan gave Sabina for her birthday.

  “Does she like her birthday present?” I ask, pointing to the huge stuffed animal.

  “Oh, no,” Conan groans. “She forgot Fluffy!”

  He looks at his watch.

  “She’s probably giving Mom a terrible time about going to bed without it . . . Fluffy. I want my Fluffy,” Conan cries in what I take to be an imitation of Sabina.

  “It is pretty cute,” I say, rubbing the soft white fur on Fluffy’s head.

  “Sabina wants me to get a dog license for Fluffy, so if she gets lost we can call the pound and they’ll help us find her,” Conan laughs.

  “I’ve got one of Wilma’s old licenses.”

  “That’d work. I’ll get it when we come back.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  We drive to a tree-lined street in the rich section of town and park at the end of the cul-de-sac. We push the front seats back as far as they’ll go and try to stretch out, keeping our bodies close. Conan is practically trapped by the steering wheel. We trade places but the Hyundai is still very confining. Somehow though, we manage to get close. Conan pulls me against him and reaches under my sweater to unfasten my bra. He pulls my sweater up and kisses my breast gently, then my mouth.

  “I love you,” he whispers. “I love how you make me feel.”

  He guides my hand downward. I can feel his warmth and hardness even through his jeans. We kiss again, strong and forceful. Then—the beam of a flashlight through the window. Some guy walking his dog, but I guess he thinks he’s Mr. Neighborhood Watch or something. He looks for a moment, then walks on. Conan gets back in the driver’s side, starts the car, and drives out of the cul-de-sac. The guy with the flashlight watches.

  I lay my head on Conan’s shoulder, thinking how comfortable I am with him. I’ve never done that much before. Guys have tried to touch my breasts, or put their hands between my legs, or get me to touch them, but I’ve never let it happen. It didn’t appeal to me. Even with Eric, who I really liked for a while, we didn’t go beyond heavy kissing. I didn’t want to. But with Conan, I keep wanting more.

  “Are you mad at me?” he asks.

  “Oh my gosh! Mad? Why?”

  “You know, because I got. . . all . . . worked up?”

  “Oh, Conan,” I say, scooting as close to him as I can possibly get, “the only one I’m mad at is the guy with the flashlight.” Conan laughs and gives me a quick kiss on the top of my head. “We’ll find a better place next time,” he promises.

  We’ve just turned onto my street when red lights flash behind us and there’s a quick, short burst of a siren.

  “Shit!” Conan says, slowing to the curb and stopping.

  The blast of a bullhorn—“GET OUT OF THE CAR WITH YOUR HANDS UP!”

  “We weren’t speeding,” I say.

  “Do what they say. Show both of your hands, open, when you get out.”

  Conan opens the door, then puts his hands up and gets out of the car. I do the same.

  “UP AGAINST THE CAR, SPREAD EAGLE!”

  There are two sheriffs and they both have their guns out. One is pointing at Conan and the other at me. My heart is pounding in my ears. I’m shaking so hard I can hardly stand. Across the roof of the car Conan whispers, “Stay calm, Lynnie. Don’t move unless they say to.”

  One sheriff, the skinny one, stands back, where he can see us both, gun trained on Conan, but watching me, too. The fat one holsters his gun, walks up to Conan and starts patting him down.

  “WHY???” I scream, frantic.

  “Chill,” Conan says.

  “He’s right,” the fat sheriff says. “Chill.”

  In the eerie lights, flashing red, I see Conan’s face across from

  me. It resembles Conan, but it’s a face I’ve not seen before, frozen hard, without expression.

  Through my sobs I hear the rumbling of a trash container and then the voice of my mother, screaming, “What’s going on here?” Then the pounding of her feet, getting closer to me.

  “STOP RIGHT THERE!” comes the voice from the bullhorn.

  I turn my head to see the skinny sheriff with his gun aimed at my mother.

  “MOM!”

  She stops. “THIS IS MY DAUGHTER!”

  “Don’t come any closer,” the sheriff says.

