Rebels Like Us

by Liz Reinhardt

  His fingers play at the hem of my top and, as he closes his hand around the fabric and tugs up an inch, then another, his eyes lock on mine. “Are you sure?”

  “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  I love the way he chuckles as he pulls the cotton over my head. We have a near catastrophe when it catches on my earring, and then the straps somehow wind up bound around my elbows.

  “Sorry,” he mutters, tugging hard on the fabric and locking my arms behind my back tighter. “This is getting kinkier than I meant it to.”

  We’re both laughing into each other’s necks as we awkwardly unknot my shirt, and then his laugh cuts short. “I know I said this before, but you’re so damn beautiful, Nes.”

  I feel beautiful with his eyes on me. And bold, like I’m not scared of messing this up anymore. We’ve already fallen for each other, broken the rules, been stupidly separated by misunderstanding and stubbornness, and now we’re back together, maybe temporarily and maybe with regrets in our future. But this is us, me and Doyle, flawed and vulnerable, exposed and willing to fight for this thing we feel, whatever it is.

  Though I know the name for it. It’s love.

  Damn, that’s scary.

  And wonderful.

  My fingers brush down to his waistband, and I pause. “Are you sure?”

  “Does Howdy Doody have wooden balls?”

  He’s so perfectly deadpan, I roll on the mattress laughing. “Who the hell is Howdy Doody?” I demand.

  “Aw, you know, that little wooden puppet guy? My granddad used to watch him. You never heard of Howdy Doody?” he asks, one eyebrow raised like he doesn’t believe me.

  I shake my head and shrug. “I guess Brooklyn is just missing out when it comes to puppet exposure.”

  “It’s a cryin’ shame how you don’t know about ole Howdy. Maybe Granddad will get out his tapes for ya.”

  “All this romantic talk! I can’t take it.” I bite my bottom lip solely to make his eyes go wide, then undo his pants. We both go still and silent. “Doyle?”

  “Nes?”

  “It’ll be okay, right?” I brush my fingers over his face. “You and me? We’ll be okay?”

  Doyle Rahn prides himself on being honest, but I love the way he lies.

  “Jest fine.” He takes my hand and weaves his fingers through mine. “You and me are gonna be okay.”

  And then we don’t talk for a long time. The few scraps of clothes that were keeping us from being completely naked get kicked off the mattress, and we touch like we’re making up for all the weeks of avoiding touching we’ve just endured. Every single place his fingers brush is like another tripped lever pushing me closer to him until there’s no space between us.

  I bury my face in the pillows and shudder at the way he kisses places no one else has, taking his sweet time. And I make sure the next time he plays I Never, he’ll take off his clothes and think about me and the way I made him bunch the sheets in his fists.

  When I fumble for the condom and put it on him, he whispers, “I’m so sorry, Nes. I gotta feelin’ this is gonna be the best three seconds of my life.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to do better the second time.”

  Our laughs spiral into moans, and it keeps cycling like that—sex and sleep, sleep and laughs, laughs and kisses, kisses and moans—until the rosy light of dawn fills my room. Doyle Rahn slides out of bed and pulls his jeans over his hips and his boots over his feet in the pastel light of early morning.

  He kisses me like a promise before he slips out my window, even though he could’ve walked out the door, leaving me lying in the perfect, heavy contentment of the golden morning that follows a night full of risks taken and love finally seized, no regrets.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  In the midst of feeling all twitterpated and being in love and not caring who knows it, Doyle and I return to the bleach-and-fry-oil-scented halls of Ebenezer High and try to ignore the chaos. But it’s like Romeo and Juliet trying to sneak back into Verona and just gaze into each other’s eyes despite the civil unrest.

  Bright and early Monday morning, we’re all goose-stepped into the auditorium where Principal Armstrong and Officer Tomlin wait. Doyle squeezes my hand, and both our palms are sweaty. The cocoon of sweet, incredible love we’ve been wrapped in all weekend starts to unravel and let real life in.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of Ebenezer High, I wish I didn’t have to call you in this morning,” Principal Armstrong begins grimly.

