Rebels Like Us

by Liz Reinhardt

  “I’m coming to you on behalf of Doyle’s friends. We’re real worried about him. He’s not spending time with any of his old crew. He’s skipping church and didn’t try out for baseball this year, even after he promised Coach he would. His family asked me if I knew where he was running off to. They’re hoping he’s not getting in with the wrong crowd.”

  The snide comeback I had loaded jams in the barrel. Does Doyle usually go to church every Sunday? Did he want to play baseball?

  I’m half-sure she’s lying, but if she’s not, I’m hovering at the border of worried and offended. Did Doyle’s family really reach out to her? Is he hiding the fact that he’s hanging out with me? Am I Doyle Rahn’s dirty little secret?

  My jaw clicks tight and my shoulders start to shake, but I choke my rage back. I need to check with Doyle before I swallow this girl’s crap.

  Ansley’s main objective is to get these kinds of thoughts sprinting through my brain. I refuse to give in to her mental terrorism, and I will not let her know she’s got me panicked.

  “Doyle Rahn is a big boy. A very big boy.” I roll my eyes up and bite my bottom lip, letting that innuendo flap out in the breeze for a few seconds. Unlike me, Ansley doesn’t have a Texas Hold’em game face. She presses her lips together until they’re bone white. “I’m sure if he needs to be somewhere, he’ll be there. And if his family is so worried about him, they should ask him. Or someone he actually chooses to spend his time with.”

  She sputters before recovering. Her next barbs sink in deep. “You think you can waltz in here and do whatever you like, dontcha? Sure, you’re this hot new thing that spreads your legs and got his interest, but you’ll be gone soon. People like you don’t belong here and never will.”

  “Maybe people like Doyle don’t belong here either. Maybe he’s hungry for something better than this racist one-horse town.”

  Ansley tugs at her cross with so much force, I expect the chain to snap. “Doyle’s family’s been here since Georgia was just a colony.” Spittle flies from the sides of her mouth. “His people got pride in where they come from. He’s lost his way, but he’ll find it again.” She fumes for a few beats, then flips her expression and smiles like a sociopathic Cheshire cat. “I talked to Doyle’s cousin.”

  “Brookes?” Betrayal slaps me upside the head, which is crazy. Brookes met me for a few minutes that night after Doyle took me mudding, but that doesn’t make us friends. It’s hard having so few people on my side.

  “Reginald,” she corrects. She searches my face like she expects more of a reaction. “Or maybe you know him as Officer Hickox?”

  My blood pressure rockets so fast, it’s impossible to hide my reaction. Ansley smirks in genuine satisfaction in the face of my distress.

  “You remember him then? Oh good. Reginald Hickox’s a respected officer in the Ebenezer PD. I know you think you’re above the rules, Agnes, but there’s a reason we live in such a God-fearing place when the whole rest of the country’s going down the drain.” She thumps her fist on the desk, rolling with this whole good ole gal, Tea Partier monologue.

  “It’s because people here know it’s important to keep things the way they’ve always been. We know how quick one rotten peach can spoil the whole basket. So my advice for you would be to keep your head down, ’cause a lot of people have their eyes on you.” Like a switch flipped, she goes from TV evangelist to calm and collected beauty queen smearing lip gloss over her wolfish smile. “Though I don’t expect you’ll stay long past graduation if you even make it that far.”

  “Ms. Strickland?”

  I never noticed Ma’am Lovett enter, but there she stands, fists planted on her hips, glowering like she caught us smoking a joint or fist fighting.

  “Ma’am?” Ansley’s hateful mask melts away, and she’s all glossy, innocent smiles. Holy crap, is she some kind of demon? I can’t compete with her supernatural level of treachery.

  Even my mortal powers are useless here. My wit comes off as sass. I can’t tell the truth because the lies around here run too deep. My character won’t carry me because I can’t change the way people see and judge me—or stereotype and prejudge me.

  I’ve never had a panic attack before, but I think I may be popping my nervous-breakdown cherry.

  “Ansley Strickland, I need to have a word with you about your final paper on Hemingway. Now.”

