This Girl Is Different

by J. J. Johnson

  First, let’s talk about the crazy lack of civil liberties. Example: Why can’t students use our phones for actual phone calls? Sure, it would be disruptive in class time but what’s the problem with calls during lunch or free periods? It doesn’t make sense (and discriminates against students who can’t afford smartphones). Also, why can’t we have lunch or free time outside? It is a scientific fact that, due to lack of exposure to sunlight, three quarters of teens and adults in the U.S. have a vitamin D deficiency, a problem that can lead to cancer, diabetes, and bone and heart disease.* Let’s combat this problem by going outside! And those are just two examples out of the multitude that happen all the time.

  As for the disparity between teachers and students, I could go on and on but I’ll stick to one example. The bathrooms. Ever been in a faculty bathroom? They are a veritable breath of fresh air compared to our facilities! I mean, just consider the student bathrooms. First there’s the reek of cigarette smoke and rancid pee. Then there is never any toilet paper. Never! And even with four stalls, there’s only ever one garbage can. Which is next to the exit. Why, a reasonable person might ask, is it positioned thusly? Is it just so when you have your period you get to carry your pad or tampon out of the stall—again, without toilet paper—to throw into the garbage? Well no wonder the toilets are always overflowing from people trying to flush their pads. Fact: the women’s faculty restroom has garbage cans in each stall. It has toilet paper to spare. It has lovely soaps, and its clean sinks actually drain. And guess who can’t use said restroom? Students can’t. I know this because Ms. Theodore gifted me with five detentions, just for using the faculty toilet.

  Um, where was I? Oh yes. The unsustainable, inhospitable environment. If you’re paying attention, you’ve noticed this dovetails nicely with the aforementioned lack of sunlight, and disgusting toilets. Also I’ll mention that the cafeteria uses Styrofoam and disposable plastic, which is totally unsustainable. How hard would it be to use regular dishes? In conclusion (See, Mr. Wolman? I can write a persuasive essay!): Perhaps you, my fellow students, have, after spending most of your lives subjected to these injustices, become inured. You have gotten used to these things. Or maybe you are simply apathetic. But that doesn’t mean that the way things are is the way things should be! It doesn’t mean student inequities are okay. There’s a saying: Just because no one complains doesn’t mean all parachutes are perfect.

  If you’re with me, speak up! We can make this place better!

  Sincerely,

  Evie M.

  Senior

  * You don’t have to take my word for this. See Scientific American, March 23, 2009, “Vitamin D Deficiency Soars in the U.S., Study Says,” by Jordan Lite.

  To: eviepeaceandjustice@gmail.com

  From: editor@purpletornadonews.org

  Re: Re: for publication in the student newspaper

  Hi Evie. Stiv here. We are in the same Global View class. I just want to say thanks for the letter to the editor. It is very well written and funny. Unfortunately, the Purple Tornado News can’t publish articles that reference specific teachers. It’s a school policy. So if you want to try rewriting your letter without any of the specifics and without naming names, I could read it again. If I think it’s okay, and the advisor (he’s Mr. Wolman, I didn’t show him your letter) approves it, then it can go to print.

  Thanks again for writing. See you around,

  Stiv Wagner

  Editor in Chief, Purple Tornado News

  8

  And yet it turns.

  —???

  Well well well. Brookner has upped the ante.

  “Class, settle.” He claps his hands. “How about it, Evie? Who said it?”

  All eyes are on me. I swallow hard. Word has spread about my daily tête-à-têtes with Brookner, my detentions, my letters to the paper. Rajas and Jacinda haven’t come right out and said it, but their worry is palpable. Apparently I hopped a train from interesting to exasperating, and now kids are talking about me—not in a good way. In Global View, Marcie and editor-in-chief Stiv are friendly enough, but others are not so generous. Megan, in particular, seems like a bit of a hater. During lunch, in my safety zone wedged between Rajas and Jacinda, people are polite. Yet there’s something missing. You hear it in the curt, one-word answers people like Matt and Jim give when I attempt to strike up a conversation. Their eyes say things: weirdo, misfit, hippie.

  On Facebook, I have been friended…and then unfriended.

