Love Rules

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “Get these heteros out of the car. We’ll teach them a lesson!”

  Frankie opens the door, laughing his maniacal laugh.

  Conan stiffens awake, then relaxes when he sees who it is. Caitlin and Nora open the door on my side of the car and start dragging me out.

  Holly, Nicole, and Robert are bouncing on the car bumpers, yelling “Earthquake!”

  We stumble out, laughing.

  Conan and I get our jackets from the car and follow our rag-tag group back to Kit’s. She gets blankets from her house, and sets up a little short-legged barbeque that we can warm our hands on. Star comes out of Kit’s house with cups and a big thermos of hot chocolate. Pretty soon Jerry shows up, and then Leaf. Wilma’s barking her head off, so Conan opens the gate for her. She’s dragging her half-eaten frisbee with her.

  “No, no, Sweet Willy,” Frankie says, as she drops the frisbee at his feet.

  He runs to his “chariot” and retrieves a brand new frisbee. He throws it upward, where it makes a graceful arc and then descends. Wilma grabs it, somehow smiling but keeping it secure in her mouth at the same time. She drops it at Frankie’s feet.

  He throws it again, higher and farther. Wilma leaps, twists, grabs, descends.

  “Anyone can dance, with a little guidance,” he says.

  We laugh—an appreciative laugh.

  “Maybe anyone can dance with a little of your guidance,” Caitlin says.

  “Really,” I say to Frankie. “I can’t believe you got those tuba guys to actually be light on their feet!”

  More laughter.

  “I wish we could march in the championship game. Why did those guys have to be such screw-ups?”

  “Because they’re total assholes,” Kit says.

  Conan shakes his head. “Not total,” he says.

  “Right,” Star says. “The whole bunch of them combined don’t have even one redeeming social quality.”

  “You’re wrong.” Conan says. “All four of those guys—they’re great team players. I’ve never been on a team where guys worked so well together, nobody hogging the glory, or getting miffed about whatever play was being called . . .”

  Robert agrees. “Yeah. It’s like everyone was working for everyone else . . .”

  Conan says, “Too bad their idea of a team is so small. If they could just think of the whole school as one big team . . .”

  “Yeah. Or the whole human race,” Caitlin says.

  I’m glad Caitlin’s finally talking. I like what she has to say.

  “Remember what that gay dude said in PC?” Conan asks. “The worst gay bashers are guys who’re afraid they could be gay . . .”

  “So they do all that stuff because they’re fearful?” Caitlin asks.

  “I’m only repeating what the guy told us in PC,” Conan says.

  “The Fearful Four,” Nicole says.

  “The Asshole Four,” Star says. “That’s the only way to describe them.”

  Kit starts quoting Freud, or Jung, or whoever, saying how we hate in others what we’re afraid to look at in ourselves.

  “Does it work the opposite way?” Star asks. “Do I love in you what I love in myself?”

  We bat those ideas around until my head is spinning. I have to relax with a few frisbee throws, which makes Wilma happy.

  Kit passes the thermos around again. Robert adds coals to the barbecue.

  “We should get some marshmallows,” Holly says.

  We all nod in agreement, but nobody leaves to buy marshmallows.

  After a while, Star says, “Confession?”

  “Not if it’s going to hurt,” Kit says.

  “I don’t think so,” Star says, moving closer to Kit.

  “Let’s hear it then.”

  Star tells about the first time she ever talked to Kit, at the beach, when Kit and Conan and I had managed that perfect after school getaway.

  “I’d seen you before. Even noticed you a year ago, when I was still at Hamilton High.”

  “Really?” Kit says.

  “Really,” Star says. “You were so . . . oblivious.”

  “So what’s to confess?” Frankie prods.

  “So, I’d talked to Kit, and I wanted to get to know her better . . . Lots better,” Star smiles.

  “Confession!” Frankie says.

  Star looks at Kit. “Well . . . in the late afternoon I kind of . . . watched you.”

  “Like from where?” Kit asks.