  The smile smears off Ansley’s face. I should be able to enjoy seeing Ansley squirm, but I’m busy figuring out how to keep the walls from folding in around me. I throw my hands on the desk and breathe in and out as slowly as I can. But it’s not slow. It’s so fast, I start to get a little light-headed.

  “Agnes?” Ma’am Lovett leaves Ansley, rushes over, and presses a hand to my forehead. “You don’t look well at all. I’m writing you a pass to the nurse. You need to stay there until I come for you. Do you need an escort?”

  “No, ma’am. Thank you.”

  At Newington, it wouldn’t have been a question. Ollie would already have her arm around my shoulders.

  “Hey, Nes, you look like you saw that girl from The Ring.” Lonzo says as he walks into the classroom.

  “I, uh, feel bad,” I manage to say.

  “’Scuse me, Ms. Lovett, you want me to take Nes to the nurse?”

  Ms. Lovett gives a relieved nod. “Don’t dawdle, Mr. Washington. You have a quiz to make up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lonzo’s arm keeps me steady as we make our way to the nurse’s office, but I have to grip the wall every once in a while so I can catch my breath.

  “You okay, Nes?” If I had to guess how crappy I look based on Lonzo’s expression alone, I’d say “death warmed over.”

  “I’m just exhausted. Or maybe dehydrated.” I laugh at my own ridiculous excuses. What am I, some celebrity on a bender?

  Lonzo drops me off in the nurse’s office and tells me to get better soon—the World Series of Drunk Baseball is right around the corner, apparently. Before I can tell him I may be retired from semi-intoxicated ball, the nurse breezes in, glances at my pass, looks me over, and directs me to a cot with a curtain around it.

  I sit, put my hands on my knees, and squeeze them hard, willing myself to breathe evenly. Away from Ansley’s accusations, the full classroom, and Ma’am Lovett’s watchful eyes, my heart slows down and my breathing evens out.

  I haven’t been sleeping all that well, so, even though the cot is lumpy and I can hear other students coming in to complain about sprained ankles and strep throat, I decide to lie down and close my eyes. Just until my mounting headache loosens its vise grip on my temples. My little doze turns into the kind of sleep people get only after pricking their fingers on spinning wheels, and I stay that way until I wake up to Ma’am Lovett shaking my shoulder.

  I spring up, panicked. “Damn. Sorry. Excuse me.” I wipe the drool off the side of my mouth with my wrist. “Did I sleep through class?”

  “Yes, you did. Thank you, Nurse Hathaway. I’ll catch her up on what she missed and see her to her to next class.”

  The nurse offers a distracted wave as she administers ointment to a huge guy with a tiny scratch on his elbow.

  Ma’am Lovett and I walk shoulder to shoulder, my shuffling rubber soles and her clicking heels creating a soft cacophony. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I begin. “I swear I didn’t even feel sleepy until I got—”

  “Come in,” she interrupts, gesturing to her empty classroom.

  Feeling brave, I pick the chair next to her desk. The one where she isolates people who are in trouble and need a stern talking-to. The one Ansley was planted in before I mentally wrecked.

  “I overheard Ms. Strickland threatening you.” Her eyes are deep brown, fierce, and reassuring. She’s someone I’m glad to have on my side.

  Theoretically anyway. The last thing I need is to blow this whole Ansley thing even more out of proportion.

  I immediately protest. “She’s kind of a monster, but I swear, it’s just your average mean-girl
crap—”

  “I heard her reference Reginald Hickox.” It’s like Ma’am Lovett’s raised eyebrow is her own Jedi mind trick. It goes up, my mouth shuts.

  I do this whole throat clearing, nervous tic thing that probably makes me sound guilty before I say a single word. “Right. See, I was driving Doyle Rahn’s truck—with his permission—and I got lost. Officer Hickox pulled me over and questioned me. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  The events of that night goose-step through my mind. I’m desperate for the privacy of the nurse’s office cot…and maybe a paper bag to breathe into.

  Do not lose your cool, Agnes. Enough panic attacks for one day.

