I’m about to say The part about not going public with our relationship, until I realize he’s asking about school and PLUTOs and Jacinda. So instead, I shrug, my bare shoulder sliding against him. It reminds me of the day we met, how our skin touched while he carried me to the Biohazard, how he non-rescued me and took me home. He and I both know I’m not that damsel in distress. I’m equal and strong. But I’m also learning that it’s nice being held.
“The Jacinda silent treatment is ridiculously unpleasant,” I say. “And the second meeting with Dr. Folger wasn’t a picnic, either.” I sigh again, not sure whether I should tell Rajas that Dr. Folger mentioned him and Jacinda. Maybe later. “Martha says it’s my first major lesson in social justice activism.”
“Meaning?”
“She called it Social Justice 101.” I draw the numbers on his chest. “Learning what happens when the revolution you’ve started turns around and bites you in the butt.”
“The butt?” He gives mine a squeeze. “Got an awful nice one of those.”
We kiss some more. And touch. Until the clattering of Hannah Bramble in her stall brings us back to the earth, the barn, the chores that need doing.
“I need to milk Hannah Bramble.”
“I need more cowbell.” He rolls on top of me. “But you probably have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“You’re saying you’ve got a fever. And the only prescription. Is more cowbell.”
He laughs. “Eve, you are full of surprises.”
“Explore the studio space!” I shout. Ah, YouTube, the great social equalizer.
We laugh and kiss. Our laughter fades and still we kiss: harder, pressing into each other, intense.
Rajas reaches down to slide off my undies. “Can we?” His breath is hot in my ear.
“I don’t know.” I pull back to look at him, trying to center myself. Yoga breath. “Not yet. Can we just keep fooling around until I’m definitely, one hundred percent ready?”
His face falls for a half a second—or did just I imagine it?—before he smiles. “Yeah. Of course.”
But the mood is killed. I tug my underwear up. “I really need to milk Hannah.” This time he doesn’t argue. We dress in silence.
Downstairs, the kittens and cats mewl until I give them their milk. I set down the cats’ bowl and settle into a rhythm with Hannah Bramble.
Rajas sits down and chews on a blade of straw. “That’s quite a grip you got there, cowgirl.”
“You would know.”
He laughs, dispersing the tension from upstairs.
Hannah shifts, and her tail swats me like it does a thousand times, twice a day, every day. As the pail fills with milk, I breathe in the scents of cream and hay and cow. Comfort smells. Habit smells. Home. Everyone on earth should have a place where they feel this peaceful. A world of farming collectives. Designs fly into my mind. Small houses surrounding shared fields and barns: public core, private edges. Wind turbines on a hill, solar panels…
“Eve? Cowgirl? You there?”
“Sorry. Just Zenning out.”
“Designing?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Nice.” He scratches his nose. “You okay? With everything that’s going on?”
“Yes. No.” Thinking. “I just wish I knew who did it.”
“Today’s lightning?” The straw in his mouth bobs as he speaks. “Does it make a difference?”
“Hell yes.” I stand up, stretch. Hannah Bramble leans toward me; I stroke her velvet nose to thank her. I cover the milk bucket so the cats won’t drink it or fall in. Taking out my hair elastic, I let my hair tumble down, and finger through the straw-head scarecrow snarls. “How’s Jacinda doing?”
“Terrible. Never seen her like this. All this stuff with you, and now the lightning with Brookner, and cheerleading crap.”
“Well, at least Ms. Gliss has laid off the overt Cheer Squad fat attacks. According to Marcie.”
He nods. “Yeah. She’s being investigated, I guess. Jay says a guy from the school board is hanging around, so Ms. Gliss has to watch her step. So she’s always in a crappy mood.”
“Jacinda or Ms. Gliss?”
“Both. There’s some stupid pep rally coming up that they’re all freaking out about.”
We are quiet awhile. I stretch more, ending up on one foot, in tree pose, to strengthen my ankle. A thought: “What if it was Jacinda?”
“What was Jacinda?”
“Who put up the lightning and posted on PLUTOs.” I start to wobble so I change sides. “Maybe Brookner called things off with her? She could have done it for revenge.”
