The Inside of Out (10 page)

All the blood in my body rushed downward, making it excruciating to stand, like my feet were on searing coals instead of musty brown carpet.

As the school board shuffled in their seats, Cindy Beck leaned forward and nodded down the table to the suited man. I squinted at the two of them in panic, wondering whether that was some sort of secret signal.

Then Mrs. Beck looked right at me and smiled, calming my nerves. She wasn't surprised to see me.

She half rose to reach her microphone. “For those who don't know, this is Daisy Beaumont-Smith, one of our eleventh-grade students at Palmetto High School. Go ahead, sweetie.”

The crowd behind me murmured appreciatively. I drew a grateful breath, pulse stabilizing, remembering suddenly all those times she'd fixed me lunch and patted my head and tucked me into sleepover trundle beds.

“Thank you, Mrs. Beck.”

Beside me, I could hear Adam scribbling.

I cleared my throat and blinked down at my notes.
Focus.

“I'm here today to request that the Palmetto School Board repeal an unjust and unlawful regulation now in existence
that restricts students from bringing same-sex dates to school functions, such as the homecoming dance and prom.”

A wave of sound rippled through the room. I glanced over my shoulder, my eyes alighting on Old Mr. Woodshop, who looked like he'd been sucker-punched. In fact, other than the Alliance, the only ones who didn't seem surprised were the six members of the Palmetto School Board. They watched me with indulgent smiles and glassy patience—listening but not listening.

And it dawned on me.

They've already decided
.
Mrs. Beck practically rolled out the red carpet for me with that intro. Natalie must have spoken to her mother and her mother spoke to them. Whatever I say . . . we've already won!

I stifled an exultant yawp, reeling with a strange new sensation—gratitude toward
Natalie Beck
. Then I smiled politely and continued my formality of a speech.

“In 1979, a group of students in Rhode Island were denied the opportunity to bring same-sex dates to school dances. Instead of backing down, they took the battle to the courtroom. The next year, that state's Supreme Court found that the school district was denying gay and lesbian students their right to free speech, as well as violating the Fourteenth Amendment, which states that the government may not ‘deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.'”

Here I'd written “DRAMATIC PAUSE.” I used the opportunity to draw a breath. In the back of the room, someone coughed.

“This was long before I was born.
Thirty-six years
before the United States Supreme Court ruled that all Americans have the right to marry the partner they choose, regardless of gender. And yet I stand here today asking for the same rights that were guaranteed by a courtroom during the
early
days of the gay rights movement. I know that my request may still seem controversial to some of you . . .”

I glanced at Mr. Woodshop. He blinked.

“. . . but the truth is, it's
embarrassingly
overdue.”

My confidence growing, I stepped closer to the table and smiled at each member of the school board, pretending I was on one of those legal shows where the sexy attorneys all wear designer suits to deliver their final arguments.

“I recognize that we live in a community with strong ties to the values of the past. I could list the many ways in which enacting a more progressive policy for Palmetto students would benefit the school and create a more effective learning environment for students.”

I held up my speech to show them my list of pluses, which I was totally going to skip now, because I was on a roll.

“But there is a more important fact that overshadows all of that. By denying all students the right to enjoy themselves as equals at a school function, you are denying a group of Americans the rights guaranteed them by the Constitution of the United States.
Those
are the values we should cling to and uphold—the ones our forefathers fought for. The ones we still fight for today. And so, on behalf of all of the students of Palmetto High School, I ask you to repeal this unjust regulation and allow same-sex dates to dances—effective immediately.”

Behind me, I heard a mass shuffling. Just as I froze, wondering if everyone was leaving the room in disgust, there came as much of a roar as a crowd of twenty-four could make. They were standing, cheering. Jack was wolf-whistling. Old Mr. Woodshop was grudgingly clapping. My mother was hyperventicrying! And in the back row . . . was that Hannah?

“That was very nicely put, Miss Beaumont-Smith,” said the suited man, his grin bright, but his voice wooden, as if he were reading from a printout of his own. “And it's always an honor to hear from our students directly. Can we get one more round of applause?”

They clapped. I nodded graciously. Then he cleared his throat.

“As you yourself acknowledged, this is a controversial issue with no clear path to take.”

No clear path? Obviously
,
repealing the rule
was the clear path. Did he not just hear my awesome speech? I opened my mouth to retort, but he spoke into the microphone again, sending a squeal of feedback through the speakers.