  Sure, I could quit my rabble-rouser ways. Conform to the norm. Go with the flow. Giving up things like my letters to the editor and this repartee with Brookner would make life easier. And since I have so much fun with Jacinda and Rajas—beautiful, uninvolved (according to Jacinda) Rajas—why not relax, let it roll, just enjoy? Tempting. So tempting. But what would be the point? I came to school to experience something new and be true to myself. Get a different perspective without losing my own. Put to use all the stuff that Martha’s taught me about standing up to injustice and questioning authority.

  Besides, I love discussing the quotes with Brookner. He’s an interesting guy, much more so than my other teachers. I like Ms. Crandall and Mr. Wysent, and while I’m not a big fan of Ms. Gliss, and I’ve had some heated disagreements with Mr. Wolman and Ms. Theodore, the other teachers seem okay. I’ve gotten to know the detention monitor pretty well; he helps me with my physics homework. But Brookner is far and away my favorite.

  I clear my throat but don’t say anything yet.

  Brookner comes onto his toes, pauses like a pendulum and rocks back onto his heels, adding a rhythm to the uncomfortable quiet. “No, Evie? Hmm. Okay. This quote is from Copernicus.” His eyes flit to me. “He’s referring to the revolution of the planets—”

  The man is goading me. “Mr. Brookner.”

  He smiles. “Yes, Evie?”

  “I’m pretty sure it was Galileo.”

  A groan emanates from the back of the class. To my right, Matt whispers, “Dude, would you just let it go!” It stings.

  Brookner tilts his head, “Really, Evie.”

  I take a deep breath. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”

  “Would you care to elucidate?”

  “It’s about speaking truth to power.”

  A glint in Brookner’s eyes. “Is it now.”

  I nod. “It is.” Marcie rolls her eyes. At me or Brookner? I can’t tell.

  Fortitude. “Galileo figured out that the planets circled around the sun, right?” I look around, smile at Stiv and Jacinda and Marcie, to encourage them to get into the discussion. No go. I continue, “The Church said this was heresy because God made the earth, so it must be the center of the universe. During the Inquisition, the Church made Galileo recant his theory. He did, but then he said, ‘And yet it turns.’ Because he knew you can deny the truth, but that doesn’t make it any less true.”

  Brookner smiles. “Ah. Speak-ing truth to pow-er.” He punctuates each of his syllables as if to mark this as an important moment. He locks my gaze in that way of his that there’s no getting used to, like he wants to penetrate deep into your soul. It’s three-quarters flattering, one-quarter creepy, because sometimes it lingers too long. It reminds me of one of Martha’s random friends back in Montreal, who thought he could cure headaches just by pressing his fingers to your head. He figured his belief in himself was so strong, it superseded all others’ beliefs. Brookner is like that. In another life, he would have been an evangelical revival preacher, or a transcendentalist acid-tester, a devotee of his own powers, basking in his followers’ approval and praise.

  Maybe I’m being too hard on him. He is the smartest teacher by far, and I’m a sucker for how he quotes books and music and movies and ties them all in together in surprising ways. Like his wacky theory that world social order can be traced back to the trade of coffee, opium, and chocolate. Not to mention his charisma, which can be mesmerizing. I can see why Jacinda has such a raging crush on him. They are exactly the qualities that make Rajas warn us
about him, over and over; he’s worried that Brookner will snare us in a lethal trap of attention and charm. And then what? Turn us into vampires?

  I meet Brookner’s eyes and can’t help but smile, feel a tingle of thrill. “You know it. Speaking truth to power.”

  “Truth.” He holds my gaze. “You are a believer, then, Evie?”

  Behind me, someone snorts while I consider Brookner’s question. “I wouldn’t necessarily say that.”

  “I see. But you believe in one unifying truth?”

  “Yes.” Love.

  He sweeps his arm in a grand gesture and begins to pace. “Then you, Evie, are a believer. But what if your truth is wrong?”

  “The truth can’t be wrong. That’s why it’s the truth.”

  “Doesn’t it vary according to your point of view?”

  I tighten my ponytail. “Maybe your view of the truth varies. But the truth is…untouchable. It doesn’t vary. It just is.”

  “Ah. A true believer, indeed.”

  My cheeks burn. I glance over at Jacinda. Lips pursed, she’s staring at Brookner, in thrall. Brookner is, in turn, staring at me.