  The speech doesn’t improve from there.

  Khalil is going to be okay, but his parents are pressing for an investigation, and we’re all expected to be cooperative and come forward with any information we might have. There are flutters of nervous chatter at this announcement, but it quiets down at the next item.

  “The race for Rose King and Queen was a privilege extended to students who could show goodwill for the community and strong character. A rash of harmful pranks culminated this weekend with a breakin at the school.” He pauses as he scans the sea of our faces. “The office where we keep the ballots—as well as sensitive and private student information—was tampered with. It appears that only the ballot box was taken. I hate to punish everyone for what a few foolish students chose to do, but we are officially calling off the race. There will be no Rose Court at Ebenezer this year.”

  Saying the news is not well received is like saying the North’s victory in the Civil War is all water under the bridge. But if the principal of your school tells you the punishment for your criminal behavior is that you can’t enjoy your racist popularity contest, and you wanted to prove him wrong, you’d, I dunno, maybe not erupt into a rioting mass of assholes.

  Alas, Ebenezer High hasn’t established itself as a bastion of logic, and the screams, flying wads of balled-up paper, and nasty protest chants that follow this news don’t exactly go far in convincing Armstrong he’s made some awful judgment call.

  In fact, no rational person would have blamed him if he announced his retirement, dropped the mic, and hightailed it out of this hellhole for good.

  Officer Tomlin stalks the podium and announces that he will be happy to call for backup if we don’t settle down. The crowd reduces itself to furious muttering and Armstrong continues.

  “I expect you all to conduct yourself in a way that reflects well on your community, your family, your church, and this school. We are at absolute zero tolerance, folks. If you decide to involve yourself in any activity that harms another student or property, you will face suspension, expulsion, and possibly be denied the opportunity to walk in graduation. More serious than that, you will be turned over to the authorities, and your action may have legal consequences. I’m ashamed to say that I had to ask Officer Tomlin to be at the ready in case his police force is needed in the next few weeks.”

  Principal Armstrong leans on the podium, gray faced and sober. “I’ve been principal at this school for fifteen years, and I’ve never felt so let down by a body of students. But I’m a man who believes in redemption. We can start by getting to the bottom of what happened with Khalil Scott. I hope we can use these last few weeks of the school year to turn ourselves around and learn from our mistakes. I believe you can, I truly do. You are dismissed.”

  His shaky, uncertain words hang in the air as we gather our bags. There are still a few barbaric loudmouths in the crowd, but most of the students have the decency to look at least marginally ashamed.

  “Heavy.” Doyle uses his shoulder to wedge a path through the crowds as he holds my hand.

  “It’s gotten so out of—”

  Before I can finish, Doyle is jostled hard from behind, sending him staggering to his knees and his books flying. I have to jump back to avoid falling on top of him. A group of big guys, football players, Confederate flag handkerchiefs dangling from their back pockets, snicker.

  Ansley stands to the side, her smile unsure. It’s clear we’re in some murky moral territory if Ebenezer’s Queen Mean Girl is uncomfortable with the
level of bullying.

  “Mudshark.”

  “Jungle fever.”

  “Coon lover.”

  There’s a mixed reaction to the knife slice of those low, hateful words—gasps, shocked silence, furious resignation. The rubbernecks file past like zombies as the goons start to move on.

  “That’s enough!” Ansley cries, tugging at one of the guys’ jerseys. He throws his arms back and his chest out, laughing when Doyle scrambles to his feet.

  “Coward,” Doyle snarls.

  “Clint, he’s not even worth it.” Ansley tries to say it with sass, but her voice snags when she catches Doyle staring at her, pure disgust on his face.

  They shuffle away, Ansley with her bowed shoulders buckled under Clint’s beefy arm.

  I bend down to gather Doyle’s books and he kneels to help me. “Mudshark?” I ask quietly, sticking his ag report back into its glossy binder.

  “Douche bags can’t even use a racial slur right,” he snarls. When I raise my eyebrows, he grinds out, “Mudshark is slang for a white girl who dates black guys.”

