This Girl Is Different

by J. J. Johnson

  With sweaty palms slipping on the steering wheel, I turn into the parking lot. I’m more nervous than I thought. I’ve only been inside the building twice before. Once to interview with the principal, Dr. Folger, who set me to work on The Battery of Tests to determine my placement. Military terminology is truly appropriate; the day of testing left me feeling beat-up and exhausted. The second visit was to meet my guidance counselor, who said I scored well enough to become a senior, as long as I double-up on math and science so I’ll meet state requirements for graduation. Starting today, my daily routine will be rather intense: Global View, gym, biology, physics, lunch. With Rajas! Then English, geometry, trigonometry.

  The Clunker’s brakes squeal as I look around for a parking space. The lot is full, stacked with old Mustangs, battered minivans, pickup trucks, a few shiny new cars. A lot of kids must drive to school, juniors and seniors, I assume. Scanning the throngs, congregated in clusters, I see a couple of vaguely familiar faces, but I don’t really know anyone. Deep yoga breath. Jacinda pops into view. And Rajas! A thousand flitty moths take flight in my stomach. The tips of my fingers tingle. Lightning.

  I park and climb down from The Clunker and limp across the asphalt. My ankle can hold some weight if I go easy.

  I am greeted with wide smiles. The most welcome smiles.

  “Eve!” Rajas’s voice is the best sound I’ve ever heard.

  “Is it everything you expected and more?” Jacinda chirps.

  “So far, so good.” I give them each a small hug hello. Touching Rajas shoots electricity up and down my spine. He wrestles my backpack from me. Around us, other students are watching. They seem curious, maybe even a little suspicious, but neither Rajas nor Jacinda seems to care.

  They walk me into the building and help me find my first class. The halls are like Mexico City in rush-hour traffic, minus the cars. Kids are crammed into every space, zooming around. I had no idea it would be this crowded. “This is Global View and also our homeroom,” Jacinda explains.

  “Homeroom?” I think I know what that means, but I’m not completely sure.

  Jacinda looks surprised. “Homeroom? When the teacher takes attendance and reads announcements?”

  “Huh,” I say without thinking.

  “‘Huh,’ what?” asks Rajas.

  “Nothing. Nothing. I knew they keep records of whether you show up or not. It’s just…I’m not used to that kind of thing.” My stomach sinks a little. Education should be exhilarating, not compulsory.

  “You’ll get used to everything soon,” Jacinda assures me.

  “That’s a scary thought.”

  The light in here makes everyone look greenish and alien. The classrooms have windows, but fluorescents drone on the ceilings, casting unnatural shadows. The halls have no natural light. Gray tile floors, cinder-block walls, dented metal lockers. It’s so sterile and impersonal. I can’t think of a less appealing environment. It’s like a warehouse. Except worse.

  Maybe enrolling in a regular school wasn’t such a good idea. But then again, what did I expect?

  I take another deep breath and try to focus on the positive: Rajas. Jacinda. Other new friends, new perspectives, a fresh look at things. Speaking of fresh, would it have killed someone to add skylights? Some live plants?

  The walls seem lined with eyeballs. And when Rajas leans close to wish me good luck, those eyeballs grow wide. I straighten my shoulders and take yet another deep breath. Hobbling away from Rajas feels like ripping off a band-aid. I check the clock: T-minus three and a half hours until lunch.

  5

  Religion is the opium of the people.

  —KARL MARX, PHILOSOPHER AND ECONOMIST, 1818–1883

  The quote from Marx on the whiteboard in the front of the classroom, and the question below it—Agree or disagree?—boosts my spirits immediately. Like I told Rajas the other day, I’ve been collecting quotes for years. And even better, Martha, Rich, and I have spent many a supper discussing Marx and his theories. I make a tottering beeline to the board and pick up a marker, blue and chemical-fumy, to write my response: Disagree. TELEVISION is the opium of the people.

  The bell rings, but it doesn’t sound like school bells in movies. Rather than a hammer-on-metal bell brrring, the “bell” is a prolonged, grating, synthetic beep, a noise so artificial and startling that I almost drop the marker. I hop to a desk near Jacinda, passing a girl who stares at me with her mouth open. Behind Jacinda, a boy is tapping the screen of his phone. Jacinda pats the empty chair next to her. I sit and set my things on the desk.