  “I live right there,” Mom says, pointing to our house. “I’m Claire Wright. This is my daughter, Lynn, and I want to know what this is all about. Officer . . .” Mom squints her eyes, struggling to read the sheriff’s name tag, “. . . Officer Barcley.”

  Officer Barcley lowers his gun.

  “We got a call regarding a car of this description and license number. Suspicious activity.”

  By this time, the fat sheriff has Conan sitting on the curb with his hands behind his back, in handcuffs. Officer Barcley is watching Conan while my mom tries to talk to him. The other guy is searching through Conan’s car.

  “What kind of suspicious activity?” Mom demands to know.

  Officer Barcley doesn’t bother answering, but stands watch­ing Conan.

  “Officer Barcley!” It’s the voice Mom uses when she means business. He doesn’t even turn to look at her.

  “Nothing here,” the fat guy calls out, standing and closing the car door.

  “You can put your hands down now, and step away from the car,” Barcley says to me.

  I stand back from the car and wipe my face. Conan turns sideways to see what is going on.

  “Hey! Did anyone tell you to move?”

  Conan turns back, facing the street, never changing his statue

  like look.

  Mom runs to me, hugs me tight. My knees are weak with relief. I sink toward the street. She guides me to the curb and gently eases me down. She sits beside me, holding me, while I collapse in body-wracking sobs.

  “Officer Barcley!” she calls, more insistent than ever.

  I’m dimly aware of the sheriff sauntering over to where we’re sitting.

  “We got a complaint. These two were somewhere they had no business being,” he says.

  “Where?”

  “Where they didn’t belong.”

  “We were just . . . in the Heights . . . where they de . . . de . . . decorate all those giant pine trees at Christmas,” I gasp, between sobs.

  “On a public street?” Mom asks.

  “There’ve been some robberies up there recently . . .”

  “On a public street?” Mom repeats.

  “On a public street, parked, with no business being there. You should watch the company your daughter keeps, Mrs. Wright.”

  I feel my mom stiffen, take a breath as if to speak, then exhale slowly, remaining silent. I can’t stop shaking. She tightens her arms around me.

  The other sheriff, the fat one, wanders over. Conan still sits on the curb, handcuffed, as if they’ve forgotten he even exists.

  “You can take your daughter home now,” the fat one says.

  Mom stands. I still feel weak and shaky.

  “Thank you, Officer . . . Lee, we’ll wait here until you’re through with Conan,” Mom says.

  “You may as well go on home. This might take a while.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’re running a computer check on the car and the suspect.”

  “Suspect?”

  “The car may be stolen. There may be a warrant out for Mr. Parker here. At the very least he’s in violation of the curfew laws. We’ll have to hold him in custody until a parent can come get him.”

  Mom looks at her watch.

  “It’s only eleven-ten. Officer Lee. He would have been home before eleven if he hadn’t been stopped.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.
We’re just doing our jobs, trying to keep the community safe for honest, law-abiding citizens.”

  Another squad car pulls up and stops behind the first one. Kit’s father and his partner get out.

  “Hey, Claire, Lynn,” he says, flashing a questioning smile. He glances at Conan, then turns to the sheriff named Barcley. “What’s up?”

  They talk quietly, out of earshot. Officer Lee goes back to the squad car and checks the radio. “Nothing on the Parker guy,” he calls out.

  Both seem disappointed.

  Kit’s dad comes over to where we are standing.

  “Do you know this guy?” he asks Mom, nodding in the direction of Conan, still sitting on the curb with his hands behind his back. Why don’t they let him up?

  “He’s a friend of Lynn’s. Actually, I think he’s a friend of Kit’s also. I know they all ride to school together most of the time.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “Story? I don’t know any story, David,” Mom says.

  “Hey, I’m not the enemy, you know?” he says, giving Mom the same look I’ve seen him give Kit when he’s trying to get through to her.

  Mom nods.

  “Right. I’m just a little upset. I come out of my house to find my daughter and her friend being held at gun point . . .”

  Mom almost loses it, then pulls herself together.

