This Girl Is Different

by J. J. Johnson

  His expression is full of meaning. “Eve. There are other things I’d much, much rather be doing right now. And,” he says to Jacinda, “Brookner isn’t just sketchy. He’s bad news, Jay. You know what Nishi said.” Nishi is Rajas’s sister, Jacinda’s cousin. But what does she have to do with any of this?

  Rajas’s frown deepens. “And why isn’t Brookner answering his phone? What about his wife? Doesn’t she have her own phone?”

  Jacinda crosses her arms. “It’s just him. He’s divorced.”

  Rajas snorts. “Figures. She probably left him because he’s a letch.”

  “Whatever, Raj. Thanks a lot.” Jacinda sounds annoyed and looks apprehensive—probably about a snake ambush. She looks at me. “Okay. Booker’s in his room. You just go all the way through—”

  “Wait.” I stop her. “Did you say Booker? The kid’s name is Booker?”

  She nods.

  Rajas finishes my thought: “Booker Brookner. He named his kid Booker Brookner. Now I know the guy’s an asshole.”

  I sigh, and repeat the line I’ve had to say a thousand times. “It’s a parent’s prerogative to name a child what they want.”

  “You don’t really think that,” Rajas says.

  “No. I don’t.” But for now I’ll table my feelings about terrible names for children. “Where does Booker think the snake is?”

  Jacinda smiles like she’s relieved that I’m back to business. She pushes her fingers through her hair, making it spiky. “Booker’s room is in the back of the house on the first floor. Off the kitchen?” She shivers. “He’s looking for it in there.”

  I nod to Jacinda and throw a scowl—only half teasing— toward Rajas. “Sure you won’t help?”

  “Sure as—”

  “All right,” I cut him off. “I’ll be back.” I open the front door and step into Brookner’s living room.

  It is not at all what I would have thought. You’d think neat, adult, literary: rooms lined with mahogany bookshelves. Maybe some iconic pieces of modern furniture sitting atop a faux-zebra rug, as indicated by his trendy eyeglasses and decent sense of style. But this place is more Animal House than Dwell. A stained, naked futon slouches on an unfinished pine frame; stacked pizza boxes serve as end tables. One of those awful halogen torchiere lamps spotlights cobwebs and ceiling cracks. The staircase is covered in laundry. There is not one book in sight. Not even a magazine.

  “Hello?” I call. No answer. I keep going, into the kitchen. It is bright, functional, less filthy than the other rooms. Maybe Jacinda tidied up earlier? “Hello?”

  “In here!” A child’s voice, overrun with panic. “He usually goes under my bed, but this time I can’t—” A muffled crash. “Nope, crud! He’s not anywhere!”

  Booker’s room is stuffed with toys, clothes, a bunk bed, books, boxes, junk. Butt sticking up, he is kneeling to look under the bed. “He likes it where it’s dark.” Booker crawls around to face me. “I can’t find him.” His cheeks are mottled from crying. He looks about eight or nine, but I’m bad at judging little kids’ ages.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll find your snake,” I say.

  “What if he gets lost or hurt or something?”

  “We’ll find him. What’s his name?”

  “Javier.” Booker starts plowing through toys and clothes on the floor. “He’s a Colombian red tail boa.”

  “Oh, I bet he’s a real beauty.” I inspect the empty snake habitat in Booker’s room. “It’s cool that you’re more concerned about his well-being than you are freaked out.”

  He stops digging through clothes to give me a withering look. “Why would I be freaked out? I’m not a girl or anything.”

  Wowzer. Hello, incipient sexist. “Perhaps it’s escaped your attention that I am a girl? And I’m here to help you?” I smile to soften the words. “Just consider it your first lesson in feminism.” Surveying the room, I point to the radiator. “At least you have steam heat, so there aren’t air ducts for him to get into. That’s good news.”

  Booker just blinks, his little chin trembling. We start searching.

  An hour later, the downstairs sufficiently ransacked, Booker and I head upstairs. He is trying hard not to cry. “What if he starves? What if he gets in the street and someone runs him over?” He rubs his eyes.

  I pick my way through the piles of clothes on the stairs. “We’ll look up here and then we’ll…do you have a basement?”

  He nods, sniffing.

  “And an attic?”

  He nods again.

