Love Rules

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “So I . . . I talked with Mark, and he . . .”

  Conan looks at me, trying to decide whether or not to go on.

  “You’re probably thinking Looney Tunes . . .”

  I shake my head.

  Another pause. Then . . .

  “So I kept hearing Mark asking that question and then it was like he was really in the room. ‘I couldn’t help it,’ I told him, ‘I tried to get you to calm down.’ And then, this strange thing . . .”

  I wait. And wait.

  Conan’s voice is a whisper when he continues.

  “I got all warm inside, like I do sometimes with you. Not sexy, I don’t mean that, but . . . full of love. And for the first time I knew without a doubt that Mark’s death was inevitable. That there truly was nothing I could have done to change things.”

  I reach over and rub Conan’s back. “You must feel so . . . relieved . . .”

  Conan nods. “But that’s not all. Mark . . . I don’t know how, and I know it sounds weird, but he told me . . . well, not exactly in words, but he let me know . . . the way I can honor his memory is to pay attention to the ‘what kinda shit is this’ question. There’s more to life than laying low.”

  Larry is walking toward us.

  “Do you think I’m all whacked?” Conan asks.

  I shake my head. “Do you feel whacked?”

  “No. I feel good. Like a huge stone’s been lifted from my shoulders.”

  “And the bracelets?”

  Larry comes to Conan’s side of the car and bends down, hands on his knees, so he can be at eye-level with us. With Conan, really. As usual, he doesn’t look at me.

  “You’ve got to get to class, man.”

  “Give us a minute,” Conan says.

  Larry looks sort of beat this morning. Maybe the meeting with the football players went on for a long time last night.

  “Nah. C’mon,” he says, opening the door.

  “What happened after I left last night?” Conan says.

  “You know that’s all confidential.”

  “We won’t tell anyone,” Conan says.

  “No man, I can’t be givin’ out privileged information. I need this job.”

  “Well . . . Are we starting tonight with the usual players?”

  “I don’t know . . . Maxwell’s . . .”

  Larry’s on the verge of opening up when he sees Conan’s bracelets.

  “What’re these? Whose side are you on anyway?” He gives me a dirty look. I mean a DIRTY look, then turns back to Conan for an

  answer.

  “I’m on the side of tolerance,” Conan says. “Whose side are you on?”

  “I’m on the side of decency,” Larry says. “Now get to class.”

  We get out of the car, lock up, and walk slowly in the direction of the main building. Larry watches.

  “So, the bracelets. . . ” Conan says, glancing down at his colorfully arrayed arm. “When you brought some to lunch yesterday, I thought it was a great idea, for everyone else. But now that I’m no longer laying low . . .”

  We walk past Kit’s parents’ car, parked in the first row next to the main building. They must have been here since sunrise to get that spot.

  “Conan?”

  “Ummm?”

  “I want to tell you about this thing that happened to me the other night—sort of like with you and Mark, only for me it was my grandparents.”

  Conan slows his pace even more. He looks at me intently, attentive. I’m about to tell him of my own strange and precious experience when Larry catches up to us.

  “You really need to move faster,” he says, walking along beside us, making further private conversation impossible.

  Inside the main building, Larry still hovering, Conan gives me a quick kiss. “Tell me later,” Conan says.

  We go to our separate first period classes. I wish I’d get lucky and have a sub, so maybe I’d get away with coming in late. No such luck.

  Neither Eric nor Brian is in second period, but Tiffany is. Unlike Larry, Tiffany is more than happy to tell all she knows.

  “Cordova suspended them, but they’ll play tonight,” she says.

  “They can’t play if they’re suspended,” Conan says.

  “Mr. Maxwell’s going to fix things,” she says. “He was steaming when he found out Cordova suspended them. They can be sus­pended next week. Like Monday through Thursday, then play again on Friday. That’s what Eric’s dad says.”

  Tiffany’s wearing her cheerleader outfit, as they all do on game days. “Why should the whole school suffer?” she whines.