  “Ah.” I swallow back the lump in my throat. “Sorry.”

  “What are you sorry for? That they aren’t even smart enough to rag on me with an accurate slur?” His smile is sad around the joking words. “Weird what you can ignore when it ain’t directly affecting you.”

  We zip up his bag and lace our fingers together. “I hear you.”

  We ignore the hostile looks and nasty words in the halls. When we get to my classroom, Doyle’s face is sharp with worry.

  “People here are serious about the Rose Court, huh? It’s gotten way uglier since Armstrong took it away.”

  “Ignore ’em,” he commands, but I have a feeling he’s saying it as much to himself as to me. “Couple weeks, we graduate and leave this all behind.”

  I pull a long breath in and hold it for a few hopeful seconds. “‘Leave this all behind’ like leave high school? Or…” I don’t dare say it out loud.

  His easy shrug is wide-open with possibility. “Or maybe I got a lot of thinkin’ to do.”

  He bends down to kiss me, in the open, and that kiss leaves me too dazed to press him for clarification. I listen to him whistle as he walks away and feel brave enough to stare down the snide looks a few of Ansley’s cohorts send me from their place at the main lockers.

  He’s thinking. If that means for Doyle what it usually means for me, he won’t stop until he figures it out. I just hope his conclusion involves the two of us close enough for…

  For whatever we want.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  As the lazy, numbered final weeks of school fly by, the graduating class comes to a shaky resolution. It isn’t exactly like we join arms and sing “We Shall Overcome.” More like the students of Ebenezer call an uneasy truce to keep ourselves from getting kicked out or arrested—and the administration figures out something important: control has to do with leverage. For years they’d been denying themselves a powerful tool capable of exerting massive amounts of control over horny, sentimental high school students.

  Principal Armstrong realized that he who controls prom controls the actions of all students leading up to prom. It’s obvious he regrets having to deal with prom chaos when he has no way to tighten the reins this year.

  Tensions loosen a few days after the assembly, when a guy named Walter Jardin comes forward and claims sole credit for using a blowtorch stolen from his shop class to heat up the handle of Doyle’s truck. He confesses it was a prank gone wrong, and he feels guilty for causing harm, especially to Khalil.

  “Do you know Walter Jardin? Have you ever argued with him or anything?” I grill Doyle all through lunch on the day Walter’s taken out of the school in cuffs.

  “Never said boo to the guy.” Doyle sets his tray down.

  “Never said boo to who?” asks Alonzo, chugging his third carton of milk. “Bulking up,” he tells me as I watch, fascinated, expecting him to vomit from lactose overload at any second. “I need to build muscle mass. I got basketball camp for Loyola this summer.”

  “Congrats.” I hold up my milk to toast and he says, “You drinking that?” I shake my head and pass it over so Alonzo can gain bulk or whatever.

  “Walter Jardin got expelled and arrested for screwing with my truck and putting Khalil in the hospital,” Doyle says as he wolfs down a ham sandwich. “He confessed and all that, but somethin’ don’t sit right.”

  “No doubt it had to do with your ex.” When Alonzo mentions Ansley, Khabria and Bo scoot closer to us.

  Khabria has been hot and cold to me since the day we watched Ansley freak out and accuse us of messing with her Jeep. I think she still assumes I had something to do with it, and since no one came forward, it’s not likely she’s going to change her mind.

  On the other hand, I was there to help when Khalil got hurt, and I was the one who proposed opening alternaprom to sophomores the other day, just before she went to visit him in the hospital. She came to find me and let me know the news perked him up.

  “Didn’t that crackhead Walter Jardin fess up?” Khabria demands, tossing a dozen shiny braids behind one shoulder. “He and Ansley don’t exactly run in the same circles.”

  “I don’t think she’s planning to take the dude to prom. I think it’s weird Walter gave it up when there wasn’t any evidence linking him. It’s also pretty damn suspicious he got Ansley’s granddaddy’s law firm to represent him.” Alonzo salutes Bo with his carton of milk, and I realize Bo has the same odd milk-chugging thing going on.

