Rajas’s eyes widen. “Holy crap! You discussed the quote?”
“Not only discussed,” Jacinda squeals, “she wrote her response on the board!”
Rajas grins. “Nice.” He shakes his head and takes a section of orange. “Be warned that Brookner takes those quotes seriously.”
Jacinda nods. “They are, like, his thing.”
Rajas says, “It’s his intellectual gauntlet. He always starts class with a quote. He’ll swear that he wants a discussion, but really he just wants to explain it himself and then jump into his lecture.”
“That’s not true!” Jacinda comes to Mr. Brookner’s defense.
Rajas gives her a dubious look.
“Well,” I say, “either way, people must discuss the quotes with him all the time.”
Rajas and Jacinda shake their heads, their gazes sticking on me so their eyes roll side to side while they say no. Rajas says, “Not really. Not until today, sounds like.”
“Well, that’s just weird,” I say. “I can’t be held responsible for throwing down the gauntlet if I didn’t even know that’s what I was doing.”
“Now you do, though. Know, I mean,” says Jacinda. She pops another piece of orange in her mouth and turns to Rajas. “He seemed impressed. And slightly irritated.” She spits out a seed into her napkin. Leave it to Jacinda to make seed spitting look polished and ladylike. “I wish it had been me sounding so smart about his quote,” she sighs.
Rajas leans toward me—and I almost drop my plastic fork because Oh God he smells so good; today it’s cinnamon and coffee beans and oranges. He speaks into my ear, “Jacinda gets wiggy when it comes to Brookner. She’s been lusting after him for a year.” He says it in a kidding-but-not-really kind of way, and his disapproval is clear.
“Shut up! I can tell what you’re saying!” Jacinda scrunches up her face; her eyes dart around our table. People keep looking at us, but it’s so loud in here that I don’t think anyone can hear our actual conversation. Jacinda leans closer to me and says, “Okay, maybe I have a crush—but you cannot tell anyone.”
“Well, he does seem pretty cool. For a teacher.” More interesting than any other teachers I’ve encountered this morning. “Besides, who am I going to tell? You two are the only people I know at this school.”
Rajas lowers his voice to say something to Jacinda, and I manage to catch a word or two: I mean it…careful…sketchy.
Jacinda pouts. “Those are just rumors and you know it.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out her phone.
I take a forkful of salad. They’re talking about Brookner—they must be—but I can’t catch the exact words. Should I ask? Would that be too nosy? I’m still debating when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I dig it out and flip it open. I don’t have to look at the number to know who it is. “I’m fine, Martha.”
“Darling! I just wanted to check in. How’s it going? It’s pretty slow here at the Mart of Wal.”
Typical Martha: she calls to check on me but talks about her day first. Gazing out the window, I muse, “Maybe it’s because it’s so nice out.”
Rajas catches my attention. He looks horrified, like I’m mutilating puppies, or something equally heinous.
“What?” I ask, but he’s looking over me now, behind me. So is Jacinda and everyone else.
“No phones!” A voice from earlier in the day. A small hand appears in front of me. “Hand it over.”
I turn to face the owner of the hand. Ms. Gliss.
“I’ll be off in a second,” I tell her. Speaking into my phone, I say, “Martha? I have to go, but I’ll see you when I pick you up, okay?”
Sighing, “I’ll be waiting with bated breath, my love.”
“Okay. I love you—”
But the cell phone has been yanked out of my hand by Ms. Gliss. Apparently in this case, The Man is A Woman.
5
It is not desirable to cultivate a respect for the law, so much as for the right.
—HENRY DAVID THOREAU, WRITER AND PHILOSOPHER, 1817–1862
s. Gliss confiscates my phone. “The Fourth Amendment protects from illegal search and seizure,” I tell her. “So you can’t take my phone.” Ha! Schooled.
Her forehead wrinkles, but she recovers quickly. “The Fourth Amendment protects you in your own home. You’re in my house now.”