  I notice that Woodsy, who usually starts class as soon as the bell rings, is more interested in what Tiffany is saying than in getting started. When her office phone rings, she goes back to answer it, rather than asking Janet to take a message.

  Steve says, “I don’t even know what this is about. Why’d they get suspended anyway?”

  “They were joking around after school, and that gay guy, Frankie, made a big deal of it. And Kit, you know?”

  Steve nods. “Shaved head, flannel shirt, bracelets?”

  “Yeah, she was way tweeked—acting like Brian’d practically raped her. I mean, why would Brian even want to get near that, when he can get all the normal girls he wants.”

  “So what exactly happened?” Steve says.

  “Well . . . that Frankie guy was dancing and prancing . . .”

  I jump in. “Brian, Anthony, Justin, and Eric attacked Frankie—big brave football players four on one, then Brian went after Kit . . .”

  Tiffany interrupts, “That’s not true . . .”

  “You weren’t there!” I yell. “They kicked Frankie, spit on him, Brian had Kit down on the pavement. He ripped her jeans open . . .”

  Woodsy comes out of her office. She glances at the videotape on her desk, then says maybe we should save the eating disorders film for Monday. Maybe we need to work on rumor control today.

  “Let’s go around the room and get each person’s insight on this situation, one by one, before we get into a free for all. Okay?”

  Kids nod. We move the desks into a circle, like we always do for discussion.

  Woodsy starts out by telling what she’s heard—that there was an incident in the parking lot, between some of the football players and some of the GSA students, that the football players were the ones who attacked, and that their actions were cause for suspension, if not for expulsion.

  “Was anyone hurt?” Steven asks.

  “I understand that no one needed medical treatment,” Woodsy says.

  “Brian was hurt really bad,” Tiffany says. “That Kit girl did about the worst thing a girl can do to a guy . . . she kicked him in his . . . you know . . .”

  “Nuts?” Steven asks.

  Laughter.

  “It’s not funny!” Tiffany says, on the verge of tears.

  Woodsy asks if anyone in the class was there, and if so, would they be willing to give an eyewitness account.

  I tell what I saw and experienced.

  Then Conan raises his bracelet-ringed arm and Woodsy calls on him to tell his story. I can tell that his bracelets have caught everyone’s attention, but he doesn’t mention them. He tells how he heard Frankie yelling, and then what he saw when he ran out.

  Tiffany again tries to convince people that it was all only a joke, but I’m not sure anyone believes her. Conan has a lot of credibility.

  Everyone agrees that the boys should be suspended, but about half think their suspension should be arranged so it won’t interfere with the football game.

  By the end of class, people are much less heated in their opinions, except for Tiffany. She sits fingering her gold cross, fuming.

  Just before the bell rings. Conan holds both arms up and shakes his bracelets.

  “I want that justice for all deal we say in the pledge of allegiance every morning. For the whole rainbow bunch of us. If you agree, and want to let it be known—I’ve got a bracelet for you.”
<
br />   He stands outside the classroom door, bracelets in hand. Steven takes one.

  “Thanks man. Those guys suck,” he says.

  Two girls also take bracelets. We’re about to walk away when Woodsy walks up to us. She holds out her right arm and Conan slips a bracelet over it.

  “Thank you,” she says. Then, “I didn’t want to announce it to the class, things are so tense right now. But Emmy asked me to tell you there’ll be a quick GSA meeting in the library after school today.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and then rush off to English.

  I notice a few kids in there with rainbow bracelets. They smile at me, even though we hardly know one another. I also notice some guys looking my way in a not so friendly manner.

  At lunch, Robert is wearing a bracelet. “Cool,” I tell him.

  The jock table is empty, except for a couple of B-team players and Tiffany and Tammy.

  Kit fills us in on the details of the morning.

  “My parents and I met with Mr. Cordova early this morning. They told him they were concerned for my safety and they wanted to know who was suspended and for how long. He said he couldn’t discuss another student’s discipline matters with them—private information and all. But he could assure them that none of the boys involved in yesterday’s incident . . .”