  This would be simpler if they lived in a yurt. “Javier will want warm before cool,” I say. “So we’ll check the attic next if we don’t find him up here.”

  “Okay.” His eyebrows are completely bunched together. “You do Dad’s room, I’ll do the library.”

  “No no no. Back it up there, buddy.” I am not stepping foot in Brookner’s bedroom. It’s way too personal.

  He shrugs. “Okay. Library’s that one.”

  The library. Ah. Now this is what I expected. Heck yes. The big desk, the antique wooden desk chair, the laptop perched on a pile of papers, it’s all here. An open dictionary, a baby monitor, a phone. Hanging above the desk, there’s an old sign that says Loafer’s Paradise. The oak floorboards groan when I move; the floor is straining under the weight of the books.

  The books. They encase the perimeter of the room. Dragging my fingers along their spines, it looks like Brookner has organized them into fiction and non - fiction, sorted by category. And then alphabetically by author. Big candles are interspersed with his books. It’s a shrine to literature. I inspect the shelves for my own canon, my favorites, the books I return to over and over: for comfort, or inspiration, or to know that someone out there feels the same things I do, knows the words, has written them down. Soul medicine.

  Brookner has my canon. Every title. My Ántonia, by Willa Cather. Ahab’s Wife, Sena Jeter Naslund. The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver. Be More Chill, Ned Vizzini. All the Little House books. His Dark Materials, the trilogy by Philip Pullman. Even Daniel Pinkwater’s Alan Mendelsohn, the Boy from Mars is here. And he has nonfiction essentials: A Pattern Language, by Christopher Alexander, et al., Pedagogy of the Oppressed, by Paulo Freire. Feminist Theory, from Margin to Center by bell hooks. Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States. Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Harriet Ann Jacobs. Endurance: Shackleton’s Incredible Voyage, by Alfred Lansing.

  Okay. He’s got a ton of books. Why should I be so surprised that my favorites are all here? It’s not like he pressed his fingers to my temples, read my aura, and cataloged it by color, according to the books I love. But then again it is like that, somehow. That is the paradox of the Brookner—the way he can be alluring one minute, slightly shady and standing too close the next.

  Just as I start to tip out the hardcover of Ahab’s Wife, I freeze. There’s a scraping sound from behind the bookcase. Yes. It’s reptile scales slithering over wood.

  Quietly, I slip the book back and tiptoe to the end of the bookcase. Javier is sliding himself behind it. Only his sinewy midsection and brick-red tail are in view.

  Another sound, voices exploding. From where? No one is in here! Oh—the baby monitor. Its indicator lights glow brighter as the voices get louder.

  It’s Jacinda and Brookner.

  I make for the monitor. I have a bad feeling that whatever they’re about to say is none of my business. But behind me, Javier is on the move. Crap. “Come here, you,” I whisper, trying to project good vibes. “I won’t hurt you.” Just before he disappears, I grab the very tip of his tail. I pull slowly, slowly, hand over hand. He’s heavy and strong, but he doesn’t put up a fight. “It’s okay, Javier. It’s okay, boy.” When I can, I lift him, holding his head with one hand, supporting his body with the other. He rotates to get a good look at me and flicks his tongue.

  “Hi, sweetie. How do I smell?” I stroke him. He is lovely. “Booker! I found—” I start to say, but my attention snaps to the
baby monitor. I heard my name. Is it still none of my business if they’re talking about me? No, I’m sure it’s nothing. Jacinda’s probably telling him about Operation Snake Search and Rescue.

  I shift Javier and look for the power switch on the monitor. It shouldn’t be that difficult to turn this thing off—

  Another name spoken: Rajas.

  Sliding his head into my hair, Javier wraps himself around me like I’m an old friend. Where the hell is the stupid off switch?

  “You brought them here?” Brookner’s voice. Annoyed.

  “I needed Evie!” Jacinda. Pleading. “If you answered your phone like you promised, would it have been a problem? I don’t think so.” Jacinda sounds uncharacteristically irritated—and very, very, strangely, on waytoo- familiar terms with Brookner.

  A pause. “The point of all this was to have a good reason for me to call you and see you outside of school—”

  “A deadly viper was not part of our plan!”

  Oh man. Jacinda, what are you doing? You and Brookner have a plan? Why are you seeing him outside of school?