“No. She’s more into him than ever.” He winces. “I can tell.”
“Hm. Maybe some other girl Brookner tried to hit on? I’ve got this weird feeling Marcie posted it.”
“He’s messing with Marcie too?” Rajas looks like he wants to hit something.
“Calm down! I have no idea. Maybe it’s crazy, but since she was the impetus for the first lightning strike, it would be kind of poetic.” I divide my hair to braid while I think. “It has to be someone who has access to the school.”
“Could have come in as soon as the school was unlocked this morning.”
“No. The paint was almost dry. It must have been done last night, by someone with a key.”
Rajas selects a new piece of straw, peels it, and places it between his teeth.
A thought hits me. “Oh, man! It was a teacher!”
He gives me a look of incredulity.
“Just hear me out. Teachers have keys. What if a teacher found out about Brookner and Jacinda, and wanted to say something, but anonymously?”
“Let a student take the fall?”
I snort. “Let me take the fall.”
His forehead wrinkles. He seems pained to think about me getting in trouble. “Maybe they didn’t think you’d be singled out.”
“Maybe they thought wrong.”
His eyes flash, shining like onyx. “Not like you didn’t bring it on yourself!”
“What?” I step back, startled by this attack. “What are you saying?”
Rajas tosses the piece of straw down. “Just saying, Eve. You make things difficult.”
“Oh, okay. So I deserve this? To ruin Cornell and lose a friend, just for speaking out and taking a stand for what’s right?”
“Why do you have to be such a magnet for controversy? Why do you have to look at things so differently than everyone else?”
I stare at him. “Funny. I was under the impression you liked that about me.”
Rajas’s face softens. “I do.” He scrunches his nose. “Yeah, I do.”
“Wow. Is it that hard to convince yourself?”
“No.” He gets quiet. “Just that…you’re tough to figure out. Not like all the other girls.”
God. All the other girls. Why not just stab me in the heart? All the others. How many have there been? But Rajas is still talking, so I take a deep breath—lungs snagging on my heart—and try to listen.
“…and that’s cool about you. But why do you have to fight so hard? Why does every single thing have to be a struggle or a revolution? Maybe you could take it down a notch—”
“Right. I see. I should make things easier for you. Maybe do what you do: hide out in the shop room?”
Scarlet blotches spread onto his cheeks. “Holy crap, Eve. Don’t act like such a—”
“Wait a second.” My body goes cold. Realization seeps through me, gradual and unwelcome. Something about his mood, the way he’s gone from defense to attack. “You never answered my question. Did you post the lightning? You said, ‘We agreed to wait,’ but you didn’t say it wasn’t you.”
He stares at me a long moment, then looks down at his hands.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
He doesn’t look up.
My words get quieter but drip with anger. “Tell me it wasn’t you.”
Nothing.
“You went behind my back! We agreed to wait. A
nd…you let Dr. Folger think I did it.”
His shoulders sink. “Eve, if I’d have known that would happen…that he would single you out—”
“Well it’s not rocket science!” I draw back, attempt a deep breath. It’s like a python is squeezing my chest. “What about Jacinda? Did you bother to tell her who really posted the lightning?”
He heaves a sad sigh. “She assumes you did.”
“So tell her! Tell her the truth!”
“Eve. I can’t. She’d never speak to me again. She’s furious as it is.”
“News flash, Rajas! She’s not speaking to me at all!”
“I can’t risk it. She needs someone.”
“Why the hell didn’t you wait like we planned?”
“Because she’s getting worse. She told me she’s in love with him. I just had to do something.”
“Are you freaking kidding me? You just had to do something? You just had to stab me in the back? You just had to leave me hanging out to dry?” Hot tears from a brutal betrayal.
He puts his head in his hands. “Look. If Jay knew…if she ever told anyone that I used my shop key—” He shudders. “I could lose my apprenticeship.”
“Your apprenticeship! What about Cornell?” I swipe at my tears. “What about us? I thought you were…I thought we were—”
“We are, Eve. We are.” He wades through the straw to take my hands. His cheeks are wet; he’s crying too. “I love you.”
