Rebels Like Us

by Liz Reinhardt

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  And then, even though I feel like I’m keeping an extra close eye on every second, we’re out of time.

  Principal Armstrong’s drawl drones over the loudspeakers and echoes up through the moth-filled lights of the stadium. It’s too hot for a daytime graduation here, so they wait for evening.

  Kelwanda Smith is our valedictorian. She gives a beautiful speech about pride and community and things that would have made a lot more sense to this school a few months ago. But now’s not the time for reflecting on just how screwed up everything got before graduation saved us from complete chaos. Instead, it’s the last chance to cling to the selective memories of a time in our lives that’s already rolling into the past.

  Khabria Scott glides to the microphone like a goddess and makes a short speech about how the bulk of the money we raised for next year’s prom is being put into a scholarship fund since prom will be a school-run event from now on. There is a polite smattering of applause, and I wonder who will come up on this stage next year to take a chunk of the money we raised by tearing down old traditions. It dawns on me that a small piece of what I did, what I helped with, will be a part of this high school for years. That feels strangely good.

  Sometimes I feel like a donated organ spliced into a new body, trying so hard to do good, but always in danger of being rejected anyway. But, for this one fleeting moment at least, I belong. Doyle turns in his seat, his navy graduation cap making his eyes look darker, like indigo. He smiles and mouths, “Ready?”

  I nod and smile back. He winks; we wait.

  What comes next is my ticket out of here: my diploma.

  The one Ma’am Lovett predicted I’d take and run, right back to Brooklyn and Ollie and my grandmother and everything I know and love.

  The problem is, I have just as many things that I love right here, and running feels more like leaving so much behind than escaping.

  When I returned Ma’am Lovett’s books to her, she handed me a signed copy of the poetry of Maya Angelou.

  “I got this a very long time ago, and I’ve treasured it. Her words helped me find my place when I felt very lost.” Ma’am Lovett, teacher of steel, blinked her eyes like there were tears in them.

  An impossibility.

  “I can’t accept this,” I said, trying to hand it back. I love the dense weight of the book, the smooth paper of the cover, the old but perfectly preserved feel of it. I bet if I held it to my nose, it would smell like Ma’am Lovett’s skin and old paper—two incredible smells. “I mean, if you have a copy she didn’t sign to you, I’d take it, but this is yours, and it’s precious. It obviously means a lot to you.”

  “Which is exactly why I want you to have it.” She gave me a tight smile. “I had the pleasure of being your teacher for only a few months, Agnes, but you make me think of my favorite Maya Angelou quote.” She let her eyes flutter shut and her voice roll out as she recited, “‘My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style.’ You are the living embodiment of that quote, and I want you to have this. To remember me.”

  Her hand went up to her eyes and she swiped them, and I couldn’t process this staggering emotion in a woman who’d always been a solid, unshakable rock.

  But I had to process it.

  Because I had only that moment. I would walk out of her room and never relive what was unfolding right now, right in front of me, again. If my time here had taught me anything, it was that life was lived in the tiny, fleeting moments, and you have to grab them while you can or risk losing them forever. So I clutched the book tight, then threw my arms around her, ignoring her shocked cry. I hugged her neck, holding on tight.

  “Like I could ever forget you? C’mon, Ma’am Lovett, be real.”

  When they call my name, my dark, handsome father, wearing an immaculate seersucker suit and a Sammy Davis Jr. hat, rushes the stage and takes my picture, unaware that everyone else in the crowd—most of them in Tshirts, only the dressiest in polos and khakis—is giving him a judgmental once-over. Again, in another tiny way, I’m reminded of how much I don’t belong.

  Then I hear Doyle’s voice yell, “I love that girl! I love you, Nes!”

  Through a pretty intense blush, it occurs to me that I don’t give a solitary damn who else likes having me here, as long as Doyle Rahn wants me around.

  I watch the line of students move up, fist bump, crazy dance, curtsy, bow, wave, cheer, shake, and generally celebrate the fact that we made it—finally, despite nearly falling apart—and I realize how attached I got to all of this and all of them, despite myself.

