Jacinda rolls on her side and smiles. “Anyway. Raj? He, like, really likes you. I mean he really likes you. I’ve never seen him so into anyone. He talks about you all the time.” She sighs dramatically. “Honestly, it gets a little boring.”
My cheeks get hot; birds fly around inside my body. I am freaking out with happiness.
She grins. “He’s my cousin and all, so I’m biased? But he’s the best. He’s so cool. You know how some people need attention at all costs? He’s the opposite of that. He’s so comfortable with who he is. He has no need to, like, broadcast his status.”
“On Facebook?” I’m kind of joking and kind of not.
“Right.” She laughs again.
“Like his relationship status?” Which hasn’t changed despite our hanging out together.
“Exactly. I would fall over if he ever put ‘In a relationship.’”
“Why? He doesn’t like labels?” I’m suddenly craving Jacinda’s perspective on this.
“I guess. He’s never been boyfriend-girlfriend with anyone. Like nothing serious.”
“So he’s not serious with me? But I thought you just said he really likes me? I’m confused.”
“I’m confused too!” Another laugh, but with less mirth. “Maybe he wants to keep you all to himself?” Wrinkling her forehead, she adds, “And seriously, don’t worry. Just because he’s done it before doesn’t mean he expects it from you.”
Even though I’m still not comprehending all of this, I dissolve into lake of relief. I hadn’t realized I was so stressed about sex, about my total inexperience. “Are you really sure?”
“I think that you should talk to him if you’re worried about it. But yes, I’m sure.”
We are quiet awhile. “He does love my spanky pants though,” I say.
She whacks me with a pillow. “Ew! Do I want the details of my cousin’s—ew! I don’t think so. Come on. Let’s get back to work.”
Over the course of the evening, I manage to shift my focus off Rajas. Jacinda and I brainstorm: We decide on a name for ourselves, for our plan. We create a blog so people can add comments.
Martha leaves for her HSP coffee thing and still we are working.
We fine-tune our manifesto, a team effort between Jacinda and me, with a little help from the much-underlined book, Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center, by bell hooks.
We read, we talk, we bounce ideas off each other. We take turns typing, and we are laughing and thinking and raging and finishing each other’s sentences all night. Jacinda calls her parents and we have the dinner Martha set out. I spoon out extra helpings onto Jacinda’s plate. “Mangia. Eat.”
Much later, Jacinda yawns and stretches like a cat. “What time is it?”
“12:45.”
“Does Martha always stay out this late?”
Seeing Jacinda stretch makes me need to stretch. I rotate my ankle to strengthen it. “Sometimes. She finally seems to be making some friends.” I twist to crack my back. “Okay. Break for lemonade, and then post it on the InterWeb?”
Her eyes go wide and she grins. “Are we really going to do this?”
“Yes, we’re really going to do this.”
“Holy cow. This is so going to rock!”
“I’ll call Rajas. You really think he’ll risk it?”
“For us? For you? Totally!”
“Lightning strike. Like a scarlet letter!” I’m practically jumping up and down. If my ankle wasn’t still sore, I would be jumping up and down.
“Okay, but you’ve got to, like, speak his language. Tell him it’s a prank; he’ll like that better than a scarlet letter.”
“Let’s call him now so he has time to start working on the lightning.”
She can’t stop giggling.
I stand on the futon, stooping a little so I don’t bump the ceiling window. “InterWeb manifesto! We shall take the fight for justice into our own hands!”
She stands too, and we wrap our arms around each other’s shoulders.
“Blogs and glue and lightning forever!” she shouts.
We jump around, me on one foot, chanting “PLUTOs! PLUTOs! PLUTOs!” like a couple of little kids until we are out of breath. Then we climb down to the kitchen and pour lemonade into two clean mason jars. We hold them up high and clink them. “A toast,” I say, “to friendship.”
“To trust,” she says.
“To keeping each other out of trouble!”
“Yes!” she agrees. “All for one and one for all!”
