Bright Purple: Color Me Confused with Bonus Content (5 page)

“No, Mom,” I tell her as she gives me the bag. “You haven’t met him. But I’ve known him for years. His dad is the senior pastor at our church. Remember? you’ve heard me mention Pastor Bryant, haven’t you?”

“Yes, that sounds familiar.” Then she gets this funny look. “Dating a pastor’s son, Ramie? Are you sure about this?”

“Why not?” I feel defensive now. Why is she always in attack mode when it comes to anything that has to do with my church or being a Christian?

“Haven’t you ever heard about PKs?” she asks with a sly grin. “PKs?”

“Preachers’ kids.” She winks at me. “They’re usually the wildest of the bunch.”

“Oh.” I roll my eyes at her. “Well, not Mitch. He’s just a regular guy, Mom. Don’t worry. He’s not wild.”

“Just remember what I’ve told you, Ramie,” she begins. “If you get into a situation where—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, waving my hand to shut her up before she embarrasses both of us again. Then I head back up the stairs. “Trust me, Mom,” I yell over my shoulder. “I remember! Not that I need to remember! Thank you very much!”

Later on, when I’m actually out with Mitch, and he’s driving toward the city in this very cool 1966 Mustang that he and his dad restored, I am doing everything I can to keep my mom’s crazy warning about PKs, combined with her old familiar “protection lecture,”
from running rampant through my mind. Why does she do that to me? It’s like telling someone not to think about pink elephants!
Sheesh!

“You seem pretty quiet tonight,” Mitch says as he turns in at the theater complex. “Something bothering you?”

“No,” I say quickly. But then I rethink this. Why not be honest with him? Well, at least partially honest. Of course, I won’t tell him everything about my life on our first date. And I certainly don’t plan on telling him about Jess. “Actually, I was obsessing about my mom.” I laugh. “She can be pretty weird sometimes.” Then I tell him a little about her, how she’s a family counselor and pretty liberal. “She’s also sort of antichurch,” I finally say, thinking I should just get these minor cards out on the table.

He laughs. “I think she sounds pretty cool.”

“Well, she’s nothing like your parents,” I say. “I happen to think they’re pretty cool.”

“Maybe it’s just that grass-is-greener kind of thing.”

We’re still joking about our parents as we go into the theater, and I’m thinking this is not going too bad. Then, before I have a chance to question whether this is really a date—like, am I supposed to buy my own movie ticket?—Mitch has already taken care of it.

“Wanna share a popcorn?” he asks.

“Sounds good.”

“What do you want to drink?”

Turns out we both like Sierra Mist, so we decide to share the jumbo size, and I’m thinking, yeah, this
is
a date! Woo-hoo!

But then I see this older dude, who’s waiting in the concessions line and just staring at us with this weird expression, and I wonder what’s up with him? And then it hits me. Oh, yeah, he’s bugged that Mitch, this blue-eyed blond guy, is out with this African American
chick. And, naturally, that irritates me! Like, whose business is it anyway? And then the other part of this bugs me too, like why is it that although I am actually “half” Caucasian, I am still considered “black” in some people’s narrow-minded eyes? I want to tell off this geezer, to tell him to get over it and to get a life, but I know that would only make things worse and it might embarrass Mitch. Instead, I just toss the jerk a great big smile. Since I was little, I’ve been told that I have a “winning” smile. I used to think the label referred to sports, because I do like to win. But then I read somewhere that it meant more like you could win people over with it. And to my surprise, the old geezer actually smiles back. Well, go figure!

The movie turns out to be great. And I can tell by the way Mitch is treating me, and how we joke as we share our popcorn and drink, that this really is a date. And I’m pretty sure that he is into me. And it’s so amazing!

Unfortunately, it’s nine forty when we get out of the theater. “Wow, that was a pretty long flick,” I tell him as I look at my watch. “We’ll just barely make it home by my curfew.”