  Ma’am Lovett whips her glasses off her face, leaving her features naked of authority. “Officer Hickox has a reputation. You aren’t the first person of color he’s pulled over without reason.” She shakes her head like she’s clean-slating a mental Etch A Sketch. “Officer Hickox was rough with my grandson a few weeks ago. He claims Malcolm was belligerent, aggressive, but my grandson isn’t a troublemaker. He has a clean record at school, work, church, and he says he was pulled over for no reason, harassed, then charged with resisting arrest. We’re in talks with the station, but I doubt there will be any disciplinary action taken.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

  I remember the billy club, the cuffs, the gleam of the gun on his belt. How relieved I was that I didn’t have to get out of the truck. How worried I’d been about what would happen if he used force. Now I realize that night could have ended up much worse than it did.

  Was I pulled over because of the color of my skin? Was I let go because of my gender? My age? The fact that there was nothing to book me on? Or was it because intimidating me was enough for Officer Hickox that night?

  Trying to make sense of it feels like drowning slowly.

  “There are so many people fighting hard to do right, to make things good. But there is still so much power in the wrong hands.” She opens a drawer in her desk. “Have you ever read Nella Larsen, Agnes?”

  I shake my head and she hands me a book. “Passing.” I read the title out loud.

  “It’s about two women in Harlem in the ’20s. Both are mixed race, but one chooses to ‘pass’ as a white woman. This book is supposed to be about an America of the past, but there are quite a few relevant themes. I think…it’s important for us to remember where we came from, to remember that old battles only matter if we acknowledge that they were fought and why we had to fight them.”

  “I’m not…I’m not actually African American.” I admit this kind of sheepishly, like I lied, even though no one ever asked, and I never offered. “My father is Dominican.”

  “Race is getting more beautifully complicated by the generation, isn’t it?” She raises both eyebrows, but this time it’s like a surrogate for a smile. “My daddy swears we’re half-Cherokee. My mama swears great-grandaddy escaped slavery with the help of a Creole woman he fell in love with.” She shrugs. “I’ve decided to respect their oral history and embrace all the intricacies of my ancestry.”

  I flip the pages of the book against my thumb, listening to the whip of stories I’ll know soon. “My grandmother claims we’re descended from the Taíno Native Americans who were settled on our island before any European settlers came along and African slave rebels who escaped and formed their own Maroon colonies. That’s what her abuela told her anyway.”

  We laugh a little awkwardly. Then Ma’am Lovett’s mouth pulls flat. “There are too many people who see two colors and an easy division right down one line, black and white. And they like it that way. On both sides. People like you…” She shakes her head, but her mouth has pulled up into a smile I think might be proud.

  “Are pains in the a—butt?” I fill in that blank.

  “And challenging. And inspiring, Agnes. This old town needs to shake some of the dust off. I know full well that you’re only here for a few months. I bet I’ll be able to smell the rubber burning off your tires the second that diploma is in your hands. And I know you probably want to keep your head down.” She puts her own head in her hands. “It’s my job to tell you to do exactly that.”

  When she looks up, her eyes shine with the same kind of daring that convinced me I’d love her right off the bat.

  “So it’s your job to tell me that. Fine. I hear that, officially. But what if we weren’t in school right now?” I let my voice drop low. “What would you tell me?”

  “I’d tell you things I have no business saying. I’d tell you to be braver than I ever was at your age. To not let the things that bother you go unchallenged. To call out the people in charge when they misuse their power.” She pinches her lips together. “At the same time, I think about you and Malcolm and all the young people who are brave in the face of ignorance. And I worry that your principles might cost you too much.”

  “It’s not like I never thought about being mixed race in Brooklyn. I guess it was just that everyone was almost, like, competing to be unique or surprising. By comparison, I was boring, seriously. Really boring.”

  “That is something I just can’t imagine.” She tears a single sheet from her mint-green pad of hall passes. “Where are you headed?”

  I’m being dismissed and once I leave, Ma’am Lovett will transform back into the tyrant of English she always was, never acknowledging this wrinkle in reality.

  I’m not ready to have it end.

  “Computers doesn’t end for five more minutes. Maybe I can sit with you until the bell?”

  She purses her lips like she’s not sure whether she’s going to say anything. But then she says it all.

