Mirror

By Mia Shackelford

Rachel and I stopped in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary. She would rather give up her signature silver nail polish rather than admit it, but we're both going to miss Roosevelt High School.
My stomach turned—partly from the odor wafting out of the bathroom & partly from the fact that we were graduating (graduating!) on Friday.
"I think we're even going to miss the bathroom," I said. It came out more sorrowfully than I had meant it to be.
"I won't," Rachel said, but I can tell when she's lying. She loves this school, definitely more than I do. Rachel gets straight A's. She always says the trick is to pretend constantly, always to smile, to dress right, not to bring things up they don't want brought up. Rachel is by nature a truthful person, but she's also intelligent enough to get by anywhere.
We squeezed between the wall and the trashcan to the Senior Girls Mirrors. Well, the ones who are like, normal. The band geeks, sluts and weird artsy people use the same mirrors as the freshmen. But there are hardly enough of the "abnormals" as Cindy calls them, to bother mentioning.
With one final heave, Rachel pushed away the trashcan far enough to slither into the mirror nook and I followed.
I looked up to see how my hair was in the mirror. I gasped. Snaking over and around the mirror were five red, raging words.

'RACHEL NELSON IS A LESBO'

"Weird," I thought, "everyone loves Rachel." Who would write something so obviously wrong on the bathroom—" I looked over at her, started by the sound of someone crying. It was Rachel!
"Oh, come on, don't cry over something so stupid."
"Yeah, silly, right?" she asked with an odd note in her voice.
The school was buzzing though. Cindy didn't acknowledge Rachel as we passed. Lara didn't either, but Lara always copied Cindy, so it wasn't exactly a surprise. I was surprised with all the seemingly suspicious people. It was so idiotic! Rachel had had five boyfriends! Sure, none of them lasted very long, but she was picky. It wasn't like Sonoma had SUCH a huge group of cute, eligible guys.
I waited for Rachel at her locker, after school, but she wasn't there. "Maybe she's in the bathroom," I thought. I walked past Cindy and Lara and Mary and a bunch of attentive girls.
"I saw her kissing a GIRL in Calistoga," said Mary. I froze. Rachel had gone to Calistoga over Memorial Day weekend, but so what? I couldn't believe Mary was lying so straight-faced.
"Did you write it, then?" asked Lara, wide-mouthed.
"No, of course not!" Mary exclaimed defensively. "But I told plenty of people…anyone might've."
I was fuming as I thundered past them, right into the familiarity of the reeking bathroom. The trashcan was completely pushed aside, so I walked right in. The scare felt eerily familiar. I gasped once again at sprawling letters near the mirror. Except they spelled out:

So what if I am?

In silver nail polish. Rachel stood there hurriedly capping the polish, and in the process, partially smearing the question mark. My mind was blank as I pushed past her out of the bathroom, through the hallways, out of the school. But as I walked home, the tree-dappled sunlight playing over the sidewalk, my thoughts returned, all in a rush. What? She's really? I mean, it's true?!?"
Rachel is a lesbian. She kissed a girl in Calistoga.

~

I couldn't face her on Tuesday. I didn't wait near her locker so we could walk to homeroom together. I ignored her looks until lunchtime. I sat with Cindy and Mary and Lara not to mention half the rest of our tiny class of '82. Rachel came up holding two Tabs like every other day. Cindy stood up deliberately and walked away. I watched, speechless, as every other girl followed. Why were they so weirded out, even the ones who didn't tend to follow Cindy? I looked again at Rachel until I—how did I miss the giant rainbow flag on her t-shirt? As if to reinforce the point, "OUT AND PROUD" was boldly emblazoned across her chest. Rachel was giving me no choice! She knew how to go along with the system. Why was she bucking it now. Couldn't she wear a blouse or sweater like any other day. I followed Cindy.
A girl named Susan with a giant flannel shirt and crazily curly hair waved. From the artsy, wanna-be-in-San Francisco table. How did Rachel even know her? She must, otherwise why would she plunk down and hand the second Tab—my Tab—over to Lizzie.
During seventh period, we all heard the PA System moan, "Rachel Nelson, please report to the office immediately!"
I raised my hand, "Ms. Gruik, can I go to the bathroom." The teacher absentmindedly replied yes.
I went straight to the office. The junior secretary assumed I was a TA and didn't look up from her book. I entered the room. I ducked behind the copying machine and put my ear to the air duct into Mr. Fox, the principal's, office.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Nelson, but we need to stress that your shirt is, frankly inappropriate."
"Don't I have the right to freedom of expression, sir?"
"If you came in here with a violent shirt, no. And this is no different. This is a school, we make the dress code."
"But Linda Harris wore a shirt today that says, "Christian Student Association-Jesus Rocks!" on it. That expresses an opinion, too, that not everyone has. My friend Julia is jewish."
"Yes but…that's religion. This is about suspect morality. Many people believe that, uh…, homosexuality is merely a mental disorder. Anyway, your shirt is not the kind of thing we want at Roosevelt. And really, you're so close to graduation. Why stir things up?" That last sentiment echoed in my mind.
I walked back. I stopped near the bathroom. Why not go in after all. I strode almost fearfully into the Senior's spot. Different handwriting than the first message, this time in black sharpie:

GET OUT OF THIS SCHOOL!

