This Girl Is Different

by J. J. Johnson

  Jacinda inspects the bread. “Maybe not. But I don’t know how to do it.”

  “I’m happy to show you sometime.”

  “How about the jam? You made this too?” Rajas asks.

  I nod. “And the honey’s from our bees.”

  “You keep bees. Why am I not surprised?” Rajas smiles his half-smile and bites off another chunk of bread. His dark, dark eyes get round. “Amazing, Eve. Really good.”

  My cheeks go hot; Rajas calls me Eve, not Evie like everyone else does. It sounds so smoldery on his lips. It makes me feel older. Sort of…sexy. Warm in the tingly bits. Eve. Yowza. I hop across the kitchen to plug in my phone.

  “You have electricity out here?” Jacinda asks.

  Before I can answer, Rajas gripes, “Were you not listening? Did you not notice the solar panels outside?”

  Instead of getting snarky, Jacinda smiles and shrugs. “I must have been distracted by Hannah…what’s your cow’s name again?”

  “Hannah Bramble.”

  “Right,” Jacinda says. “And the piranha chickens.”

  “Sharks with feathers.” Rajas laughs.

  “Killer hens.” I’m laughing too.

  What’s it been? Only an hour or two since Rajas and Jacinda and I met. But it’s already so…easy. It’s amazing: Some people you know for years, but you never get past feeling stilted and awkward. They never understand you. Other people, they walk into your life and bam. It’s just so right. You feel like you were meant to be part of each others’ lives. It’s never happened to me with kids my own age. School hasn’t even started yet, and already it’s happening. Already I know I’ll never be the same.

  3

  There are only three things that can kill a farmer: lightning, rolling over in a tractor, and old age.

  —BILL BRYSON, WRITER, B.1951

  “So.” I shift the ice on my ankle. “How did you two meet?” Isn’t that what I’m supposed to ask, if they’re involved? I will be a big girl about it. I refuse to be jealous. This girl is different.

  Jacinda and Rajas exchange glances. Rajas lifts his shoulders in an offhand shrug. “Known each other forever.” He doesn’t say more, like there’s nothing more to say.

  Jacinda takes a big bite of bread; she swigs some iced tea to wash it down. “Yum, Evie. This is so good.” Thank God she’s not one of those girls who doesn’t eat.

  “But how did you meet?”

  Jacinda swallows. “If you must know, Raj used to clobber me with blocks—”

  “Only when you were being a brat—”

  “And he used to pee in the bathtub.” She sticks her tongue out at him, pleased with herself. Again, I am totally lost. Jacinda must notice my confusion because she says, “Seriously? We’ve known each other forever, like Raj said. We grew up together.”

  “So, you’ve been friends for a long time.” How did things get romantic between them? At first I was attempting civilized conversation, but now I’m truly determined to get information.

  “Friends?” Rajas laughs. “No.”

  “We are not friends,” Jacinda states matter-of-factly. “Our moms are sisters.”

  “See?” Rajas picks up another piece of bread. “Boring.”

  “Oh.” Oh! If their moms are sisters, Rajas and Jacinda are…cousins. Cousins! I smile so big my cheeks hurt. Wow. They seem so close. How cool is that? Family and friends at the same time. Not that I would know; Martha and Rich are the sum total of my relations. “Cousins! That’s fantastic!” I enthuse.

  “If you say so.” Rajas, still eating, sounds noncommittal. But Jacinda stops chewing and narrows her eyes at me, as if she has just figured out why I’m so thrilled with this news. A slow Cheshire Cat grin draws itself across her face.

  Quick, change the subject before she says anything. “So. What’s school like? Got any tips or secrets? Am I going to survive?”

  It does the trick, because Jacinda’s eyes twinkle with excitement. “Don’t worry. We’ll show you everything you need to know, won’t we, Raj? What classes do you have?”

  “Let me grab my schedule.” I scoot my chair to get up, but Rajas holds out a hand to stop me.

  “I’ll get it,” he says. “You stay put, rest that ankle.”

  “Thanks.” It’s a thoughtful gesture, and I try to take it that way, instead of feeling like a damsel in distress again. My ankle is hurting; the ice feels good. “It’s on my desk. In the loft.”

