Rebels Like Us

by Liz Reinhardt

  That was always the point, but the rebel in me can’t help but feel a tiny bit disappointed.

  Though not everyone wants to party like it’s the twenty-first century in the free and lawful United States of America. There is a vocal faction, led by a certain throne-crazed, plastic idiot, who would probably love it if we could roll back to the days of Scarlett O’Hara. Ansley and her tribe of clones vow to treasure the last year of their purist, segregated dance. I thought, after all the torture she put me through the last few months, that I’d want some kind of revenge, but I guess I really have experienced some personal growth despite my best efforts to stay a curmudgeon at heart.

  She’s in the hallway before school, handing out red-glittered, rose-shaped invitations, and, when she sees me, she whispers to some of her cronies.

  “Ignore her.” Doyle is back to his appear-out-of-nowhere hallway magic, and, this time around, I treat it like the incredible trick it is.

  I slide my arm around his waist—filled out since he taught my mother his grandmother’s biscuit recipe and we started perfecting batches after school—and kiss his neck, breaking my own PDA rule.

  “Ansley doesn’t bother me. Actually, I feel sorry for her.”

  His laugh borders on hysterical. “She’d pop a vessel if she heard that.”

  “Look at her bunch of backbiting friends.” I nod to the table of girls who’ve started to give Ansley the side-eye as our tenure at Ebenezer winds to an end and they realize the very hard limits of her reach. “I mean, she works double time to keep them in line. She’s gotta know they’re all talking crap on each other and trying to win their own Rose Queen run or whatever.”

  “Yeah. It’s like she really is Marie Antoinette—don’t know who’s on her side ’cause they wanna piece of what she’s got and who genuinely likes her. Must suck, always watchin’ your back.”

  “And she went from dating you to dating that Neanderthal, Clint. Talk about trading down.”

  Doyle laughs, but Clint is the main reason I can’t hold a grudge against Ansley. Yes, she’s awful. And shallow. But she got to date Doyle Rahn—gorgeous, funny, sexy, smart, romantic Doyle Rahn—and she lost him. And now she has brutish, arrogant, chauvinistic Clint, whose idea of a joke is knocking a person’s books out of his hands.

  “I think she’s with a guy she deserves,” Doyle says.

  We both look at the table as Clint walks up, grabs one of the JV baseball players who was asking about voting, and crushes him in a headlock.

  “Clint, cut it out!” Ansley cries, swatting at his arm and looking around for help. None of her cronies makes a move.

  “I can’t stand Ansley, but no one deserves to be with that dude.”

  I feel Doyle head over before I see him take his first step. By the time he’s at the table, the kid in the headlock is turning a weird shade of purple.

  “Hey! Knock it off.” Doyle grabs Clint’s arm and tugs. The surprise contact breaks Clint’s hold on the kid, who squeaks out a hoarse thank-you and runs for his life.

  “What the hell, Rahn? What I do ain’t your business.” Clint is taller than Doyle, broader shouldered with bigger muscles and a meanness that makes me nervous. There’s no doubt in my mind he’d fight dirty if it came down to it. “Butt the hell out.”

  “It’s my business if some jerkoff thinks he can pick on people who can’t defend themselves. Why dontcha try to put me in a headlock.”

  “Step down, Rahn. I don’t care if you are Ebenezer’s hero. I’ll take your ass down a peg.” Clint lunges and Doyle steps forward.

  “Stop,” Ansley pleads, her eyes flat and dull, like she’s seen some version of this before. From the tired way she begs, I deduce this isn’t the first time Clint’s macho act led to a brawl. “Please, just stop.”

  Doyle looks Ansley right in the eyes around Clint’s beefy shoulder. “You pulled some crazy stunts this past year, Ansley Strickland. But dating this douche takes the cake. You deserve a hell of a lot better.” He turns on his heel and comes back to me. Any leftover anger I was holding on to where Ansley was concerned officially melts away. I can tell from the look on her face when Doyle walks away that she knows exactly what she lost.

