Love Rules

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “Star and I aren’t doing it the make babies way, either.”

  “Well, duh!”

  “No. Think about it. Excite. Arouse. Hands. Mouth. Fire

  down below . . . What’re you doing that we’re not?”

  “Nothing, I guess, when you put it that way. Except one of us has really different equipment.”

  That got us laughing again.

  Then Kit said, “You’re missing a lot, being with a guy.”

  “What do you mean? I think you’re the one who’s missing something.”

  “No, look. It’s natural for women to know what women want, what feels good. Men only know what they want. I bet Conan doesn’t make you feel as good as Star makes me feel.”

  “And I bet the opposite, but I’m not going to try to prove it.”

  It was another one of those crazy conversations that only spirit sisters can have.

  Here’s how I look at things now. Kit and I are both crazy in love. We’re happy. That’s what matters. It’s what I hoped for, for our senior year. I just didn’t expect Kit’s love to be a girl. I’m pretty used to that idea now, though.

  While we’re caught up on things, I should tell you about GSA. One day when I was studying in the library, waiting for Conan to be finished with football practice, Emmy came and sat beside me and took a poster out of a tube.

  “Frankie designed this,” she said, laying the poster out flat.

  “Wow! Beautiful!”

  It looked professional, with bright rainbow colors, and purple block print—like a movie poster you might see on the wall at Blockbusters.

  “He did it on his computer—some graphics program he has,” she said.

  Besides the color, the art-deco design, the poster announced that the Gay Straight Alliance Club was now meeting at Hamilton High, and it gave information about meetings.

  “We’ll put it in the glass case in the main building. More people will see it there than if we post it in the library. What do you think?”

  “Sure,” I said, not caring much one way or the other.

  It was nearly closing time in the library and hardly anyone else was there. Rosie came out of Emmy’s office and sidled up to me, hiding something behind her back.

  “Finished with your homework?” Emmy asked.

  Rosie nodded, still with her hands behind her back, her eyes sparkling.

  “I think she wants to show you something,” Emmy said. Then, to Rosie, “Go ahead. Sweetie. Don’t be shy with your old friend Lynn.”

  Grinning, she brought her right hand around, waving a sheet of paper in front of me.

  “What?” I said, making a grab for it.

  She jerked it out of my hand, giggling.

  “What? What?? Please? Pretty please?”

  She handed her report card to me and watched as I read it.

  “Hey! Outstanding in math facts!”

  I give her a high five. The rest of the report card was also good, except for an S (satisfactory) minus in art.

  “I don’t like the smell of the paints,” she explained, as she walked over to the drinking fountain.

  I stacked my books and put them into my backpack.

  “Conan’s probably finished by now,” I said.

  “Yeah, it’s quitting time for me, too,” Emmy said, carefully rolling the poster and putting it back in the tube. “I’ll see you Thursday.”

  I zipped my backpack.

  “You are coming to the meeting, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I confessed.

  She gave me one of those looks like I sometimes get from my mom. Like she was looking into my head, and not sure she liked what she saw.

  “Lynn . . . we need you.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you see, the better the mix of gay/straight students, the more credibility our group has? If you and Conan come to meetings . . . you both have a lot of respect here, and that lends respect to GSA.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “We need support. Your presence will make things easier from the very start.”

  Easier for who, I wonder. Not for me.

  “Think about it. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, but not very enthusiastically.

  When I talked to Conan, I told him I’d go to the meeting if he would.

  “You know, I’m all for tolerance. And I think it’s a good idea to have the club meet on this campus.”

  “But?”

  “But I’ve been taught to lay low, except in athletics. That whole thing about my grampa teaching me to stay alive ..”

  “But this isn’t like dealing with cops.”

  “No, but it opens things up for ridicule, which makes me mad, and then one thing leads to another.”

  “I’m not going either, then,” I told him.

  But the next day, out of the blue, Frankie told me how much he appreciated my support.