  “Yes, well. Time shall reveal all, hmm?” He opens the textbook. “Now. Moving on. If you will all open to page 110, we can read the words from Galileo himself.”

  Textbooks knock onto desks, pages flip, the room relaxes. I stare at the drawing of Galileo Galilei on page 111. As I suspected, Brookner knew the source of the quote. He credited Copernicus to get me talking. Tricky man.

  Jacinda clicks her pen, poised over her notebook. Thank God she doesn’t think of me as a weirdo or smart-ass or know-it-all; she clearly holds a lot of social influence around these parts. If Rajas and Jacinda didn’t have my back, I would’ve already been thrown to the wolves.

  At least it’s only a few more periods until lunch. And Rajas. Available, not-involved-with-anyone Rajas. Who seems very glad I’m here. Unlike Ms. Gliss, who hasn’t given me a break since the dreaded Lunchtime Mobile Phone Incident in September. Since then she’s slapped me with two more detentions, both for insubordination.

  Insubordination. The perfect foil for abuse of power. A catchall for anything a teacher doesn’t like. Such as my ankle taking too long to heal.

  “You need to join the class,” Ms. Gliss had informed me. “Your fitness is already suffering.” She made a point of staring at my stomach. “I have no doubt your ankle has healed by now.”

  “It’s not ready for field hockey, but I’m happy to do gentle yoga.” My offer degenerated into a debate about whether students have the liberty (my word) to subvert (her word) their teachers’ class plans. Bam. Detention.

  The next Gliss detention was for not having the right kind of sneakers. I argued that students should not be required to buy sweatshop products. She remained unmoved. I told her there was no way I could ask Martha to pay for overpriced sneakers. Ms. Gliss remained stoic. So then I asked her whether Nike paid her for endorsements. Wham. Detention.

  And Jacinda had defended her, urging me to bite the bullet and buy the sneakers. I love Jacinda, but I don’t think she gets the concept of limited means. Martha and I have everything we want, but that’s because we don’t want much. There’s no getting around the fact our budget is tight.

  Another detention had nothing to do with sneakers or faculty bathrooms. I was feeling sorry for the python who lives in our biology classroom, so I took him out of his habitat for a little snuggle before the bell rang. Mr. Wysent was pretty nice about it. He seemed apologetic, but said it was policy to assign detention to anyone who, under any circumstances, opened a school animal habitat. Mr. Wysent alluded to some sort of frogs-inthe- cafeteria-jello fiasco a few years back. So, again with the detention.

  Gym with Ms. Gliss, a smelly hay infusion bio lab with Mr. Wysent, then the mind-bending study of physics. It’s a long morning.

  At the appointed lunchtime rendezvous location, Rajas is waiting for me; my heart pounds its customary Rajas rhythm. I look around. “Where’s Jacinda?” She always waits here in the hallway with Rajas, usually checking her phone for e-mail from her Internet Lover.

  “She has a Cheer Squad meeting.” He shrugs. “Some crisis or other.”

  “Oh.” I still can’t believe Jacinda’s a cheerleader—captain, no less. At first, I thought she was kidding. But it does explain her weird dynamic with Ms. Gliss. And all the Glee references. “I wonder why didn’t she tell me?”

  “Maybe she thinks you wouldn’t approve.”

  “Why wouldn’t I approve? I’m not that judgmental!”

  Rajas laughs. “Oh, so you do approve?”

  “Um…no.” He’s right. I have a strong anti-cheerleader bias. Well, not strong so much as colossal. From Martha, maybe? Or all those movies about catty girls? Note to self: there’s a lot more to Jacinda than some superficial, airhead, mean-girl cheerleader stereotype. Maybe it’s time to reexamine said stereotype?

  “Brought your lunch?” Rajas asks, bringing me out of my thoughts.

  I lift my cloth lunch bag to answer.

  “Good.” He looks around, all shifty-eyed, and takes hold of my arm. His touch electrifies every nerve ending, scalp to toes. “Come on.” Careful of my not-fullyhealed ankle, he jogs me away from the cafeteria, past the gym, turning a corner into a hallway I swear I never knew existed.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Shh,” he says. “Be stealth.”

