Love Rules Read online

  LOVE RULES

  By Marilyn Reynolds

  Also by Marilyn Reynolds

  True-to-Life Series from Hamilton High

  Telling

  Detour For Emmy

  Too Soon for Jeff

  Beyond Dreams

  But What About Me?

  Baby Help

  If You Loved Me

  Love Rules

  No More Sad Goodbyes

  Shut Up

  Eddie's Choice

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Love Rules (True-to-Life Series from Hamilton High)

  New Wind Publishing | Sacramento, California

  CHAPTER | 1

  CHAPTER | 2

  CHAPTER | 3

  CHAPTER | 4

  CHAPTER | 5

  CHAPTER | 6

  CHAPTER | 7

  CHAPTER | 8

  CHAPTER | 9

  CHAPTER | 10

  CHAPTER | 11

  CHAPTER | 12

  CHAPTER | 13

  CHAPTER | 14

  CHAPTER | 15

  CHAPTER | 16

  CHAPTER | 17

  CHAPTER | 18

  CHAPTER | 19

  CHAPTER | 20

  CHAPTER | 21

  CHAPTER | 22

  CHAPTER | 23

  CHAPTER | 24

  CHAPTER | 25

  CHAPTER | 26

  CHAPTER | 27

  CHAPTER | 28

  CHAPTER | 29

  EPILOGUE

  Sign up for Marilyn Reynolds's Mailing List

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  New Wind Publishing

  Sacramento, California

  New Wind Publishing

  Copyright 2001, 2014 Marilyn Reynolds

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication may be adapted, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without permission from the publisher.

  Like Marilyn Reynolds’ other novels, Love Rules is part of the True-to-Life Series from Hamilton High,a fictional, urban, ethnically mixed high school somewhere in Southern California. Characters in the stories are imaginary and do not represent actual people or places.

  Originally published by Morning Glory Press, 2001.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Reynolds, Marilyn, 1935-

  Love Rules / by Marilyn Reynolds.

  Summary: Seventeen-year-old Lynn experiences surprise, discomfort, and a new awareness of prejudices and stereotyping when her best friend Kit comes out as a lesbian.

  ISBN 978-1-929777-09-9

  1. Lesbians—Fiction. 2. Homosexuality—Fiction. 3. Prejudices—Fiction. 4. Best friends—Fiction. 5. Homophobia—Fiction. 6. High schools—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Reynolds, Marilyn. 1935- True-to-life series from Hamilton High.

  PZ7.R3373Lo 2001

  [Fic]—dc21

  New Wind Publishing

  Sacramento, California, 95819

  www.newwindpublishing.com

  To Geoffrey Winder and the many other young people who are working to make school campuses safe and accepting places for all students.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For help along the way, I wish to thank:

  The students of Calvine High School, especially Joseph Perez, Janis Gannaway, Patricia Damian, Robin Petersen, Xenia Echevarria, and students in Shawn Hamilton’s classroom.

  Also — Mimi Avocada, Barry Barmore, Corry Dodson, Dale Dodson, Margaret Dodson, Judy Laird, Cassandra Lewis, Karyn Mazo-Calf, Matthew Reynolds, Mike Reynolds, Sharon Reynolds-Kyle, Anne Scott, Albert Sotelo, and Geoffrey Winder.

  CHAPTER

  1

  I’m Lynn Wright, seventeen, a senior at Hamilton High. It’s Wednesday afternoon, the first week of school. My best friend, Kit Dandridge, and I are on our way home. Her real name is Katherine but no one except her parents ever calls her that.

  Kit spent the summer working at her aunt’s bookstore in San Francisco, and I worked at a Girl Scout camp up near Big Bear Lake. Usually, whenever one of us goes away, we keep in touch by e-mail. But the one ancient computer at camp wasn’t even connected to the Internet. Besides that major block to communications, there was no time of the day or night when kids weren’t lined up to use the one pay phone. Even when I could get to the phone, it didn’t make for relaxed conversation to have twenty homesick girls behind me, clamoring for me to hurry up. So Kit and I have a lot of catching up to do.