  “Incident!” Frankie says. “It wasn’t an incident, it was an attack!”

  “. . . anyway, none of them will be at school today.”

  Tammy and Tiffany are both looking our way—another of those “if looks could kill” situations.

  Kit continues talking about the meeting. “My mom was upset . . . how could that have happened, broad daylight, supervised campus, etc., etc., and my dad talked about my legal rights, and hate crimes. Mr. Cordova just kept saying we didn’t need to worry about any of those boys being on campus today.”

  “So does that mean they’re suspended?” Nora asks.

  “Wait’ll you hear the rest. Maxwell came storming into the room, yelling about how Cordova was way out of bounds, suspending the guys who would take us to the championship, and how they were going to ‘fix’ things. He was in such a temper it was like we were invisible. At least until my dad stood up.”

  Kit laughs. “And how will you ‘fix’ this, Mr. Maxwell?” my dad says all quiet like, the way he talks to people when he’s ready to slap the handcuffs on. Old Manly looks confused to the max—discombobulated, was the way my mom put it. But then he switched to his smooth educator talk—how it would all be taken care of in a just and timely manner. You bet it will, my dad told him, and we left the office.”

  “So, will they play tonight?” Conan says.

  Robert laughs. “Or, by the end of the game, will the rest of us be all maimed and left in pieces on the field?”

  Holly looks worried. “Maybe the game should just be called off.”

  “No can do,” Frankie says. “We need that half-time extravaganza.”

  CHAPTER

  29

  Conan and Robert both show up after school at GSA. None of the kids from Sojourner are here, or Guy, either, since it’s not a regular lunchtime meeting. Emmy and Woodsy both look worn. Emmy starts the meeting off.

  “Here’s what’s happening,” she says. “Mr. Cordova suspended all four boys for two weeks, pending expulsion.”

  Conan lets out a low whistle. “That takes care of football season,” he says.

  “If the suspension holds,” Emmy says. “Mr. Maxwell and the parents of the players are putting tremendous pressure on Mr. Cordova to rescind his decision.”

  “Can Maxwell make him back down?” Kit asks.

  “Not officially,” Emmy says.

  “But . . . ?”

  Emmy looks over at Woodsy, who looks grim.

  “This is all confidential,” Emmy says. “My telling you any of this . . . well. . . it’s the kind of thing teachers are never supposed to do. But I think you have a right to know what’s going on . . . If it’s a matter of Mr. Cordova’s job, or going back on the suspension . . .”

  “His job?” Kit says.

  “Look. We don’t know how any of this is going to turn out,” Woodsy says. “What we do know is there is a lot of emotion and controversy over how things should be handled right now. Seeing the added bracelets on campus is wonderful. GSA is gaining support. But . . .”

  Woodsy points to another anti-gay sticker on a table in the reference section, and on a shelf that contains a number of books with rainbow triangle stickers.

  “Those four boys aren’t the only ones who are hateful and intolerant.”

  We spend some time reviewing the information Benny Foster gave us. Then we parcel out assignments—all to be completed at least an hour before game time.

  Woodsy will call the legal advisor at the district office and tell him, or her, of the situation here.

  Conan and Robert will present information to Coach Ruggles regarding his legal responsibility to maintain an environment that is safe for all students.

  Emmy will confront Mr. Rini with his alleged non-compliance of the education code in accepting and promoting anti-gay harassment.

  Kit, Nora, Caitlin, Felicia and I will each contact a board member and notify them of a possibility of a lawsuit if they are not compliant with procedures designated by the State Department of Education.

  Holly and Nicole will go to Pasadena and buy more bracelets, “embrace diversity” stickers, and some smaller rectangular rain­bow stickers that are made by a company called Pride, not Preju­dice. We all contribute whatever is in our backpacks or pockets, so they’ll have money to buy plenty of materials.

  “We should blanket this place with rainbow symbols,” Caitlin says, showing the smile we’re just now beginning to get used to.

  “Run it up the flagpole,” Kit says.

