This Girl Is Different

by J. J. Johnson

  “Indeed not,” he concedes. “And yet, where there’s smoke there’s often fire.”

  I pull the elastic off my wrist and wrap my hair into a long ponytail. How much should I say? Dr. Folger seems cool, but what if he’s playing Good Cop, only to become Bad Cop two minutes from now? After all, he is the principal. He is The Man. I take another deep breath before asking, “Just for the sake of argument, it isn’t a crime for a student to create a blog, is it? I mean, free speech is protected by the First Amendment. I assume that public school students can exercise their constitutional rights. Although I could be wrong. Freedom of the press seems pretty subjective around here.”

  “How did you know the website is a blog?”

  “Mr. Brookner just showed it to us.” Thank God! That was a close one.

  “Did he, now?” He picks up the rainbow Slinky again. “As it happens, you are correct. Keeping a blog is not a crime. However, as it pertains to school systems, First Amendment rights must be tempered by the best interest of the institution.”

  “Yeah, I’m starting to figure that out. So let me get this straight: You can and would, in good conscience, deny individual students their rights? As in, the greatest good for the greatest number? You’re that much of a utilitarian?”

  “Not strictly, no.” He smiles, very slightly, like he is impressed with our discussion. “However, the fact is, Evie, that bullying is a crime. We have specific rules about online bullying, internet bullying.” He sets up the Slinky to watch it flip. “And libel is a crime—the crime of defaming someone in print. We are talking about a teacher’s good name.”

  “Are you sure her name is good?” I ask carefully. “I mean, hypothetically, what if the website was telling the truth? What if she did say horrendously awful things to a student?”

  “I have an obligation to protect my students, of course. So without divulging anything, I can tell you that Dr. Jones—the superintendent—and I shall investigate the claims.”

  I nod. Our eyes meet. He clears his throat. It’s a standoff. I wouldn’t be surprised if tumbleweeds rolled across the floor between us.

  Clearing his throat, he says, “Without sounding too nefarious, I will be keeping an eye on you, Evie.” He dips his head like our conversation is finished. “Ms. Franklin will write you a pass. Thank you for your time.”

  “Right. Okay.” I pick up my books.

  I’m opening his office door when he says, “Evie.”

  I turn around. “Dr. Folger.”

  “I want to make sure you realize something.”

  “What’s that?”

  He taps his fingers on my file. “This is your first time attending a traditional school. And it is your senior year.”

  I smile. “So far you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

  He returns the smile. “What you may not know is that your record will follow your application to Cornell.”

  “Right, right. The dreaded Permanent Record.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Thank you for the warning.” I turn back to the door. I can’t wait to rehash this with Jacinda and Rajas. She would have told him by now and they’ll both be dying to hear.

  “It will follow you even if you decide to…cease coming to school.”

  What? My brain falls to my stomach, and they both drop to the floor. Holy freaking crap. “You mean—”

  “If you drop out of school, Cornell shall still have access to your record. A record that will detail all the events concurrent with your time here.”

  I head back to the chair and sit.

  “You may go.”

  No. School and PLUTOs just changed from interesting novelty to a really, really bad idea. Now my dreams for the future are at stake.

  “I just wanted to be clear about that.”

  He’s managed to silence me. I nod.

  “I will also need to call your parents about this,” he says. “I generally follow up conversations like these with parents. Over the years I have learned it pays to keep them in the loop, as it were. To avoid surprises further down the line.”

  I can’t help but snort.

  “Is something funny?”

  “I’m sorry. Go ahead…call her. But be prepared.”

  He looks perplexed. “She’s very strict? You’d rather I didn’t contact her at this time?”

  “Martha’s as anti-strict as they come. Go for it. But you might want to brush up on your educational philosophy. She’ll probably throw Dewey at you.”

  “Ah. ‘Education, therefore, is a process of living and not a preparation for future living.’”

  Despite the turmoil Dr. Folger has spun my entire future into, I eke out a smile. “One of my favorite quotes.”

  He bows a little, a nice gesture that seems meant to convey respect. “I will look forward to talking with her.”

