Mr. Maxwell is wearing what he always wears on Fridays when we’re having a game. Well, for football games. He doesn’t dress out for volleyball. Anyway, he’s in a blue suit with a gold shirt and gold tie. Personally, I think it’s too GQ for a football game, but Nicole says he likes to maintain a certain image.
Thank gosh for a wandering mind. I mean, I’m so angry and nervous about the whole locker thing, and worried about having to talk with Mr. Maxwell about it, but then at the same time, my mind lets me escape to stupid wardrobe stuff. Cool. I look over at Kit, who sits stiff and straight, her fists clenched. I don’t think her mind’s been wandering.
Coach Ruggles and Mr. Maxwell are enjoying some sort of two person football rally, back-slapping and high-fiving, talking about this being the year for the championship, how we’re unbeatable, and on and on.
Woodsy checks her watch again, stands, and takes a few steps so she’s directly in Mr. Maxwell’s line of vision.
“Later, Coach,” Mr. Maxwell says. They do one more high five, and then Mr. Maxwell opens his door and motions for us to enter.
Mr. Maxwell places three chairs in a row along his huge, glass covered mahogany desk. “Sit,” he says, using the command I taught Wilma when she was just a pup.
The three of us sit down and Mr. Maxwell goes to the other side of his desk and sits down in one of those save-your-back chairs. On the wall behind him are several framed diplomas, awards from the PTA, Rotary Club, Chamber of Commerce and other organizations I’ve never heard of. I guess he’s important.
On one side of the desk is a picture of a younger Manly Max and two other guys, dressed in bicycle gear, numbers on their shirts, bicycles in the background. He looks all buffed out. I see how he got the “Manly” nickname.
When I lean to my left I can check out the family picture he has sitting at an angle on his desk. I’m on the verge of a Maxwell family fantasy, about the two little boys and the littler girl, and the chunky mom and the manly looking dad, when Mr. Maxwell’s voice, stern and sharp, jolts me back to reality.
“Tell me what’s going on here.”
CHAPTER
16
My head is spinning. Somehow Maxwell is shifting everything around so it’s like we’re the ones who were out of line!
“I warned Mr. Cordova and Mrs. Saunders we were asking for trouble if we let this homosexual club meet on campus!”
“In all respect, Mr. Maxwell, it isn’t a ‘homosexual’ club,” Woodsy says. “It’s a gay/straight student alliance.”
“Whatever you call it, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, chances are it’s a duck,” he says, giving Kit a long look. “I understand Frankie Sanchez is the president of the club?”
Woodsy shrugs her shoulders and turns to Kit, who nods her head.
“Walks like a duck, then,” Mr. Maxwell says, smirking.
Woodsy catches her breath. Straightens. She’s sitting at least a foot away from me, but I can feel her reaction as if we were side by side, touching.
“The issue here is one of extreme, pornographic harassment of a group of students against another student.”
“Ms. Woods, girls, let’s be sensible. As I said when I reluctantly, against my better judgment, allowed this new group to
meet on our campus, we were opening a can of worms. You can’t have students flaunting their total disregard for tried and true mainstream values without getting a reaction from those who uphold our American way of life.”
“This harassment is not our American way of life, Mr. Maxwell,” Woodsy says, picking up the dildo and slamming it down on the desk in front of him. “These acts are against the law! The American law!”
“So is spitting in the street, but let’s face it, it happens. Now think about it. This little group should go back to meeting at Sojourner High School, and save their outlandish dress for somewhere besides this campus. Then things such as this simply wouldn’t happen,” he says, indicating the reports and dildo on his desk top.
“Mr. Maxwell, the issue is what these boys have done! It’s not about how people dress.”
“I beg to differ. These students call attention to themselves with their extreme dress, bizarre hair styles, flamboyant mannerisms—these things incite . . .”
“We have to take action to ensure the safety of all of our students, Mr. Maxwell, no matter how they dress or wear their hair.”
