Love Rules Page 2

“Well . . . sometimes, in class, he’ll lean forward and tap me on my shoulder, to ask a question or something. All day long the place where he touched me feels warm, like maybe it’s glowing.”

  “Like your face right now,” Kit says, dropping the doctor accent and laughing.

  “I just think he’s a nice person, and I’d like to get to know him better.”

  “Well . . . I think your glowing shoulder is a good sign. It means you’re over that butthead Eric.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Now I wonder how I could ever have liked him. He says some really stupid stuff in class.”

  “No surprise,” Kit says. “He’s got the emotional maturity of a two year-old.”

  “Woodsy’s already sent him and Brian out of class once.”

  “Brian’s in there, too? I could puke just thinking about him,” Kit says, looking like she really could puke . . .

  So I guess now’s the time to tell you about Kit’s aversion to Eric’s friend, Brian Marsters, and the New Year’s Eve party. That was back when I was all excited about Eric. He was cute, in a blond jock kind of way. Lots of girls liked him. That always makes a guy seem even cuter. I could pursue a whole stream of unruly Eric thoughts here, but since I said I’d tell you about Kit and Brian, I’ll force my wandering mind to focus.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Here goes. The background on Kit and Brian.

  Knowing Kit and I were best friends. Brian asked Eric to set him up with her. It was funny, because Brian always had a bunch of girls hanging around him, especially the cheerleader/drill team types. It’s that football player thing. But he’d told Eric that if Kit wouldn’t go to the New Year’s Eve party with him, he wasn’t going. When I asked why, Eric said it had something to do with Brian wanting to experience the passion of a half-breed. What an idiot, I’d said. I’m not setting my best friend up with someone like that.

  But then Eric said no, it was only a joke, and that Brian had liked Kit for a long time but he was too shy to do anything about it. Oh, right, Brian Marsters is shy. I’d said, all sarcastic. But Eric said Brian was shy with girls he really likes, he didn’t mean the half- breed thing, blah, blah, blah, so I talked Kit into going to the party with Brian. The four of us went together in what our moms referred to as a double date.

  Kit and I were more into sports than boys, so we weren’t used to the party scene. This one was supposed to be fancy because of New Year’s Eve, and our moms took us shopping for “evening wear,” as the store clerks called it. Kit’s mom tried to talk her into buying high heels to go with her fancy dress.

  “Sorry, Mom. I only wear shoes I can walk in,” Kit said.

  They compromised on something sort of dressy, but flat. Not me. Eric had said he liked the look of women in heels, so that’s what I got.

  I hobbled around at the party at first, feeling awkward and out of balance, but then I got sort of used to the unnatural act of standing on my toes with my body pitched forward.

  Eric and I danced and talked and hung out with friends. Really, Eric and I had some good times together for a while. Then I sort of got tired of him. Like with his jokes. They were funny the first time, but then it was like constant replay. I think there’s something dumb about a guy who laughs so hard at his own jokes he doesn’t notice that no one else . . . oops. There went my wandering mind again.

  Back to Kit and Brian and the New Year’s Eve party. All the time Eric and I were enjoying ourselves, I kept noticing Brian and Kit, standing off to the side. Brian had his arm around Kit, but neither of them was smiling and it didn’t look like they were talking, either.

  At midnight the lights went out and, except for Kit and Brian, everyone kissed the New Year in. Kit told me later that Brian grabbed her and tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away. He tried again, more forcefully, managing to get his mouth pressed against hers. She twisted loose and ran to the restroom, where she rinsed her mouth out, over and over. I thought she was being extreme. It’s not like Brian had some dread disease, or toilet breath, or anything like that. I mean, really, what’s a New Year’s kiss?

  For months after the party, Brian kept calling Kit, asking her to meet him at the mall, or go to some party with him, or go for a ride, or whatever. Eric told me that Brian always got whatever girl he wanted and Kit was a challenge. Brian was a pest as far as Kit was concerned—someone with the brains of a beetle and the person­ality of a rock, she’d said. He finally gave up, but not before Kit pretended to get a whiff of something bad every time she heard his name.