“As a matter of fact, we discussed the rule prohibiting same sex dates in a special session yesterday evening . . .”
Nailed it!
“And it's our collective decision that we don't want our schools to be caught in the middle of such a hot-button issue. It would be a distraction to students and a headache for our community.”

A headache? This dude's announcement was taking a strange turn.

Whatever,
I thought, lacing my fingers behind my back.
Just get to the part where you change the rule.

“In the end, with the additional tightening of school budgets, the decision that makes the most sense is to abbreviate this year's homecoming festivities. All
other
homecoming activities will proceed as planned—the football game, the parade and court, et cetera—but there will be no dance. I hope that answers your question.”

I either sat down or my seat rose to greet me. Either way, I couldn't move.

No. Dance.

So I was half right. The school board
had
known in advance. They'd held a “special session.” But the answer wasn't yes. It was the opposite of yes.

And Cindy Beck was still smiling serenely.

I lifted my printout and tried to control the shaking in my hands long enough to read it, desperate for more talking points, any viable ammunition. But there was nothing written there that could possibly uncancel the homecoming dance.

Behind me, I heard the room bubbling with dissent, gasps becoming angry grumbles. The suited man ignored them.

“If there are no more questions, we'll proceed to regular—”

“I have a question!”

Adam stood, his iPhone outstretched like a real reporter. His hands were shaking too. I wondered numbly if he'd remembered to hit .

“A clarification, really. Are you saying, sir, that you are preemptively canceling the homecoming dance . . . in order to
prevent
gay and lesbian students from attending?”

Red crept up the suited man's neck. “They can attend. They were always welcome to attend.” And now his forehead was
beading with sweat. “But if they want to bring a date . . .”

Cindy Beck caught the eye of the suited man and his words faded to nothing. Relieved, he slumped into his chair. Mrs. Beck leaned calmly into her microphone.

I wondered if she would acknowledge the elephant in the room—that her own daughter had come out of the closet less than a week ago. But there was something strange glittering in her mascaraed eyes. Something like triumph.

“We're a little community, Mr. . . . ?”

Adam swallowed hard. “Cohen.”

Her smile became a wince, as if she pitied him. “I'm guessing you're not from around here. We don't like to
stir the pot
.
Make waves
.”

She was really laying the Charleston accent on thick.

“We prefer to keep school operations as removed from
politics
as possible.”

She wrinkled her nose on the word “
politics
,” like it was a dirty diaper. This wasn't about politics, though. This was about the lives of students like her daughter. How could she not see that?

Adam perked up. “In that case, follow-up question! Is it true that you're planning to run for Congress in the next election?”

Cindy Beck pretended to blush. “I have no comment about that at this time.”

A murmur ran through the mini-crowd.

She was running for office. As a conservative, no doubt. And so, to further her political aspirations, she was holding this issue hostage. Her daughter's issue.
My
issue.

The room was in an uproar, at least. This time people really
were getting up to leave in orderly disgust. I waited for someone to hoist their folding chair and chuck it across the room, starting an uprising, but that didn't quite happen. All I saw were heads shaking. People picking up their purses.

And in the back, Hannah von Linden rising from her seat, her disappointed smile gleaming across the room. She'd seen me try.

Try and fail.

Worst of all, she'd seen exactly what her community thought of her. To them, she was an Issue. Capital
I
. A nuisance. A headache.

“No,” I muttered. Adam was putting away his phone, but, glancing at me, he hesitated.

This couldn't be it. All this build-up, to get shut down on a technicality?

Up at the table, the school board had returned to scheduled business, the mousy woman squeaking into her microphone.

I stood up, and said, again, louder,
“No.”

Adam's eyebrows were raised. He gave a little motion with his head.

Do it.

I drew in a breath. “I have an announcement!”

Now everyone else in the room seemed to freeze, locked in expectant silence. In the back, Hannah mouthed “Daisy,” her eyes flashing alarm and head shaking no.

I was alarmed too. I didn't have an announcement. My announcement was that I was
so mad
.

But instead of stomping my feet, I clenched my fist—and said the first thing that popped into my head.

“The homecoming dance
will
go on!”

Cindy Beck tittered, then grabbed the microphone, nails scratching against it with a long thud. “We just said it
won't,
Daisy. Now please—”

“It will
not
be the official Palmetto High School homecoming dance.”