  My stomach roils. I’m terrified that I know what she’s doing—and I do not want to know. Tell me I’m wrong. Brookner’s habit of standing too close, of grazing his fingers across my palm as he hands over a hall pass. It’s all falling into place.

  But he’s such a cool teacher. He actually seems to want to teach his students something interesting.

  A little too interesting.

  Rajas is right. He is so right to be worried.

  I don’t want to hear another word. Grabbing the monitor wire, I yank the plug out of the wall. “BOOKER! I FOUND YOUR SNAKE!” I scream, willing to risk setting Javier on edge as long as the entire house can hear. Anything to interrupt Jacinda and Brookner. “DID YOU HEAR ME? I’VE GOT JAVIER!”

  Javier squeezes me, coiling tighter, but he’s the least of my worries. I trust him a lot more than I trust the snake that’s downstairs scheming with my friend.

  Booker comes tearing out of Brookner’s bedroom, almost collapsing with relief. “Thank you thank you thank you! Evie, you are the best!”

  I run my hand down Javier, coaxing him to unwrap himself.

  Booker takes Javier as I continue to uncoil him from around my chest and arm. He gushes a stream of words and love: “Javier where were you I was so worried about you come here boy don’t you ever do that again!”

  Down in the kitchen, Brookner and Jacinda are waiting for us. The air is tense. Jacinda’s arms are crossed close to her chest and her foot is tapping. Brookner is leaning against the counter. Oblivious, Booker disappears into his room, still whispering sweet nothings to Javier.

  I blow out a breath and muster a smile. “So. We meet again.”

  Brookner adjusts his glasses. “Good evening, Evie. Nice to see you.” He tips his head toward Jacinda without looking at her. “Jacinda tells me that the great Javier liberated himself again, hmm?” He rocks onto his heels. “Thanks for…ah…thanks for your help. Apparently my baby-sitter is quite frightened of snakes.”

  Lips pursed, Jacinda’s movements seem prim and skittish. “Evie knows I’m fricking terrified of snakes. So she, like, rescued me.”

  I look from my friend to our teacher. They don’t seem to realize they are repeating each other, recapping events I was here for.

  On the counter behind Brookner, near the doorway to Booker’s room, the other baby monitor sits there… monitoring. Booker isn’t a baby, but this house is big, old, creaky; I bet Brookner uses it at night, when he’s up in the library and Booker’s in bed. Listening out for bad dreams. Will Brookner notice that the one upstairs is unplugged? Maybe he’ll assume that I snagged the wire while searching for Javier. The last thing I want is for Brookner to know I unplugged it because I overheard him and Jacinda.

  “No problem at all,” I say. “But you might want to put something heavier on the lid of Javier’s habitat.”

  Brookner claps once. “Well! That is a fantastic idea. We will do that.” He points at me as though I’m a genius. “We will definitely do that.”

  Awkward, heavy silence.

  “So, Jacinda. We should get going, right?”

  “Um. Yeah. Let’s go.” Sounding subdued, overwhelmed, she turns to Brookner. “Okay. Ta-ta. I’m sleeping over at Evie’s tonight.” Brookner lifts an eyebrow like he already knew this. Jacinda pulls her purse over her shoulder and walks out.

  “Um, Jacinda?” I say.

  She spins to look at me.

  “Don’t you want to say goodbye? To Booker?”

  “Ohmigod. Booker.”

  Back in his room, Booker is stacking paperback books onto the lid of Javier’s habitat.

  “I’d use hardcovers. They’re heavier,” I tell him. Jacinda is silent. “Well, we’re going now,” I say. “See you later.”

  “Thanks again, Evie!” Booker places a Harry Potter hardcover on top of the pile. “Javier is so happy to be home. Aren’t you, Javier? Yes, you are.”

  Taking hold of Jacinda’s hand, I lead her out of the house and down the front steps.

  Rajas slides off the hood of the Biohazard. “Crisis averted?” He draws me into a kiss.

  “Not quite,” I whisper.

  With those incredible dark eyes, he squints, like he’s trying to glean information from my face.

  “I’ll fill you in later.”

  Next to us, Jacinda is staring into the middle distance. She might as well be in another dimension.

  “Can you take us home?” I ask Rajas.

  “Already?” He makes a face. “Fine. But you owe me an uninterrupted evening.” He turns to wag a finger at his cousin. “You got that, Jay?”

