Rebels Like Us

by Liz Reinhardt

  “Tell me.” I want to start at the once upon a time of Ollie’s fairy tale and listen all the way to the “and we all lived happily ever after” part.

  But Ollie’s tale has a shocking twist—it wasn’t either chair at either school or pretzel guy or skateboard guy or any combination of the guys Ollie has been flirting with all semester.

  The prince charming of Ollie’s story is… Thao.

  “Thao Thao?” I can’t wrap my head around the idea of Thao and Ollie…together.

  “I know,” she moans. “I can’t stand him. Or I thought I couldn’t. What kind of idiot falls for a guy who tortured her through her entire childhood? At first I thought it was a demented case of Stockholm syndrome.”

  “He did put you through distressing amounts of torture. He pulled out a lot of chairs just before you sat…” I point out. Like, blooper-reel levels. But I am not laughing because I’m a real friend.

  Who is choking on silent laughter.

  “And chopped off my left braid when I was six so my mother had to cut my hair into that hideous bowl cut. He held me down and made me eat a worm when I was eight. Hid that scary Vietnamese mask in my closet when I was ten. I didn’t sleep for two months! Last time I checked, the only thing he was good at was farting and uploading YouTube videos of his friends falling off railings on their bikes.”

  Hmm. Okay, not exactly the chirping birds/harmonious love-duet, fairy-tale beginning I had in mind.

  “I remember that! Whatever happened to that one kid, the one with the spiky helmet—”

  “Over thirty stitches and two fake teeth,” she finishes before I can remind her of the gory details.

  “So… You didn’t just develop a love of flatulence and masochism since I’ve been gone, right?” I only relax when she laughs.

  “I was so wrapped up in school and rehearsals I hardly noticed he left last year, apparently just after fall break. It winds up he got in big trouble at his school because of the bike-stunt stuff. He destroyed some property, wound up pretty badly hurt. His family kept it under wraps—you know the whole ‘you shamed the family name’ bit my people seem to love so much. But he got shipped off to Vietnam to train with his uncle who does Vovinam, which is like this old martial arts stuff that teaches discipline or whatever. Anyway, Thao came back.” She sighs, a happy sigh that makes me picture her resting her chin on her hand.

  “And?” I prompt.

  I hear the springs creak as she falls on the bed in the kind of Victorian-era swoon she uses to add heightened drama to her stories. “My, oh my, the boy became a man, Nes! Like, in every way. The way he looks, the way he talks, what he’s passionate about, who he cares about—spoiler alert, it’s me. He cares about me, and I swear I can’t stop tying little heart-shaped knots around everyone’s wrists like it’s Valentine’s Day every day, Nes. It’s like my brain has been replaced with confetti, and I like it, dammit!”

  I can’t fully wrap my gray matter around this shocking news. “I believe you, because you never lie. But, Olls, this is blowing my mind. Geeky little Thao? Spaghetti arms? Pimples? Buckteeth?”

  “He left an ugly duckling and came back a swan,” she sighs, the drama oozing out of her words.

  I’m still stunned, but I’m happy, of course. I love that my best buddy found unexpected love, especially with this dark horse. Who doesn’t love an underdog? And I’m completely curious to know what Thao looks like and acts like… To be honest, I always harbored a sneaking suspicion that he had a thing for Ollie and the only way he could think to get her attention was by doing what he did best. Which, unfortunately, happened to be farting and playing mean practical jokes.

  “So Thao. Wow.” I clear my throat. “In other love-related news—”

  “Agnes Penelope Murphy-Pujols!” Ollie gasps. “Did you and Doyle…?”

  And it pours out, like a dam burst, like a deluge. Every detail. First every incredibly beautiful piece, and then, when she’s softened from it, all the rotten ugly bits. There’s physical distance between us we can’t bridge right now, but I can still feel every ounce of happiness and disgust and outrage and pure love vibrating across the miles and fluttering right against my heart.

  “What are you going to do?” she demands.

  “I guess just make out a ton?” Evidence of how twitterpated we are: we both roll, laughing over that stupid joke.

  “So you’re like an item? Boyfriend and girlfriend? Or courting? Is that what they say down there?”