My heart contorts as I wring my hands free.
“I love you, Eve.”
“Sucks for you.”
“I love you.”
“Bullshit! You don’t love me. If you loved me, you wouldn’t sell me out like this.” Fueled by pain and anger, my brain is starting to work again, starting to recover the capacity for reason and logic. “If you loved me? You’d tell Jacinda the truth. You would accept responsibility for your actions, and take what she gives you.” I feel my feet under me again. “And you’d take responsibility for us instead of shirking labels.”
“Shirting labels? That doesn’t even make sense!”
“Shirking labels. Pick up a damn book once in a while and learn some freaking words! Words like responsibility. Ever heard of it?”
He shakes his head. “I can’t. I can’t tell Jacinda, it would push her away so hard. She needs me right now. I’m worried.” He reaches for me again, and again I pull away. Looking at the straw, he mumbles, “And I can’t jeopardize my apprenticeship.”
“Oh really.” I go from cold to frozen.
“Eve. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” He rubs his face. “I should’ve seen that Jay would blame you. And Dr. Folger would too.” He’s weeping. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.”
I pull air into my lungs. “I won’t let you treat me like this.”
“I’m sorry,” he breathes.
“That’s not good enough! You can’t have it both ways.”
“Have what both ways?”
My ears buzz with foreboding at what I need to say, but I say it anyway: “Either you stand up for me and tell Jacinda the truth—that you did it, you alone. Or it’s over between us.”
“Don’t give me an ultimatum! Jay’s my cousin.”
“You should have thought of that last night when you were sneaking around behind my back. It’s a simple choice, Rajas: Take responsibility for what you did and face the consequences. Do what’s right. Don’t let me take the fall. Or it’s over.”
“Jay’s family. It’s not an option to walk away from her.” He glares at me. “And you’re a hypocrite to talk about taking responsibility! You’re the one who made PLUTOs and the lightning anonymous!”
“So you’ve already made your decision.”
His eyes go flinty. “No. You’re the one making the decision.”
“It’s amazing, really, your ability to dodge blame. Or own up to anything at all.”
“You should take a look in the mirror,” he says.
I point to the barn door. “Leave. Now.”
He tilts his head, looking angry and regretful. And he leaves.
I slide the door shut, hard, behind him. It ricochets off the doorjamb and lurches back open.
The Biohazard’s brake lights glow eerie red in the dusk. The car rumbles down the driveway, scraping dirt and gravel.
I disintegrate into the straw and try to breathe. I look at my fingers. They are numb and tingling, as if I’ve been electrocuted. Ha, the body electric. How appropriate. Lightning has struck how many times now? And here I am, back where I started: hurt and stranded, alone.
21
It is more difficult, and calls for higher energies of soul, to live a martyr than to die one.
—HORACE MANN, U.S. EDUCATOR, 1796–1859
I now understand why they take attendance at The Institution of School: if it wasn’t mandatory, who would come day after day after day? Not me. Especially after a break-up. Not that I can call it that. Not that Rajas would. Does it qualify for heartbreak if the relationship was never official? If a tree falls in a forest and no one updates its status on Facebook, does it make a sound? Deep, dire thoughts, these. Post-apocalyptic thoughts.
I pull The Clunker over to drop Martha off at Walmart. My eyes still don’t want to stay open, despite the ridiculous amount of yerba maté I’ve consumed. I rub them to try to get the sleep out. Martha and I stayed up all night talking. Trying to ease the pain of Rajas’s betrayal and his response to my ultimatum. Trying to get my heart on the same page as my stupid, shortsighted, stubborn pride. I can’t fathom what it will be like to see him today. Added to Jacinda’s silent treatment.
Martha touches my hair. “Maybe he’s already come to his senses, my love.”
Tears spill out of my eyes. “He would have called. Or texted. Or something.”
She hugs me, dries my cheeks with her thumbs. “If he’s stupid enough to choose anything over you, then screw him.” Frowning, she adds, “Not literally.”
“He had his reasons. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so adamant.”