  “Hmm?” She looks up. “Sorry. I guess I was, like, spacing out.”

  “Toxic effects of Brookner. Come on, let’s get the hell out of—”

  “Pandora?” I say.

  He smiles. “You got it.”

  Jacinda looks back at Brookner’s house. Her forehead is creased, her feathery lashes hide her eyes. I open the door of the Biohazard and motion for her to get in.

  We have a whole lot to talk about when we get home.

  15

  Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.

  —ABRAHAM LINCOLN, AMERICAN PRESIDENT, 1809–1865

  It’s a tense ride to The Dome Home. Rajas’s eyes glint with annoyance at Jacinda for interrupting our date. Jacinda stares out the window. I don’t bother attempting to generate conversation; my mind is racing, replaying what I heard. Brookner said something like so we could be together outside of school and the point of this plan… They had a plan. A plan! My stomach is still in knots. Jacinda, what are you mixed up in?

  Rajas maneuvers the Biohazard up my driveway. At The Dome, we lean together to kiss goodnight. Because Jacinda’s here, we keep it short, but our arms find their way around each other. I ache for more time alone with Rajas. But I need to talk to Jacinda.

  We wave goodbye, and as the Biohazard’s taillights disappear down the driveway, a long sigh floats out of me, carried off by a crisp autumn breeze. I turn. The Clunker is here; Martha’s home early. Too bad. I’d hoped to talk to Jacinda alone, stat.

  “Darlings! Hello!” Martha ushers us inside, careful not to spill her glass of wine. She pulls Jacinda into a hug, then me, and takes a drink. “I had quite an evening. Members of the Horny Singletons titillated with drama and intrigue.”

  “You’re home early.” I try to hide my disappointment.

  She laughs, swirling the wine in her glass. “It ended rather abruptly. Ah, c’est la vie.” Martha takes another sip. “How was your night, my love?”

  “Good.”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “Good? Or gooooood?”

  Jacinda slumps into a kitchen chair. “Evie helped me out.”

  Puzzled by the non sequitur, Martha looks from Jacinda to me.

  I shrug and sit down too. My ankle’s still a little sore. “It was a long
night.”

  “I’m all ears, darlings!” She tops off her glass, holding the wine bottle upside down and shaking out the last drips.

  Jacinda seems abjectly miserable.

  “I think Jacinda and I need to talk,” I tell Martha.

  “Agreed! Go right ahead.”

  I hesitate. “Alone.”

  Martha deflates. “Oh. Okay.” She takes a drink of wine, swishes it around her mouth. “Well. Tell me later.”

  I tell Jacinda, “Let’s go outside.”

  She crinkles her nose, but shrugs. “Okay.”

  I lead us to the barn and am soothed by the earthy, familiar smells of cow and chicken and straw. I flip the light on; golden dust motes float around the bulb. I lay out an old blanket for Jacinda to sit on. She does, and tucks her short skirt under her folded legs.

  I pat Hannah Bramble’s warm side. “Hey, sweet girl. How was your day?” With a swish of her tail, she shifts her weight to accommodate me. “Oh, Hannah. It’s not milking time.” Cats and kittens appear from all corners of the barn to mewl a chorus. “Everyone thinks I’m here to milk,” I explain to Jacinda.

  Jacinda smiles, almost a grimace. She reaches for a kitten but it squirms away. Jacinda frowns. Even her pout is dainty.

  “Don’t take it personally,” I tell her. “After he gets some milk he’ll let you hold him.”

  I rest my forehead on the warm, soft depression between Hannah Bramble’s belly and her flank. If I don’t milk her a little, there’ll be a feline mutiny. I grab the cats’ bowl and start to milk. As the first squirts hit the bowl, I look over at Jacinda. “Hey, you want to try?”

  “Try what?” She pulls the ends of the blanket around her to ward off the chill.

  “Milking.”

  She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Ohmigod. No thanks!”

  “I’ll have you milking yet. You wait and see. A few more weeks.”

  She gives me a wan, pathetic smile.

  Finished for now, I wipe my hands on my jeans and set the bowl in the middle of what is now a cat maelstrom. The mewing quiets as kittens and cats clamber for drinks. When the last of the milk is gone, Jacinda plucks a kitten from the group. It settles into her lap to lick cream from its paws and whiskers.