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Conan and Robert both show up after school at GSA. None of the kids from Sojourner are here, or Guy, either, since it’s not a regular lunchtime meeting. Emmy and Woodsy both look worn. Emmy starts the meeting off.
“Here’s what’s happening,” she says. “Mr. Cordova suspended all four boys for two weeks, pending expulsion.”
Conan lets out a low whistle. “That takes care of football season,” he says.
“If the suspension holds,” Emmy says. “Mr. Maxwell and the parents of the players are putting tremendous pressure on Mr. Cordova to rescind his decision.”
“Can Maxwell make him back down?” Kit asks.
“Not officially,” Emmy says.
“But . . . ?”
Emmy looks over at Woodsy, who looks grim.
“This is all confidential,” Emmy says. “My telling you any of this . . . well. . . it’s the kind of thing teachers are never supposed to do. But I think you have a right to know what’s going on . . . If it’s a matter of Mr. Cordova’s job, or going back on the suspension . . .”
“His job?” Kit says.
“Look. We don’t know how any of this is going to turn out,” Woodsy says. “What we do know is there is a lot of emotion and controversy over how things should be handled right now. Seeing the added bracelets on campus is wonderful. GSA is gaining support. But . . .”
Woodsy points to another anti-gay sticker on a table in the reference section, and on a shelf that contains a number of books with rainbow triangle stickers.
“Those four boys aren’t the only ones who are hateful and intolerant.”
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We spend some time reviewing the information Benny Foster gave us. Then we parcel out assignments—all to be completed at least an hour before game time.
Woodsy will call the legal advisor at the district office and tell him, or her, of the situation here.
Conan and Robert will present information to Coach Ruggles regarding his legal responsibility to maintain an environment that is safe for all students.
Emmy will confront Mr. Rini with his alleged non-compliance of the education code in accepting and promoting anti-gay harassment.
Kit, Nora, Caitlin, Felicia and I will each contact a board member and notify them of a possibility of a lawsuit if they are not compliant with procedures designated by the State Department of Education.
Holly and Nicole will go to Pasadena and buy more bracelets, “embrace diversity” stickers, and some smaller rectangular rainbow stickers that are made by a company called Pride, not Prejudice. We all contribute whatever is in our backpacks or pockets, so they’ll have money to buy plenty of materials.
“We should blanket this place with rainbow symbols,” Caitlin says, showing the smile we’re just now beginning to get used to.
“Run it up the flagpole,” Kit says.
“Maybe not,” Woodsy says. “Messing with what goes up the flagpole is a sure way to enrage the Americans for Family Values
group.”
“So?” Kit says.
“So . . . we’re about trying to pull people together, not push them further apart.”
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By six o’clock it is clear that our work has paid off. The district legal advisor, Brenda Lester, had a heart-to-heart with Manly and Coach Ruggles. She told them they were leaving themselves and the school district wide open for a lawsuit if they didn’t take strong measures against any human rights violations. I guess she got through, because none of the gay-bashing four are on the field when I climb the bleachers to take my place next to Holly and Nicole.
Manly sits down on the bench, next to Coach Howard. Conan, Robert, and the second string players make a valiant effort to beat Serrano. At half-time we are six points behind, and it is obvious that our guys are outranked. Still, the Hamilton High half-time display is glorious, with precision marching sprinkled with swing.
In the end, we lose by six points to a team we should have beaten by at least twelve points. That means we’re probably out of the playoffs. If Piedmont and Fruitridge both lost their games tonight, we’d still have a chance. Not likely, though.
Manly gives his usual pep talk, before the alma mater.
“We’re not out of the game, yet. We must keep our spirits high,” he says, but anyone can see even he’s not convinced there’s a chance. The alma mater is not so heart-felt as it was last week. Our guys drag off the field, defeated. Watching the Parker family walk down the steps, I see that they’re dragging, too. Well, except for Sabina, who’s as energetic as ever, still yelling the Barbarian cheer.
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Tonight, for the first time in many weeks, I go to the after-game party with Conan. It is at a place in the Heights—big, with a swimming pool and spa in the back, a huge den that’s set up with iced sodas and snacks. Tim, whose house we’re at, is one of the second stringers who was trying to hold things together in the game. He seems pretty happy that he finally got to play a full game.