  I even get a tiny bit teary-eyed when Armstrong grips the podium, clears his throat, and tells us to move our tassels to the left.

  Teary-eyed, because I never got to tell him where he could take his authoritarian policies and stick them—

  “Congratulations, graduates!”

  I toss my cap and let all the bad go. Breathe deep. Think Zen thoughts. Moving on.

  “Agnes Penelope Murphy-Pujols, Ebenezer High graduate.” Doyle stands in his navy dress pants, crisp white shirt, and those sexy cowboy boots.

  “Doyle Ulysses Rahn, Ebenezer High graduate and recipient of the Future Farmers of America scholarship.” I smooth my hands over his shoulders. “I’m proud of you.”

  He puts his arms around my waist. “C’mon, I never know what to do when you ain’t pickin’ on me.”

  “You could say, ‘I owe it all to you,’” I tease, but his eyes aren’t laughing back.

  “Don’t say it like it’s a joke. I try to think what this year woulda been like without you. What I woulda been like. I can’t do it, Nes. I don’t want to imagine it.” He leans close, his voice dropping low. “I know I was obsessed about you leavin’ most of the time. Damn, this is gonna sound corny as hell, but oh well.” He laughs softly and circles his finger on his chest, just to the left of center. “You ain’t leavin’. You’re here. Locked away tight, for good, like it or not.”

  So corny.

  I blink hard and laugh around a sob.

  “You’re going to make my mascara run!” I croak, crushing him to me.

  Our families are waiting, eyeing each other and us. I pull him down by his collar and kiss him hard.

  “My dad and brother flew in from Paris. My grandmother flew in from Brooklyn, and she hates flying. They’re going to kill me if I don’t hang out with them.” I take a deep breath. “And I want you to meet them.”

  “Me?” Doyle looks so surprised it’s a little offensive.

  “Yes, of course you. You and your family. Come here, right now, and let me prove that Southern people don’t have the entire hospitality market cornered.”

  My family gathers in a loose horseshoe around me as Doyle waves his family over. We face each other like little kids about to play Red Rover, and I’m ready to call everyone over.

  “Mom, Dad, Mama Patria, this is Doyle’s grandma and grandpa,” I begin. The invisible line between us is crossed. Mom hugs Doyle’s grandmother as I keep going until cousins and brothers are also shaking hands. Soon our two families are in a knot of dark and light, dressed-up and casual. Different accents float through the air, every one of them congratulatory, welcoming, and happy for me and Doyle and all we’ve accomplished.

  There are a few moments that have my heart racing:

  “Now then, plantains are little bananas, am I correct? Do you think they’d suit for ’nana pudding with ’nilla wafters?” Doyle’s grandma asks my abuela.

  “So it’s a college baseball team? Dawgs, with a w? No, I’d love to watch a baseball game at your place. Can I bring something? I was able to sneak some amazing foie gras and the most delicious claret in my luggage,” Jasper is saying with a totally serious expression to Lee.

  “I heard a rumor that in France you can’t own your own firearm, no matter what,” Doyle’s grandfather says to my wide-eyed father.

  “Let me know if
you need help with your college essays. It’s never too early to start writing them, Malachi,” my mother lectures Doyle’s introvert brother.

  I don’t pretend friendships between such different people would be completely smooth, but listening to them talk about food and sports and politics, and find common ground or civil tolerance reminds me that the point isn’t to glide through life without causing a stir. It’s to fight for what’s right for yourself and the person you think you have nothing in common with—because chances are, under your accent and skin color and general worldview, you’re just two people who want to…

  “Celebrate!” Mom says. “That’s what we’re planning anyway. And what better way than with our friends? It’s decided then. We’ll see you for dinner. And I’m going to expect that banana pudding, Mrs. Rahn.”

  “Call me Lorraine.” Doyle’s grandmother smiles and Lee asks Jasper how big Mom’s TV is and if we have the full ESPN package.

  “Is this a good idea? Your brother is going to freak when he finds out my mom has the full BBC package, but no ESPN at all,” I whisper to Doyle. I take his hand in mine as we watch our weird, amazing, frustrating families intermingle like old friends.