Whoa. The woman seems to know her history. But she can’t be right. Even at school, you can’t be subjected to search and seizure, can you? Not without a warrant. Anyway, it’s moot now. She already has my phone.
“You can pick it up at the main office at the end of the day,” she says. The smugness in her voice is almost tangible.
I look around the cafeteria. What’s with all the other kids tapping away on their phones? Why isn’t she giving them grief?
“I’d say you’re not off to a very good start here, young lady.” Ms. Gliss writes something on a form, rips off one of a triplicate page, and hands it to me. A yellow carbon copy. “Your parent or guardian will need to sign this.”
“You could have just talked to her. That’s who I was on the phone with.”
Her eyes harden. “You watch your step.”
“Are the rules written down somewhere? Because I didn’t get the memo about phones.” I am now beyond confused.
From the look on her face, Ms. Gliss isn’t a big fan of explication. Or levity.
As soon as Ms. Gliss is gone, Jacinda, who has been silent, studying her hands in her lap, starts talking. “I’m so sorry, Evie! Ms. Gliss can be a real stickler. We should have told you that you can’t use your phone in school.”
I still don’t get it. Jacinda follows my gaze to the other kids with phones. “Oh! You can’t use your phone in school. But you can use the internet. During lunch, before and after school, and also if you have a free bell. Which you don’t,” she remembers.
Internet, okay. Phone calls, not okay. Interesting. “Does the school give out iPhones?”
Jacinda looks at me like I’m crazy. It’s the Did-you-just- get-back-from-the-moon? look. “This is a public school, Evie.”
“Then that’s discriminatory.”
“How do you mean?” Jacinda asks.
“Smartphones are expensive. The school should either ban them completely or provide them to everyone. Otherwise it’s biased, socioeconomically.”
“There are computers in the media center,” Jacinda offers. “Anyone can use those.”
“Are they portable? Small, and up-to-date?”
“No,” Jacinda frowns, “they’re big old desktops.”
“And how many are there?”
“I don’t know. Like three or four?”
“For the whole school?” I shake my head. “That’s not the same. It’s less convenient, and there’s a limited number.”
“You’re right,” Rajas says. “The policy isn’t fair. I’ve thought about that too.”
Jacinda stares at Rajas. “You want to give up your iPhone?”
Rajas ignores the question. “Technically, you’re only supposed to use them for academics. But it’s not really enforceable.”
“Yeah,” Jacinda agrees, “they don’t, like, check your internet history or anything.” She makes a face. “At least, I don’t think they do.” She looks around the table. “Can the school check your internet history?”
Marcie and Stiv shrug. Matt says, “Mr. Wolman said you can be investigated for anything you do during school hours.”
“Really?” Rajas says, like he doubts it.
Stiv says, “Doesn’t matter. You can always erase your history and delete your cookies.”
Man, I have a lot to learn.
After lunch, I limp my way—figuratively and literally— through English, geometry, and trigonometry. The teachers seem decent, if not super exciting, and I recognize a few faces from the morning. The English teacher, Mr. Wolman, asks us to write down our favorite books on index cards so he can get to know us. When he sees I’ve filled the entire front and back of my car
d, he smiles. It’s promising.
Megan has English with me, and she’s friendlier than she was at lunch. Matt, the guy from Global View and lunch, invites me to sit next to him in trigonometry. All in all, I survive my first day intact.
After the dismissal bell, I limp to the main office to retrieve my contraband. Ms. Franklin, the secretary, seems sweet. “Rough first day, hon?” She tilts a plastic container toward me. “Fudge? It’s my specialty.”
“Ah. You’re speaking my language.” I select a piece of fudge; it melts in my mouth. “Mmm. Chocolate heals all wounds. Thank you so much.”
“Anytime.” She opens a drawer in her desk and hands me my phone. “Maybe you should leave this at home tomorrow.”
“Or hide it better.”
She smiles. “I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that. Take another piece of fudge for the road.”