We can hardly drink for laughing. At last, a way to shake things up! I can’t wait to see the reaction at school tomorrow.
12
When a woman tells the truth she is creating the possibility for more truth around her.
—ADRIENNE RICH, POET AND FEMINIST, B. 1929
Hell yes! The PLUTOs plan has the desired effect and then some. Word spreads even before the homeroom warning bell rings. The place is abuzz; neurons are zipping across synapses like the whole school snorted Ritalin. Conversations fly, phones ping, questions reverberate through the halls and bounce into Brookner’s classroom.
—Did you see it?
—What’s it supposed to mean?
—The web page says it’s a mark against someone being a racist or whatever.
—That’s deep.
In Global View, Marcie swoops in on me before I have a chance to sit down. “Was it you?” she whispers.
Next to me, Jacinda shoots a look: part freaking out—Ohmigod! Don’t say anything! This is so cool—and part annoyed—Why isn’t Marcie asking ME if I posted it?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell Marcie.
“Uh-huh.” She looks suspicious. “Well, I’m kind of scared that Ms. Gliss will think it’s me!”
“She won’t,” says Jacinda. “The whole Cheer Squad was there when she yelled at you. Anyone who heard her could have done this. Plus, the boy’s soccer team was on the other side of the gym.”
Marcie groans.
“Not that they would have heard anything! They were too far away.” Jacinda touches Marcie’s arm. “Don’t worry, okay?”
“Seriously?” Marcie says.
“Seriously.”
Jacinda and I catch eyes. Never tell, never be divided, never be moved: the oath the three of us—Jacinda and me and Rajas—swore to each other in the middle of the night. All for one and one for all. Our actions have to be anonymous and we have to stick together. Because if Mr. Pascal finds out Rajas used his shop room key to help us, he’d revoke next year’s apprenticeship. And who knows what would happen to Jacinda? No more Cheer Squad captain? Her first-through-twentieth detentions?
The bell sounds, jarring all of our jumpy nerves. Brookner rushes in, uncharacteristically late, with a laptop tucked under his arm. As he clears his throat to speak, static pops from the PA speaker.
“Teachers, if you’ll excuse the interruption.” It’s Dr. Folger. “I’ll be brief. Students, good morning. I would like to remind you that vandalism and defacement of school property is a crime. Indeed, it is not just a school infraction but punishable by law as well. I’d also like to remind you that we have a zero tolerance policy for bullying, whether the target is a teacher or student. This goes for online bullying as well. Violators of this policy will be identified and summarily suspended, with recommendation for expulsion. People’s good names are not to be trifled with. That is all. Good day.” The loudspeaker emits a series of clicks and goes silent.
Well. That answers my question about what would happen if we get caught. Poor Jacinda and Rajas. Thank God I’ve got a safety plan. I can always go back to homeschool.
“Yes, well.” Brookner opens the laptop and prods a button. He rocks onto his toes. “I trust that word has traveled?”
Most of the class nods. A couple of students stare at their desks, like they are reluctant to admit ignorance. Marcie is so antsy and agitated she looks like she’s about to combust.
Brookner taps some keys on th
e computer. “To recap, for those of you who may not know: It seems that a lightning bolt, made of cardboard or perhaps a thin veneer of wood, has been affixed to the gymnasium doors, as well as to the door of Ms. Gliss’s office. The lightning bolt suggests a website to look up for further elucidation. The lightning bolts have been glued quite robustly and are not coming off, despite the Herculean efforts of the janitorial staff.”
Good God, I hope my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel. Is Jacinda holding herself together? I don’t dare look.
“Yes, hmm.” Brookner presses his fingers onto his desk and leans toward the laptop, scanning. As he reads, his eyebrows rise until they are levitating over his glasses. “Interesting, to say the least.” He turns from the computer screen to stare directly at me. “Most interesting, indeed.” A flash of something passes over his face before he looks away. Amusement? Approbation? “Since it is current events day, why not start with this particular current event? Anyone interested in what the website says?” Without waiting for an answer, he finds the cable from the classroom TV and connects it to the laptop.