Somehow I'd found myself standing on my chair, facing the back of the room. Facing Hannah. My voice was erupting out of me without direction from my brain, a medium channeling an avenging spirit.

“It will be
better!
It will be a homecoming that welcomes home all students, regardless of race, creed, or sexual orientation.”

This was surprisingly good.

Before my brain could catch up with my mouth and shut it down, I said it.
The idea
. The only possible solution.

“On October twenty-second, we will throw our
own
homecoming, open to LGBTQIA students and alumni, their same-sex dates, and . . . anyone else who wants to attend.” That didn't seem like a conclusion, so I nodded seriously and added,
“Thank you for your attention to this matter!”

It proved harder to climb down from the chair than onto it. As the room became louder than ever, Adam hurried to offer me a hand, and I thought he was just being nice until he lifted his iPhone to my mouth.

“Have you really just announced a competing homecoming weekend for gay students?”

“Yep,” I said, my cheeks burning with elation. “And
you can quote me!
”

That was what you were supposed to say to reporters, right? Adam seemed to like it. He trailed me down the aisle as I marched out, flanked by a radiant Sophie and whooping Sean.

“While we're at it, do you think I could get a follow-up interview?”

“Sure!”

“I'm free Friday, if you are. Around five? Moonlight Coffee Shop . . . scene of the
incident
?”

“Yeah. Fine. Sounds good.” We'd reached the back of the room, and Hannah was gone. Had she ducked out before or after my announcement?

“See you there.” Adam waved over the heads of the people pushing in front of him.

Mom was waiting for me outside, alone. I braced myself for more tears of maternal pride, but right now, she just looked stunned.

It wasn't until we'd pulled into our driveway that she cut the ignition and stared at me.

“Honey,” she said. “Do you realize what you've just committed to?”

“Yeah.” I shrugged. “Our own homecoming.”

A weekend-long event. Not just a dance. A parade. A court. A football game. Rallies. The whole high school nightmare in one rowdy, impossible to coordinate package.

“Oh my God.” I dropped my head to the dashboard, all the nerves, adrenaline, and seven Coke Zeros finally dropping away.

“I have to throw
homecoming
.”

I assume big news has always traveled fast, via horses, homing pigeons, that Greek guy who died after running a marathon . . .

What the people spilling out of the school board meeting had were cell phones, so my news traveled across James Island in an instant. By the next morning, “Daisy Beaumont-Smith” was a household name—like Rosie the Riveter or Lysol. But was she the brave champion of student rights who defied the bigotry of our school board?

Nah.

I was the girl who got the homecoming dance canceled.

The backlash began before I even got out of Hannah's car. In fact, it started with Hannah herself.

“I have a question,” she said. “What were you
thinking
? Exactly?”

There were so many possible responses that I didn't know which one to grab from the bag, so I pounded on the dashboard and said, “I didn't want them to win!”

“This was about winning, then.” Hannah shook her head, as if it were so
typical
of me.

But I was an extremely uncompetitive person. I used to get bored with Monopoly and give my property away to the Community Chest. My scorekeeping in golf was:
Let's see how many times we can hit it back and forth!
Hannah was the one in Varsity Tennis and Chess Club, for God's sake. Didn't she know me at all?

“No, Hannah,” I blurted. “It was about . . .”

I couldn't bring myself to say “you.” Even though it was the truth, I knew it would sound like I blamed her, which I didn't.

“About what's right. Doing what's right. For all students. I'd think you would appreciate that.”

She let out her breath, her head lolling toward me. “I do appreciate it. I'm proud of you. Trust me, I am a Daisy
aficionado
.” Her nose wrinkled. “Did I pronounce that right? You're the one who did Pimsleur Italian.”

“Perfetto
.
”
I unfastened my seat belt. “Except I'm like eighty-seven percent sure
aficionado
is Spanish? I could be wrong . . .” But Hannah was still talking.

“I mean . . .” Hannah looked away. “I'm
always
proud of you. Every time you . . .” She collapsed against the steering wheel. Scrunched her hair. Then sat straight up and stared at me. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

I shook my head. “What?”

“Paint a target on yourself.” Her eyes were glistening. “We go along, everything's fine and normal, and then you . . .” She waved her hands in the air. “Make a huge announcement. Start an international society of beekeepers—”

“I've never done that.” I wouldn't rule it out in the
future,
but . . .