  “It’s hard, you know, feeling like a freak, and like no one in the world will ever like you.”

  He looked as if he might cry. He walked away before I could say anything. I watched him move his swishy little butt down the hall, students moving away from him, no one speaking, the only recognition a few rude comments. For a moment I forgot my own trivial hang-ups, and my heart hurt for Frankie.

  On the day of the first meeting, Kit brought a pastrami sandwich for us to share so we wouldn’t miss out on lunch. Between Kit and Frankie, I had to go.

  Now our lunch table has become an extension of GSA, which is cool with me, except some people can be such jerks. They walk past us and make stupid remarks, stuff about faggots and dykes. Frankie Fudge-packer, some guy said yesterday, and poked Frankie on the shoulder. Not hard. Just the insult, and the poke. We pretend not to notice. It’s so juvenile—it doesn’t deserve a response.

  Besides Frankie’s poster in the glass display case, we post notices on a few classroom doors, and on the doors to the library. Last week some of our posters were torn down. Jocks, probably. Emmy says not to jump to conclusions, or to stereotype jocks. She reminds me that Conan’s a jock, but he’s not a jerk. Which is true.

  Just yesterday, Conan told me he talked with Brian and Justin and some of the others at football practice—suggested it made the team look bad to have players being rude, like they were at lunch-time. All that did was cause Conan to get hit doubly hard at practice. Conan thinks Brian’s got a grudge against Kit because he couldn’t even make it to first base with her. That’s probably all Brian thinks about with girls—base hits and home runs, if you know what I mean.

  CHAPTER

  15

  I’m totally surprised to find Eric waiting for me outside my first period class this morning.

  “Can I talk to you?” he says.

  “Sure.”

  “As a friend?”

  I nod.

  “You know, we had some good times together and . . .”

  What is this, anyway? He knows I’m with Conan. He can’t be wanting to get back together.

  “. . . and, well, as a friend, I want to talk to you about Kit.”

  “What about her?”

  “Well . . . now that she’s so . . .”

  He stumbles, looking embarrassed. For a guy who can be so mouthy around his friends, he doesn’t do very well one on one.

  “. . . so . . .”

  “Out?” I say.

  “Yeah. Out. It’s a sign that she’s getting aggressive.”

  “What?”

  “And you’re together a lot. And . . .”

  “And?”

  “And . . . well . . . she could influence you to . . . become a lesbian.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. “I don’t know where you get your ideas, but things don’t work that way. Kit’s my friend. That’s all.”

  “Well, I’m your friend, too, and I’m trying to help. These people have their ways.”

  “These people . . .???”

  Conan rounds the corner.

  “Hey, Lynnie
,” he says, smiling his special for me only smile.

  “Hi, Eric.”

  Eric gives Conan a friendly nod, and the three of us walk on to Peer Counseling together. At the door, Eric reminds me to think about what he’s said, and then walks to his desk on the other side of the room.

  “Should I be worried?” Conan says, glancing in Eric’s direc­tion.

  “I don’t even know what he was talking about,” I say.

  “That I love you more than he ever, ever, possibly could,” Conan says, smiling.

  The jock table is louder than usual today, with guys looking our way, pointing at Kit, laughing. We all pretend they’re not there and try to continue our conversation. Their laughter and gestures become more outrageous. Conan walks over to their table and says something, but they laugh all the harder.

  “Admit it! You know what she needs!” Brian says, which gets them going even more.

  After lunch, when Kit and I go to get books for afternoon classes, we see some kids standing near our lockers. At first we’re not sure what they’re looking at. Most of the jocks are off to the side and down the hall a bit, watching the watchers. When they see us, there’s this air of weird anticipation.

  Kit and I both see the object of interest at the same time. It’s fastened by duct tape and hanging from a string, resting right in the middle of her locker door. It’s a big, plastic penis, and written in heavy red marker across the gray metal locker are the words “You want it!” and “For Kitty’s pussy.” Dribbles of white glue string down the locker door accompanied by the words “Here, Kitty, cum for Kitty.”