  “You have something important to tell me?” I ask, remembering last night’s phone conversation.

  “I do,” she says. “But I want to wait until you come over this evening. I’ll tell you when we’re under the tree.”

  “Why the mystery?”

  Kit’s the type that always blurts out what she’s thinking, wher­ever and whenever.

  “I want us to be under our tree when I tell you—like old times,” she says. “That’s all.”

  She looks serious, the way she looks when she’s talking about some psychological theory, or doing a play-by-play analysis of a lost volleyball game. What could be so important that she’s wait­ing for a special time and place to tell me? Any other girl being all secretive like that, I’d wonder if she was pregnant. But not Kit. She trips hard on the tragedy of teen pregnancy every time she sees a pregnant girl on campus. Not that she’s rude, or disrespect­ful, but Kit has definite, well thought out opinions. So did Jessica Rand, though, and her baby’s due any day now. I wonder . . .

  “You’re not pregnant are you?”

  Her look tells me I’ve asked an eleven on the one-to-ten scale of stupid questions.

  “Well, what am I supposed to think?” I ask.

  “Think: we’re going to sit under our tree and talk, like we’ve always done, and I’m going to tell you something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time.”

  I hope you won’t mind the interruption here, but there are some things you should know before we go any further.

  Kit and I have been best friends since we were eleven, when she and her parents moved into my neighborhood. By the time the Dandridges’ moving van was unloaded, Kit and I were already friends. That day, we went back and forth between our two back­yards so many times, my mom joked that we’d soon wear out the hinges on the gate.

  Neither Kit nor I have any brothers or sisters—“The Only Child” is how magazine articles refer to people like us. On the very first day we met, we decided we were tired of being “The Only Child,” and that we’d be sisters. Not that our birth certificates show we have the same parents or anything, and we definitely don’t look alike. Our personalities are different, too. Once Kit gets focused on something, she stays focused.

  Me, I have a wandering mind. I focus on something for a while, and then some unruly thought intrudes and my brain follows it down a crooked path of more unruly thoughts and pretty soon I’m so far off the subject . . . like now. I started giving you some basic background on me and Kit, and now I’m telling you about the inner workings of my wandering mind. Sorry. Back to necessary infor­mation.

  There’s a huge ancient walnut tree in Kit’s yard, tall and broad and graceful—a magical tree. The summer Kit moved in, we used to sneak copies of the World Weekly News from my mom’s hidden stash. We’d spend afternoons under the tree, backs resting against its rough trunk, reading outrageous story after outrageous story. We were particularly interested in kidnappings by aliens, but the German shepherd who gave birth to a half-dog, half-child creature, and the one about the face of Jesus appearing on a tortilla also entertained and amazed us.

  The World Weekly News was Mom’s secret addict
ion. She was ashamed to read “trash” and she thought I didn’t know of her collection. Talk about someone not having a clue! I was a very curious eleven and I often had the house to myself. There was not one thing in our house that I’d not examined. I even found an old, sugary love letter from some guy Mom knew before she married my dad. It was on U.S. Army stationery and . . . Oh, no. I’m not going to follow another unruly thought.

  At first the sister thing was sort of a joke. But the more Kit and I got to know one another, the more we felt like we truly were sisters. Kit believed that even though we were way different on the outside, our spirits rose from the same source. That made sense to me.

  We wanted to make the sister thing be official, like maybe doing that blood sister thing. As a potential nurse, though, I didn’t think we should share blood.

  Here’s what we did. The day before school started, Kit and I met under the tree, after dark. I brought a whole stack of World Weekly News and a small pitcher of water. Kit brought eight big fat candles, a smaller heart-shaped candle, a book of matches, and a battery operated fan.