  “Um…” I clear my throat. “I’m not sure.”

  “About exactly what you two are to each other, or Southern slang for dating?”

  “Both.”

  “And about prom?”

  “We’re supposed to meet with the principal this morning. I’m not totally convinced this is such a good idea. Doyle wants me to state our case for having an inclusive prom, but Armstrong hates my guts, and I just feel like…” I peter off, not wanting to admit that I feel like quitting before we even get started.

  “It’s funny, because based on the tone of your voice, I would assume you’re not seriously considering melding the two most important things in the world—romantic love and social justice.” Ollie’s voice pitches up like it does when she’s about to drag out her soapbox.

  “Ollie, I have stress,” I whine.

  Instead of pointing out how she’s maintaining an unreal GPA while she chairs a dozen extracurricular activities, becomes a musical prodigy, and turns a prank war with the pesky boy next door into true love, Ollie levels me with a long, judgmental silence.

  “Ollie,” I whine.

  “Stop.”

  She centers the soapbox.

  “But—”

  “Zip it!”

  She puts one foot up on it.

  “I don’t wanna—”

  And here she goes…

  “I’m not going to mince words just because you’re my best friend and soul mate. Your reluctance to get involved is an embarrassment to the SPARK club. I’m not exaggerating when I say you are, without a doubt, letting down every past, current, and future member of the Crown Heights chapter of Feminists Now. And no one from the Random Acts of Kindness Club is going to give you more than, like, one really quick hug before they turn their backs on you until you remove your head from your sphincter! Moving to another state does not mean you abandon your good works, Ms. Murphy-Pujols. Get out there and organize!” My bestie’s rallying cry prods me right where she knows it hurts most—in my guilt vortex. “Don’t let us down.”

  “Okay, okay.” The familiar roar of Doyle’s truck sends me scrambling for my backpack. “I actually just heard Doyle pull in. I promise, I will not be a blemish on the face of social justice.”

  A tiny sigh whooshes out as Ollie momentarily retires from her post as head life coach and goes back to being my best friend. “I don’t even know him! How do I not know the guy you love, Nes? How is this our real life? Our senior year?”

  “You’re seriously asking me? You’re the one who fell in love with your nerdy arch nemesis. I feel like we’re living in some crazy alternate reality.” We both laugh hard, partly to cover up how much it really does hurt. “I love talking to you, but I miss you.”

  “I miss you. Tell Doyle he has to come to Brooklyn this summer. Tell me what happens, with prom planning and everything. And I’ll send you a picture of Thao and me?” she offers shyly.

  “You better if you know what’s good for you,” I threaten. “I’m litera—I’m metaphorically dying to see the transformation your beautiful swan made.”

  “Oh, Nes.” Her laugh and choke cyclone together and blur into a wet sob. “I miss you so hard it’s literally breaking my heart.”

  “You hate when people misuse literally,” I scold. “That said, I will literally come mend your heart with my own two hands. Soon, lovey. So soon.”

  “Love ya.”

  “Love ya.”

  I run out, still giddy over the fact that when I get in Doyle’s truck now, we kiss. Whe
n we pull back sooner than either of us really wants to, my phone buzzes. I open the image Ollie texted me and gasp.

  Doyle glances over, worry lining his face. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I stare at the image of my gorgeous best friend and her…really hot boyfriend who looks like maybe he could be Thao’s super buff, clear-skinned, straight-teethed second cousin. Twice removed.

  “Just marveling at the wonders of modern orthodontia combined with some muscle mass. Holy Thao.”

  I love the way he grins, like he gets there’s a joke he’s not privy to, but he’s more than happy to wait until I’m ready to tell him.

  It’s one of the many (many) reasons I’m intensely in love with Doyle Rahn. And I try to shield myself inside the confines of that beautiful, perfect bubble of love as we pull up at Ebenezer High.

  “So how are you feeling?” I ask. Yes, it’s partially stalling because I don’t want to go in, but I do want to know.

  “Better than the time I fell off the roof of my granddaddy’s barn. Lee says my bones’re made of the same stuff Wolverine’s are.” When he tries to smile, his lip almost cracks open at the scabbing split.

  “Adamantium.”