  There is a moment of absolute silence, everyone watching while we take it all in. Then, from the jocks down the hall, the hooting begins. Someone starts up with “Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!” and others join in. Brian puts his hand on his crotch and performs exaggerated pelvic thrusts.

  “Something for Kitty’s pussy!” he yells, and the words and laughter swirl around us, echoing off walls of metal lockers.

  “Let’s go,” I say, taking Kit by the arm. She doesn’t move.

  “Kit?”

  Woodsy appears, and the hall suddenly empties.

  “Oh! What is this?”

  She yanks the plastic penis down, walks us to her classroom office, and closes the door.

  “What all was going on out there?” she says.

  “Just this,” Kit says, pointing to the plastic thing, which is now sitting on Woodsy’s desk.

  “And the writing,” I say.

  Kit nods. “And the yelling. And the laughing.”

  “And Brian . . .” I start to tell about what he did, but I don’t know how to describe it.

  “He made a motion, like a sex thing, and yelled that it was something for me,” Kit says.

  Her voice is steady. She’s not crying. She seems totally calm. But I can tell by the way she’s forcing deep, regular breaths that she’s struggling. Me, I haven’t learned the breathing trick. My face is hot, my hands are shaking, and I could cry buckets any second.

  “I hate those pricks!” Kit says, in a voice so low it’s almost a growl.

  “Who all was involved?”

  “Pricks!”

  “Names would help,” Woodsy says.

  “Brian Marsters. And Justin. Mostly football players,” I say. “I don’t know all their names.”

  “Brian’s the biggest prick of all!”

  Woodsy motions for us to sit down.

  “Listen, Kit. I know you’re very angry, and you have every right to be. But what we need to do now is try to put together as thorough and factual a report as possible. That will help us treat this incident with the seriousness it deserves.”

  She gets last year’s yearbook from her desk and turns to the picture of the football team.

  “See if you can come up with names,” she says, putting the book on the table in front of us.

  She picks up the phone and calls the school secretary, Miss Ramirez.

  “Jackie? I need someone to cover my class this period, so I can deal with a problem. . . No, it’s not necessary to call security, but I need to get with Mr. Cordova.”

  She listens for a moment, then asks, “Is he gone for the day?” She looks less than pleased.

  “Well . . . Mr. Maxwell it is, then. It needs administrative attention. I’ll be down in about fifteen minutes. I’m bringing Lynn Wright and Kit Dandridge with me.”

  Woodsy hangs up the phone. Then she hands each of us a tablet on a clipboard and a ballpoint pen.

  “Write a thorough statement. Remember the who, what, when, where, why and how business. List all of the names you can come up with of students who were in the hall.”

  That’s not easy. For sure Brian was there, the loudest of them all. And Justin. But it seems like there were a lot more, and now I can’t get a clear picture in my head. Robert, sort of standing in the background? And I think Douglas from choir was there, too. I’m not sure, though.

  I look carefully at the football team picture. Anthony Black, that’s the name of the guy who was standing next to Brian. I add his name to my report.

  The only two I’m sure of are Tammy Spears and her friend. Tiffany. Then I remember Eric. Was he watching, or was he one of the ones who was yelling?

  The phone rings. “Yes, Mr. Maxwell. Yes, it’s important . . . Yes, I understand you’re busy . . . a matter of school safety . . . no, weapons were not involved . . . fifteen minutes.”

  Woodsy hangs up.

  “I wish Mr. Cordova had been in,” she says, more to herself than to us.

  All I know about Mr. Maxwell, the principal, is that he has the biggest office in the administration building and he’s sometimes referred to as Manly Max. He works out in the weight room right after school’s out, every day. From what I hear he likes to show off how much he can lift, and challenge some of the guys to weight lifting contests. He’s always at football games, welcom­ing everyone and praising the football team as if this year’s winning streak were his own personal victory. He loves Conan. Well . . . so do I. I guess that’s one thing we have in common.