  “He’ll get over it.” Doyle grins. “I heard my granddaddy say they ordered an entire roasted pig for tomorrow. You ever been to a pig roast?”

  “I watched an episode of Mind of a Chef where they roasted a whole pig,” my father is saying to Doyle’s grandfather excitedly. “Do you need help digging the pit? I’ll bring a shovel!”

  “Looks like I’m going to one tomorrow.” I can’t keep the grin off my face. “One more Southern-tradition feather in my cap. I wonder what else our crazy families will plan for us in the next few days.”

  “No clue, but it’ll be wild.” He shifts closer and strokes my arms through the cheap fabric of my graduation gown. “So, what’s happenin’ after they all leave?”

  The last few weeks have been so crazy good, we’ve avoided talking about the future. Living in the moment was the bravest thing I’ve ever done, and I don’t regret it.

  But here we are, the present quickly turning into the past and our future looming.

  “I boxed my things. I’ll hang out with you every second I can before I go,” I admit, watching his face for signs of sadness about our limited time. “I leave in two weeks. I’ll stay with my gram until Ollie graduates, and she and I are going to Vietnam to vacation at her grandparents’ house for most of the summer. Then I’ll be heading to our house in the Dominican Republic.”

  He nods, moving his hands down to hold mine. “Your mama staying here?”

  “For now. I think my father might bring Celeste to our summer house, so she’s opting out.” I’m still not sure how I feel about the whole Celeste thing. Dad didn’t bring her to graduation, which I appreciate, but if I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that I have to have an open mind when it comes to the people I care about. “She got offered summer classes she’s excited to teach. I’m not sure what happens after that.” I clear my throat. “I hope…I hope it’s not too weird for you, coming to water that stupid tree when I’m gone.”

  His shrug is aggravatingly casual. “Maybe a real cute girl will move in if your mama goes back up to New York.”

  I know we joke all the time and laugh things off constantly, but that one stings.

  “Maybe you’ll get to see her in her bikini,” I say, and I’m unsuccessful at keeping the acid from my voice.

  “Maybe Brookes will.” He waits until I look up at him before he unfurls that slow smile. “He’s the one who’ll take over my runs. I’ll be at some big ole college in New Jersey. Do you know there’s a train that runs from a station at the edge of my campus right into New York City?” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small folded map that already looks worn. “It’s a subway map,” he explains. “I been studying it. If I think of it as the roots of a tree, I think I’ll be able to figure it all out.”

  “You’d come to the city?” My voice shakes with pure excitement.

  “I’d come anywhere you were,” he says in such an offhand way, he completely earns the kiss I lay on him.

  I don’t care who’s watching, who’s judging. I don’t care that he’s going to be the hot gentleman with the drawl and the cowboy boots that every girl at his college and mine will throw themselves at. I don’t care that things between us will be unsettled and confusing, that we’ll fight with each other as often as we fight for each other.

  All I care about is the fact that we’ve become the kind of people ready to grow and change when times get tough, the kind of people who know how rare it is to find another person who tucks you into their heart and never lets you go. I’ve learned that the roots I put down are long and tangled. I never have to worry about losing what’s been mine all along and always will be.

  His lavender eyes crinkle at the sides, he’s smiling so hard. “So we got two more weeks to drive each other crazy, then I’ll see you at the Christopher Street–Sheridan Square Station this fall?”

  My heart thumps out the answer: yes, yes, yes!

  “It’s a date.”

  “And while I’m gone…?”

  A grin spreads slowly and surely over his face. “You’ll be pretty busy. So will I. But I’d sure like to see a picture of Vietnam that’s not black-and-white with soldiers in it.”

  I pretend to think while my heart squeals like a girl on the handlebars of her boyfriend’s bike. “I guess. I mean, I don’t want to force it, you know. Come to think of it though, I’ll have to call you when Ollie’s around. My imitation of your drawl isn’t very convincing, so I think some firsthand evidence would be better. You guys are long past due a FaceTime session.”