There is, of course, plenty of talk about the suspensions. Conan and Robert, still wearing their rainbow bracelets, say there are more important things than winning the championship. They may be the only two who believe that. Conan offers rainbow bracelets to some of the others. No takers.
An hour or so into the party, Coach Ruggles calls and asks to talk to Conan.
“No way!” I hear Conan say.
We gather around the phone, waiting impatiently for whatever news it is that Conan has just heard.
He laughs, says good-bye, and hangs up.
“We’re still in the game,” he says. “They both lost.”
Laughter and the slap of high fives fill the air. Then Conan says, “We’re not really still in the game. Muir will THRASH us next week.”
“Maybe the rest of the team will play next week,” Tim says.
“Ten day suspension, pending expulsion,” I tell them. It’s not like I’ve revealed any secret information. Tiffany’s already spread the news to the whole student body.
“That could change,” Tim says.
I don’t think so, but I keep that thought to myself.
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It is nearly midnight when the four suspended players make their entrance, drunk and rowdy. Conan guides me out the back door and around the garage. We squeeze through a narrow passage between houses to get to where his car is parked.
“Laying low?” I ask him.
“Fighting with drunks is always stupid, and that’s what would have happened if we’d stayed there.”
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We drive to the darkest place on my block, not far from where we were stopped on that night a couple of months ago.
Conan pulls me close to him. We kiss, and fondle, and hold one another, skin to skin, making our own kind of no-babies love. After, he tells me, “I can live without being on a championship team.”
“You’re so close, though.”
“Yeah, but we can’t pull it out of the bag without the full team.”
I pull Conan’s jacket across my half-open blouse and snuggle closer to him.
I tell him about how my Gramma and Grampa came to me, night before last, and how they gave me hope and reassurance, kind of like Mark had given him.
“We’re soul mates, Lynnie,” Conan says.
We’re warm and comfortable together. Conan’s worn out from being the barbarian, plus covering for the missing players. I can tell by his steady breathing that he’s asleep. I let myself drift off, too. Then, I don’t know how long we’ve been sleeping, but we’re shocked awake by blaring horns, and flashlights, and laughter.
“Get these heteros out of the car. We’ll teach them a lesson!”
Frankie opens the door, laughing his maniacal laugh.
Conan stiffens awake, then relaxes when he sees who it is. Caitlin and Nora open the door on my side of the car and start dragging me out.
Holly, Nicole, and Robert are bouncing on the car bumpers, yelling “Earthquake!”
We stumble out, laughing.
Conan and I get our jackets from the car and follow our rag-tag group back to Kit’s. She gets blankets from her house, and sets up a little short-legged barbeque that we can warm our hands on. Star comes out of Kit’s house with cups and a big thermos of hot chocolate. Pretty soon Jerry shows up, and then Leaf. Wilma’s barking her head off, so Conan opens the gate for her. She’s dragging her half-eaten frisbee with her.
“No, no, Sweet Willy,” Frankie says, as she drops the frisbee at his feet.
He runs to his “chariot” and retrieves a brand new frisbee. He throws it upward, where it makes a graceful arc and then descends. Wilma grabs it, somehow smiling but keeping it secure in her mouth at the same time. She drops it at Frankie’s feet.
He throws it again, higher and farther. Wilma leaps, twists, grabs, descends.
“Anyone can dance, with a little guidance,” he says.
We laugh—an appreciative laugh.
“Maybe anyone can dance with a little of your guidance,” Caitlin says.
“Really,” I say to Frankie. “I can’t believe you got those tuba guys to actually be light on their feet!”
More laughter.
“I wish we could march in the championship game. Why did those guys have to be such screw-ups?”
“Because they’re total assholes,” Kit says.
Conan shakes his head. “Not total,” he says.
“Right,” Star says. “The whole bunch of them combined don’t have even one redeeming social quality.”
“You’re wrong.” Conan says. “All four of those guys—they’re great team players. I’ve never been on a team where guys worked so well together, nobody hogging the glory, or getting miffed about whatever play was being called . . .”
Robert agrees. “Yeah. It’s like everyone was working for everyone else . . .”
Conan says, “Too bad their idea of a team is so small. If they could just think of the whole school as one big team . . .”
“Yeah. Or the whole human race,” Caitlin says.
I’m glad Caitlin’s finally talking. I like what she has to say.