  He looks concerned. “Is it safe to go up there? Should Jacinda go? Is there girl stuff lurking about?”

  I laugh. “It’s safe. You’ll be fine.”

  He grins his lopsided grin, which makes my stomach flip. He climbs the ladder. “Holy crap.”

  “What?” Jacinda pops out of her chair to investigate.

  I try to see around her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. This is just…” Rustling sounds come from the loft.

  “Let me see!” Jacinda moves Rajas over to give herself room on the ladder. She climbs, somehow managing to maintain modesty despite her short sundress. The girl’s got skills. “Aha!” She grabs the schedule.

  “Wasn’t talking about the schedule, Jay. Look.”

  “Holy cow,” breathes Jacinda.

  I’m already hopping over to the ladder. They must have discovered my scale models—of cities, communities, villages, buildings. I beam; I can’t help it. Is there anything better than cool people appreciating something important to you, something that reflects who you are, something you’ve built yourself? It’s so soulsatisfying.

  Rajas holds one of the models over the side of the loft, so I can see it. “This is amazing.”

  “Thanks. Did you see my Eco-Village? It’s totally self-sustaining. In theory.”

  “Ohmigod, you did these?” Jacinda’s bare legs disappear over the ladder and I hear her shuffling around.

  I smile. “I love to design. It just makes me happy.”

  “You are seriously gifted. You totally have to go to Cornell.”

  “Yeah,” says Rajas. “Makes sense now.”

  They are quiet a little longer, looking at my models, before they climb down. Jacinda has my schedule. She looks it over.

  “We have Global View and gym together!” Jacinda squeals. “That’s so fricking great!”

  Rajas grimaces. “So you both have Brookner.”

  “Shut up,” Jacinda practically growls. Before I can ask what they’re talking about, Rajas takes my schedule from Jacinda so he can have a look.

  “Um…do we have any classes together?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  “Just lunch, if that counts,” Rajas says, sitting.

  Jacinda studies my reaction. “Oh, it counts all right.” She looks at me like I’m very amusing.

  The crunch of gravel turns our attention to the driveway. The Clunker shudders to a noisy, clanking stop.

  “That would be Martha,” I say.

  Rajas and Jacinda stand up as my mother bursts into the Dome Home.

  “What is that hunk-of-junk gas-guzzler doing—” She stops when she sees Rajas and Jacinda. “Oh. Well, hello there.”

  “Martha.” I give her my dirtiest, tone-it-down look. “This is Rajas and Jacinda. We met down at the creek. The car in the driveway”—I over-enunciate to be sure she gets the point—“belongs to Rajas. Its name is the Blue Biohazard.”

  In seconds, Martha’s face flashes from annoyance to surprise to intrigue—I’ve never brought two strangers to the Dome Home. She takes my hint and plays it cool. “Good to meet you.” She extends her hand. “No offense about the car. I drive a hunk of junk too.”

  “None taken,” Rajas laughs. “Good to meet you.” He peeks out the door to get a look at Martha’s van.

  “Hi, I’m Jacinda.” She pumps Martha’s hand. Martha looks at me with a Where-did-you-pick-up-this-strange-specimen? look. It’s the same look—Did-you-just-get-back- from-the-moon?—Jacinda has been giving me all day. Standing next to each other, they are a study in contrasts
: Martha with her big frame and wiry silver hair, a dingy shirt, pants, and practical shoes; Jacinda in her pixie cut and little dress and sparkly flip-flops.

  “Jacinda…” Martha’s eyebrows twist while she thinks. “That’s an unusual name. I swear I’ve seen it—” She snaps her fingers. “Aha! Are you the babysitter from the flyer?”

  Jacinda claps her hands, delighted. “Yes! That’s me! Which one did you see?”

  “The Horny Singletons Pack.” Martha crosses to the kitchen area and opens the refrigerator.

  “The…what pack?” Jacinda looks bewildered.

  “The Help for Single Parents group at the Unitarian Church,” I explain. “HSP. Martha says it stands for Horny Singletons Pack.”

  Martha reappears with a carrot. “Because that’s what it is. A wolf pack of unmarried horny horndogs. The fact that they happen to be divorced, and have kids, is somewhat extraneous.”