  “Bold move!” Jacinda nods toward the quote, sounding impressed. Something catches her attention; I follow her gaze. Our teacher is coming through the door. He’s wearing a button-down shirt tucked into faded jeans. His tie is already loosened. Thick-rimmed glasses frame his eyes. He’s good-looking and stylish— in a pushing-forty, post-tragicially hip, old-timey kind of way.

  The man clears his throat. “Good morning and welcome back. I’m—”

  Static pops from the speaker near the ceiling. It is the only adornment on the cinder-block wall except for two lengths of whiteboard, a television on a rolling cart in the corner, and a big analog clock. Has the teacher not had a chance to decorate, or does he not care?

  The teacher frowns, “It sounds as if—”

  “Hello students. Teachers,” squawks the speaker, “if you’ll excuse the interruption, this is Dr. Folger. I’d like to welcome our sophomores, juniors, and seniors back from summer vacation, and extend a warm welcome to our first-year students. I trust you are rested and ready to learn. I’m indeed pleased to announce that, due to your high marks on end-of-grade tests, we are now a Striving-for-Excellence school. If we repeat a good performance this year, we shall become a Governor’s School of Distinction.”

  No one seems to be listening. Jacinda rolls her eyes, twirling her index finger in a sarcastic whoop-de-doo gesture.

  Dr. Folger continues, “I expect this year to be our most successful year to date.” Papers rustle like he’s moving things around. “I’ll turn things over to your capable teachers. My door is always open. Go Purple Tornado!” The speaker sputters and clicks off.

  At the front of the class, the teacher half-sits, halfleans on his desk, which is clunky and industrial and looks like it was made in 1950. He uncrosses his arms and smoothes his tie. “Well. As I was saying. I’m Mr. Brookner and this is Global View. There aren’t any announcements.” He smiles and sweeps his arm toward the speaker. “Well, any other announcements, so after I put faces to the names on my list here, we’ll jump right in.”

  Mr. Brookner lifts a folder off of his desk. “Before I call roll, I don’t need to remind you that phones need to be silenced and stowed during class.” There is a bit of shuffling as phones are put in bags or pockets. Brookner starts taking roll; most kids raise their hands or mumble as he calls their names. I’m semiconscious of gripping the sides of my desk, bracing myself as Mr. Brookner closes in on the first letter of my last name.

  “Tera McClernon?”

  “Here.”

  Mr. Brookner checks it off. He pauses and squints at the paper. “Hmm. Is this right?” he murmurs. “Uh—”

  I raise my hand to stop him. “I just go by Evie. Please. For obvious reasons.”

  Mr. Brookner studies me for a moment, then nods. “Understood.” He makes a note on his list.

  Phew. One roll down, six to go.

  When he’s finished with the list, Mr. Brookner turns to the board. “Well. I thought we’d start today with…” But he trails off. “Interesting. I see someone has already added a thought.” He sounds charmed—and maybe also a little annoyed?

  The class titters. Behind me, someone whispers in sibilant S’s. I give Jacinda a look, So I guess it was a rhetorical question? She sort of shrugs and smiles.

  “Class. Settle.” Mr. Brookner clears his throat. “Someone has shown some enthusiasm this morning.”

  Enthusiasm? A response to a question demonstrates e
nthusiasm? Yikes.

  “Television is the opium of the people. Hmm. Would the writer care to elaborate?” He levels his gaze at me. The jig is up.

  “Um.” I shift in my seat. “Sure.” I take a breath to gather my thoughts. “So. Marx was implying that religion is an illusion to make oppressed people feel better without actually confronting the reasons for their oppression. Which there probably is some truth to, in the sense that religions tend to focus on other realms— like heaven or the afterlife—rather than this plane of existence, you know what I mean?”

  Mr. Brookner’s eyebrows have crept up; they are hovering above the frames of his glasses. “Go on.”

  His look makes me lose momentum. “Well, uh, with religion, in another sense,” I say, “it’s something that at least makes you think about your values. And really, at its best”—I’m getting my groove back—“religion prompts you to take action and do something to help others. Like the Catholic Workers movement, how they worked for fair labor standards. Or Quakers, who were abolitionists, helping enslaved people follow the Underground Railroad, and who now lobby for peace.