“Remember what that gay dude said in PC?” Conan asks. “The worst gay bashers are guys who’re afraid they could be gay . . .”
“So they do all that stuff because they’re fearful?” Caitlin asks.
“I’m only repeating what the guy told us in PC,” Conan says.
“The Fearful Four,” Nicole says.
“The Asshole Four,” Star says. “That’s the only way to describe them.”
Kit starts quoting Freud, or Jung, or whoever, saying how we hate in others what we’re afraid to look at in ourselves.
“Does it work the opposite way?” Star asks. “Do I love in you what I love in myself?”
We bat those ideas around until my head is spinning. I have to relax with a few frisbee throws, which makes Wilma happy.
Kit passes the thermos around again. Robert adds coals to the barbecue.
“We should get some marshmallows,” Holly says.
We all nod in agreement, but nobody leaves to buy marshmallows.
After a while, Star says, “Confession?”
“Not if it’s going to hurt,” Kit says.
“I don’t think so,” Star says, moving closer to Kit.
“Let’s hear it then.”
Star tells about the first time she ever talked to Kit, at the beach, when Kit and Conan and I had managed that perfect after school getaway.
“I’d seen you before. Even noticed you a year ago, when I was still at Hamilton High.”
“Really?” Kit says.
“Really,” Star says. “You were so . . . oblivious.”
“So what’s to confess?” Frankie prods.
“So, I’d talked to Kit, and I wanted to get to know her better . . . Lots better,” Star smiles.
“Confession!” Frankie says.
Star looks at Kit. “Well . . . in the late afternoon I kind of . . . watched you.”
“Like from where?” Kit asks.
“Ummm. From behind the restrooms. From inside my car. Just places.”
“You never told me this before!”
“I’m telling you now.”
“Telling it very slowly, too,” Frankie complains.
“Anyway, after it was dark, and the three of you were huddled together, I decided to see if I could sit with you. So I kind of snuck up behind you, but before I could make myself known, you all started singing . . .”
“Blue Moon,” Kit says.
“Yeah. And it was so beautiful . . . I couldn’t interrupt, or think of a way to join in. I snuck back to my car, where I sat crying.”
“Why crying?” Kit asks.
“Just . . . I guess I was lonely for something the three of you had.”
Kit starts the song. “Blue moon, you saw me standing alone . . .”
Conan and I join Kit, “without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own.”
Nora, Caitlin and Frankie chime in. Maybe it’s the night, and the moon, the new frisbee, or the old harassments, but something’s working right. We sound good. Then Kit’s dad comes out with his guitar. Amazing! He sits next to Kit, picks the melody line, and sings along with us in his low, coarse voice. “Blue moon, now I’m no longer alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own.”
We sound so good, we do the last verse again, then sit huddled in a circle, knowing it’s true, we’re not alone. David looks at each of us around the circle, then leans over and kisses Kit on the forehead.
“Goodnight, sweet Katherine,” he says.
Then he leans in the other direction and kisses Star.
“Goodnight, sweet Star,” he says.
He takes his guitar and goes back into the house. Star puts her head on Kit’s shoulder. Happy tears stream down her cheeks. Others of us have our own tears, wishing a dad would appear to gently kiss us, too, on our deserving foreheads.
––––––––
We sit in our loose circle, close, talking of lost football championships, and symbolic bracelets, the family values group and what it all means. We talk about how fast things are moving—nearly the end of the first semester now. Caitlin says she doesn’t think she’d still be here, if it weren’t for us, and GSA. We scrunch in a little closer. We’re so quiet our breathing becomes obvious. Then Star breaks the mood by starting her stupid joke routine—actually, it’s stupid advice this time. Like:
Never test the depth of the water with both feet.
If you drink, don’t park. Accidents cause people.
If at first you don’t succeed, skydiving is not for you.
Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticize them, you’re a mile away and you have their shoes.
That’s the one that gets us all up and saying good-bye.
“Group hug, group hug,” Frankie pleads.
We gather close, arms around one another. “Love you, babes,” Frankie says.
He throws the frisbee in the direction of my gate. Wilma chases it, catching it just before it hits the ground. Conan and I follow her, open the gate, and let her inside. One more kiss, and he goes to his car. I watch, then join Wilma in the house. She’s already waiting at the foot of my bed, ready for sleep.