“Love to. Thanks again.” I hobble to the parking lot. My backpack is heavy with homework. Such a strange notion.
Halfway to the parking lot, Rajas finds me. He reaches out to take my bag.
“It’s okay, I’ve got it.”
“This is not chivalry,” he says. “Just while your ankle heals.” His hand is still out.
I give it over. We don’t talk much, but it’s a companionable quiet, comforting while we travel through the hectic lot. What I would give to be alone with him. I sneak a glance at his lips. How amazing would they be to kiss? He’s often chatting with girls, but I haven’t seen him sticking to any one particular girl besides Jacinda. So maybe he isn’t involved? Could he be interested in me? My legs turn to blueberry jam thinking about it.
We get to The Clunker. I climb in and he hands me my bag. “See you tomorrow,” he says.
I’m reluctant to leave, but I can’t think of anything else to say. “See you.”
He waves as I rumble off to pick up Martha.
She is waiting at the side of the building. “Tell me all, my love.” She swings herself into the passenger seat. “Have you been completely corrupted yet? My day was just awful. I almost got busted and had to flush our stickers. Which clogged the toilet. How’s your ankle?”
“Sore. Better overall, but worse than this morning.”
She nods. “It needs rest.”
We bump through the streets, then onto gravel roads home, and I listen to her recap her shift. As usual, she complains about overconsumption, the customers who come in every day to buy things they don’t need. After a while she loses steam. “Okay, let’s have it. How was The Institution of School?”
“The jury’s still out. It was mostly okay. And weird. I got detention, you’ll be pleased to know.”
Martha grunts. “For what?”
“Socioeconomic status.” I explain the phone rule.
“Darling. I’d say it speaks volumes about a place when the best punishment they can cook up is to spend more time there. It really brings to mind Freire’s theory of banking education—”
I hold up a hand to stop her. “Please do not commence rant. I don’t need a diatribe right now.”
“Fine. But let me say this.” She reaches over and musses with my hair. “If your goal is The Great Social Experiment, then you shouldn’t waste time before you start shaking things up.”
Right. The investigative reporter, the school shaker-upper. That’s what I’d told Martha to get her to let me enroll, but… “What if that’s not my main goal right now?”
“What else could possibly—” She chuckles with delight. “Ooh. And how is Rajas?”
I can’t help but give her a big, sloppy grin. “Wonderful.”
“Lightning.”
My stomach does cartwheels. I nod.
“Is he spoken for? Will you have to steal him away from someone?”
“Don’t know. His Facebook status doesn’t specify.”
“So that means he’s available?”
I sigh. “It means he didn’t answer the question.”
She gives me an incredulous look. “It hasn’t occurred to you to ask?”
“It seems like an odd question to just vomit out.”
“My love, my darling,” she clucks, “I raised you to be bold. But, c’est la vie…If you don’t want to ask Rajas, ask Jacinda.”
“Isn’t that kind of lame? I feel like it’s going behind his back. It’s cowardly.”
“Darling,” Martha says, “information is what girlfriends are for! Anyhoo, that boy’s got eyes for you. I can tell these things.”
My stomach flips again. “It does seem like it.”
“So don’t just stand there—”
“Bust a move?” I cajole The Clunker up our driveway.
“No wallflowering. Viva la revolución already! And if you must fall in love in the meantime, well…” She tugs my hair. “I suppose that’s allowed. Not that you need my permission.”
“You got that right.” I pull in next to The Dome and The Clunker shudders to a stop.
Hallelujah. Home. I hobble to the porch.
“You know what, my love?” Martha reaches into a tree to pluck an apple, one of the first of the season. “We’re both tuckered. You could use some company. I’m going to ditch Horny Singletons tonight.”
“Don’t even think about it, Martha. You need to hang out with people your own age.” I crunch into the apple. “Besides, I have homework.” Heaps of homework.
Martha screws up her face. “It’s my turn for Share Your Divorce Story night—”
“So make something up! Something torrid and lewd, with lots of drama and intrigue.” I wag my fingers at her. “Or better yet,” I say, “tell them the truth! ‘Truth is stranger than fiction.’”