  “You want me to FaceTime with Ollie? You imitate the way I talk?” he asks, his eyebrows high up in surprise.

  “Wa-a-ll yes, sir. I ain’t so good at it, but I only been ’round y’all for a bit now,” I say, pretty sure I nailed it.

  Doyle doubles over hooting with laughter. “Oh Jesus. Oh Lord, that is the worst damn accent I ever heard! Hell, you sound like Crocodile Dundee had a stroke! That’s a damn mess.”

  I pull him close and revel in the happy gasps of his laughter. “I really will miss your voice this summer.”

  He looks back at me and winks, one slow drop of his eyelid. “We may be in the Deep South, but even we got these newfangled contraptions called phones.”

  “Doyle, I don’t want this to… I don’t want…don’t want to bother you.”

  What am I trying to say? I don’t want to be the lovelorn girl clinging on long-distance. I don’t want to get my heart shattered again, even though a broken heart was the beginning of everything that went so right in my life.

  Even though my broken heart healed stronger and loved harder after.

  His face goes serious. “Only thing that bothers me is the itch I feel when I think ’bout all the time I gotta spend away from you. I ain’t afraid to say how much I’ll miss you. I’m not gonna be any good at letting you go. I know you’re an independent woman. Hell, I respect that most about you. Doesn’t stop the fact that being without you is gonna hurt.”

  “Doyle.” I wipe my eyes off with the tips of my fingers, and I confess because I want things to be true between us. “I’ll miss you so damn much.”

  “Not for long.” His optimism bounces right back, and he says it like he means it. “Before you know it, you’ll be seeing so much of me, you’ll be sick of me.”

  Our families are drifting to their cars, calling their goodbyes and firming up plans for the big late-night celebration dinners and parties. A wave of happiness crashes over me when I realize the love Doyle and I have for each other just keeps rippling, keeps bringing people together and expanding the good.

  That might be the most beautiful gift I’ve ever been lucky enough to give and receive.

  I press my lips together and remind myself that there isn’t anything left to prove. What we have, we worked hard for, and w
e liked the work enough to keep doing it. I’m not afraid to say goodbye to him anymore, no matter if it’s just a few hours or a few months. I have faith in us.

  “Aloha, Doyle.” I wipe the tears away and smile.

  “Aloha, Nes.” He kisses me softly, then lets me go.

  I watch him walk back to his family, and then I walk back to mine, saying a silent thanks to the little Southern town that taught me to fight for the things I love like the rebel I discovered I am.

  *

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, a short note to my husband:

  Frank,

  Your incredible love and loyalty inspire me to always push myself harder. Let’s take one of those trips we keep planning, hot stuff! Writers are monsters, and your patience has earned you major points. First pick is all you!

  Thank you for being the coolest.

  PS: I like you.

  PPS: A lot.

  I’d like to extend huge thank-yous to the following people.

  My daughter, Amelia, whose passion for the things she loves is an inspiration. I’m eternally grateful that I get to hang with this fantastic, smart, funny kid who loves books as much as I do (yeah, genetics are awesome!).

  My parents, Sonny and Suzanne Hansen, for their sometimes intimidatingly unshakable belief that I’ll be successful at whatever I put my mind to. Their unwavering love laid the foundation for my success. Special smooches to my amazing sister Katie (move closer, kid… I miss you!), my sweet brothers, Zachary and Jack (who probably won’t read this, but I’m a good sister…), and my fantastic sister-in-law, Brittany (the craziest, funniest Southern belle)! Enthusiastic shout-out to the adorable gaggle of nieces and nephews I love with my whole heart! Love to my sisters, Jessica, Jillian, and Jamie, who are smart, well-traveled, beautiful young women.

  My brilliant editor at Harlequin TEEN, Natashya Wilson. Her dedication and hard work has taken this book to levels I never imagined possible. Heartfelt thank-yous to Michael Strother for his warm, sensitive insight and enthusiasm. Sincere gratitude to Claribel Ortega and Perla Rodriguez for their thoughtful notes and awesome suggestions. I’m so grateful to you for allowing me to listen and learn from you. I’m well aware I have an editorial dream team!