Our blog pops onto the TV. Brookner steps back to survey the screen. He rocks onto his toes, crosses his arms. “Thoughts? Hmm?”
The class is quiet, taking in the words on the screen. It is a manifesto, our manifesto, mine and Jacinda’s, with a pinch of Founding Fathers, a dash of Martha, and a sprinkling of bell hooks. This publicity is even better than expected—broadcasted threats of expulsion, Brookner donating classroom time to our cause. Are other teachers doing the same? My heart thumps with pride, basking in our words writ large on the TV screen.
We, the People’s Lightning to Undermine True Oppression (PLUTOs) hold these truths to be self-evident:
1. ALL people should be Free to Be You and Me! It ain’t just a song, people!
Everyone—EVERYONE—deserves RESPECT, all the time.
This includes kids and adults, students and teachers.
2. When disrespect and inequality is built into a system, it becomes oppression. Some examples:
A. Students who can’t buy smartphones are expected to do without the internet privileges afforded to wealthier students.
B. Teachers are given better bathrooms than students.
C. Teachers show disrespect toward students by raising their voices and assigning detention whenever they want for insubordination. Can you imagine students yelling at teachers? We would get suspended!
These are just a few examples. Therefore, be it resolved, that our school is an oppressive system, and many of its members are complicit in enacting various forms of oppression.
3. Types of systemic oppression include, but are not limited to, the following: racism, sexism, elitism, ageism, authoritarianism, sizeism, homophobia, and religious intolerance. ALL of them occur in our school.
4. Any attempt to oppress any person or group is unacceptable.
5. Everyone makes mistakes. However, when someone does something super egregious, or when the accumulated number of someone’s mistakes indicate HABITS of oppression, we WILL take action to hold that person ACCOUNTABLE. Lightning will strike!
6. People struck with lightning will be listed on this site by initials, along with their infractions against humanity.
7. The founders of PLUTOs will remain anonymous. So don’t ask!
Join our cause, anytime, anywhere,
by uniting against oppression!
Post comments on this page!
Free speech for all!
Speak up! Start the revolution!
COMMENTS
First lightning strike: Ms. G. for blatant sexism and sizeism and disrespect of students by yelling at students for their weight and size. She thinks it’s appropriate to humiliate and shame students, but guess what? You can’t hide from justice! Ha!
A staccato rap rap rap shakes the classroom door, snapping my attention away from the genius that is the PLUTOs blog.
Brookner opens the door, and there stands Dr. Folger. Jacinda gasps and the color drains from her face; she looks terrified.
“Mr. Brookner. Students. Excuse the interruption.” Dr. Folger bows slightly. “A word?” He motions Brookner forward and whispers something. Brookner nods, listening, his hands clasped behind his back.
When the two men separate, Brookner swivels around to regard me with what seems like a mix of interest and pity. “Evie. Dr. Folger would like a word with you.”
Jacinda doesn’t move; she is frozen, staring straight ahead. I take a deep breath.
“Bring your things,” Dr. Folger says.
I guess this means I might be out of class a while. Which does not seem good.
Another deep yoga breath. I pick up my stuff and stand tall.
My heart is pounding, pounding, inching its way into my throat.
13
If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies, we are determined to foment a rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we have no voice or representation.
—ABIGAIL ADAMS, ABOLITIONIST, 1744–1818
Dr. Folger settles into a swivel chair behind his big wooden desk. Plaques and degrees coat his office walls. A huge herd of Slinkies populates the horizontal surfaces of his bookshelves, desk, filing cabinet. I set down my bag and move one of the two empty chairs toward the door, so that we are on a diagonal. I don’t like being maneuvered into talking over a wide expanse of desk. It’s a proclamation of authority. Dr. Folger raises his eyebrows at my move, but he doesn’t object. A thin manila folder floats in the middle of his desk. What’s in it? Results of my Battery of Tests? Grade reports? The inscrutable white copies of those triplicate detention forms?