  “All I know about Conan,” she says, gesturing in his direction, “is that he’s a student at Hamilton High, big man on the football team, a friend of our kids. He seems to be a very nice young man. It certainly doesn’t appear he’s done anything wrong tonight. As far as I know we are all still at liberty to park on public streets unless there’s a no-parking designation!”

  “You’re right. But we have to take him in since it’s past the curfew.”

  “It wouldn’t be past curfew if he hadn’t been stopped.”

  “But we can’t have him driving around without adult super­vision after curfew. That’s against the law.”

  I stand looking at Conan’s back, the bulk of him, frozen in position. His arms must be tired. I want to go to him, but it’s as if he’s in a zone that can’t be crossed.

  “Release him to me,” Mom says. “I’ll see that he gets home legally.”

  Kit’s dad weighs the suggestion. He goes back to talk with the other three, again quietly enough that we can’t hear them. The toughest acting guy, Barcley, shrugs and walks away. Lee follows. Mr. Dandridge walks over to where Conan is sitting and unlocks the handcuffs. Conan sits rubbing his wrists.

  “You’re released to Mrs. Wright,” David says.

  Conan rises slowly, now rubbing his arms and moving them around, probably trying to get the circulation going again. I go to him, put my arms around him, hold him tight. He is stiff and unyielding, his face still set. He says nothing. We walk together toward my mother.

  “Come on,” Mom says. “Call your parents so they won’t be worried. We’ll have a cup of hot chocolate and then I’ll get you home.”

  Conan nods silently, not making eye contact. I go to the car to get my purse. Stuff is strewn all over. Everything’s out of my wallet—driver’s license, student I.D., social security card, pictures. Only the five-dollar bill is still where I left it. Tissue, lip gloss, breath mints, pen, markers, everything’s been emptied out. I search around and under the seats until I think I’ve found everything. I look in the back seat, just to be sure I’m not leaving anything behind. There is Sabina’s stuffed dog, its back ripped open, its head pulled off, stuffing strewn all over.

  “Conan!” I call, the trembling starting again.

  He and Mom walk to the car.

  “What’s all that?” Mom asks, as I gesture to the mess in the back seat.

  “It’s Fluffy,” I say, choking back tears. “Conan’s little sister’s favorite stuffed animal.”

  Conan picks up the emptied head and drops it back down. His face is still ice. “Figures,” is all he says.

  After the phone call to his parents and the hot chocolate, Mom rides with Conan in his car, and I follow behind in her car, so I can take her back home. The lights are all on in Conan’s house when we pull up. I want to say goodnight to him, but by the time I’m out of the car he’s already at the front door, where his father and grandfather stand waiting. Conan turns and waves to us and disappears into his house. I wonder if Sabina is still awake, waiting for Fluffy.

  When I see Kit in the morning, I tell her about how Conan and I were pulled over, and the way we were treated.

  “I don’t know how things would have turned out if your dad hadn’t come along.”

  “Right. And if it had been you and me parked, talking, up in that ritzy section, would anyone have alerted the cops? And if they did, would we have been pulled over? And if we were, would either of us have been handcuffed, or would anything in our car have been destroyed?”

  “I know. It sucks.”

  “Liberty and justice for all—not even close to a reality,” Kit says.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Kit asks me to go to the next GSA meeting with her. I don’t have a good excuse not to, so I go. We meet Emmy in the faculty lot, and she drives us over to Sojourner in her van. Frankie, Caitlin and Nora go, too. When we get to the meeting room, Star is waiting. She takes a new Pride bracelet from her pocket and gives it to Kit. Kit gets that melty look again. They hug. Then Star slips the bracelet on Kit’s wrist, just above the one she’s already wearing.