“Decide that you're going to take over the world—whatever that world is. And people notice. How could they not? It's like . . .” She stared at her lap, then back up at me. “It's like you
want
to be picked on.”

“That's not true. At all.” I leaned against the door, as far from her as I could get. “That's what you think of me?”

“No! I . . .” She sighed. “I guess I don't know what I think. You're an enigma.”

I snorted, but I kind of liked the sound of it.
Eniiiiiigma.

“I just need to put this out there,” she went on. “If you're doing this for me? You really, really,
really
don't have to.”

I slumped against my bag. “What do you mean?”

“I'm good. I am fine. I don't need all this.”

I shook my head, preparing to lie again. “It's not just for—”

“Okay,” she interrupted, grabbing her keys. “I get it. We don't need to talk about it anymore. I just hope you know what you're doing. And that you're ready for the pushback.”

Of course I am,
I thought.
Jeez.
What could be worse than the pushback I'd just gotten?

Halfway across the parking lot, I found out.

“Hope you're happy!” A frizzy-haired senior from the cheerleading team smiled at me with all her teeth, her head cocked way over like a velociraptor.

The petite girl next to her slammed her car door so hard the Hawaiian dancer on the dashboard did a shimmy.

“Way to ruin the year, ho-bag.”

“What did you use to dye your hair,
toilet cleaner
?”

“Whoa.” I eyed them warily as we passed, muttering, “Do I
know
you?”

Hannah put her arm around me. “This is what I'm saying. Brace yourself.”

“Nice going,” said some puny freshman, shoulder-checking me as he passed.

“Is that her?” A huddle of sophomore girls glared across the courtyard, then dissolved into snickers. I heard the words “nasty” and “shoes” and stared at my Chucks in alarm. They were a little old, I supposed, but . . .

By the time we made it to the school lobby, I'd shrunk two inches, clutching my backpack loops like a shield, hoping they could deflect the dirty looks flying from every direction.

It was bad enough to make me ask Hannah the unthinkable. “Do you think you could get your girlfriend to order a ceasefire?”

“I doubt she'd be much help.”

Before I could figure out whether to be offended, I heard a wordless shout ring out from the crowd—and as I turned to investigate, a Starbucks cup hit me in the forehead.

According to my classmates, this was the funniest thing that had ever happened in all of human existence.

“At least it was empty,” I muttered. A trickle dripped from my bangs. “Mostly.”

Hannah handed me the napkin from her lunch bag, then veered off for homeroom.

“I'm around if you need me,” she called behind her.

“Do you have more napkins? For later?” She didn't respond.

QB was waiting by the lockers. As always.

“Hey, Daisy.”

I braced myself. If anyone stood to be livid about homecoming, it would be QB. He'd been voted into the court two years running. It was Christmas, the Oscars, and Super Bowl Sunday all in one. And I'd ruined it.

“You look nice today.”

I have to admit—I melted. By his pained squint, I could tell he'd heard the news as clearly as everyone else. He didn't care. Which made QB Saunders the only one
not
tormenting me at school. It was a topsy-turvy upside-downy world.

“You doing anything tomorrow?” He'd asked me this every day since Monday and I'd found a plethora of creative ways to avoid answering.

Don't say it, Daisy,
my brain cautioned.
You've got a
thing
, remember?

His smile was wavering, unsure. He looked so vulnerable. But strong too. Like a bodyguard. I could sure use a bodyguard today . . .

“You wanna—”

“
Yes
,” I said. “Absolutely.”

You're supposed to be asexual, dammit!
What is the matter with you? Just because all of a sudden he's “Chris Saunders: Nice Guy Extraordinaire” doesn't mean a tiger can completely change his—

QB winked. “See you at the game.”

I jolted alert. Of course. Friday night, when the Pirates held their weekly exercise in losing gracefully. I'd just agreed to be QB's girl in the stands, dotingly groaning after every interception.

“Actually,” I called weakly after him. “I might have a thing?”

He was too far away to hear me and too surrounded by football buddies for me to scamper up and continue the conversation without humiliating both of us. So there it was. I had a pseudo-date with QB Friday night.

Why did I feel like I actually
did
have a “thing” on Friday?

Oh right. Adam. College reporter. Moonlight Coffee Shop. I'd have to squeeze them both in. I giggled.

Shut up,
said my brain.

“Hey Blueberry,” said a senior girl down the hall. “Cancel
this.
”

This time, I managed to duck.