  We leave his office for the main office. Ms. Franklin, who was not here when we came in, looks up. She sets a can of Diet Coke down next to a needlepoint tissue box holder. “Hi, hon.”

  “You two have met,” Dr. Folger says.

  “Yes.” She smiles. “Evie, right?”

  I nod.

  “Shall I write a pass?”

  Dr. Folger says, “If you would.”

  Ms. Franklin pulls a blue notepad out of a drawer and begins writing.

  “Thank you for your time, Ms. M—” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. Evie. Do stay out of trouble. So I can write you that recommendation for Cornell.”

  Cornell. In case I’d forgotten.

  A Permanent Record that is truly permanent.

  All along, Martha has said this was a bad idea, and now I have to agree. Another fine mess I’ve gotten myself into.

  14

  Stare. It’s the way to educate your eyes. Stare. Pry, listen, eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long.

  —WALKER EVANS, PHOTOGRAPHER, 1903–1975

  “Well darling, it ain’t a revolution if nothing’s at stake,” Martha tells me when we get home from school and work. She wiggles her eyebrows. “And not for nothing, I planted a seed in Dr. Folger’s ear.”

  “That’s quite an image. A seed sprouting in earwax.” I frown. “He called already?”

  Martha hands me a mason jar of lemonade and clinks hers to mine. “I talked to him during my allotted twenty minutes of freedom. Congratulations, darling. You’ve made it to the top of The Man’s priority list.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Why so blue?”

  “Cornell.” I sip some lemonade and try to pull myself together. “So. What’s this seed you planted?”

  “Hell, I thought you’d never ask!” She turns a kitchen chair around to straddle it, crossing her arms over the backrest. “He told me the situation, of course, being very careful not to actually accuse you of anything. But he gave me an overview of PLUTOs and the lightning, which I already knew—”

  “You didn’t tell him it was us, did you!”

  Martha gives me her most insulted look. “I would sell my own flesh and blood and her friends down the river? How can you even—”

  I put up my hands. “Okay, okay! Abort rant, please. The seed?”

  “Right. So he told me what happened.” She twirls her hand to show she’s skipping to the good part. “And, because I am a grown-up, he listened to me.” She sniffs. “I think.” She tilts her head. “Yes, he listened. Seems like a decent guy. How the hell he ended up as principal of a—”

  “Martha. Keeping you on point is like herding cats.”

  “What? Am I rambling?”

  “The seed!”

  “Right. The seed.” She takes a swig of lemonade. “He told me what happened. I told him that, when all is said and done, sunlight is the best disinfectant.” She flips her hand to say, Ta-da!

  I wait for more. “That’s it?”

  “Of course, that’s not it! Well, yes, that’s it.” She sets down her lemonade and sighs dramatically. “The trick is to make it seem like his ide
a, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Make what seem like—”

  “That sunlight is the best…that free speech is the best thing, in the long run.”

  “I don’t think he would agree. In fact, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t.”

  “Listen. The point of your revolution is empowerment, is it not? If students feel empowered, they speak up. Nothing scares The Man more. But,” she adds, holding up a finger, “if The Man can feel like he has some control, some influence over people, even if they are bucking the system, well, then…” She trails off and smiles, very satisfied with herself.

  “I’m still not following.”

  Martha rolls her eyes. “Just you wait, my darling. I planted that seed. And if things get crazy—when things get crazy—he’s going to come back to it and think it’s his own idea.”

  At this point I’m completely lost. “What is his own idea?”

  “Sunlight, darling. Free speech.” She shakes her head. “I’m a tad disappointed you didn’t think of it yourself.”

  “News flash, Martha? I did think of it—the free speech part—if that’s what you’re talking about. The whole point of the blog is to encourage students to write comments and air grievances.”

  “Ah, but the trick is in the strategery, darling. Make Dr. Folger think it’s his own idea.” She stands. “Anyway. When are you gonna see that gorgeous boy Rajas again?”

  Good question. I am dying to be alone with Rajas somewhere other than shop room Shangri-la. But the rest of it? The stuff about strategy and Dr. Folger? That’s about as clear as mud.