  Even some otherwise rational people are opting to go to the independent proms “for old times’ sake.” The fact that this is the last year any independent proms will run gives them this added false sanctity on top of the all the usual, I’ll-miss-these-people-I’ve-barely-been-able-to-stomach-for-the-last-four-years senior nostalgia.

  I feel a little like I’m outside an aquarium looking at the exotic life floating around. I have intense feelings for my classmates—good and bad—but I’ve known them for only a few months. This has been a flash temporary journey to purgatory for me. I arrived in a foreign world like Alice or Dorothy, and I’m waking up from the experience changed in ways no one I love can truly understand. Soon, my Ebenezer friends and enemies will be part of a trippy blip in time—all except Doyle.

  I hope.

  Mom has been worried about everything lately, scouring the news for racist stories and investigating all the realities of race breakdown here—things she probably should have done when she was looking for a new place to move, except she was too brain addled from her affair gone sour. I’ve been doing my best to reassure, shield, or ignore her. Whichever is easiest.

  When she gets particularly shrill over race-based graduation rates in our area, I try a desperate new tactic: distraction.

  “I need a dress for prom!”

  She was just comparing percentages across gender lines, but her eyes go wide and she gets this girly glow. “Prom dress shopping?” she squeals.

  I try hard not to wince. “Yeah. I mean, I need a fancy dress. Do you…want to go?”

  I take the squeals as a yes, and, even though I sigh a little, I’m happy to go with her. If she’s keeping her current job, she’ll be in Georgia when I move into my dorm this fall. After that, I’ll be at college full-time, except around some holidays, so this is kind of…the end.

  And now, like my dopey classmates, I’m looking back on everything and getting sentimental.

  And a little regretful. Mom messed up, yes. But I refused to accept the fact that my mother is a human being who is going to make mistakes, and that is something I regret. I shouldn’t have been so hard on her, especially when we were here with only each other to lean on. If shopping for a big, poofy dress helps erase some of the crappiness of the last few months, I’m game.

  Mom is so into dress shopping, she decides we both need to play hooky.

  “Can you afford to miss school on Friday?” she asks with slightly crazed, shiny eyes.

  “Um, we’re reviewing codes for our final assessment in computers—”

  She waves her hand. “Great! You can miss that, right?”

  You’d think a professor would value education over dress shopping, but professor is only one title my mother goes by. Obsessed Clothes Horse and Vogue Enthusiast is just as accurate.

  Friday morning we’re buzzing along in her Audi, listening to Lilith Fair mixes and sipping on Dunkin’ Donuts cappuccinos.

  “So, tell me, how serious are things with Doyle?”

  I like that the last vestiges of Nervous Mom have evaporated.

  “I like him, but he likes it here enough that he might stick around. I mean, this is his home, and he’s helped make some amazing changes. His family and friends are here. And I definitely have no plans to stay.” I take a long sip of my drink. “Place is important. Right?”

  Mom lets out a long sigh. “You know, baby, I don’t have a good answer for that one. Once upon a time, I would have said it all needed to be negotiated and worked out. Now?” She gives me a sidelong glance and winks. “Sorry. I was dwelling on my past. The answer is yes—for you, at this point in your life, you need to be where you can spread your wings. What’s it down to? Did your father completely shoot down the idea of a year in Paris?”

  “Jasper did, actually. He said he wasn�
��t putting up with me being a Euro bum and messing up their nice neat life. And Dad is sticking to his ‘no college, no free rent’ rule… He said I’m welcome there as long as I’m attending university, but not for a gap year. You know how they like to micromanage everything…including my life, dreams, goals. The usual.”

  My mother laughs over the sound of some old-school Tori Amos. “Jasper really is his father’s son. I love that boy with all my heart, but he and your father are two uptight, hyperfocused peas in a pod, and they both drive me up the damn wall. Has he made peace with your decision to go to NYU, or did Jasper want to show you the differential on all the other schools he wants you to transfer to? I bet he has a program on his computer for it.”