The Alliance was waiting for a plan. And apparently I was meant to supply it.

“Don't get me wrong, Daisy,” Sean said. “This is an incredible idea. I can picture it already.” He lifted one hand, gazing off at an imaginary horizon. “Club lights. A great mix of EDM and deep cuts, minimal Top Forty to get the plebs on board.
Way better
floats and costumes—”

“Plus,” Jack cut in drily, “it could, you know, start a conversation about how we treat gay students at this school.”

Sean pointed at him, thunderstruck. “Yes! That too! But it's a big undertaking, right? Are we
sure
we can pull this off?”

Hell to the no
. Before I could say it, Raina rolled forward, tapping her legal pad with a ballpoint pen.

“In terms of pure logistics, the answer is ‘maybe.' If we're on private land, using private dollars, they'll have a hard time stopping us. So the first question is: How do we get that land?”

“And those dollars,” Sophie added, her voice dropping as
if “dollars” were a curse word. “My mom said she'd help us fund-raise, but I don't think she's raised more than five hundred for her community farm project—and that's, like, her baby. We'd need a lot more than that.”

Everyone turned to me.

“Bake sale?” I suggested. “Or wrapping paper? We could sell . . .” Everyone's faces had fallen. “For the holidays? No?”

Jack raised his hand. “I have a completely unrelated question.”

“Yes!” I said, pointing at him. “Go ahead.”

He ignored me, looking down the table at Sophie. “Are we still doing Touchy-Feely Time during meetings? Or is that something we've sidelined?”

“No! Oh my goodness, not at
all
. I have the candle with me . . .” Sophie rummaged frantically in her bag. “We've just been so busy with planning, I didn't want to—”

“Oh my Lord'a mercy, the
candle!
” Sean laughed, making air quotes, as Sophie produced a tiny tea light with a flickering electric bulb. “Y'all, I have
missed
this.”

Sophie and Raina were staring questions at each other. Raina shrugged.

“Yeah, fine, whatever, it's not like we're getting anywhere planning-wise.”

“Touchy-Feely Time!” Jack crowed, spinning his chair. “I have feels and I am not afraid to touch them.”

Just as I was slowly raising my hand to ask,
Whaaa . . . ?
Sophie dimmed the lights. Everyone but Kyle seemed to understand what was going on. He looked to me in helpless appeal, but I faked the same serene expression as Sophie. I'd
been voted in less than forty-eight hours ago. I was going to
blend
from here on out.

“Who would feel comfortable going first?” Sophie asked, her voice low and soothing. “Sean?”

When nobody objected, Sean cupped the fake candle.

“First of all,” he began. “I said this last week, but it's good to be back here. It was a tough summer with Diego back in Spain . . .”

Group therapy!

At first, the realization came as a relief. At least I could identify the format. But as Sean went on, I started to tingle with embarrassment, wondering whether he'd forgotten I was in the room—the new girl. The outsider.

“His family doesn't know,” he said. “It's worse for him in a lot of ways and I wonder whether he regrets it sometimes, the person he was when he was here . . .”

He must have been talking about Diego Jimenez, an exchange student I vaguely remembered from last year. I'd had no idea they were together.

“But then he gets so
jealous
too,” Sean was saying, rubbing his jaw. “It's that hot Latin temper, I guess.” He grinned wolfishly. “We used to sneak into Luxe Lounge downtown and now every time I talk to D, he asks whether I've gone back. Like he thinks I'm out every weekend picking up college guys. He doesn't believe me, but I'm not! I would
never
. He's the only one I want.” He raised his chin, eyes starry, and I wondered if he was about to break into song. “I mean, it's this crazy thing. I met my soul mate in
high school.
”

I mentally snorted. Immediately felt like an asshole.

The truth was, Sean looked different than I remembered him from back in my stalker days. He'd always had this unremittingly positive glow about him, the kind that transcended tans and teeth whiteners. But right now, that glow was wavering. He looked everything at once—swept away, sad, giddy, terrified, blissful. He was in love. Who the hell was I to knock it? I knew nothing about it.

Not to mention the fact that my own parents were high school sweethearts. Not that they interacted all that much these days. But still.

Sean rolled his shoulders like he was wringing the sadness out of them, tapped the candle twice on the table, and passed it to Jack.

Despite his eagerness to talk just a few minutes ago, Jack's hands shook as he pulled the faux-flame closer.