  “That’s it. I got adamantium bones.”

  “You’re bleeding.” He leans back as I dab the blood away with a tissue from the pack in my bag, but his features go hard at my next question. “What did your grandparents say?”

  “They weren’t happy, but we all know my daddy’s got a nasty streak.” He shrugs the shoulders I know are black-and-blue from the man who’s supposed to love and protect him.

  The tissue is crimson in the center from the blood I had to wipe off his face. “The fact that your father has a history of being an abusive bastard doesn’t give him a free pass to kick your ass whenever he feels like it.”

  “I guess I need to learn my lesson and keep outta his way,” Doyle says in a voice as close to a snap as I’ve ever heard him come when he’s talked to me.

  “How the hell am I the one you’re pissed at? You wouldn’t even have been at his place if your grandma hadn’t guilted you, but you’re not mad at her.”

  “You don’t know that.” His words lash out fast. “It’s family stuff, and we got it handled. I’m not on your back ’bout you and your mama, how you give her hell for making some mistakes—”

  “I don’t give her hell.” My protest is weak at best.

  “You ain’t exactly nice to her. Nobody’s perfect. I never got a chance to tell my mama I forgave her for screwin’ up, ’cause mine never bothered to stick around like yours did.” He blows out a long breath.

  I choose my words carefully. “You have a big heart. You forgive people who, I’m sorry, don’t deserve it.”

  “Mebbe I do forgive too easy when it comes to other people.” He takes my hand. “But I don’t forgive myself. Not for exposin’ you to my daddy and his hate. I accept my lot, but I never meant to pull you in.”

  “You have it all wrong.” I rub my thumb over his battered knuckles. “You and me? We face the hard stuff together. You don’t have to protect me, because we protect each other.”

  He tugs my hand up and kisses it. “I don’t need you to do that.”

  “But I want to.”

  “But I don’t want you to.” He’s dead serious, and the bottom drops out of my stomach.

  “That’s not how I want us to—”

  “Can we talk about this later?” he begs.

  I think about how Ollie sometimes pushes me to feel things I’m not ready to feel, which always annoyed me. Now I know how sick with worry she must’ve been for me.

  “Okay. I guess we should go meet with Armstrong.” I’m not great at faking smiles, but I do my best as we get out of the truck and Doyle marches to the principal’s office as I drag my feet.

  I speed up a little when we get to the door, but he races to beat me to it. “You ready?” He backs into the glass door, pushing it open with his battered shoulders, and holds out one arm in a chivalrous gesture.

  I get chivalry, but he needs help now. Why won’t he accept help from me?

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.” My stomach is knotted tight, but I fake a confident smile, and it tricks him. “Let’s do this.”

  We walk in lockstep to Armstrong’s office, shoulder to shoulder. When we take a seat, I attempt to keep a distance between our chairs, because this isn’t some love-in. This is a civil-liberties-violation meeting, and “we need to take this seriously if we want to be taken seriously,” as Ollie would preach.

  I inch over to one side and, as if on cue, he hooks one muddy boot around the leg of my chair and drags it across the ugly industrial carpet. I toss him a glower that’s supposed to level him, but Doyle’s charms pummel my defenses. Resistance is futile. I hook my pinkie through his, a stopgap that should tide him over, at least until Armstrong breezes in.

  “Mr. Rahn, Ms. Murphy-Pujols.” Armstrong’s drawl trickles out with an extra dose of annoyance.

  I’m thinking these uncharitable thoughts when he glances up and stares at Doyle with a mix of shock and sadness on his craggy features.

  “Doyle.” Armstrong strides forward and crouches, hands on his knees, eyes squinted as they rake over Doyle’s battered face. It’s amazing how quickly I stopped registering the sickening extent of Doyle’s injuries. “Was it Boyd? You can tell me, son.”

  I breathe a secret sigh of relief. If Doyle can’t accept help from me, maybe he can from a respected adult member of the community. Maybe he just needs someone more capable of handling things than I am.

  I thought my feelings for Armstrong were set in stone, but I realize I’d sing his praises from the rooftops if he was the one who helped Doyle.