  “I cut him off before he tried. I’m happy with my choice, and I’m not being swayed by Jasper or anyone else.”

  Mom smiles at me. “I’m happy too. And ready to start planning! We need to find out about housing options, roommates, packing logistics. I can drive up with you early, after you get back from visiting Ollie’s grandparents but before my fall semester prep. We need to channel a little bit of the men in this family and get our organizational checklists in order.”

  I know she’s right, but my present is so all-encompassing, my future seems like a distant speck. I think about that as Mom pulls up at some swanky dress shop all decorated in that understated way that quietly lets you know any single item in the place is going to cost more than a car payment or twelve.

  “Mom, this is too fancy. We could just go to Macy’s.”

  She rolls her eyes and clucks her tongue. “Aggie, please. You’ve had a rough few months. This is something I want to do for you. Humor me.”

  She is air-kissed by a gorgeous woman she knows by name. “Navya, this is my daughter, Agnes. And she’s about to go to prom with this Southern guy, all manners and big, broad shoulders.”

  “Mom, that’s so pervy,” I whine. “Stop.”

  But Navya is loving every second. “Really? I can’t resist the accent here!” I’d classify Navya’s accent as a combination of Bollywood and London. She’s polished and beautiful, and I feel like a troll standing next to her in my cutoffs and vintage Luscious Jackson tank top, a pair of tattered Chucks on my feet.

  “Look at that skin. Like silk,” Navya gushes, taking me by the hand and turning me back and forward. “Oh, she got your cheekbones, for sure. And the same gorgeous eyes.” She smiles, and Mom doesn’t tell her that my cheekbones are from my abuela.

  I look into the mirror as Navya fusses over the five million dresses I’m about to put on, and I stare at my mother and I, side by side. There’s no question that we have dozens of very obvious differences, but there’s also a basic facial bone structure, the way we both stand with our right foot tapping and our left hip jutted out, our eyes. You’d have to focus to see what we share, but it’s there, and I’m glad.

  Because my mother is still the most beautiful woman in the world as far as I’m concerned.

  Before I have time to get too sappy, I’m pushed into a dressing room where I strip to my skivvies and start pulling things on. I come out of the dressing room over and over, and it’s like I’m not even there.

  “Hmm. A little too Scarlett O’Hara in the opening scene. If we’re going to give a nod to that time, let’s find something more like what Rhett gives her to wear to Ashley’s birthday,” Mom says.

  White off, maroon on.

  “I love this, but it’s too formal for such a young person,” Navya says, clicking her tongue. “And it’s overly rich for summer. We need a jewel tone to pop against that perfect skin. Darling, what cream do you use on your face?”

  “Um, sometimes I use sunscreen.” I watch Navya’s eyes widen in horror as I close the changing room door and slip out of the maroon dress and into a navy one.

  I try every color, fit, and style and am about to die of exhaustion when I find one on the bottom of the pile. I slip it on. It’s low cut, empire waisted, with a softly flared bottom.

  And it’s lavender. The exact shade of Doyle’s eyes.

  I come out in it and Mom and Navya stop talking about the benefits of salt scrub exfoliators.

  “Oh, sweetie,” Mom gasps coming to adjust zippers and tug on bunched fabric.

  “Lavender,” Navya says, her voice approving. “It would not have been my first guess, but it’s extremely flattering. Have we decided?”

  “I think her eyes say it all,” Mom says. “She’s glowing in this one!”

  I’m super happy with my choice. And, in order to stay happy, I make a mental note not to flip the price tag over. Mom makes me pick new heels, even though I have a pair that would be fine, and we head out once she pays an amount I don’t even want to imagine for all my stuff.

  “Mom?”

  “Mmm?” She’s flipping through an app on her phone to find a good place to eat.

  “Thank you. Seriously. Today was great, being with you. And I love my dress.”

  She leans over and pulls me into her arms, holding me tight. “Thank you, baby. Thank you for being the kind of daughter who never stops amazing me.”

  “Mom, you’ve been listening to too much Lilith Fair,” I laugh, but my throat is scratchy.