Woodsy points to a thick book sitting on the shelf behind Maxwell’s desk. “If you will hand me your copy of the education code . . .”
“I need no instruction from you in the contents of the ed code! Of course I will take action to ensure the safety of our students. Katherine and Lynn, I’ll call your parents to come pick you up. Stay home on Monday. That will give things a chance to settle.”
“I have a test on Monday,” Kit says.
“I’ll arrange for you to make it up,” Mr. Maxwell says.
“Are you suspending these girls?”
“Nothing official, of course.”
“If you’re telling them they can’t come to school on Monday, it sounds like a suspension,” Woodsy says.
“It’s an informal suspension. None of this will go into their records,” he says, as if he’s doing us a big favor.
“And Katherine, I’m sure we can make an exception in the no hat rule for you. When you return on Tuesday, if you’ll wear a hat . . .”
Kit’s fists are clenched so tightly, it wouldn’t surprise me if her palms were bleeding. She stands and flashes Maxwell a look of pure disgust, then turns and walks out the door.
Woodsy runs after her. Maxwell is right behind.
“Don’t you leave this office without permission, young lady! We’re not through here!”
“I am!” she yells behind her, then takes off on a run.
“Call security!” Mr. Maxwell yells to his secretary.
“Don’t, Jackie,” Woodsy whispers.
Miss Ramirez picks up the radio, giving no recognition to Woodsy. She presses the side button and says, “Come in, security. Principal’s office. Come in.”
From where I’m standing, I can see that she’s holding the “off’ button at the same time she’s pressing talk. She tries three more times. On the fourth, she releases the off button and security answers immediately. Mr. Maxwell takes the radio from her and asks that campus supervisors apprehend Katherine Dandridge and bring her immediately to his office. But I know Kit. She’s blocks away by now.
“Would you please call Katherine’s emergency contact and transfer the call to me when you reach someone? Also get me in touch with Lynn’s contact.”
Jackie gets the emergency card file and starts shuffling through it.
“Wait here until someone can come get you,” Mr. Maxwell says to me.
“I have physiology now,” I tell him.
“Yes, well we don’t want any more trouble today do we? I’ll see to it your teacher allows you to make work up.”
“But . . .”
“No.”
I wonder why I don’t have the guts to run out of here, like Kit did.
“Ginny,” Maxwell says, gesturing for Woodsy to go back into his office.
“I have a class in seven minutes,” she says.
“This won’t take long.”
Woodsy follows him, not bothering to close the door.
“Your young friend Katherine just added defiance of authority to her troubles.”
“Maybe she’d had enough humiliation for one day. Really Ben, you want her to wear a hat?”
“It makes sense.”
“None of this makes sense. You’ve suspended an innocent victim of sexual harassment, and her friend, and you’re doing nothing about the perpetrators.”
“Perpetrators? Rather harsh, and legalistic, don’t you think?”
“They’ve broken the law.”
“Well . . . boys will be boys. I’ll talk with them.”
Woodsy stomps out of Maxwell’s office, slamming the
door behind her. If she were in a Saturday morning cartoon, she would have steam coming out of her ears and nose and mouth.
Mom walks into the office, looking worried.
“You all right?” she asks.
I nod.
She tells Miss Ramirez she’d like to speak with Mr. Maxwell. “I have no idea what this is about,” she says.
Miss Ramirez picks up the phone and buzzes. “Mrs. Wright is here. She’d like to talk with you . . . Yes, I’ll tell her.”
Miss Ramirez hangs up the phone and says to Mom, “Mr. Maxwell is on the other line with an important conference call, and then he has a 2:00 appointment. He’s asked that I schedule you for first thing Monday morning.”
Mom stares at Maxwell’s closed door. For a minute I think she’s going to barge right in. Thank gosh she doesn’t. All I want is to get out of this place.
We stop for a latte and I tell Mom the whole story, repeating myself when Mom would ask “they did what?—they said what?”
“How awful that must have been for Kit. You too, but Kit, poor Kit. Her father’s right, you know. Life will be much harder for her because of the lesbian thing.”