She touches her forehead to mine. “Do not waiver, darling. You did the right thing. You can’t let Rajas, or anyone, take you for granted.”
I swallow.
She kisses me on the cheek. “Call if you need me. I’ll be at your side in a heartbeat.” She forces the door to let her out, singing James Taylor’s “You’ve Got a Friend.”
I manage a small wave and pull The Clunker away. Sipping my maté, driving slowly, I double-, triple-check the clock. Fifteen minutes until first bell: the Bane of my Existence, Global View. And three and a half hours after that, lunch—without Rajas.
The tears start again, plopping into my drink, turning it bitter and salty.
I park The Clunker and make my way into school. I keep my head down, hiding behind a long brown curtain of hair, hoping no one will notice I’ve been crying. But as I walk, students grow silent, eyes averted, only to burst into whispers after I pass. Down the hallway to my locker, a commotion. Like a replay of yesterday, a crowd has gathered, growing larger, snickering, muttering.
My stomach plummets.
The crowd is at my locker.
A murmur. Heads swivel to look at me. Silent, watchful eyes. Phones light up. People swing out to give me a wide berth. Just like yesterday, with Brookner.
Oh, no. No no no.
At my locker, I drop my bag. It tips over. My heart stops.
A student locker has been struck with lightning. My locker.
Deep red marker: EVENSONG SPARKLING MORNINGDEW is a HYPOCRITE! HYPOCRITE! HYPOCRITE!
Oh God.
What should I do? What should I do? Disappear? Say something? Scream? Run away?
I look around for an ally. Someone to help me. But I don’t have anyone. There is no one to help or defend me.
I reach for my bag. My stuff has spilled out. Tampons, pens, papers, all over the cold floor.
—Is that really her name?
—It says hypocrite!
—I tol
d you she was a homeschool freakazoid.
—Nicki told me that she heard that Jacinda said—
Just get me out of here! Where are my keys? Damn it! My hands are shaking. Martha. I need to call Martha. I fish around my bag. My phone! It drops from my hands and clatters across the floor. I kneel to get it—
Someone is here, handing me my things. Next to her, someone else is helping. Did Jacinda have a change of heart? I look up.
It’s Marcie. She gives a sad smile, along with a girl I don’t know.
Hands press gently on my back. Rajas? Please be Rajas! No, it’s a woman’s voice: “Come on, hon. Come with me. Marcie and Sarah will get those for you.”
I stand. The arm encloses me and leads me away, behind the two girls carrying my stuff. “Everything will be okay,” soothes Ms. Franklin. I watch the floor.
Quiet settles over the busy main office when we walk in. Along with some other teachers, Ms. Gliss looks up from her cubbyhole mailbox. Her eyes are cold but I think I detect a hint of pity.
Ms. Franklin deposits me in Dr. Folger’s empty office. Marcie and the other girl—Sarah, Ms. Franklin said?— put my things in the other chair. They slip away without a word. Ms. Franklin says something to one of them. I stare at Dr. Folger’s Slinkies. I can’t even think.
Sarah comes back in. “Here. Hot chocolate.” She sets a mug on the edge of Dr. Folger’s desk. It’s got a cartoon of a kid pushing on a door that says pull. Sarah tucks her hair behind her ear. “It might seem like it right now? But it’s not the end of the world, trust me.” She leaves.
For some reason I think of Hannah Bramble: her calm energy, her softly swishing tail. Hannah would agree this isn’t the end of the world. But everything else—the Cornell diploma on the wall; the lightning on my locker; my heart, aching for Rajas; the echoes of laughter in the hallway—screams that this is Armageddon.
Tapping on the door. “Knock-knock, mind if I come in?” Dr. Folger dips his head. “Hello, Evie.”
I put my head in my hands. “This just keeps getting worse.”
“Indeed.” He sits and lowers his voice. “Are you all right?”
“No. Yes.”
“Mr. Heck is already working on your locker. I’m sorry this occurred. Do you know who did it?” He sounds like he already has a theory. “Someone who knows your full name?”
This Girl Is Different Page 15