  “How do you know all this?” Khabria demands.

  “My cousin booked him.” He holds up his phone. “He texted me, told me to keep my head down and stay out of trouble. We sure as hell can’t afford to call Strickland Law Firm if something goes down. Plus my cousin is a dick about his reputation. He wants to be the youngest chief in the county or some crap.”

  “So that’s it?” Khabria fumes, her fingers biting into the side of the table. “My baby brother is spending the end of his sophomore year bandaged and in pain, not able to play football, and they just take Walter’s word for it and don’t look into it any further?”

  “He confessed, K. What do you expect them to do?” Alonzo chucks his milk cartons across the table and into the trash cans until a monitor calls for him to cut it out.

  “I just expect… I guess I expect things to change. To really change. Is that too much to ask?” Her eyes fill up, and she lets Bo put an arm around her.

  We’re all silent in the face of her tears. It’s strange to see someone as strong as Khabria lose it. Finally, Doyle breaks the silence.

  “They might never change. But we did. And that’s enough.”

  He takes my hand under the table, and I’ve never been prouder of him.

  With Walter Jardin scapegoated for all the evils of Ebenezer, Principal Armstrong calls a second assembly, this one peppier than the first. He says he’s proud of all of us, especially those “brave enough” to come forward with the information that allowed them to ensure justice was served.

  I can hear Khabria’s snort of disdain from across the auditorium.

  When I crane my neck, I catch sight of Ansley’s profile. She stares ahead, tight-lipped, eyes wide, no emotion on her face.

  “Now that this has all settled, I’d like to discuss an issue the board members have been pondering for some years. We’ve decided that we have enough of an overflow of funds to offer a school-funded prom at Ebenezer High next school year. It will accommodate the entire junior and senior class. This will be the last year independently funded proms will be needed in our district.” My jaw drops as Armstrong puffs out his chest like this was some wise idea he and “the board” came up with.

  Like he didn’t completely blow off Doyle and me when we proposed exactly this idea.

  “Thank you all for giving me renewed faith in this fine school and its students. Y’all should be proud of yourselves.”

  I think that last part is a
bit of a stretch, but this assembly ends in the Ebenezer Rebel chant instead of a near riot, so what do I know?

  “What about the Rose Court? What about people who still want a segregated prom?” I ask, but Doyle takes the opportunity the happy chaos gives us and kisses me instead of answering.

  When things calm down and people start to funnel out of the auditorium, he grins at me and says, “That’s for them to figure out. We did it, Nes. We changed a tradition old as dirt at Ebenezer.”

  “They’re only doing it so they have control of things in case it all goes to hell next year.” I roll my eyes.

  “Don’t matter why.” Doyle ignores my attempts at pessimism. “It’s change. I never thought it’d be possible for this to happen. Now that it did, it’s like there’s a whole world of possibility. Anything can happen.”

  Doyle’s always been pretty happy, but he’s crossed into Pollyanna territory now.

  “Right,” I agree reluctantly.

  A worry starts to gnaw away at my guts. I’m glad things are changing. Or I should be.

  The truth is, selfishly, I’d wanted them to stay stagnant. Because now there’s hope there will be bigger changes at Ebenezer, which may lead to opportunities for change across the community, and Doyle may want to stay here for good and be part of all that. Which would be a noble and awesome thing.

  Or, at least an empathetic, big-hearted girlfriend would think so. A selfish, ornery wench like myself? No such warm fuzzies.

  THIRTY-SIX

  We make it to prom because we all stay happily distracted by the minor dramas of our own lives like the young narcissists we are. People debate the pros and cons of next year’s school-funded prom and start to look to the alternaprom as a prototype for Ebenezer’s future. We never asked about the dates they planned to hold the other proms, but it just so happens that alternaprom will fall on a totally separate weekend from both the black and the white prom. Sheer curiosity drives last-minute bid sales through the roof, and our little misfit prom starts to look like…well, pretty much like any normal, all-American high school prom.