This Girl Is Different

by J. J. Johnson

  Silence.

  “No one?” He crosses his arms. “Evie? How about it?”

  I shake my head while my stomach mops the floor.

  “No?” He sounds disappointed. “Well. Fortunately, we have a reference.” He opens the door, startling Mr. Heck, the janitor, who is wielding a spackle knife. He has managed to remove half of the lightning bolt. Brookner picks up two of the larger scraped-off pieces and studies them. “Cardboard this time, I see.”

  Brookner closes the door unceremoniously in Mr. Heck’s face and returns to the laptop. He types in the address from the scraps. The PLUTOs blog appears on the TV. “For those of you without smartphones.” He reads, “‘We, the People’s Lightning to Undermine True Oppression (PLUTOs) hold these truths to be self-evident…’ Yes, yes.” He scrolls down the screen. “Ah. Here we are.

  “‘First lightning strike: Ms. G. for blatant sexism…’ Yes yes.

  “‘Second, the PLUTOs put a strike on Brookner’s door. Because he crosses the line with his female students.’”

  Brookner sits down fast. “Most interesting. Interesting. Yes, well.” It’s as close to speechless as I’ve ever seen him. He smoothes his tie again, readjusts his glasses. He looks at me. “Much different tone to this entry.”

  I nod: a slight movement that doesn’t divulge the tsunami of relief rushing through me. Thank God! Brookner, at least, realizes it wasn’t me this time. Now I just have to convince Jacinda. I slide my foot out to retrieve the neglected note; I’ve got to try again. Just before my toe gets there, Jacinda snatches it. Without unfolding the note, she puts it on her desk and lays her hands over it. Turning to regard me with a look of icy hate, she raises her hand.

  “Jacinda?” Brookner sounds agitated. Standing, unsteady, he rocks onto his heels. “You…you would like to address the class?” He sounds like what he wants to say is, Please, for the love of all things good and holy, keep quiet!

  She nods.

  “Okay. Well. Enlighten us.”

  She drums her fingers, her polished nails pounding her perturbation. “I think that the quote is about trust.” There goes her foot again, shaking, shaking.

  “Trust?” He frowns. “How so?”

  “Because you might think that sunlight is best for things, but it’s not. Because you basically can’t trust people. People spread lies. And those people should know”—her fingers stop drumming—“that other people have sunlight of their own.”

  “Yes. Well.” Brookner blinks at Jacinda’s baffling contribution, but the way he looks from her to me, he can tell something’s rotten in the state of Friendmark. “Anyone else?”

  Without enthusiasm, I raise my hand. “The quote means that anyone can bring things to light and say whatever they want. You might never even know who.”

  “Yes, that would be the point, wouldn’t it?” Brookner asks with an impish smirk.

  For a moment I return his smile, forgetting myself, glad to glimpse the intriguing Brookner, the guy who likes coloring outside the lines. Except—no. Having an affair with a student? That’s coloring way too far outside the lines. It’s another coloring book altogether.

  Not that Martha ever gave me coloring books. My childhood was all kraft paper murals and sloppy paints.

  Brookner gets serious again. “The problem is that once people speak up, you have no control over it.”

  “Exactly,” I say. Palms up, I ask, “But what can you do? That’s the price of democracy. And free speech. Anyone can say anything.” I feel like kicking Jacinda’s chair and screaming, Do you get it, girl?

  “Well. Anything except libel, which means defamation in print.” Brookner freezes, eyes hazy. “Most interesting,” he mutters to himself. He goes back into motion, yanking the laptop cable out of the TV. “Shall we change the subject? Global View. How about it?” He goes to the board, selects a marker, and starts writing.

  I take a deep yoga breath. Sure, this seems like a disaster. Someone has hijacked PLUTOs and the lightning, taken things into their own hands. Jacinda thinks it’s me. But…breathe. Calm down. Think. I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not the end of the world. Rajas is on my side. We’ll get everything sorted out.

  Still, I have to wonder if this whole Institution of School experiment is really worth it. I didn’t meet Rajas and Jacinda at school; I met them in a creek in the state forest. If I’d stayed a homeschooler, Rajas and I could have fallen in love anyway. And Jacinda and I could be friends. If only I hadn’t had a class with her and Brookner, if only I hadn’t spoken up, if only we hadn’t started PLUTOs. If only Cornell wasn’t on the line.