  “But television? It’s just passive. Worse than passive. Did you know you burn fewer calories watching television than you do sleeping? It’s less active than sleep! Plus, it’s basically advertisers feeding you a load of crap: that you are defective and not good enough, and that you have to buy stuff to make up for it.” Man, I’m on a roll! “Ad campaigns and TV programs dictate your values. It’s the opium of our time because it sedates you with bad self-esteem and consumerism while you get type two diabetes from drinking soda and eating potato chips and sitting on your ass.”

  I look around, pleased with the cohesiveness of my argument. But eyeballs are bugged out. Kids are staring at me. Staring. “Sorry. Sitting on your butts,” I amend.

  Silence.

  “Rear ends?” I try. “Cute little tushies?”

  Mr. Brookner chuckles. “I don’t think your word choice is the issue.” He turns to the rest of the class. “Well. This is quite the jumping-off point. Who has something to add to Evie’s assessment?”

  Butts, asses, rear ends, cute little tushies shift in seats. A girl in the front row—Marcie, I think?—clears her throat, but no one says anything. It’s a thundering silence. Jacinda inspects her fingernails.

  “Okay, well then.” Mr. Brookner picks up a green marker. “Let’s look at the quote in context.” He starts adding dates to the board. Around me, students flip their notebooks open and seem to relax, their bodies slouching like deflating tires. This must be what they are more used to: listening. Writing stuff down.

  I open my notebook and stare at its blue delineations. My cheeks feel hot and chapped, like I’ve just been in a windstorm that no one else even felt. Ten minutes into the first day of school and I’m already weirding people out. This must be some kind of record.

  Gym class, the other class Jacinda and I share, is next. As I limp along beside her, Jacinda entertains me with a running commentary: “Ohmigod, that was crazy! Tata, Marcie!” She wiggles her polished fingers at the girl from Global View. “Hi, Neil!” she says to a redheaded guy on the other side of the hall. “The way you went toe-to-toe with Brookner! He is so smart, that was incredible. Hi, Peter, hey, Sarah!” Good God, the girl knows everyone. “Okay. Having gym second bell is seriously lame. Like I’m going to get all sweaty in the morning? I don’t think so. Too bad we don’t have Mr. D, he’s awesome. Lord knows I get enough of Ms. Gliss.” She waggles her fingers to another girl: “Hi, Carrie!”

  Her train of thought is interpolated with so many hellos and goodbyes, it’s harder to follow than usual. But “bell” must mean both the horrid sound and the class period itself. Noted.

  Our gym teacher, Ms. Gliss, is all business. She’s tiny and curvy like Jacinda, dressed head to toe in purple and white, which I’m going to go ahead and presume are the school colors. She’s wearing one of those sport skort things and she’s got expensive-looking sneakers with fluffy pom-poms on the laces. At the bell, she blows her whistle—unnecessary since we’re all milling around in a small group—and marches our all-girl class into the locker room (dim light, rusting lockers, musty smell). She tucks her pouffy blonde hair behind her ears and sets her fists on her small hips.

  “Gym class is a real class and you need it to graduate,” Ms. Gliss begins. “So please do not come to me with excuses. Physical fitness is extraordinarily important in this day and age. September is National Childhood Obesity Awareness Month. We have an epidemic on our hands, ladies, and I for one am determined to do my part in combating it.” She pauses as if for emphasis. I’m intrigued—until I realize that she’s giving obvious, pointed looks to the heavier girls. Which just seems mean and prejudiced. “So gym class will be strenuous and you will take it seriously. I have no time for senioritis, m’kay, ladies? I will fail you if you do not participate. Participation means,”—she touches her thumb to each finger as she lists—“changing into appropriate gym clothes each and every day, completing all assignments…” Good gravy, how many rules do you need for gym class?

  “Here are your locker assignments—quiet!—and I want to remind you girls that I am not as gullible as…certain male gym teachers. Menstrual periods are a fact of life and you will not be excused from class during menses.” There is giggling.

  Ms. Gliss raises her voice. “I said quiet! If you need a sanitary pad or tampon, I am happy to provide you one. Just please do not start thinking of my office as a drugstore.” She smiles for the first time. It’s one of those lovely, beguiling smiles you sense has served its bearer well.