“Ten on school nights?” he asks, like he’s reading my mind.

“Yeah. Unless I have an away game. That’s an exception.”

“Same here.”

“So our parents agree on at least one thing.” I laugh. “But that’s probably where it ends.”

We make some more jokes at our parents’ expense, and then Mitch is pulling up to where I live. I’m halfway out of the car, not really sure what to do next, when I notice that Mitch is already out too, standing by the passenger door and offering me his hand. “Gotta walk you to the door,” he says. “My dad taught me that one.”

“So, what did your parents think about you taking me out?” I ask him as we walk toward my house. I’ve actually been wanting to
ask him this question ever since the geezer gave us the eye at the theater, but up until now I just couldn’t get up the nerve.

“They both like you, Ramie. They were totally cool with me asking you out.”

I let out a little sigh of relief as we go up the stairs to the front door that opens onto the second floor. “Cool.”

“So . . .” He reaches for my other hand now. “Can I kiss you good night? Or are you one of those girls who doesn’t kiss on the first date?”

I consider this. I mean, on the one hand, I don’t want to seem too easy. On the other, I don’t want him to think I don’t like him. And I really want to have another date with him.

“I guess one little kiss would be okay,” I tell him. But even as I say this, I am starting to feel nervous. I mean I’ve only been kissed twice before. And the first time was at this totally lame middle-school party, where everyone was kissing pretty much everyone, and it probably shouldn’t even count. The second time was that unfortunate first date that I keep trying to forget. But consequently, I’m not too sure that I’m a very good kisser. And besides that, I haven’t even had a breath mint or anything.

But Mitch leans forward and I close my eyes and hold my breath and to my relief, it goes fairly smoothly. In fact, it goes rather nicely, and I’m thinking that maybe Mitch is more experienced at this than I am.

“Thanks for a fun night,” I say, surprised at how breathless my voice sounds. But maybe it’s the cold November air.

“Thank
you!”
He grins at me like he’s really happy. “I had fun too. Let’s do it again sometime.”

“Cool!” Then I turn and go into the house. I’ve barely closed and locked the front door before I fish my cell phone out of my
purse and start to push Jess’s speed-dial number. But then I stop. I can’t believe it! I was about to call Jess! What was I thinking? Of course, it’s understandable that my first impulse after an incredible night like this would be to call my best friend. She’s always the one I call when something big happens. And this is huge! But then I tell myself, everything’s changed. Like that was then and this is now, and Jessica LeCroix is no longer my best friend. Like a slap in the face or a firm shake, I firmly remind myself that
Jess is a lesbian
.

But as I slowly walk up the stairs to my room, I feel this hard lump growing in my throat. And for the first time since she told me her shocking “news” I am beginning to feel sad. Really, really sad. I feel like I’m grieving over the death of a loved one. Like I’ve just heard that my old best friend, the one I should be talking to right now, was suddenly killed in an explosion.

“Is that you, Ramie?” Mom calls from her bedroom downstairs.

“Yeah, Mom,” I call back. “I’m home.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Yeah, it was great. Night, Mom.”

“Good night, Ramie.”

Then I go into my room and I shut the door and I cry.

F
ORTUNATELY FOR ME, MY MOM DOESN
’
T HAVE ANY EARLY COUNSELING
appointments Monday morning, and I am able to bum a ride to school from her. It hadn’t even occurred to me yesterday that losing my best friend also meant losing my ride to school.

“Sorry I can’t pick you up after practice,” Mom tells me as she backs out of the garage. “I have a group therapy session that won’t finish until eight.”

I let out a groan. “Guess I get to ride home on the delightful activities bus.”

“Oh, Ramie.” Mom just shakes her head. “You’re going to have to get over your homophobia, you know.”

“Homophobia?” I shoot back at her. “That’s totally nuts, Mom. It’s not like I’m afraid of Jess, you know. I just don’t happen to agree with her choice to sin like this. And I don’t want to be around her. That is
not
homophobia!”