  I give Martha a dirty look. “One: it’s not a Horny Singletons Pack. And two: it’s good for you.”

  “So you say, darling.” She chomps a piece off the carrot, holding the remainder like a cigar, wagging the ferny top. “What’s the story here?”

  “Rajas and Jacinda helped me out of a pickle. I twisted my ankle.”

  Martha flies over and kneels to touch my foot. “Is it sprained?”

  “I think so.”

  She drops her carrot—it lands on the table next to my iced tea—and takes a closer look. She moves my ice pack and holds her hands above my ankle. It’s a restorative energy thing. She closes her eyes to focus the healing vibrations. I don’t even want to look at Rajas and Jacinda; who knows what they’ll make of this? Of her? They’ve been great with me, but Martha’s a whole other level of different.

  “Nice. A ’61 minibus.” Rajas is admiring it from the doorway.

  Martha opens her eyes and grins at him. “Why, yes indeedy! That’s The Clunker. My pride and joy. Are you a connoisseur?”

  Rajas nods. “Can I take a look?”

  “I’ll do you one better.” She tosses the keys to him. “Why don’t you take her for a spin?”

  Rajas looks at her in utter disbelief. “Really?”

  “Sure. Take Jacinda in case you stall and need a push start.”

  Jacinda looks from Rajas, to me, to Martha. “You’re, like, just kidding, right?”

  “Only one way to find out.” Martha shoos them toward the door. “Go on. Live a little. You’re only young once, n’est-ce pas?”

  “All right. Thanks!” Rajas smiles. “Be right back.”

  “Take your time. If her door falls off, just slide it back on the rails.”

  Jacinda looks horrified. “Okay…” She sees that Rajas is already outside. “Ta-ta.” She thwup thwups to catch up with her cousin. Cousin! I let out a contented sigh.

  Martha cocks an eyebrow at me. She locks her gaze into mine. Squinting, she sets her palms on my shoulders, and smiles. “Well, well, well, my darling,” she says, “looks like lightning’s struck.”

  She’s like that, Martha: intense and cryptic and funny. When she was twenty-three and following Phish with her brother Rich, she got pregnant with me by a guy they’d been hanging out with. The family folklore is that, nine months later, Martha went into labor at the start of a show. Her midwife friend had disappeared into the sweaty crowd. So, to deliver me, it was Rich, or no one. He says it was the best—and scariest—trip of his life. And he quit hallucinogens after that.

  I know nothing about my dad. “We had some good times,” is all Martha will say, “but he wouldn’t have been a good father.” Rich just rolls his eyes when I ask. The most he’s ever told me is, “The worst thing about that dude is he would sell shrooms to anyone. Even if they were clearly going to have themselves a bad, bad trip. Dude had no scruples.”

  Rich is the only constant man in Martha’s life. She says she prefers it that way. The way she talks, it might seem like she doesn’t believe in true love. And maybe she has lost faith in the possibilities of finding it for herself. “You and me: we’re enough,” she’ll say, tending the garden or boiling apples for applesauce. “I’m not opposed to the occasional one-night stand, when I get particularly…lonely. If you know what I mean. But you, Evie, will have great love in your life. You will fall deeply and powerfully and fiercely in love. It will be as undeniable as lightning striking deep into your core. And I’m sorry to say, my darling, that with great love can come great pain.”

  I gape at Martha as she sits down next to me at the kitchen table. Lightning. My throat has gone dry. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.” She lifts my leg onto her lap, cradling my ankle. “I know lightning when I see it.”

  I stare out the open door and realize I’ve been practically holding my breath since Rajas left, waiting for him to get back. Oh man. Martha saying it makes it real. And overwhelming. “I don’t feel good.” I get up and hop to the bathroom. My stomach is swirling. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

  “You’ve got a fever, all right,” Martha says, “for Rajas!” Swishing her hips, she begins singing. Some song about fever lasting all through the night.

  “It feels more like food poisoning,” I tell her.

  “Oh, darling.” Martha is still moving her hips. “Sometimes lightning takes its toll.” She’s swirling; I feel like hurling. She wiggles her eyebrows at me and starts singing again, “You give me fever. Fever!”

  4

  Education, therefore, is a process of living and not a preparation for future living.