  We arranged the candles in a half-circle around the neatly piled papers. We placed our right hands side by side, on top of the paper that claimed Marilyn Monroe’s ghost had increased the bust size of a flat-chested woman who visited her Hollywood grave. Then we began our chant.

  “We are sisters. Kit Dandridge. Lynn Wright. Sisters for life. Spirit sisters ...”

  We repeated those words over and over again, chanting in a hypnotic rhythm. After about the twentieth “spirit sisters” phrase, we removed our hands from the World Weekly News papers.

  “Sisters of flame,” Kit said, as she lit the candles.

  I picked up a handful of dirt and let it fall slowly over the ghostly image of Marilyn Monroe.

  “Sisters of earth,” I said.

  Kit pointed the fan upward and turned it on, causing a slight stirring of leaves on the branch directly above us.

  “Sisters of wind,” she said.

  I dribbled water first over Kit’s right hand, then over mine. We grasped one another’s dampened hands.

  “Sisters of water,” I said.

  “Spirit sisters forever,” we promised.

  We sat for a while, watching the flickering candles, then blew them out. We faced one another, gripping each other’s hands.

  “Goodnight, spirit sister,” Kit said.

  “Goodnight, spirit sister,” I responded.

  And that’s how we became official spirit sisters. For life.

  All through middle school we half-believed in a fantasy world of elves and trolls and leprechauns. To us, the walnuts that laid on the ground around the tree were like little brains, and their brainpower refueled our own brains. We’d sit resting against the trunk every morning before school, refueling. I guess it worked, because we both always got good grades back then, even though we hardly ever studied.

  In high school we got out of the habit of refueling our brains with walnut brainpower, but we often would sit out under the tree in the evenings, talking about the day, who said what at school, complain­ing about our parents, or dreaming about the future. We always met there on Friday evenings before settling down to junk food and a video at one house or the other. I guess you could say the walnut tree has been a friendship tree for us. Maybe that’s why Kit wants to save her big news for a “tree-talk.”

  So . . . now that you know some of our history together, and you know you have to put up with my unruly wandering mind, we can get on with it. Remember? Kit and I are on our way home, Wednesday afternoon, our first week as seniors at Hamilton High. Are you with me?

  Kit is telling me about her summer in San Francisco.

  “I really liked working in Aunt Bernie’s bookstore. It’s a cool place,” she says.

  “What’d you do there?”

  “Worked in the back room, unloading books from boxes and arranging them onto rolling carts, so Bernie could move them out into the store. I packaged orders for UPS pick-ups, answered the phone—you know, the usual no-brainer stuff.”

  “Sounds better than summer camp.”

  “Sometimes Bernie had me arrange window displays. That was more of a challenge.”

  I laugh. “My biggest challenge this summer was staying sane while the little Scout squirts sang us to sleep with ‘A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall.’ Only they started with a thousand.”

  “You’re in good shape for volleyball, though—all that swimming and aerobics classes with the kids. Except for walking the hilly streets of San Francisco, I got no exercise. The muscles in my arms are mush.”

  “Coach Terry’ll get you back in shape in no time,” I say, flexing my biceps.

  Kit groans. Terry’s a fiend for conditioning. We’ve already had two practice sessions that left me with aching muscles, and I’m the one in good shape. Kit spent both evenings after practice with her feet elevated on the couch and large packages of frozen peas on each knee. I don’t think I’ll ever eat peas at her house again, seeing the packages all squished up and dripping. I prefer not to eat anything that’s already been used for medicinal purposes.

  “How come you’re not in PC this semester?” Kit asks. (PC is short for Peer Communications, my favorite class.)

  “I am, just not the same period as you.”

  “Holly and Nicole are in my class,” Kit says. They’re our friends from middle school days, and they’re also on the volleyball team.

  “Eric Weiss is in my class.” I say.

  “Lucky you,” Kit says, all sarcastic.

  Eric was my boyfriend for a while last year.

  “There’s this new guy, Conan, who sits behind me. He’s nice,” I say.