  The Sojourner High teacher, Guy, is there. There are two boys and two girls, including Star, who go to Sojourner. They’re way more “out there” than the Hamilton High group. Just the hair alone. One of the boys, Jerry, has a mohawk that stands about four inches high, straight up. It’s bright green. His eyebrow is pierced, his nose is pierced twice, with two little diamond studs at the edge of each nostril. He’s weighed down with metal stuff hanging from his belt, and big spiky bracelets and a neck cuff. Another boy has hair that’s been bleached white and divided into beaded strands, each about an inch long. The girl has her head shaved. She’s got dark motorcycle style glasses, so dark you can’t see her eyes. She’s wearing a Hell’s Angels T-shirt, greasy, torn jeans, and big heavy boots. There’s a tattoo of a Harley-Davidson on her upper arm. Kit should bring Motorcycle Girl home to meet her parents. Maybe the contrast would make them think Kit’s new style is not so bad.

  The meeting starts with the usual review of rules. Then we go around the circle saying our names. Emmy hands out 3x5 cards. She explains the routine, for the benefit of new people. I think Kit and I are the only new people. The rest seem to know each other already. Anyway, the way this works is that everyone writes something about their past week on a card. Usually it’s related to gay/lesbian issues, but it doesn’t have to be.

  “We try to get the best and the worst of the week. Then we talk about the issues that have been presented,” Emmy says. “For people who are shy, or scared, keeping experiences anonymous feels safer.”

  Guy passes around a plate of chocolate chip cookies while we’re writing on the cards.

  “Oh, good, it’s Guy’s turn to bring cookies. None of those store bought Mother’s Cookies things that Emmy always brings,” Jerry says.

  Both Guy and Emmy laugh, so I guess she’s not insulted.

  “I got up early this morning to bake these,” Guy says.

  I don’t know what to write on my card. The best part of my week, maybe of my life, was those few minutes with Conan when we were parked on the tree-lined street. That’s the farthest thing in the world from a gay/lesbian issue, though. The worst part was being stopped by the sheriffs, but I don’t want to talk about that. I write that the worst part of my week was seeing how hard things are for my friend—how negative her family is. Then, I can’t think of anything else, so I just say the best part was getting closer to my boyfriend.

  The best part for one person was that his mom had joined PFLAG, an organization for parents and friends of gays and lesbians
. The worst was that his dad went into a rage, forbidding

  his mom to go to the meeting.

  “That’s my card,” Jerry, the guy with the Mohawk says. “I just walked my mom to the car and stood between her and my dad until she backed out the driveway.”

  “You said your dad was in a rage?” Emmy asks.

  “Yeah. Yelling and screaming and stomping. That’s my dad.”

  “Does he ever hit?”

  Jerry looks down at his boots, not making eye contact. “Naw. Not anymore,” he says.

  It’s obvious who the next card is from. The best part of her week is Star, Star, Star. The worst is the situation with her parents.

  There’s talk about how to get more people involved in GSA, and why it’s important to have such a group.

  “We might get more people out if we moved the meetings to Hamilton,” Emmy says.

  Jerry moans. “That leaves me out, man. I’m not supposed to set foot on that campus ever again.”

  “We might be able to work something out, just for the meetings—if you’re always with me,” Guy says.

  “That place gives me the creeps,” Motorcycle Girl says. “People staring, looking down their noses.”

  “It’s not all like that. Dawn,” Frankie says.

  “All I’ve seen,” Dawn, earlier referred to as Motorcycle Girl, says.

  What’s with these people anyway—Star, Dawn, Leaf. Did their parents give them names that made them become ten per­centers, or did they change their names to fit some ten percenter stereotype? And who am I to talk anyway, when I’m named after an actress? So now I’m following unruly name thoughts, and I’m thinking about how when I was thirteen I wanted my mom to change her name from Claire to Grumpy because I thought Grumpy suited her personality. To say she didn’t like the idea is a giant understatement—if there even is such a thing as a giant understatement. Can something be understated and giant at the same. . .

  Oops. Back to the meeting.

  I regain my focus just as the decision is being made to move the GSA meetings to Hamilton High. We can meet in the back room of the library. Emmy says it’s not very busy at lunchtime, and the library tech and aides can handle the desk. Guy’s sure he can work things out with Mr. Cordova, the dean, to get an okay to bring Sojourner kids on campus. I gather that most of them were kicked out of Hamilton High and security is not happy to have them back as visitors.