And another in wild purple:

Oh shut up, get your heads out of the Dark Ages already.

I wondered if Lizzie or one of her friends wrote the latter. Probably, I doubt anyone else would.

~

On Wednesday Rachel showed up in a hot pink tee bearing the message, "We're here, we're queer, get over it!" I didn't understand how she had magically turned into this hardened radical Rachel I barely recognized. Our homeroom teacher ignored the shirt, but Rachel was summoned by the Principal yet again during first period. I didn't eavesdrop this time, but the gossip was circulating by lunch.
"They won't let her graduate if she continue to be all defiant!" said Cindy.
"Rachel told them she'll wear one of those awful t-shirts to graduation. They're threatened her with no diploma."
I heard snippets of conversation about her everywhere. I walked away from the group, sickened by how ferociously gleeful they were about the news. It didn't make sense that the school wouldn't let her graduate. Her grades were perfect. My feet moved automatically to the senior mirrors. More red writing said:

RACHEL NELSON SHOULD DIE AND BURN IN HELL

SHE SHOULD SHUT UP WHILE SHE STILL CAN.

I shivered. Why was the school so hung up about some silly t-shirt when kids were writing death threats in the bathroom? I didn't realize I had said it out loud until I heard a voice next to me say, "I know." It was Amy, a quiet girl who normally sat with me, Rachel and a couple other standard, sweet, normal girls. It was usually hard to even distinguish us, I realized. We were all just a blur of good grades, soft smiles, and makeup. Until Rachel.
"I think I might go sit with her," I said.
"No need to specify who her is," said Amy.
She walked with me to the table of people I used to label abnormals. I tried to plop my bag down casually, like this was my dull, everyday environment. My acting skills have always been pitiful.
"It's okay," said Rachel. I knew she had accepted my unspoken apology.
"So," said Susan, as if we were continuing a conversation. "Mary has her whole church rallied against this school's "tolerance for perversion."
"They're not exactly tolerant," said Rachel, dryly, "I mean, they haven't killed me yet, if that's what they mean by tolerance."
"They're having a protest tomorrow night. We should counter-protest then, too," continued Susan.
I reluctantly decided to drive them—nobody else had their own car, or license—but not, I stressed, to "join this radical thing!"

~

There were more death threats and swearing aimed at Rachel in the bathroom on Thursday. But Susan and her friends were attacking the stall with purple nail polish, writing things like, "Love has no bounds," while I watched for teachers and tried to quiet everything down.
I couldn't understand why my whole world had changed in three days. It was confusing and dizzying and scary. I wasn't sure if I could stay in this tentative new friendship. Of course, whenever you're dreading something, time rushes along like scared freshman. And I was dreading the protest, or counter protest, or whatever it was. Why was Rachel risking her diploma, her safety and her entire future to be herself. She used to say never to be yourself, to work around the system, never to say anything bothersome or confrontational.
I was still trying to persuade Rachel, Susan and the others to give up as I was driving them to the site of the protest. "You could get expelled, Rachel's already facing no graduation, we could all just simmer down till graduation tomorrow!" They didn't listen. I think Amy agreed with me, but she was quiet about this like many other things.
We unloaded ourselves confidently (them, if not me, anyways.)
But when we gazed around, we were shocked. We had expected a self-righteous grove of "concerned citizens" most likely dressed all in pastels. And there were some of those types. But there were people there who looked, well, scary. Someone held up a sign that said, "God Hates Fags!"
My stomach was doing uncomfortably gymnastic flips. My head was spinning.
Then, someone recognized Rachel.
All was silent for one blissful moment, then, as if the volume on the scene was abruptly turned up, the parking lot was engulfed in a dull roar. People were yelling at us, violently, angrily, terrifyingly.
(There was also a small group of embarrassed PTA members who stood to the side awkwardly. They hadn't expected us, nor the rough intolerance of the protestors.)
Liz and the more determined members of our group were yelling undecipherable things about peace, love and equality, but I just stood there in terror. I felt like a coward, hiding behind the car as the rest of them were slowly surrounded.
I saw a sunlight flash off a sliver of metal in the crowd, blinding me. I yelped and rubbed my eyes, sorry that I had peeked from behind the hood.
A piercing scream filled the air. The crowd parted in shocked silence. Rachel came out, her blanched face stuck in a grimace, holding on tightly to Liz's arm. I rose to my feet unconsciously, and when they reached the car I grabbed Rachel. "What's wrong?" Rachel seemed too stunned or in pain to make a sound. Liz gently turned her around so I could see Rachel's back. There was a bloodstain contrasting sharply against her white halter-top. In some detached part of my brain, I realized I was sobbing.

~


Rachel was rushed to the emergency room. I wanted to stay with her but my mother came to hurry me home.