  “Ummm. From behind the restrooms. From inside my car. Just places.”

  “You never told me this before!”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “Telling it very slowly, too,” Frankie complains.

  “Anyway, after it was dark, and the three of you were huddled together, I decided to see if I could sit with you. So I kind of snuck up behind you, but before I could make myself known, you all started singing . . .”

  “Blue Moon,” Kit says.

  “Yeah. And it was so beautiful . . . I couldn’t interrupt, or think of a way to join in. I snuck back to my car, where I sat crying.”

  “Why crying?” Kit asks.

  “Just . . . I guess I was lonely for something the three of you had.”

  Kit starts the song. “Blue moon, you saw me standing alone . . .”

  Conan and I join Kit, “without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own.”

  Nora, Caitlin and Frankie chime in. Maybe it’s the night, and the moon, the new frisbee, or the old harassments, but something’s working right. We sound good. Then Kit’s dad comes out with his guitar. Amazing! He sits next to Kit, picks the melody line, and sings along with us in his low, coarse voice. “Blue moon, now I’m no longer alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own.”

  We sound so good, we do the last verse again, then sit huddled in a circle, knowing it’s true, we’re not alone. David looks at each of us around the circle, then leans over and kisses Kit on the forehead.

  “Goodnight, sweet Katherine,” he says.

  Then he leans in the other direction and kisses Star.

  “Goodnight, sweet Star,” he says.

  He takes his guitar and goes back into the house. Star puts her head on Kit’s shoulder. Happy tears stream down her cheeks. Others of us have our own tears, wishing a dad would appear to gently kiss us, too, on our deserving foreheads.

  We sit in our loose circle, close, talking of lost football championships, and symbolic bracelets, the family values group and what it all means. We talk about how fast things are moving—nearly the end of the first semester now. Caitlin says she doesn’t think she’d still be here, if it weren’t for us, and GSA. We scrunch in a little closer. We’re so quiet our breathing becomes obvious. Then Star breaks the mood by starting her stupid joke routine—actually, it’s stupid advice this time. Like:

  Never test the depth of the water with both feet.

  If you drink, don’t park. Accidents cause people.

  If at first you don’t succeed, skydiving is not for you.

  Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticize them, you’re a mile away and you have their shoes.

  That’s the one that gets us all up and saying good-bye.

  “Group hug, group hug,” Frankie pleads.

  We gather close, arms around one another. “Love you, babes,” Frankie says.

  He throws the frisbee in the direction of my gate. Wilma chases it, catching it just before it hits the ground. Conan and I follow her, open the gate, and let her inside. One more kiss, and he goes to his car. I watch, then join Wilma in the house. She’s already waiting at the foot of my bed, ready for sleep.

  EPILOGUE

  Mom adjusts my cap, carefully draping the gold tassel to the left. Tonight, after I walk across the stage and shake hands with Mr. Maxwell. I’ll move it to the right, showing I’m a graduate.

  Mom hugs me, teary eyed. She stifles a sob.

  “Mom. Mom! Get a grip,” I tell her.


  She wipes her eyes, laughing.

  “I’ll feed Wilma, and then we’d better go,” Mom says.

  I won’t admit this to Mom, but when I think about leaving high school, I feel like crying, too. Everything changes now. Friends scatter, responsibilities increase, life gets serious. Not that it hasn’t been plenty serious already.

  Here’s what happened where we left off—back in December.

  Mr. Maxwell and Coach Ruggles were determined to reinstate Brian, Eric, Anthony and Justin in time for them to play the next game. Mr. Maxwell called the Fearful Fours’ parents early Saturday morning, after we got trounced by Serrano. He said Mr. Cordova had overreacted—they’d get the boys back in school in time for the next game. They had a championship to win.

  Monday morning, after Mr. Cordova refused to back down on the suspensions, Brian’s dad came stomping into the office, yelling that Mr. Cordova was ruining Brian’s life—said the suspension meant Brian’d lose his scholarship. Mr. Cordova said the only one ruining Brian’s life was Brian.