  On Friday night, Rajas and I have a date. Martha has some HSP get-together and Jacinda is babysitting, so it’s just me and Rajas, with nothing tugging us in separate directions. We’re meeting Jacinda downtown at 11:00 after her baby-sitting gig; she’s sleeping over chez Dome.

  Rajas has parked the Blue Biohazard by a little-used playground on the edge of town, just past McDonald’s and the cemetery.

  The stars are barely visible, dimmed by the light of the moon. I can feel the air turning my cheeks apple red, crisp and rosy. Rajas has spread a picnic blanket onto the hood of the Biohazard. We’ve been lying here, kissing, for hours…or minutes…or weeks. I’ve lost track of everything except his tongue, his lips, his hands, his breath, his eyes.

  I’m evanescing into him.

  Until something buzzes in my pocket. My phone vibrates, then rings.

  “Ignore it,” Rajas mumbles through a kiss.

  “Planning to.” I stash my phone under the blanket. Whoever it is can wait. This is the most…the ultimate—I don’t have the words to describe it, the tautness of my nerves, the tingling in every inch of skin. Rajas’s hand finds its way under my sweatshirt. My cotton tank wrinkles as he moves his palm up my ribcage. His thumb is so close to my breast I think I might stop breathing at any moment.

  We roll over on the blanket, squishing the baguette that Rajas bought for our picnic. We kiss more, and more, and the moon is nearly full, bursting with light like my breasts surely will when he touches them. His fingertips could start fires.

  “Hang on a second.” I take a breath of courage and sit up to pull my sweatshirt over my head. Rajas’s look of surprise and delight makes me feel strong. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a girl do this before,” I tease.

  “Not like that.” He smiles. “I usually do it.”

  My heart drops like it’s tied to a bucket of rocks. I tug my sweatshirt back over my head and pull it down. “Really.”

  “Hey. I didn’t mean it like that.” He leans in, but there’s a hint of frustration. At my displeasure? Or because my sweatshirt’s back on?

  “Listen, I’m here with you. That’s what matters.” Rajas raises his eyebrows, like that statement should clarify everything.

  “I know I shouldn’t care, but I have to ask. Have there been a lot?”

  “A lot of what?”

  “A lot of girls.”

  He’s looking amused. He doesn’t want to make this easy.

  “You know what I mean! A lot of girlfriend-y type people.”

  “Hundreds,” he says. “Thousands.” He runs a finger down the bridge of my nose. “Does that make you feel better?”

  “No.”

  “Then how about if I said I’ve never had a girlfriend?”

  “No, because I know that’s not true.”

  “But it is. I don’t believe in the whole boyfriendgirlfriend thing.”

  “Because you hate labels.”

  “Yes. Boyfriend, girlfriend, it’s demeaning. A girl is a complete person in her own right. She shouldn’t be identified by her relationship to me. Plus, it just complicates things.”

  Okay, I’m with him on the girl power thing. But why would a label complicate a relationship? I don’t love the word “girlfriend” either, but in this case it would be so nice. It would clarify a whole lot; I would know where I stand with him. Actually it would be downright lovely. “Right. Okay. Well.” I’m trying to pick my heart up from the ground. It must be around here somewhere. “I just thought—”

  “Eve. I really like you. I want to be with you. Why put a name on it?”

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I manage a weak “Sure.” Breathe. “Sure. I get it. I’m anti-label. I’m an anti-label kind of gal. Anti-sweatshop too. And pesticides. And definitely labels. Labels, bad. Unless they say organic or fair trade or sweatshop-free…” I can’t stop talking. I sound like an idiot. Why can’t I stop? “Or, you know, phthalate-free, or—”

  He touches my cheek and kisses me. “You okay?”

  I nod instead of talking. God forbid I should blather on about sustainable, fair trade, shade grown, organic, bird-friendly coffee standards.

  Rajas smiles his amazing half-smile. His gaze goes foggy. “Eve. We can do, or not do, whatever you want. We can just hang out and look at the stars if you like.”