  But that’s a lot of if-onlys, and a lot of lightning has struck between each of them.

  I take another deep breath.

  A note lands on my desk. From Jacinda. Please tell me she knows Rajas and I didn’t do it!

  It’s the piece of paper I passed to her earlier. She scribbled on it without opening it. My heart sinks while I read her curly handwriting: Be careful what you wish for—free speech, democracy. YOU are NOT immune.

  What is that supposed to mean? I start to scribble a response, but a rapid-fire knocking stops me. Someone’s at the classroom door.

  It swings open. It is Dr. Folger, standing next to Mr. Heck.

  Brookner’s face goes slack with dread; he can’t hide it this time.

  Dr. Folger says, “Excuse the interruption, Mr. Brookner. Students.” He whispers something to Brookner. Listening, Brookner nods. The corners of his mouth turn down; he looks as though he’s received a temporary reprieve but knows he’s still got a lot to answer for.

  “Evie. Would you please go with Dr. Folger?”

  As I stand, visions of my future whirl in my mind, blurred images being sucked down a drain. This school is a gigantic toilet, flushing away my chance at Cornell.

  19

  There’s a very optimistic premise that I have, which is, if you give people tools, their natural ability, their curiosity, will develop it in ways that will surprise you very much beyond what you might have expected.

  —BILL GATES, FOUNDER OF MICROSOFT, B. 1955

  Somehow, Martha is here. She rushes out of Dr. Folger’s office, where she has been tampering with his collection of Slinkies, setting them up to descend from shelf to filing cabinet to desk to chair. She gathers me into a hug. “Darling.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “Taxi.” She smiles at Ms. Franklin. “Thanks again for the tea, Melinda.”

  Mrs. Franklin sets down her can of Diet Coke. “You’re quite welcome.”

  Martha relegates me to her left arm so she can shake a finger at Ms. Franklin. “Not for nothing, I’ll give you some advice. You’ve got to quit the juice. Those artificial sweeteners will kill you.”

  Ms. Franklin looks at her soda can. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

  “Corporations profiting by poisoning. Poison profits,” Martha sucks her teeth and seems about to commence rant—I smell a new sticker campaign for Walmart—but Dr. Folger is all business.

  Walking past Martha, he gestures to the chairs in his office. “Please, come in.”

  He slides the nameplate on his door to the center of its track. “Ms. Mornin—” He shakes his head and says, “Evie. And Mrs.—” Frowning, he corrects himself again, “Martha. Take a seat.”

  We sit. The diploma from Cornell seems three times the size it was the other day. It looms over the entire room. Martha holds my hand.

  Dr. Folger tips one of the Slinkies that Martha set up. We watch it walk from one surface to the next until it droops onto his chair. He picks it up and sits. “Evie. This time. Was it you?” No preamble. This time, was it you? like he assumes it was me the last time and he’s not sure about today.

  Martha doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Darling. Did…Mr. Brookner…did he do anything to you?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “It wasn’t me.”

  “Wasn’t you he did it to, darling?”

  Dr. Folger says, “Or
wasn’t you who—”

  “He didn’t do anything to me and I didn’t do the lightning.”

  Martha considers this and pats my hand. “Even if you did do, my love, there’s no harm in speaking out.” A pointed look over the desk. “Is there, Dr. Folger?”

  He grimaces. “Let us unpack that statement, if you will, Martha. And Evie.” He clears his throat. “Is there harm in speaking out? Yes, and no. I value freedom of expression. However, I also believe that such freedom comes with responsibility. They are two sides of the same coin, shall we say. We can’t go around publishing wild allegations.” He ripples the Slinky. “I have a school to run. Students to look after. Teachers’ good names to protect.”

  Martha squirms in her chair. Ten to one she’s thinking his language of protection is both cause and effect of the hierarchy of The Institution of School.