  Doyle trains his eyes on his boot. I had pulled my pinkie back when Armstrong made his entrance, but Doyle’s hand flounders frantically for mine, and his face doesn’t relax until our hands are pressed palm to palm, fingers wedded so tight, I grit my teeth.

  “No, not my old man, sir. Just an argument with some guys my cousin had words with, got outta hand. Stupid.”

  I’m about to tell Principal Armstrong that that is not what happened, but Doyle tugs on my hand and shakes his head subtly. We have an argument right there that consists entirely of widened eyes and pinched lips, hand squeezes and head shakes. I back down only because I don’t have enough faith in Armstrong to lose Doyle’s trust on the chance he can help.

  “That’s the full story?” Armstrong raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

  “Yes, sir. My grandparents already gave me an earful. I won’t let myself get into a situation like that again.”

  Doyle swallows hard, and Armstrong swivels his head my way. His entire face suddenly tightens, as if he’s solved this puzzle—and it seems he’s read between the lines of what we’re not saying and decided that I’m the reason for Doyle’s pain. Armstrong thinks he’s connecting the dots, and the picture they make is of an upstanding young white man getting his face beat to a pulp because his smart-ass, Yankee girlfriend is black.

  It’s the sickest kind of irony. I’m the only one who seems to really want to help Doyle, and I’m the one being blamed for his pain.

  My eyes prick with tears that I refuse to shed in this dismal little office. Compressing my sadness mutates it into rage. I want to scream in his arrogant face, tell him that I actually care about Doyle, and it’s not my fault any of this has happened to him.

  I’m sorely tempted to drag Doyle out of here by his bruised hand and run. Screw fighting the “good fight.” Time to do as Mama Patria advises when there’s no way out of an argument: pa’lante. Move on.

  “Ah. I see.” Armstrong backs away from Doyle, who slouches against the plastic chair and loosens the iron grip he had on my fingers. I pull my hands into my lap, shaking with anger at Doyle for not clearing things up, for letting me take the fall so he doesn’t have to come clean about what his father did to him. “Did you bring any of this up with law enforcement?” Armstrong
presses, looking down his bony nose at us.

  Of course not. What’s the use calling the cops when they don’t do anything anyway?

  I know I’m lumping all law enforcement into one ugly pile based on what I experienced with a single officer, but I’m not feeling especially charitable right now.

  “No, sir, and I don’t plan to. Neither do they. What’s done is done, and everything’s settled, sir.” Doyle’s voice yanks tight, like a string wound around the tip of a finger, cutting off all the blood. He reaches for my hand again, and I know he’s reliving the whole scene in his mind. Angry as I am about his lies, I want to help him. I meant it when I said it. Right now, that means holding his hand when I want to give in to my own anger. “But we—Agnes and me—we came in here to talk about something else entirely.”

  Armstrong volleys a tired look from me to Doyle. “I wish we could talk more about this topic, Doyle. I don’t like what I’m seeing. You getting into fights? That’s not like you.”

  Doyle lifts his eyes and collects every ounce of bruised Southern pride before he makes our case. “You’re right, sir. I don’t fight much. But that’s exactly why we’re here today. There’s something I’ve got going on that’s worth fighting for.” Doyle looks over my way and smiles through the cuts and bruises. It’s painfully beautiful, beautifully painful. And it melts away my anger. I know better than anyone how easy it is to accidentally hurt the people you love when you’re blinded by your own pain. “Me and Agnes plan on going to prom together.”

  It’s that simple. What we want can be summed up in a single sentence, yet it’s so complicated, it sends Armstrong into a blank-eyed, pursed-lipped daze. When the answer crosses his mind, it’s like a spotlight shifted off his face and dimmed all the tension of Doyle’s blinding declaration.

  “Doyle, you know Ebenezer High doesn’t hold a school-sanctioned prom. There’s nothing I can say about it because it’s simply out of my jurisdiction, son.”

  I have never seen a man so happy to pass the buck in my life.

  “But Agnes and I can’t go together to either one of the proms put on by the parents for Ebenezer. You know that, sir.” Doyle stops short of saying because we’re not the same skin color, even though this is America and it’s the twenty-first century, and this should be making people want to riot, but instead it makes them want to shush anyone who mentions it.