  “How’re you doing?” Woodsy asks, glancing at my incom­plete paper. I can take a hint. I continue writing, “There was a long piece of string taped to the top of Kit’s locker, with a big plastic penis dangling from it.” Then I think, how do I know it’s a big penis. How big are those things supposed to be, anyway? I mean, it’s not like I’ve gone around measuring. The only penis I’ve ever so much as touched was Conan’s, but I sure didn’t look. Besides, he had his sweats on. He’d taken my hand, and guided it down inside his pants and . . .

  Woodsy is looking at me again. I’m aware that my face is all hot, probably fire engine red. I get back to the report.

  In the unattended classroom beyond Woodsy’s office, things are getting louder and louder. Woodsy lets out one of those long- suffering teacher sighs and goes into the classroom to give them

  a busy-work assignment.

  “Write non-stop for fifteen minutes. Don’t worry about spell­ing or punctuation. Let the ideas flow,” she says. “Then ex­change papers with someone. Read each other’s work and talk about areas of agreement and disagreement. Take the last fifteen minutes to rewrite your paper neatly, making changes according to any new insights. Do pay attention to spelling and punctuation on your rewrite.”

  Just as she’s coming back to our table, Mr. Harper steps into the office. “Jackie asked me to cover for you. You sick?”

  “No, but there’s been an incident that needs to be dealt with,” Woodsy says.

  “Can I help?”

  There’s a roar of laughter from the classroom.

  “Yes. Calm the beasts,” Woodsy says, smiling. “Their assignment is on the board.”

  “You know I’m giving up my lunch for this,” Harper says.

  “But you’ll be getting all that extra pay for it.”

  They both laugh.

  “It was me or Rini,” Harper says, then looks at me and Kit. �
�Me or Mr. Rini.”

  “Thank goodness you took it. I wasn’t even thinking about the possibility of him covering my class when I wrote that assign­ment on the board.”

  Harper steps out, reads the board, then sticks his head back in.

  “Your use of polysyllabics would protect you.”

  They both laugh again, then Harper closes the door.

  “We should wrap this up,” Woodsy says. “Go over your statements to be sure they’re as accurate as possible. Then sign your names at the bottom.”

  “See if you think I got everything in,” I say, passing my paper to Kit.

  She slides her paper over to me.

  She’s put in pretty much the same stuff I have, except she’s written with such pressure there are places where the pen has

  gone clear through the paper.

  “I didn’t see Robert.” she tells me.

  “He was standing way back.”

  “Sure?” she asks, picking up her pen to add Robert’s name to her statement.

  “No, don’t change it,” Woodsy says. “Witness accounts often differ. We each notice different details, and miss different details. The important thing is that the statement is true for you, to the best of your memory and understanding.”

  Woodsy makes two copies of each of our statements. She puts the originals in a folder which she labels Ben Maxwell, stashes a set of copies in her file cabinet, and hands me and Kit a copy of our own statements.

  “Hold on to these,” she says.

  On the way out of the classroom I read the assignment Woodsy has written on the board. “Write fully and freely about your opinions, observations, and experiences related to ho­mophobia.” Mr. Harper is at the board giving a vocabulary lesson on homophobia. Homo = same. Phobia = fear.

  Miss Ramirez buzzes Mr. Maxwell to tell him we’re here. Then we wait outside his office for what seems like a long time. Woodsy keeps checking her watch. Finally, the door to the big office opens and Coach Ruggles walks out, followed by Mr. Maxwell. Ruggles is in his Hamilton High Bulldogs coach shirt, khaki pants and beat up athletic shoes. His belly hangs over his belt, hiding the buckle. Supposedly he was a big football hero here about twenty years or so ago. Hard to believe now. I wonder if Conan will be all paunchy twenty years from now. I’ll still love him, even if he is.