  “Football player?”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “Robert told me about him,” Kit says. “Coach Ruggles thinks Brian Marsters and the new guy are unbeatable . . .”

  When Kit says “Brian Marsters,” she wrinkles her nose, like she’s just smelled something nasty. I’ll wait and tell you more about that later, though.

  “. . . and the state championship’s a sure thing for us this year, with this new Conan the Barbarian guy.”

  “He hates being called the Barbarian. His dad actually named him after Conan the Barbarian. That’s how he’s raised him, too. His dad used to set up fights with the neighborhood kids to make Conan prove how strong and tough he was. That’s sick, if you ask me.”

  “How do you know all that stuff?”

  “You know. PC. The first day of class Ms. Woods asked us to tell about how we got our names. Didn’t you do that in your class?”

  “No. She had us tell which animal we’d most like to be, and why.”

  “What did you choose?”

  “A tiger. Because they’re strong, and fast, and nobody messes

  with them.”

  “So you’re changing from a Kitty to Tiger?”

  Kit laughs. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. But yeah, maybe . . . Did you tell how you were named after that Redgrave actress?”

  “No. How embarrassing! I didn’t want to say I’m named after some old movie star!”

  “So, what did you say?”

  “I said I didn’t know how I got my name. But Conan, who seems like kind of a shy guy, went on and on about how he hates the whole barbarian thing. Just ‘cause he’s big and black and plays football, people think he’s mean. He’s not . . .””

  I stop, realizing I’ve been totally breaking PC confidentiality.

  Kit knows exactly why I stopped talking.

  “I won’t say anything.”

  I know she won’t. But in PC we all sign promises to keep whatever goes on in the room absolutely confidential. I’m not the kind of person who goes back on promises.

  “I’m sorry I blabbed about Conan’s name. That’s all.”

  Kit gives me a long, searching look.

  “So are you in love with this guy Conan or something?”

  I feel my face warming i
nto a blush, and look away. One of the spirit sister things I’m not so wild about is that sometimes Kit knows what I’m feeling even before I do.

  “I barely know him.”

  Kit laughs.

  “Well, something’s going on. The back of your neck is red as can be, and if I could see your face . . .”

  Kit jumps in front of me, pointing and laughing. I laugh, too, feeling my face get even hotter. I wish I didn’t blush at all the worst times.

  My mom always tells me I should be happy I have such a beautiful, light complexion, and that showing a blush can be quite attractive. I don’t think so. I wish I were dark, like Kit. Her mom’s part Cherokee, and Kit inherited her dark eyes and nutmeg skin. Kit has her mom’s hair, too—thick and black and shiny. It comes down past her shoulders and no matter what she does with it, it looks good. Mostly she wears it loose, but for volleyball she braids it in one long, single braid. I’d trade my thin, wiry, drab brown hair for hair like Kit’s in an instant.

  When Kit finishes laughing at me, she gets right back to the subject. Like I told you earlier, Kit’s the type that stays focused. She wants to be a psychologist. She’ll probably be good at it. She’s always practicing.

  Me, I’m going to be a pediatric nurse. When I was nine, I had an emergency appendectomy and ended up staying a week in the hospital. That’s when I realized how important nurses are. Also, I’m pretty sure it’s a job that’ll never get boring. I’m good at science, and I like little kids, so even though I decided on a career at the age of nine, it still seems like a good decision.

  Kit gestures toward a non-existent couch, and in a fake accent says, “Lie down, relax, and tell Dr. Kit all about Mr. Conan.”

  “Well, doctor,” I say, going along with a familiar game, “I notice when he walks into the room. I’m aware of him.”

  “Hmmmm. Very interesting. Could it be because he weighs two hundred and thirty pounds?”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “More than two hundred and thirty pounds? Ach mein good­ness!”

  “No, I mean I’m aware of him for other reasons. Not just his

  size.”

  “Explain,” she says, raising an eyebrow.