  Things got heated. Mr. Marsters threatened to sue the school. Mr. Cordova called the district’s legal advisor, a representative from the local teacher’s organization, and the newspaper.

  In the middle of the turmoil, Felicia marched into Mr. Cordova’s office. She was still wearing her necklace, except that the gold cross had been replaced by a slightly larger enameled cross, bright with the colors of the rainbow. She said she wanted to make a statement regarding the destruction of the school’s display case. Once the charge of vandalism and destruction of school property was added to Brian and Eric’s crimes, it was out of the question even for Manly Max to maneuver them back to school in time for the next game.

  The family values group became even more irate. Eric’s dad and the picketers were at school every day for two weeks, from ten until two. They walked back and forth across the main entrance. Besides the usual “Americans for Family Values” signs, others said:

  DON’T LET PERVERTS RULE OUR SCHOOL

  GOD IS CRYING

  REINSTATE DECENCY

  BRIAN, ANTHONY. ERIC, JUSTIN WE’RE WITH YOU!

  FAGGOTS BURN IN HELL

  Another group of picketers gathered across the street each day—people from PFLAG, and the Episcopal and Methodist churches, and other organizations I’d never even heard of. When my mom could get away from work, she joined them. Kit’s parents and Caitlin’s parents were usually there, too. Their signs said:

  SAFE SCHOOLS FOR ALL

  HATE IS NOT A FAMILY VALUE

  RESPECT ALL GOD’S CHILDREN

  At lunchtime, students from the Christ First club stood near the picketers, heads bowed, in what the newspaper described as a prayer vigil.

  On walls and classroom doors, more anti-gay stickers appeared, covered quickly by embrace diversity stickers. PFLAG members contributed to a sticker/bracelet fund, and Free Expressions placed a rush order to replenish their dwindling supply.

  When Kit and I handed out Pride bracelets in choir, all but two students took them.

  While the picketers and pray-ers did their thing at the school’s entrance, GSA held open forums every lunchtime in the library. Some students came because they were truly interested, others came to harass. Some showed up because they were angry that our football team was bound to lose the next game.

  Usually Mr. Harper and Woodsy were there, along with Emmy and Mr. Cordova.

  Our message was that all students have a right to be educated in a safe environment—that we’re dealing with basic human rights issues.

  “How about the right not to have faggots and fairies hittin’ on you?” one guy yelled.

  “Exactly,” Emmy said. “If someone keeps asking you to have sex with him, or her, and they persist after being told no, that’s sexual harassment, and you should file a complaint.”

  A lot of students didn’t know the difference between a hate crime and shoplifting. At every forum we focused on the seriousness of hate crimes—we put up posters, and handed out flyers defining hate crimes as those that are committed against people because of their particular race, color, national origin, sex, disability, sexual orientation (or perceived sexual orientation) or religion.

  At every forum we asked students to help us make Hamilton High School a place where all students could be safe and fee welcome.

  “How can anyone who’s gay feel safe and welcome here with picketers who’re talking about how faggots burn in hell?” one kid asked.

  “Those people shouldn’t be allowed out there,” the girl sitting next to him said.

  “But see, we have freedom of speech, and freedom of assembly in this country,” Mr. Cordova said. “That was our stand when we pushed to have GSA meetings on this campus. It works for everybody, not just the people we agree with.”

  Conan was right in his prediction that Muir would thrash us. We lost forty-seven to six. At the end of the game, Mr. Maxwell got on the microphone and said what a great season we’d had, and what a great school Hamilton High was. He looked tired. His blue suit was rumpled. Honestly, I felt sorry for him.

  I’d heard that Brenda Lester and the superintendent had examined the school’s complaint file, and they’d been shocked at Maxwell’s lack of attention to certain situations. His “boys will be boys” dismissal of serious infractions is exactly the sort of thing that got a neighboring school district slapped with a very costly and embarrassing lawsuit. The superintendent warned Maxwell he’d better get his practices and attitudes in line with recent legislation or start thinking about an early retirement.