  So now you know.

  Back to the present.

  As we wait at the signal to cross Main, I tell Kit, “We were only juniors in the Brian and Eric phase. We didn’t know anything! Our senior year is going to be soooo cool.”

  “Or, different at least.”

  “No, really. Everyone says your senior year is the best. That’s how this year’s going to be!”

  “Maybe,” Kit says, obviously not overcome with enthusiasm for my prediction.

  We cross the street and stand counting our money in front of Barb ’n Edie’s. My mom remembers the grand opening of this place, back in the seventies, when the red leather booths were new, and Barb and Edie were young. Hard to imagine. Mom says this place is the quintessential greasy spoon, whatever that means.

  Kit and I have enough money for two sodas and a large order of fries. They’ve definitely got the best fries in town and their garbage burgers are practically world famous. We don’t have enough money for one of those. Besides, a garbageburger’s a feast, not a snack.

  Barb ’n Edie’s is jammed, but the wait is worth it. McDonalds’ fries, or Barb ‘n Edie’s? It’s like the difference between a pile of sawdust and a hot fudge sundae. We carry our fries and sodas to a table near the back. The faded red leather on one of the seats is held together with duct tape, as is the back of the opposite seat. The formica tabletop is gouged and scratched with hundreds of initials of previous diners. Well, we’re here for the food, not the decor.

  I go to the counter for packets of catsup and see Rosie, the librarian’s daughter, sitting on a stool near the kitchen, drawing on a paper placemat.

  Here’s another interruption, but you’ll need to know a little something about Rosie and her mom.

  Last year, when I was a junior, I was an aide in the library. I got to know Rosie’s mom, Mrs. Saunders, really well. Only it wasn’t Mrs. Saunders then. It was Ms. Morrison. She got married last summer. I guess it’s a second marriage or something, because she’s got Rosie.

  Every day, after school, Rosie came to the library and worked on her homework in her mom’s office. When I was finished shelving books, sometimes I would practice math facts with Rosie. She’s really smart, but she still had to count on her fingers to add numbers. And subtraction? Not a clue.

  Sometimes I baby-sat for Rosie, when Emmy and Mr. Saunders went out. After a while, Emmy told me, “Ms. Morrison sounds too formal. I’d rather you just call me Emmy.”

  So that’s how it’s been. Anyway, back to Barb ’n Edie’s.

  “Hey, Rosie-Posey, how’s third grade?”

  “Look!” she says, showing me her picture. “It’s Mom’s library.”

  “Wow! Good job!” I tell her, amazed by how much better this picture is than the ones she drew last year, in second grade.

  “See, here are the books, and the computers are over there .”

  “I can tell.” I say. “How’s math?”

  “Okay,” she says, carefully outlining the computers in black. I think she doesn’t want to talk about math.

  Barb, of Barb ‘n Edie’s. pauses on her way back to the kitchen. She smiles at Rosie. I notice that, because a smile on the face of Barb is a rarity.

  “Doin’ okay there. Kiddo?”

  Rosie smiles back. “Can I have another Coke, Grams?”

  “You bet, Sweetie. Comin’ right up.”

  “See ya,” I say. and go back to our table.

  “Is that Mrs. Saun
ders’ daughter you were talking to?” Kit asks, opening a catsup packet and dripping it out, dot by dot, over two fries.

  I nod.

  “What’s she doing in here by herself?”

  “She’s not by herself. She’s with her grandmother—Barb.”

  “Hold on. Barb is that little girl’s grandmother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So does that mean that Barb is the librarian’s mother?”

  “Clever deduction, Dr. Dandridge.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes, way. I’ll bet Emmy doesn’t know Gramma Barb is supplying Rosie with caffeine filled colas, though.”

  “Mrs. Emily Saunders’ mom is Barb! Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure! Barb was at their house one night when I baby-sat Rosie. Emmy called Barb ‘Mom.’ Okay?”

  “How did Mrs. Saunders ever get to be so nice with a mom like Barb?”