“Thank you for meeting with me,” he says, as if I had a choice in the matter, “Ms. Morningdew.”
“I prefer Evie.”
He tilts his head: an inquiry.
“Martha—my mom,” I explain, “went a little crazy naming me. She didn’t just make up my first and middle names, she made up the last name too.”
He smiles. “Fair enough. But you may have to remind me. Evie.” He picks up a rainbow-colored plastic Slinky and ripples it. “I’ve been meaning to officially welcome you to our school.”
“Thanks,” I say, “for the welcome. But isn’t this really about something else?”
He smiles, not an unfriendly smile. “Indeed. Yes, it is.” Time for another deep breath.
“I’ve asked you to meet with me to discuss certain… events.”
“The lightning? The PLUTOs website?”
He looks surprised. I bet he’s accustomed to students trying to sidestep him instead of confronting him head-on. He sets down the Slinky and opens the folder. “It looks like you’ve had some trouble with Ms. Gliss and Ms. Theodore and Mr. Wysent.”
“I’ve served my time.” I’m about to say something about the bathrooms or the socioeconomic bias of the phone policy when I remember we talked about it on the PLUTOs blog. So I keep quiet.
He scans the folder. “Yes. But you’ve had some other trouble.”
“Can I see that?” I hold my hand out.
He jerks the folder back as though he’s astonished—simply astonished!—that I would ask.
“It’s about me, right?”
“Indeed it is.”
“So why can’t I see it?”
He clears his throat. “I’m happy to tell you what is in here,” he says, tapping the file, “but I can’t let you read it. I have to protect my teachers’ confidentiality.”
My eyes bug out. “Your teachers’ confidentiality? They can write in my file? They can see it?”
He strums a different Slinky, this one small and metal. “They can add a note or two if they so desire.”
“Uh-huh. Okay. Right.” I undo my hair elastic, snap it around my wrist like a bracelet. “Can I add a note too, then? Since it is my file?”
Dr. Folger smiles and chuckles. “Ms. Morningdew—”
“Evie.”
“Evie. It’s un
orthodox. But…yes, I would include a note from you. What will you write?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Ah.” He returns to my file and is quiet for a moment, reading. “I see you’ve expressed interest in attending college.”
“Yes. Cornell. They have a program for Urban Planning with a concentration in Social Justice.”
“So they do.” Smiling, he points to a frame on the wall.
I glance at the framed diploma and jump up for a closer look. Cornell University confers…James Charles Folger, Baccalaureate of Science in Urban and Regional Studies. My hands fly to my mouth. “You’re kidding! I don’t believe it!”
Dr. Folger chuckles.
“That’s the same department!” I study the diploma, visualizing having one of my own, with my name on it, and then I look at the one next to it. “And you got your doctorate from Harvard. Not too shabby.”
“The Ed school at Harvard. A bit more down-to-earth than the rest of the place. All of the excellence, less of the hubris.”
“Wow.” I shake my head as I sit. “Did you like Cornell?”
“No.”
“No?”
He grins. “I didn’t like it—I loved it.” He swivels in his chair. “It was a wonderful program, phenomenal teachers. I learned so much there, both from classes and the practicums. And I made lifelong friends.”
“Wow. You could write me a letter of recommendation!” It’s a thought and suggestion and question—until I remember why I’m here. That he pulled me out of class, ostensibly for a big-time infraction.
He looks at his hands. His suit jacket pulls a bit at its shoulder seams. “I would love to, Ms. Morn—Evie. If,” he raises a finger, “if I were certain I could do so in good conscience.”
My heart sinks. Wait for it…
“Now. You and I both know that this…lightning strike…is a rather alarming development. I must take it quite seriously.” He clears his throat. “And it coincides with your appearance at this school, as well as your interest in, shall we say, social justice activism.”
So. There might be a copy of my petition to the student council in that folder. Possibly even my letter to the editor? Both of which went over like lead balloons. What else lurks in those pages? “Correlation does not imply causation,” I say.
This Girl Is Different Page 9