She makes a little noise that sounds kind of like
tsk tsk
, but I pretend to ignore her. Instead I hit her with my old begging routine, telling her again just how badly I really need a car.

“All my friends have cars,” I say as we get closer to school.

“Then ask all your friends for rides.”

“Mom,” I plead. “If I had my own car, I could help you
more. I know how tired you are after work. I could do things like get groceries or pick up your dry cleaning or run errands or anything.”

“I’ve already told you that our budget is tight, Ramie. If you really want a car, you’ll have to get a job and help out with it.”

“But I have sports.”

“I know. And I think that’s great, honey. It’s just that we all have to make our choices. Personally, I think participating in sports is the right choice for you.” She turns and smiles at me. “You’re so good at them.”

“So, because I’m good at them, I don’t get a car,” I complain. “Great little payoff.”

“Having a car would mean car payments, insurance payments, gas money, repair costs . . .” She shakes her head. “Look, Ramie, if money was no object, I’d love to give you a car. I’d do it in a heartbeat. But right now we can’t afford it.”

We’re almost at school now, and I can tell I’ve lost this argument. Big surprise there. But I decide to pout just a little longer. No harm in letting her feel my pain, as she likes to put it.

“Cheer up,” she tells me. “And maybe not having a car will help you to get over this thing with Jess a little faster. Who knows? Maybe by the end of the day she’ll be giving you a ride home and everything will be back to normal.”

“And maybe she’ll kiss me good-bye after she drops me off,” I say as Mom pulls up to the curb. “And maybe she’ll ask me to be her date for the Winter Dance, and maybe we’ll get married and I’ll have artificial insemination and you can have lots of gay grandkids at Christmastime!”

“Oh, Ramie!” She looks exasperated now.

But I just give her an innocent look. “Does that bother you,
Mom? I figured the idea of Jess and me living happily ever after was just what you wanted.”

“Have a good day, dear.”

“Yeah, right!” Then I close the door just a little too firmly as I can see the frown across her brow, and I wonder why I’m treating her like this. It’s not like this is her fault. And, more disturbing than that, I know that God would not be pleased by my little hissy fit or my disrespectful attitude. So I say a quick “I’m sorry” prayer as I slowly walk toward the school. What is wrong with me?

As I walk through the doors and security, I am filled with apprehension. I mean who knows what lies ahead today? It’s quite possible that Jess has told others by now. Everyone in the school might be whispering about her, laughing behind her back or maybe to her face. And they could be laughing at me too. Oh, I so do
not
want to see her today!

Of course, I realize this is unlikely since we have three classes together. And then there’s basketball practice after school. Maybe I should’ve been sick today. But, no, I tell myself as I walk toward the locker bay. That might’ve put me at a disadvantage in this little game. As I get closer to our row of lockers it occurs to me that it’s not only my locker, it is also Jess’s. It’s like I almost forgot that we share a locker! Dear God, please help me.

I’m tempted to skip going to my locker altogether, but I really need to get my geometry book. And so when I come to the row where our locker is located, feeling like a foreign spy, I “accidentally” drop a pencil. I bend down to pick it up, glance down the row and see, to my relief, Jess is not there. Then I hurry to my locker and after blowing the combination twice, which I never do, I finally get the stupid thing open, retrieve the geometry book as well as my French book, which I really don’t need until after lunch, and I shove
them both into my backpack. I make a mental note to stop by the counseling center and demand that I get a different locker. Even if I have to explain the circumstances. Surely, they would understand.

By fourth period, it has become obvious that Jess is just as uncomfortable seeing me as I am seeing her. It’s like we’ve signed a mutual avoidance pact, which suits me just fine. Still, I can tell that others are noticing. I mean it’s not like Jess and I have a ton of friends. But we do have some. Mostly from church and sports and just life, I guess. By lunchtime, some of them are starting to ask questions. And, to my relief, Jess is making herself pretty scarce.