  “You tell me, Dr. Kit. You’re the big psychologist.”

  “Well, you’re the big library aide pet.”

  “Just because I call her Emmy doesn’t mean I know her whole history. Besides, I’m not an aide anymore.”

  “Why not? I thought you liked being an aide.”

  “I couldn’t fit it into my schedule.”

  “Oh, look! There’s your friend Conan!” Kit says, looking toward the door.

  I turn quickly, but there is no two hundred and thirty pound hunk anywhere to be seen. Kit laughs.

  “Made you look!”

  “You can be as irritating as a singing Scout,” I tell her.

  “Made you blush!” she says, laughing harder.

  I take a long, cool drink of my soda.

  “Seriously,” Kit says. “I’m glad you’re in love.”

  “I’m telling you, I don’t even know him!”

  “But face it. Dr. Kit knows that when you blush at a name, you’re entering the department of 1-o-v-e.”

  “Yeah . . .whatever,” I say.

  My wandering mind goes to Conan. What if Kit’s right, and I’m interested? What’s wrong with that? He’s got a great smile. And when he looks at me, when we’re talking, it’s not like he’s half­looking, or half-listening. Most guys are constantly on the lookout for who else is around, or they’re thinking about what they’re going to say next, everything but listening. That’s how Eric was during the three months we were doing the boyfriend/girlfriend thing. Conan’s different. And his eyes . . .

  When I’ve conquered unruly thoughts and come back to reality, I ask Kit, “What about you? Is there anyone you might blush over, if I could see you blush?”

  “Not really,” she says.

  “How about Robert? You’re always talking with him.”

  “He’s a friend.”

  “I think he likes you.”

  “Yeah, well . . . he doesn’t increase my pulse rate.”

  “Who does?” I ask.

  We sit, slowly munching our fries in silence, watching other Hamilton High students come and go.

  “Is that what you want to tell me under the tree? You met a guy in San Francisco and you’re in love? Is that it?”

  I’m smiling in anticipation. That must be what she wants to tell me. Why didn’t I guess that before?

  Kit shakes her head.

  “Well, what then?” I ask, frustrated. “What’s the big news?”

  “It’s not exactly news,” Kit says.

  “Well??? What is it then?”

  Kit is quiet for what seems like a long time, dipping and re­dipping a now limp fry into a mound of catsup. Finally she says, “We tell each other everything, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Straight out. Spirit sisters. For life. Right?”

  “Right,” I say.

  “Well . . . It would be better to talk under the tree,” she says.

  I sigh. “Just tell me.”

  Kit looks around the cafe, which is quieter now and less crowded. She takes a deep breath, like she’s getting ready to dive from the high board and knows she’ll need all the breath she can get before she surfaces.

  “It can wait.”

  “Kit!”

  Pause. Long pause. We may as well leave. Let her tell it her way, under the tree. I’m reaching for my backpack, ready to go, when Kit starts talking. “Remember that time with Brian?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “It wasn’t only Brian.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Brian is a jerk all right. But I realized something that night that I’d not been wanting to think about, even though deep down inside I knew I had to think about it.”

  “Think about what?”

  “Think about how it wasn’t only Brian I didn’t want kissing me. I didn’t want any boy to kiss me. Ever.”

  I don’t understand what she’s saying. “So?” I ask.

  “So. . . I don’t like boys ‘that way,”’ she says. “I don’t want a boy touching me ‘that way.’”

  She fiddles with another limp, grease-laden fry, not looking up. Finally she says, softly, still not looking at me, “I like girls.”

  “You like girls?”

  “That’s how I am,” she says.

  It’s my turn now to play with a french fry, mulling over what I hope I didn’t just hear.

  “I like girls, too. Some of my best friends are girls,” I say, trying to force a joke. But this is Kit. The one with focus.

  “You don’t like girls the way I do. I like girls the way you like boys.”

  Follow your breath. I heard that on some stress reduction tape my mom was listening to. How stupid, I’d thought. But right now, I’ll just sit here and breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

  “That’s it. That’s what I had to tell you. I’m tired of secrets.”