  “Okay. No tears today. Are you up for French, or do you want Southern family style?” She wipes under her eyes with her fingers and starts rattling off menu options.

  I get this warm tingle through my body, like this is one of those days I’m going to look back on and appreciate when I’m older. But right now, fried chicken and fluffy home-cooked biscuits sound so good.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “So the place is set, Doyle is set, your dress is set. Are you ready for romance and memories and cheesiness galore?” Ollie is trying like mad to stay upbeat, but it’s not quite working. I’m her best friend, and I can see through her fake smile.

  “I want you here. You and Thao, dressed to the nines, here with me.” I stomp my bare foot and glare at my phone screen. Ollie pops her bottom lip out like she’s hurt. “I’m glaring at the unfairness of life, not at you. How is it possible I’m going to prom without you?”

  “These last few months have been the weirdest,” Ollie agrees. Her voice goes low and a little desperate. “Nes?”

  “Yeah?” I rush over so I can be closer to the phone.

  “We’re still best friends, right?” She coils her silky dark hair around her index finger nervously.

  “Why are you asking such stupid questions?” I demand. “No one could ever take your place in my heart. Or paint my nails the way you do. I’m so glad you can’t see this botch job! I told her what I was wearing, then asked her to just go crazy with the design.”

  “Ugh, did she for real do French tips? That’s design? Okay, I’m a glutton for punishment. Let me see those bad boys.” I hold up my hand and she tilts her head back and snorts.

  We both laugh. “I’m glad you can’t see them up close. No precision!”

  Ollie clucks her tongue. “Does no one take pride in nail artistry anymore?” She taps the screen. “Hey, send me pictures, texts, updates, but get off the phone with me now. You need to get ready.”

  “Hey, I will. Also, PS—just wanted you to know, I’ve never missed another human being the way I miss you. I’ll see you in a few weeks. Send me the new bassoon recording, the one that blew them away at the showcase.”

  “Will do. Kisses, Nes.” She closes her eyes and puckers, and I fall in love with her all over again.

  “Kisses, Olls.”

  Mom waltzes in a few minutes later to straighten my hair, help with my makeup, and chat. I know she knows I’m missing Ollie, and I think she is too.

  “I miss that sweet Ollie chatting my ear off,” she confirms like she’s reading my mind. We both frown as she comes closer and slips the dress over my head.

  “Me too.” I sigh and wring my hands, pressing them down over the skirt of the dress. “I thought missing Paris was bad when I was in Brooklyn. Now I have more places a
nd people to miss than I ever have before, and it’s only going to get worse when I leave for college. Does it get easier to deal with?”

  “I think your heart gets more elastic,” Mom says as she pulls up the zipper. “And if you have kids, then you have your family living with you in the most elemental way. The people who matter never really lose touch, not completely. And when you get older you lose the luxury of wasting time on anyone who doesn’t make the effort. So, yes, it gets easier, but only because life blunts all your young, passionate feelings.”

  “Geez, Mom. Are you running for mayor of Buzzkillville?” I mutter.

  She squeezes me around the shoulders. “Just keeping it real, honey. You look gorgeous. I’m going to make sure the flash is on the good camera. Holler if you need me.”

  She leaves, and I glance at the picture she had printed and framed for me. It’s from the night Doyle and I danced merengue before he snuck in my window.

  Before that night, I thought we’d never get back to the place where we were before the first time we slept together, but we managed to look our insecurities in the face and find something better. The easy joking and fun flooded back as soon as we started letting go of the hurt, but there’s a new dimension of respect underlying it all. We’ve both seen each other’s darker sides, each other’s weaknesses and fears, and we’ve stood up and fought through some scary times side by side. I run a finger over the picture, refusing to think too much about our future.

  I have to live in the now as fully as I can, because now may be all I have left with Doyle.

  I hear his knock as I slip into my shoes and give myself a last once-over.

  When I walk out, he stops talking to my mother and grips the wall. He blinks and tries to say something. Tries again.