  “I encourage all of you to participate in after-school sports. It’s not too late to join the JV or intramural soccer or field hockey teams. And, as usual, throughout the semester I will be having sign-ups for regional walk/jog fundraisers: Crop Walk, Race for the Cure, AIDS Walk, et cetera.” Finally, the woman says something I can get on board with! “These fundraisers are not required, but I urge you to participate. They are good for your body and your character.

  “Now, as many of you know, it’s a big year for Cheer Squad.” Her smile starts to sparkle. “We have an excellent shot at making state finals. Isn’t that right, Jacinda?”

  “Yes, Ms. Gliss.”

  Ms. Gliss nods and continues talking, extolling the virtues of fitness, sports, nutrition, and weight loss to attain a healthy body mass index, until the bell slices into her monologue.

  Jacinda and I make our way out of the locker room.

  “What was that about?” I ask.

  “What? Ms. Gliss?”

  “Yeah. The Cheer Squad?”

  “Oh, she’s the coach. Hi, Julie!” She waves at someone. “It’s, like, so Glee, right?”

  “So Glee?”

  “Glee? The TV show? You haven’t seen Glee? Seriously, I don’t know how you survive without a TV.” She waves at another girl going by. “Ta-ta, Andrea! Come on, Evie, let’s get you—hi again, Stiv!—to your next bell.”

  Okay, I’m totally lost. But she’s too busy social butterflying to explain.

  Biology, physics, and at last it’s time for lunch. Rajas— Rajas! Yes!—and Jacinda guide me into the serving line of the cafeteria. And holy crap. The food? Horrendous. Beyond horrendous. A forensic scientist would be gobsmacked. Hamburger patties on soggy white buns… how would you ever trace this oily gray circle back to a cow? Uck. And the jello. Show me any food in the natural world that shade of neon green. You can’t.

  The salad bar offers the only food bearing any semblance of…food. Note to self: pack a lunch tomorrow. And forever.

  I limp through the cash register line and start to follow Jacinda and Rajas to a table.

  “Hold on,” I call to them. “It’s such a beautiful day, why don’t we dine alfresco?”

  Rajas grimaces. “Sorry, Eve. Outside’s not an option unless you want detention.”

  Even a total school virgin like me knows detention is something to be avoided, so I follow Jacin
da to a cramped table. There are two empty chairs, which seem to have Rajas’s and Jacinda’s names on them.

  “Sit,” Rajas tells me. “I’ll go find another chair.” Too tired to argue, I plop down and Jacinda introduces me around the table. Most of the kids smile. The placement of their cheeks and lips are right, but there is a hollowness, a hesitancy around their teeth. One of the girls— Megan?—looks up from her phone and frowns, her eyes going up and down my body, taking in my Levis, my shabby T-shirt. Her lips purse and she looks back down, resumes tapping her phone’s screen. The boys, in general, seem friendlier and less judgmental. The girls need to step up their game.

  Jacinda smiles and laughs at someone’s joke, someone else’s bit of gossip, while I inwardly quiz myself on people’s names. Marcie, Stiv, Megan (I’m pretty sure), Matt, Jim. This blur of faces and hair and clothes and food and phones and chatter, it’s more than a little overwhelming. When Rajas returns and sets his chair down next to me, I melt with relief, and I touch his elbow with mine to convey my gratitude. He seems to shiver at my touch—or am I just imagining it? Wishful thinking? He smiles. My stomach flips, my heart thumps. Being near him is the heart-rate boosting equivalent of ascending a Mayan pyramid.

  “How are classes so far?” Rajas asks, nearly shouting to be heard over the din. Our table seems to be the epicenter of the cafeteria.

  “Okay,” I shrug. “I’m a bit whiplashed from the newness of it all. But so far, so good.”

  Across the table, Jacinda peels her orange and leans into our conversation. “Ohmigod, stop being so modest!” Turning to Rajas, she says, “You should have seen her in Global View!”

  “Not a big deal,” I say, poking at my shredded iceberg lettuce in its Styrofoam (Styrofoam! How has that not been banned yet?) bowl.

  “Whatever! You totally went toe-to-toe with Brookner!” She pulls off the last bit of orange peel and picks at the white membrane. “Raj, will you please tell Evie The Way of The Brookner? And more specifically, his quotes?” She sections her orange and offers me a piece. “Raj took Global View last year.”