  So okay. I live near the second largest city in the United States. I watch TV. I read the newspaper. I know there are people who like people of the same sex, “that way.” But Kit? I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what to think.

  Kit watches me, looking for a reaction. I’m stunned. Shocked. We’ve told each other some strange stuff over the years, but I never expected to hear anything like this. I mean, I have nothing against women who love women, or men who love men—homosexuals. I’m not a bigot. I watch all of the “Will and Grace” reruns. But Kit? Maybe she’s joking? Kit wouldn’t joke around about something this important, though. I’m confused. No, I’m CONFUSED!

  “How long?” I ask.

  “How long what?”

  “How long have you liked girls, instead of boys?” Kit makes figure eights on her napkin, using her catsup tipped French fry as if it were a paintbrush.

  “Always, I guess. But I really started thinking maybe I was . . . different . . . sometime in seventh grade. You know, it was like one day we were a bunch of girls, only interested in soccer and volleyball, everyone hanging out by my tree, and the next day you and all of our friends could only talk about Ken’s so cute, and Steve likes Crystal, and doesn’t Brian have the sexiest eyes you’ve ever seen, and isn’t Freddie Prinze Jr. just the finest thing ever on screen. And I didn’t get it. All that boy talk bored me.”

  “It did?”

  “It wasn’t only that I was bored by it, either. It made me mad. I felt like we were losing something important, and no one else noticed. Not even you.”

  “What didn’t I notice?”

  “We had our circle of friends. That’s all we cared about or needed. Remember? Holly, Nicole, Tina. We had sports, jokes, silly songs, going to the beach on the beach bus. We were tight. And then it ended. Just like that. And I’m the only one who cared.”

  Kit’s voice is shaky now, like when her mom changed the locks on their doors and wouldn’t let her dad come in. He was locked out for a week, and all that time, Kit’s voice was shaky.

  “But we were all friends.” I say. “We’re still friends, except for Tina, and that’s just because she moved away.”

  “It wasn’t the same. We weren’t a cir
cle of friends anymore, looking across at one another, laughing with one another.”

  Pause.

  “You know those pottery candle holder things you see in trendy shops up in Old Town?”

  I shake my head no.

  “I know you’ve seen them. Maybe not exactly pottery, maybe that terra cotta stuff. There’re five women, arms locked, forming a circle, facing inward . . .”

  “Oh, yeah, I know what you mean. My Aunt Grace has one on her mantle.”

  “Okay. So that’s how we were, that circle of friends thing. Only we were kids.”

  “Right. And the problem was . . .?”

  Kit sighs. “The circle broke apart. It became more like a line, so it was easier to look across at the boys. Girls watching boys watching girls. At least four of you were watching boys. I didn’t care about the boys. But our circle was gone.”

  Kit gazes out the window. Sadness permeates the space between us. I want to say something.

  “But . . .” But what? I don’t know what to say. I’m looking across the table at Kit, and I’m thinking, do I know you? Is this conversa­tion really happening?

  “There was all that other stuff, too,” she says, shifting her gaze away from the window and back to me.

  “What other stuff?”

  “Stuff that made me think I wasn’t like the rest of you.”

  I wait for Kit to continue, aware of a growing dimness inside the cafe, aware of the scent of a few cold fries on the table between us, aware that nothing is as it has always seemed.

  Kit is watching a couple, college age maybe, who are waiting at the counter for their order to come up. I, too, watch, wondering why Kit is so interested. The two are smiling, leaning into one another, obviously enjoying the moment. Kit sighs. She takes our few remaining fries, dirty napkins and paper containers from the table and carries them to the trash.

  “Okay, other stuff.” she says, sliding back onto the seat across from me.

  “While you and the rest of our friends were fantasizing about your romantic heroes, I was fantasizing about Miss Hughes,” Kit says, her voice back to its usual strength.

  “You were fantasizing about our choir teacher?”

  “Remember that old Carpenters’ song we did for the spring concert?” She sings, softly, “Love, look at the two of us . . .”