I tell Mom about how Kit ran out of Mr. Maxwell’s office.
“Do you think she’s okay?” Mom asks. “Do you know where she went?”
“She’s probably at Star’s.”
“Do you know Star’s number?” Mom asks, pulling her cell phone out of her purse.
She hands the phone to me and I dial. I know Mom must be really worried, because she’s always ranting and raving about how rude people are who have telephone conversations in public places.
I count ten rings, then click off.
“Try her house,” Mom says.
Same thing. Now I’m worried, too.
Mom asks, “Where else would she go?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she just doesn’t want to answer the phone.”
“Well, we can try again in a few minutes,” Mom says, tipping her cup up and drinking the last drop of latte.
“I still don’t understand why you and Kit got suspended.”
“He said it wasn’t official.”
“If you’re forbidden to go to school, that’s official. And what about those boys? Are they just getting away with everything?”
“He said he’d talk to them.”
“Oh, balls!” Mom yells loudly enough to turn heads.
“Mom!”
She looks around sheepishly, then lowers her voice.
“This thing stinks to high heaven! I’ll meet with him Monday morning all right, and you’ll be in school, too! And Kit, too!”
When we pull into our driveway, there sits Kit on our back steps, throwing the frisbee for Wilma. Her hair, which had grown out about an inch, is freshly shaved.
Mom sits down beside her, putting her arm around Kit’s shoulder. I pick up the frisbee and give it a high toss.
“Hard day?” Mom asks.
Kit nods.
“Been home yet?”
She shakes her head. I don’t know how to describe the look on Kit’s face. It’s . . . dark . . . and heavy . . . and amazingly sad. I think of Kit on the volleyball court, first practice in September, spiking the ball, laughing, joking around. I know she says it’s better for her to be who she is, but “better” is not how things seem right now.
“It’s cold out here,” Mom says. “Let’s go inside and warm up with a cup of tea.”
Kit and I follow Mom in. I drop my stuff in a pile on my bedroom floor, then go back to the kitchen. Mom’s already got the teapot started.
“You should call home,” Mom says to Kit.
Kit rubs her hand over her freshly shaved head.
Mom does one of those double take things, like she’s just noticed that even the fuzz is gone.
“What? Did you stop at a barber shop somewhere along the way?”
Kit smiles. “I’ll buy you a new shaver, Always. I promise.”
Through all of our talk about the plastic dildo and the glue “cum” Mom never looked shocked. Angry, maybe. And sympathetic. But now she looks shocked—like Kit crossed over some line with this make yourself at home business.
“Really, I’ll go down to the drugstore and get one for you right now!”
“I’ll drive her down there, if it’s that big a deal!” I say. Like Kit hasn’t already been through enough today. Now she’s got to worry that Mom can’t handle the borrowed shaver?
Mom shakes her head, as if trying to clear away whatever trash is floating around in there.
“No. No. It’s fine. I’m more worried about hair in these old pipes ...”
Kit says, “There wasn’t much hair. Besides, I did it in the back yard.”
Then we all start laughing, like it’s the funniest thing in the world, Kit shaving her head in the backyard.
The phone rings. The teakettle whistles. Wilma howls, matching pitches with the teakettle.
I go for the phone while Mom gets the teakettle. Wilma’s “singing” gets us laughing harder and I can hardly catch my breath to say hello.
“Is Katherine there?”
I hand Kit the phone.
“Your mom.”
“Hi, Mom,” Kit says, her laughter abruptly ended.
There is a long silence, then Kit trying to talk.
“But Mom . . . No . . . but I couldn’t stay . . . you don’t underst . . . But Mom . . .”
Kit hangs up.
“She never listens to me! She totally believes Principal PRICK!” Kit is pacing now, stomping. “If she’d ever once be on my side . . .” Kit slams her hand down hard on the counter top. Wilma darts under the table. Mom reaches for Kit and holds her shoulders.