  Dr. Folger sets the Slinky on his desk blotter. “I happen to like you, Evie. It’s clear you possess a keen mind, a strong moral foundation. Perhaps your spontaneity and judgmental streak could use some modulating, but that will come with time and experience, I suspect. The point is, the law is the law. Libel is illegal. Smearing somebody’s good name when—”

  “It isn’t libel if the allegations are true.” Martha is working very hard to keep her voice under control, keep her arms from whirling.

  Dr. Folger says, “If there is evidence to conclude guilt, then you are correct: the act is not libelous. Please be assured that I will investigate these allegations. Indeed I take them very seriously. I’ve already called Dr. Jones, the superintendent of schools. However, in the meantime—”

  “Right, right. I get it,” I interrupt. “You have to do…whatever it is you have to do.”

  Dr. Folger inclines his head, waiting for me to say more. Martha stares at me, shocked, I’m sure, at my apparent acquiescence.

  “But it wasn’t me.” Please, I add silently, don’t ruin my chances for Cornell! “I didn’t make the accusation about Brookner. Did you notice the posting sounds entirely different?”

  “Indeed?” He leans forward. “And how would you know that?”

  Martha barricades me with her arm. “Don’t answer that, my love!”

  I nudge her back. “Martha, please.” To Dr. Folger I say, “I know what it says because Brook—Mr. Brookner—showed it to us in class.”

  Dr. Folger’s eyes go wide. “He showed the class?”

  Martha looks equally surprised. “Why would—”

  “He said sunlight is the best disinfectant.”

  “Did he now.” Dr. Folger leans back, steepling his hands in front of him. “Most interesting. Justice Brandeis and the concept of transparency.” He looks pointedly at Martha. “Interesting.”

  Martha shifts. “Huh. That’s been coming up a lot lately.” She shakes her head like she’s refocusing. “Transparency is a concept employed by the most successful factions of the radical and not so radical—”

  “Martha,” I snap.

  “Right.” She pulls a pretend zipper across her lips. “Your turn, darling.”

  I turn to Dr. Folger. “That’s how I know that this post is so different from the first one.” I’ve got to be careful. “Whoever posted them, it seems to be different people.”

  Dr. Folger picks up the rainbow-colored Slinky. He moves it back and forth, as if he’s weighing his thoughts. “As it happens, I did note the difference in tone. Of course that’s small comfort to Mandy Gliss and John Brookner.”

  “John Brookner.” Martha suddenly seems a thousand miles away. What’s going on? I give her a look but she doesn’t notice.

  Dr. Folger also casts an inquisitive glance to Martha before he continues, “Quite inventive, isn’t it, to have created a blog format so that anyone can join the…” He tilts the Slinky. “…discussion, shall we say?”

  “Revolution,” Martha corrects, still a little distant. She mutters, “The revolution will not be televised.”

  “No, but apparently it will be blogged.” Dr. Folger smiles.

  Martha smiles. “Apparently so.” It seems like she’s come back into the conversation, and, despite herself, is warming up to Dr. Folger. Good. Maybe she’ll dial back the fanaticism.

  “I just don’t want this to get out of hand,” I say. “If it’s not okay to post lightning accusing teachers unless there’s evidence, then it’s not okay to accuse students of posting the lightning unless there’s evidence. Right?”

  “Darn tootin’!” Martha says.

  “Indeed, it isn’t. However, as you know: where there’s smoke there’s often—”

  “A bong!” Martha quips. She snorts a laugh.

  I could throttle her!

  “What.” Martha shrugs off the look I’m giving. She waves at the diplomas. “Dr. Folger went to school.” Not having attended university herself, Martha conflates cannabis with college campuses.

  Dr. Folger frowns, but with a glint in his eye. “Yes, well. What I meant is that I will be watching you, Evie. I am quite concerned about these developments.”

  I keep quiet and pray Martha will too.

  Dr. Folger jiggles the rainbow Slinky. “I’m told that you’ve become quite close with Rajas Messer and Jacinda Harrod.”

  My stomach churns. I squeeze Martha’s hand to keep her quiet. “They didn’t…” I don’t finish. How can I assert their innocence without incriminating myself?

  “Please, Evie. You need not comment. Just be aware that I will be keeping tabs on them as well. Dr. Folger puts down the Slinky. “Meanwhile, it would behoove us all if the PLUTOs blog went off-line.”

  “Evie wouldn’t know anything about that.” Martha is indignant.