  —JOHN DEWEY, PHILOSOPHER AND EDUCATOR, 1859–1952

  The Clunker bumps hard over our road, swaying and shimmying like the chicken buses we rode to visit Rich when he was in Mexico. Next to me, Martha is practically asleep; her forehead bonks against the window whenever we hit a dip in the road. My ankle is bandaged and sore and it hurts to shift gears, but I’m too excited about school to sit back and let Martha drive.

  “You awake?” I ask her.

  “Mmm.”

  “Liar.” I smile. “So I’ll pick you up around three?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  When Jacinda and Rajas left my place on Friday, Rajas offered to drive me to the first day of school. Why on earth did I say no? Since then he and Jacinda have friended me on Facebook and we’ve chatted a little. I wish I were in the Blue Biohazard with them now; I wish it so hard it’s almost an ache. I want to be where Rajas is. But Martha would have been crestfallen. Riding together, hearing about my day, spending as much time with me as she can—it’s her strategy for coping with my decision to attend The Institution of School.

  I stifle a yawn and take another sip from my travel mug of yerba maté. I woke up at 5:00 as usual, to shower, eat breakfast, and tend the animals and garden, but mostly I sat; Martha wanted me to baby my ankle. All morning, my heart’s been pounding, thoughts in overdrive. I can’t stop thinking of Rajas. He and Jacinda stayed for dinner the day of my non-rescue rescue, and they hung out for a long time, talking and laughing and playing Cranium with Martha and me. I attempted to be coherent and add to the conversation every now and then, but mostly I was Zenning out, wondering all sorts of things about Rajas: What does he think of me? Is he as attracted to me as I am to him? Is he involved with someone? After he and Jacinda left, I wrote in my diary, went out and stared at the stars, and sketched a bunch of designs, trying to calm down and fall asleep. Yoga would have helped, but my ankle sprain put the kibosh on that. Point is, every moment since they left I’ve been thinking about Rajas. I’m dying to see him again.

  Further toward town, the road smoothes into pavement, houses begin to cluster. Stores appear, the first of which is Walmart, Martha’s place of employ for the last year. She hates it, but without a college degree, she doesn’t have a lot of choices. She moves jobs a lot, mostly retail, either quitting when she can’t stand one more minute of it, or getting fired for appropriating items for personal use. I can’t remember the last time she had health insurance. Which is
why she is so supportive of my goal to study planning and design, my dream to get a degree from Cornell. She wants me to follow my bliss, of course, but she loves that it involves a decent profession with potential benefits. Meanwhile, she works for The Man and volunteers at the co-op to put food on the table. I can’t wait until it’s my turn to take care of her.

  “Did you remember your name tag?” I ask.

  “Yes, darling.”

  “And the stickers we made?” Today’s guerilla stickering campaign will focus on the dangers of pesticides and food additives and preservatives. She’s rotating through the grocery section this week.

  Martha leans over to kiss me and cups my cheeks in her hands. “I love you. Don’t let that place break your beautiful spirit.”

  “Martha, please,” I assure her despite my nervous stomach, “it’s just school.”

  “Ha. Just like this place is just a store.” She yanks the door handle, shaking it until the door rasps open. “Promise me.”

  “I promise I’ll be fine.”

  “And you’ll be true to yourself?”

  I give her a look. “I’ll pick you up after school.”

  “Sure you don’t want to change your mind? You can hang out—”

  “Martha!”

  “It was worth a shot.”

  “See you later.” After she’s through the doors, I cajole The Clunker back into what little traffic there is and drive past the cemetery, McDonald’s, and the tire shop on Broad Street. It’s one of the two primary streets in town. Broad runs north-south, Main runs east to west. I pass the Naturalista Food Co-op, Doug’s Sandwich Shop, Nano’s Pizza, the movie theater. In the center of town, by the county courthouse and a little park, I make a right onto Main Street.

  A few blocks up, another right turn, and here I am. Zero hour. School.

  All grades, kindergarten through twelfth, share a campus of three buildings on the east side of town. The elementary school is set to the north, surrounded by jungle gyms and playgrounds. To the south is the high school, grades nine through twelve. The middle school, grades seven and eight, is wedged—you guessed it—in the middle.