Martha laughs, “I do what I can.”
I’m in the barn with Hannah Bramble’s warm company, my ankle propped on the milking stool. I’m writing in my diary, daydreaming about Rajas, when The Clunker rumbles home. Next to me, a pail of milk is cooling, steam twisting in languid circles over the creamy top. The cats have long since finished their milk—I always give them the first bit—and retreated to private corners to tidy their whiskers and paws. Nearby, the chickens cluck softly in their coop. In a few minutes, Martha appears with a glass of wine. She holds it out to offer me a sip. I shake my head and set my journal and pen aside. Martha sits in the straw.
“How was HSP?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She motions for me to move closer.
I lean back onto her leg, sigh as she pulls my hair elastic out of my hair. She nods toward my diary. “Planning the revolution?”
“Not yet. I’m making notes for a beautiful, sustainable school. Holistic architecture, natural materials, solar panels. Lots of natural sunlight. My goodness. Why does the place have to be such a factory? I bet every student there has a vitamin—”
“Vitamin D deficiency,” she finishes my sentence. “I have no doubt.” She sips her wine. “Well, darling, did you talk to Jacinda? Is Rajas a free man?”
I shake my head. “I feel sort of weird calling or texting her just to ask about Rajas. I’ll ask her first thing tomorrow.”
“Please do, my love.” We settle into quiet, listening to Hannah Bramble swish her tail. Martha strokes my hair, and I feel her divide it into three sections. I love it when Martha plays with my hair. It’s the most relaxing thing in the world. It’s her way of letting me know she’s listening, that she wants to hear more about my life, my thoughts.
“It was weird, school. Problematic.”
“Par exemple?”
I sigh. “Several. For one thing, there’s our gym teacher, Ms. Gliss.”
She snorts. “The one from the detention form?”
“That’s the one. You wouldn’t believe the way she took my phone. Just grabbed it right out of my hand. She acts like because she’s a teacher and I’m a student, I have no rights at all and she can do whatever she wants. With impunity.”
“Typical,” she harrumphs. “You said there were several things?”
“Well, it’s
not as overt, but she’s also obsessed with fitness. I know she’s a gym teacher, but the way she looked at the heavier girls? Her lecture about body mass index seemed more about appearance and being thin than it was about being healthy.”
Martha keeps braiding. “And this surprises you?”
“I just couldn’t believe how blatant she was. I’m surprised she didn’t whip out a scale and weigh everyone.”
“So do something. Expose her. Write something, publish it somewhere. That’s why you’re there, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “I don’t know. There’s probably a student newspaper.”
Martha tugs my hair to tell me she’s unhappy with my blasé attitude.
“I’m just tired, Martha.”
“Biding your time.”
“Sure.” If that’s what she wants to call it. Right now I’d just call it exhausted.
“Biding your time until you get it on with Rajas.”
I swat her. “Martha! Boundaries, woman! You are my mother.”
“You know I’m kidding, my love. And as your mother, I am required to advise you not to get it on until—”
“I know, I know: wait until I’m good and ready.”
“Wait until you’re good and ready, and then wait some more just to be sure.” Martha smiles into her wineglass. I close my eyes and lose myself in daydreams about Rajas, picking up right where I left off.
7
I really don’t think life is about the I-could-have-beens. Life is only about the I-tried-to-do. I don’t mind the failure but I can’t imagine that I’d forgive myself if I didn’t try.
—NIKKI GIOVANNI, POET AND ACTIVIST, B. 1943
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: for publication in the student newspaper
To the editor,
I am writing about injustice. It is occurring right now, every day, at this school. I’ve only been here a few weeks and yet it is clear to me there is an appalling lack of civil liberties for students. Not to mention a gross disparity between the rights of faculty and the rights of students, and an unsustainable, inhospitable environment.
This Girl Is Different Page 5