  Damn it. I’m acting insecure and jealous. Which I hate. I refuse to be that girl. This girl is different. This girl is true to herself. What do I want? I want this. I sit up straight and meet Rajas’s molten eyes and peel my sweatshirt off again. I smile at Rajas and smooth my hair, which is staticky from the sweatshirt’s repeat trips. Rajas reaches, slowly, toward my breast. And action! I’m back in the moment in an instant. Bubbling, tingling, evaporating.

  My phone rings again. Rajas swears under his breath. Without looking, I reach under the blanket to silence the ringer.

  His hands are on the move. My body rises to meet him.

  The phone vibrates wildly.

  “Gah!” Rajas moans in frustration. “Turn it off!”

  “Already done.” Flipping open the phone to power it off, I frown at the display. “Why would Jacinda be calling? Over and over? And wait, there’s three texts telling me to call, it’s an emergency.”

  “Probably because I told her not to bother us.” Rajas rubs his face. The phone starts buzzing again. “No! Don’t—”

  “Hello?” I answer, shrugging an apology to Rajas.

  “Evie? Ohmigod! I need help!” Jacinda’s voice is a squeak attack. She sounds like a dolphin.

  “What’s wrong? Jacinda, calm down. Come down an octave. Only whales can understand you.”

  After listening to her panicked explanation, I say, “Okay. We’ll be right—”

  “No!” Rajas grabs my phone. Is he playing? His tone is intense. “Jay. Don’t be ridiculous. We’re busy.” He jabs a button and chucks my phone into the open window of the Biohazard. “Now. Where were we?” He pulls me to him.

  “Rajas. I want to stay, believe me.” I have to get the words out before I melt into thick hot liquid again. “But Jacinda needs me.”

  “I need you.”

  “And you,” I tell him, grabbing my sweatshirt, “can have me. After I help Jacinda. The snake got loose.”

  “Not yet,” he teases, “but if you’re ready for it—”

  “Wow. That is lame, my friend.” I laugh through my sweatshirt as I pull it back on
. “I’m not making an innuendo about your…” I wrinkle my nose. Penis sounds so clinical and ridiculous, yet the other options aren’t any better: wiener, cock, dick, package? They sound either preschool or prostitute; there’s no middle ground. I change approaches. “The kid Jacinda’s baby-sitting has a snake. It got loose—again, not a double entendre—but she can’t get ahold of the parents and she’s freaking out.”

  Rajas breathes a heavy, mournful sigh. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  At the address she gave us, Jacinda is waiting on the front porch, clutching her cell phone, hopping from foot to foot. She jumps at every noise, as if, out of nowhere, a snake might fling itself onto her, poison dripping from enormous, glistening fangs.

  “Watch out, Jay.” Rajas shuts the Biohazard’s door and takes the porch steps two at a time. “Snakes move like lightning.” He fakes a karate chop for emphasis.

  Jacinda makes a sour face at Rajas and brings me into a tight hug. “Ohmigod, thank you so much for coming! Um, okay. You two can just go in. I’ll stay in the Biohazard and keep trying to call Brook—”

  Rajas freezes. “Keep trying to call who?”

  Jacinda covers her mouth, eyes wide.

  “This”—Rajas points—“is Brookner’s house.” He sounds pissed.

  Why? I look from Rajas to Jacinda.

  Rajas glares at her. “Isn’t it?”

  “Okay. I know you think he’s sketchy and all, but just listen. His regular baby-sitter canceled and so he called me to see if I could fill in. Should I just leave him in the lurch? Just because my overprotective, paranoid cousin heard some rumors?” She crosses her arms. “I don’t think so. That is, like, totally unprofessional. It’s against the baby-sitting code of ethics.”

  “He has your number?”

  “Everyone has my number. I’ve been hanging babysitting flyers all over town.”

  Rajas shakes his head. “I’m not snooping through Sketchy Brookner’s house for some snake on the lam.”

  I turn to him, surprised he’s being so stubborn. What’s up with that? These two always have each other’s backs. They are the poster children for close family relationships. “Why are you being so harsh?” I ask. “You can’t abandon your cousin.”