  We turn another corner and stop in front of a classroom. He pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks the door, peering into the room like he’s making sure the coast is clear. He motions me to follow.

  In the dark, I bump into him. He fumbles around until a switch clicks and fluorescents flicker on, bringing the huge room—about half the size of the gym, but without its wall of windows—to light. Table saws, circular sanders, miter boxes, work benches.

  “The mythical shop class,” I marvel. “You have a key to Camelot?”

  Rajas cocks his half-grin. “Mr. Pascal just gave me one. Not supposed to let anyone else in here but…I figured you’d like it. Plus, look—” He points to a door I hadn’t noticed, on the outside wall. “We can duck outside for fresh air. Which I know you’ve been jonesing for.”

  “It’s perfect!” I throw my arms around him. “I love it!”

  His muscles tense. Oh nooooo. Is he uncomfortable or just surprised?

  I shrink back, unhugging, but he stops me.

  He leans in. I lean in. And I don’t believe it, because it’s all happening so fast, but our lips pull into each other and we’re kissing, his tongue warm but not as wet as I’d imagined, and our chests pressing together and it smells like sawdust in here and my stomach floats because I’m in free fall. It’s not a face-mashing kiss like in the movies. It’s the perfect first kiss. Gentle and sweet and slow and sexy all at the same time.

  Rajas pulls away. “I swear this wasn’t my plan. For bringing you here.”

  “Fine by me if it was.” I smile, but now things feel awkward. “So. Show me around?”

  He wipes a thumb across his chin.

  “Crap!” I clamp my hands over my face. “Did I drool or something? I’m kind of new at all this.”

  “Really? You don’t say.” Laughing, Rajas tries to pry my hands from my cheeks.

  I grab his hands. “Maybe I just need more practice.”

  “Just what I was thinking.”

  We kiss again. Oh God. If we keep going, I will melt into a puddle on the floor. Deep breath. I pull back just enough to say, “Okay. What are we doing here?”

  “Um, hooking up?” His dark eyes twinkle.

  “No, I mean what are we doing here, in shop class.”

  “Oh yeah.” He laughs. “Well, remember when we met?”

  How could I not? One tends to recall being struck by lightning. “What part?”

  He nods toward a corner of the room. “I brought my rocker in. I finished it.”

  So he did have an innocent reason. Damn. Does that make our kis
s more exciting—a spontaneous ourattraction- cannot-be-suppressed thing? Or is it lame that I practically jumped him?

  Wait. What am I doing? What’s with the self-doubt, Suzy Self-conscious? I’m nothing if not thick-skinned and confident. But…the way I feel about Rajas. It makes me soft and exposed, like a raw oyster. My protective shell has been shucked. And then tossed out to sea. And then sucked away with a riptide. I wonder about Rajas: does he feel insecure and vulnerable too? Sometimes I think I catch glimpses of it.

  Rajas takes my hand to lead me to his chair.

  Oh man. What a chair. It’s amazing. It’s not fancy, not cheesy or ornate. It’s simple, classic, well-made. Clean lines, with bark on the arms and splats, so you can appreciate the wood’s origin. It is functional and artistic, totally connected to the natural world.

  It is stunning. Wow. He made this.

  We’re still holding hands. His hands are a little larger than mine, a bit rougher. The calluses on his palm bump my own; his thumb is wrapped in a bandaid. They are strong, capable hands. I sensed all this before—this guy carried me out of the state forest, after all—but seeing his work, it’s all coming together: his hands, his subtle mind with a gift for constructing things, for discerning beauty and utility. This is a person who can make something exquisite and real.

  And it is a truth, an immutable, unchangeable truth: I am falling in love with Rajas.

  I’m a believer.

  He reaches out to the rocker, gives it a push to set it in motion.

  “Wow. This is fantastic,” I say about the chair—and him, and being here. “It’s like something you would see at a Blue Mountain art festival. It’s beautiful.” It is beautiful, and not just the chair. The lightning. Subjecting myself to the cheese grater of love. Rajas is worth it. The chair proves it.

  “You think?” His smile flashes a glint of vulnerability, like he can’t hide the fact that he was nervous to show me and now he’s relieved and proud.

  “I really do.” I study the wood. “Maple?”

  His eyebrows rise like he’s impressed with my knowledge, but not surprised. He nods.