  “Maybe not,” Woodsy says. “Messing with what goes up the flagpole is a sure way to enrage the Americans for Family Values

  group.”

  “So?” Kit says.

  “So . . . we’re about trying to pull people together, not push them further apart.”

  By six o’clock it is clear that our work has paid off. The district legal advisor, Brenda Lester, had a heart-to-heart with Manly and Coach Ruggles. She told them they were leaving themselves and the school district wide open for a lawsuit if they didn’t take strong measures against any human rights violations. I guess she got through, because none of the gay-bashing four are on the field when I climb the bleachers to take my place next to Holly and Nicole.

  Manly sits down on the bench, next to Coach Howard. Conan, Robert, and the second string players make a valiant effort to beat Serrano. At half-time we are six points behind, and it is obvious that our guys are outranked. Still, the Hamilton High half-time display is glorious, with precision marching sprinkled with swing.

  In the end, we lose by six points to a team we should have beaten by at least twelve points. That means we’re probably out of the play­offs. If Piedmont and Fruitridge both lost their games tonight, we’d still have a chance. Not likely, though.

  Manly gives his usual pep talk, before the alma mater.

  “We’re not out of the game, yet. We must keep our spirits high,” he says, but anyone can see even he’s not convinced there’s a chance. The alma mater is not so heart-felt as it was last week. Our guys drag off the field, defeated. Watching the Parker family walk down the steps, I see that they’re dragging, too. Well, except for Sabina, who’s as energetic as ever, still yelling the Barbarian cheer.

  Tonight, for the first time in many weeks, I go to the after-game party with Conan. It is at a place in the Heights—big, with a swimming pool and spa in the back, a huge den that’s set up with iced sodas and snacks. Tim, whose house we’re at, is one of the second stringers who was trying to hold things together in the game. He seems pretty happy that he finally got to play a full game.

  There is, of course, plenty of talk about the suspensions. Conan and Robert, still wearing their ra
inbow bracelets, say there are more important things than winning the championship. They may be the only two who believe that. Conan offers rainbow bracelets to some of the others. No takers.

  An hour or so into the party, Coach Ruggles calls and asks to talk to Conan.

  “No way!” I hear Conan say.

  We gather around the phone, waiting impatiently for whatever news it is that Conan has just heard.

  He laughs, says good-bye, and hangs up.

  “We’re still in the game,” he says. “They both lost.”

  Laughter and the slap of high fives fill the air. Then Conan says, “We’re not really still in the game. Muir will THRASH us next week.”

  “Maybe the rest of the team will play next week,” Tim says.

  “Ten day suspension, pending expulsion,” I tell them. It’s not like I’ve revealed any secret information. Tiffany’s already spread the news to the whole student body.

  “That could change,” Tim says.

  I don’t think so, but I keep that thought to myself.

  It is nearly midnight when the four suspended players make their entrance, drunk and rowdy. Conan guides me out the back door and around the garage. We squeeze through a narrow passage between houses to get to where his car is parked.

  “Laying low?” I ask him.

  “Fighting with drunks is always stupid, and that’s what would have happened if we’d stayed there.”

  We drive to the darkest place on my block, not far from where we were stopped on that night a couple of months ago.

  Conan pulls me close to him. We kiss, and fondle, and hold one another, skin to skin, making our own kind of no-babies love. After, he tells me, “I can live without being on a championship team.”

  “You’re so close, though.”

  “Yeah, but we can’t pull it out of the bag without the full team.”

  I pull Conan’s jacket across my half-open blouse and snuggle closer to him.

  I tell him about how my Gramma and Grampa came to me, night before last, and how they gave me hope and reassurance, kind of like Mark had given him.

  “We’re soul mates, Lynnie,” Conan says.

  We’re warm and comfortable together. Conan’s worn out from being the barbarian, plus covering for the missing players. I can tell by his steady breathing that he’s asleep. I let myself drift off, too. Then, I don’t know how long we’ve been sleeping, but we’re shocked awake by blaring horns, and flashlights, and laughter.