  Dr. Folger regards her a moment, then speaks. “Be that as it may, it would simplify things immeasurably.”

  Crap. I’m stymied for a response, yet again. Should I plead the Fifth? Should I make a stand for the First Amendment? Should I break down in tears and beg for mercy? Should I scream that Rajas and Jacinda are innocent? I twist my hair. I want to do the right thing. I just have no clue what that is right now.

  The Cornell diploma is growing so immense that it would crush all of us if it fell off Dr. Folger’s office wall.

  In the end, I remain silent, let Dr. Folger excuse us, hand The Clunker keys to Martha, and let her take me home.

  20

  This life of separateness may be compared to a dream, a phantasm, a bubble, a shadow, a drop of dew, a flash of lightning.

  —THE BUDDHA, (PPRINCE SIDDHARTHA GAUTAMA), FOUNDER OF BUDDHISM, 563–483 BC

  My heart flies when the Blue Biohazard thunders up my driveway. It’s the sound I’ve been waiting for since I beat a hasty retreat from school this morning. Rajas texted during lunch to ask if he could come over after he helped his mom with something. Time has crawled. I need his support, his ear, his ideas for what to do. His lips, for distraction. And I have a question for him.

  I come up from boat pose and bow a quick Namaste to the trees and clouds, then jog from my favorite grassy knoll to the driveway. Unlike the rest of me, my ankle feels fine. The Biohazard stops and I grab Rajas’s hand to lead him to the barn.

  “Where’s Martha?”

  “She went back to work, and I made her promise to do her volunteer shift at the co-op after that.”

  “So it’s just us?”

  “And the cats and piranha chickens and Hannah Bramble.”

  “Let’s go inside,” he says.

  “First I have a question: it wasn’t you was it? You didn’t post the lightning on Brookner’s door?”

  “We agreed to wait a few days,” he says.

  Relief! “Oh, thank God. I didn’t think you did it, but I just had to ask, you know?” I take his hand. “Come on, I want to show you something.” I lead him up the ladder to the hayloft in the second floor of the barn. There’s a swing up here, tied to the rafters, with such an amazing parabola you feel like you’re flying.

  When he sees it, his face lights up. “You put this here?”r />
  “It was here when we moved in.”

  We swing. And then we kiss. As usual, his touch makes me lose all track of time. Kissing my neck, Rajas says, “Never thought I’d have a roll in the hay, not literally.”

  “Pretty great, isn’t it? Except for the pokey bits.” I laugh at the unintended innuendo. Wrapped in blankets to cushion ourselves from the sharp points of straw, I’m down to my tank top and underwear. He’s in his boxers. As much as I want to feel his skin on mine—all of his skin on all of mine—I’m holding back. Complete nakedness would be too tempting, and I promised myself—not to mention Martha—I’d wait for sex until I was absolutely, without question, completely ready in heart, body, and soul. I refuse to succumb to hormones and horniness. My decision will be rational and intentional. This girl is different.

  And this girl is burning in all the right places.

  Rajas runs his hand under my tank top again, circles my nipple with his thumb. My stomach does cartwheels. I could die happy, right now. Except for the menacing alternate reality hanging over me: the one where I’m in a big boiling cauldron of trouble, where I might not get into Cornell, where Jacinda’s giving me the silent treatment.

  I roll onto my back and heave a sigh.

  “Worrying?”

  I nod.

  “Thought so.” He tugs my hair, coaxing me to rest my cheek on the hollow below his collarbone. Listening to the comfort of his heartbeat, I watch his belly rise and fall. A thin patch of hair insulates his chest. Not Neanderthal hairy, not pre-pubescent bald, it’s just the right amount. I set my palm on his stomach. He seems content, sated. Is it because of the physical stuff we’ve been doing? Or just from being together? I wonder: would a label set my mind at ease?

  We have the love label now. And I do love me some love. So why am I still itchy? Besides the straw pricking me through the blanket, ha ha. I sigh. The difference is publicity. Being public. When you’re officially boyfriend-girlfriend, it’s a known thing. You’ve proclaimed it to the world. That’s why you change your Facebook status to “In a relationship.”

  “Which part bothers you the most?” Rajas asks.