Softly, Mom says, “Calm down, Kit.”
“I don’t want to freaking calm down! FUCK CALMING DOWN!” she screams. And then, just as I think she might pick up the teakettle and hurl it across the room, she crumples down on the kitchen floor.
“Sorry,” she says, gasping. “Sorry.” She starts sobbing. Her whole body is shaking. She’s rocking, and crying, holding her face in her hands. I drop down next to her, rubbing her back, not knowing what else to do. Mom, too, kneels on the floor, pulling Kit to her, trying to comfort her the way she once did me when I was little.
“Shhhhh. It’s going to be okay. You’re okay . . . Get the throw off the couch, Lynn.”
I bring it in and wrap it around Kit’s shoulders. Sitting as close to her as I can possibly get, I continue rubbing her back. Wilma creeps out from under the table and lies down next to me, with her head resting on Kit’s knee. Gradually, Kit’s shaking becomes less intense and her sobs diminish. We are there, the four of us, huddled together on the floor, when Kit’s mom comes bursting through the back door. She stops suddenly, her look of anger changing to one of puzzlement, then of concern.
“What is it?”
Mom stands up, rubbing her legs.
“Kit’s been very upset, Jessie.”
Jessie looks down at Kit, whose face is still buried in her hands.
“Katherine?”
Kit shakes her head, not looking up.
“I was just fixing us some tea,” Mom says. She reheats the water to just below howling level, gets out another cup for Jessie and pours four cups of tea. Next to me, Kit lets out a big sigh, hands me the throw, and goes into the bathroom. I toss the throw on the couch and follow Kit. She’s splashing cold water on her face. I hand her a clean washcloth.
“Thanks,” she says, holding the cloth under the cold water, wringing it out and plastering it over her tear-swollen face.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
She does the washcloth thing again, this time holding it to her face, then sliding it slowly across her freshly shaven head.
“All at once everything piled up on me. When I left school, I
went straight to Star’s. She always helps me figure stuff out, like when things seem all mucked up. I can tell her anything.”
/> “Like it used to be with me?” I say, sort of hurt.
“You were still being held captive by Mean Max, so I couldn’t exactly talk with you. Besides, you know how it is, sometimes, besides talking, you need to have someone kiss you, and put their arms around you and just . . . love you to pieces.”
I nod.
“I tried to call you at Star’s as soon as I got out of school.”
“She wasn’t home when I got there. She’s always home Friday afternoon. I was already way freaked out from the nasty jock attack, and then having to put up with that crap from Maxwell . . . and then, when I couldn’t find Star . . .”
A knock on the door. “Katherine? Can we talk?”
“Yeah, Mom. In a minute.”
“Your tea’s getting cold.”
“All right, Mom.”
Kit drops her voice to a whisper.
“So anyway, when I couldn’t find Star, I started worrying, maybe she didn’t love me anymore. Maybe she was all decked out in her leathers, catting around like she used to do, before me.”
“I don’t think so. If Star’s not totally in love with you, she’s got to be one of the world’s great actresses.”
“But you know how when one thing goes wrong, and then another, it seems like nothing’s right?”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking back to the time when my dad left, and I realized I wasn’t very important to him. For a while I couldn’t believe I was important to anyone, my mom, even my gramma and grampa.
“So I came here. On the way though, I saw Leaf, who told me Star’d been called in to work, to cover for someone who’s sick.”
“So you were relieved?”
“Totally. But there’s all that stupid school stuff. Like I can afford to be suspended. And how fair is that? And those buttholes! I know Woodsy’s absolutely on our side, and so will Emmy be, and all the GSA kids. I was okay out there, playing with Wilma and all. But then when my mom started being Mean Max’s echo . . . I folded.”
Kit smiles. I rub my hand across her head. We laugh. There’s another knock on the door, this time louder. We go out to the kitchen and pour fresh tea. By now, David is here, too. He gets up from the table and walks over to Kit. He envelops her in his arms, holding her close.
Love Rules Page 14