  “I’m not sure why you left Brooklyn, but I’m glad you did. Maybe you thought you were boring. Maybe you blended in in a way that felt comfortable. I’m sorry your time here has been a trial so far, but know that your passion, your truth, can be a catalyst for change. You’re not alone in wanting to challenge the things you don’t agree with. You could be one of the first to speak up. And if you did, you’d certainly be one of the loudest.” She leans forward, her eyes narrowed to slits. “Don’t hide what you have under a bushel, Agnes. Let all that light come out and shine.”

  When the bell rings, I think I should hug Ma’am Lovett or shake hands, something to acknowledge all we’ve shared. But the strange veil that lifted between us falls back into place in an instant. She puts her glasses on her nose and raises her eyebrows. I wonder if this is what it’s like to see a member of the Illuminati after a secret meeting.

  When I hesitate, she flaps her grade book my way. “Scoot. I don’t want you to miss any more classes.”

  “Okay. And…thanks. For everything.” I hold up the book and walk to the door backward.

  “Agnes?” She stares intently at the neat columns and rows of her grade book.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  She never looks up. “I’m rooting for you.”

  I stumble into the hall, wishing for Doyle’s steady presence with my entire pathetic heart.

  I leave Ma’am Lovett’s classroom with the kind of glow people radiate after river baptisms, like I got anointed by some wise, tough guru…but I think she chose the wrong person. I’m pissed about a ton of what’s happened since I’ve been here, but I’m not eager to pin a bull’s-eye to my back and hold my breath, waiting to get taken down.

  Ma’am Lovett herself pointed out that, in order to get out of this place, I need to keep chugging forward.

  But the sugary poison of Ansley’s words jitters in my brain and distracts me all day.

  I squint in the hot sunshine of the parking lot after the final bell and realize I could’ve stayed in a panic coma on the nurse’s cot because I didn’t absorb a single fact all day long.

  “Hey, pretty thang.”

  I shake off my daze and notice Doyle leaning against my car, one cheek swelled and a little pool of pink drool leaking out of the side of his mouth.

  “Holy crap, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” I borrow one of his favorite
phrases as I fling myself into his arms and sink into the tight pull of his hug.

  “If this is the way you’re gonna act every time I get back from a root canal, Imma start snackin’ on sugar cubes.” He swings me around, lifting my feet off the ground.

  “Don’t.” I slap his chest when he puts me down. “Idiot, you’ll make your heart pump and you’ll start bleeding. Lemme see.” I peer into his mouth. “Was it horrific?”

  I’ve never even had a cavity—thank God, because I’m scared to death of a drill coming anywhere near my mouth.

  Doyle shrugs. “I got a high pain tolerance.” He touches two fingers to the side of his mouth. “Nes, why you lettin’ me drool all over myself?”

  I grin as he mops his drool with his sleeve. “You’re gonna be doing that for a while. Want to stop at the Dollar General and get a bib?”

  “Wanna hide out with me till I’m presentable again?” His voice toes over the line of friendliness and dances right into flirtatious territory. “Nurse me a bit, maybe?”

  “I don’t have the kind of time that mission demands.” He tries to stick his tongue out and winds up licking his chin. “Okay, you’re pathetic. I guess I’ll keep you company and hidden until the Novocain wears off.”

  “That’s my girl. Your place cool for a couple hours?”

  I shift my backpack on my shoulders. “Right. My place. That’s fine. Also, I’ve never seen your place.” I draw in a deep breath. Just ask him. Don’t let Ansley play you. There’s nothing to worry about. “Is there a reason for that?”

  “You got a pool. You got a new house that’s mostly empty. You don’t share a room with three slobs. Your mama is sweet and her cooking’s pretty amazing. Did I mention how much I liked that…uh, the, um, the whore—damn, I hate that word—”

  I save him from his gentlemanly humiliation. “Puttanesca. And yes, you’ve told me a million times. I promise I’ll get you the recipe so you can try it.”

  He shrugs. “Gramma’s kitchen’s hers. Period. She don’t take kindly to anyone poking ’round in it without her permission. Every egg and slice of cheese’s rationed. Guess that’s the way it’s gotta be, seein’ as there’s five men with bottomless pits for stomachs livin’ with her.”