  At the end of their ten-day suspension, all four of the guys who’d attacked Frankie and Kit in the parking lot were expelled from Hamilton High. They were reassigned to Sojourner. Star was delighted. “For once, the bashers get banished and the bashees get justice.”

  Once the championship was lost, and the fate of the Fearful Four was set, the picketers stopped demonstrating. The Christ First group went back to whatever it was they did when they weren’t holding prayer vigils on the sidewalk. And once all of that died down, there was no longer a need for a GSA daily forum, so we went back to our usual weekly meetings.

  Basketball players gradually took over the designated jock table, and they were mellow, even friendly to our group. Of course, with Conan and Robert wearing Pride bracelets, the whole bunch of us gained credibility.

  When we went back to school after Winter Break, it seemed that the whole anti-gay thing had faded. No one was plastering insulting stickers all over, or making crude remarks to Frankie or Kit. There’d been this super intense time, and now things were on the verge of boring.

  Not that everything was perfect. Emmy noticed that books with rainbow stickers on them were missing from the shelves. How could they get past the library’s new and supposedly foolproof security system? When she did a computer search, she found that fifteen of those titles had been checked out during one week’s time. Most had gone to members of the Christ First group. Two had been checked out by Eric’s younger sister. There was nothing wrong with that, except we all doubted those particular students were trying to educate themselves regarding lesbian, gay, bi, and trans issues. It wasn’t until March that Emmy realized that all of the rainbow stickered books were missing from the shelves. They were all legally checked out, but not one had been returned. When Emmy called homes about the books, she would always be answered politely and get a promise that the book would be returned the next day, but they never were.

  Nicole wrote an editorial for the school newspaper, saying such tactics were dishonest—the sneakiest form of censorship. We took turns writing letters to the editor of the Hamilton Heights Daily News, so there would be at least one a week. We pointed to the hypocrisy of so-called Christians who stole school property. We questioned where theft fit into the ideals of “Americans for Family Values.”

  I haven’t told you this part yet, but Conan accepted the football scholarship to Ohio State. I know why I haven’t mention
ed it. I don’t like to think about it. Speaking of football scholarships, when the college coaches learned of Brian’s expulsion from Hamilton High, they withdrew their offers. Conan says it’s sad, because Brian is such a good player. I say it’s karma.

  Anyway, because of Conan’s scholarship deal, he had some extra money. He rented a limo for the prom, and he and I, Kit and Star, Holly and Robert, and Caitlin and Frankie all rode in the limo. Nora came with Douglas, from choir. Can you believe it? She says he’s turned nice. I thought Douglas was a lifetime member of the idiot club, but then, when I think about how uptight I was with Kit . . . well . . . thank gosh idiots can get smarter.

  Get this. Kit and Star both dressed in tuxedos. Star’s was a dark purple, and Kit’s was sky blue. Kit’s hair was about four inches long by then, and she had it twisted in narrow strands which were held together by beads, like the rainbow beads in her Pride bracelets. When I think about what my fantasy of this night was, and the reality I’ve ended up with—all I can say is that reality is way more interesting.

  I don’t know about proms, anyway. There’s all of this big deal about them, and money, and then you go, and you stand in line forever to get your pictures taken, and then, after about two dances, it’s time to go. The most fun was after the prom, when we all went to Kit and Star’s favorite place in Pasadena. Everyone there knew them, so even if the rest of us were like misfits in that place, it was okay, because we were friends with Kit and Star. We danced, and laughed, and played darts, and pool, and stayed until closing time. I guess you could say we embraced diversity.

  “LYNN!”

  Mom’s standing in the doorway, purse in hand.

  I shake my head, trying to bring my wandering mind back to the present. “I swear, you’d better never be an emergency room nurse the way you lose track of the here and now,” she says.

  We both laugh. I take one more look in the mirror and follow Mom out to the car.