Book Read Free

This Girl Is Different

Page 16

by J. J. Johnson


  “Or who knows someone who does.” Like Jacinda knows Brookner. The cold sweat on my forehead is making my hair stick to my face. I run a hand through it and sweep it over my shoulder. “Yes. I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

  He taps a miniature Slinky on his desk. Neither of us speaks.

  Dr. Folger shifts and clears his throat. “The difficulty, of course, is the anonymous nature of the postings. The uncoupling, if you will, of the responsibility that should accompany freedom of expression.”

  I regard him a long moment. My involvement in PLUTOs is clearly an open secret between us, but if I want any hope of going to Cornell, I cannot confess. Especially now that things are devolving into such a tar pit hellhole. I take a deep breath and choose my words carefully. “Maybe…maybe the PLUTOs people thought anonymity would actually help. It can be hard for students to speak out against authority. It can be scary, especially when their future is at stake.”

  “I have no doubt that’s what she—” he pauses meaningfully—“ or he, or they, had in mind. As it happens—”

  “It’s like voting,” I interrupt. I feel a little panicked, yet I want to make my point. “People don’t have to sign their names on their ballots, because then they might be intimidated into not voting their conscience. Or maybe not voting at all.”

  “Ah. The flaw in your analogy is that, with a ballot, speech is constrained. One must adhere to the choices.”

  “But you can write in whoever you want.”

  “One is still limited to a name. And ballots, by design, are not inherently hurtful. They cannot be directed at someone. I’m afraid this blog, and the lightning strikes—”

  “Are hurting people.” I study my hands.

  “Yes.”

  I close my eyes. “But that doesn’t change the fact that students have a hard time speaking up. This school is not a good democracy.”

  “Indeed, Evie. You’ve put your finger on it: this school is not a good democracy. And I’m not convinced that it should be.”

  “But it’s— that’s—”

  “Heresy?” He holds up a finger. “What if a school, by necessity, cannot be a democratic institution? Does that necessarily negate the good we do here? Open your mind to the question. That’s all I ask.”

  Ms. Franklin knocks on the doorframe. She hands me a pass. “Good luck, hon.”

  Dr. Folger tilts in his chair, a bow of dismissal. “Come back if you need respite, Evie.”

  “Thanks.” I gather my things and get going.

  When I arrive at my locker, Mr. Heck is scraping off the last bits of lightning. “Thank you so much,” I tell him.

  “Just doing my job.” He closes his toolbox and collects the curled scraps of cardboard. I wait for him to turn the corner before I dig a pen out of my bag and get to work on the hall pass Ms. Franklin wrote. Luckily, her writing is a lot like mine.

  When I’m done, I take a deep breath and open Brookner’s classroom door.

  Textbooks are open on each desk. Stiv is reading aloud. Brookner’s not here. In his place, at his desk, sits a young woman. Frowning, she places a pen on her book, as if to mark her place. Stiv stops reading.

  There’s a message on the board, but not in Brookner’s writing. Elegant cursive loops announce, My name is Ms. Bemis, and I will be filling in for Mr. Brookner while he is on administrative leave. I cannot comment further, so please don’t ask me to do so.

  I hand Ms. Bemis my pass.

  Jacinda is staring at her textbook like she expects it to come to life at any moment. Marcie gives me a tiny, pitying smile.

  Ms. Bemis squints at the pass. “And they wish for you to return as well?”

  I nod.

  “Very well. Let me check you off. Evie…” She runs a finger over the roster in front of her.

  “You mean Evensong!” says someone in the back of the room.

  “Morningdew!”

  Chortles from the last row of desks.

  Jacinda and Marcie keep their eyes glued to their books.

  Ms. Bemis does not respond to the comments. “Jacinda Harrod?”

  Jacinda’s head whips up.

  “Your presence is requested in the main office.”

  The class goes dead silent. Jacinda peels her gaze off Ms. Bemis to lock eyes with me. She looks like she will kill me the moment we are alone in the hall. I set my jaw. This won’t be pretty.

  22

  You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

  —MAX EHRMANN, LAWYER AND WRITER, 1872–1945

  “Rat out your friends much?” sneers Jacinda as soon as I shut Brookner’s classroom door. She checks the hallway to be sure we’re alone. “Dr. Folger already gave me the third degree yesterday. I don’t know why I didn’t just tell him it was you.”

  “Because then you would have been admitting your own guilt.” I grind my teeth and keep walking.

  “Um, hello? The main office is that way.”

  “The Clunker is this way.”

  “So? I thought—”

  I whirl around and point a finger at her. “Listen. I did not rat you out. And I didn’t strike Brookner’s lightning, got it? We need to talk.”

  “I’m not getting in your smelly car.”

  “Fine.” I spot an empty classroom. It’s unlocked. “We’ll talk in here. Keep your voice down.”

  Confusion seems to muddle her anger as she follows me into the classroom. “Where’s Dr. Folger?”

  “He’s not coming. I doctored the pass Ms. Franklin gave me. I made it look like they were requesting you. But really, it’s just you and me.”

  She glares at me. “What, no Raj? I’m surprised you have the courage to—”

  “We broke up.” There. I said it.

  “You did?” Seeing the look of shock on her face is like taking a bullet to the chest.

  Unable to speak, I nod.

  “Why?” She seems so surprised that she’s forgotten her rage.

  “We had a fight.” I swallow down the lump in my throat. “About the Brookner lightning.”

  At the mention of his name, Jacinda’s rage resurfaces. Her cheeks flush a dark crimson. “John didn’t do anything wrong. We were in love! And now they are investigating him! He’s an innocent man. And he…” She convulses into sobs, hugging herself. “H-he said we had to end it! He said it’s over.”

  “Because of the lightning?”

  She doesn’t answer. She doubles over, crying. I put my hand on her shoulder. Well, thank God. Brookner broke things off. Still, I hate to see Jacinda so upset. Jerking away from my touch, she dabs at her eyes and looks up, angrier than ever. “You! You got what you deserved.”

  “I didn’t post the lightning, Jacinda. I wanted to.” I press my hands to my heart. “I thought about it, but it wasn’t me. I swear.”

  “Oh really.” She narrows her eyes. “Then who was it?”

  “Does it matter?” A question Rajas asked me yesterday. At that time it did. But now…what would be the point in tearing Rajas and Jacinda further apart?

  “Ohmigod!” Flustered, angry. “Yes! It matters!” She flops onto a chair.

  I sit next to her. “I wanted to talk to you about…” I study the pocks marring the smooth surface of the desk in front of me. “Maybe we should think about shutting down the blog.”

  She snorts. “Now that it says something about you, you want to shut it down? No. I don’t think so.”

  Crap. The lightning was bad; what if the blog is worse? “I haven’t seen it,” I say.

  “Well, there’s nothing on it that isn’t true. It says that you are a hypocrite, because you promised not to do stuff without telling your friends first, but you did anyway. And it says that you think you’re smarter than everyone at this school. You think you’re above it all.”

  I put my head down on the desk. “How do you know what it says? Brookner wasn’t here
to show—”

  “I just know!” she snaps.

  But it’s too late. Her phone isn’t in sight, so she can’t say she checked the InterWeb. We both know she wrote it.

  I roll my head from side to side on the desk, just wanting everything to go away. “I think we should shut down the blog. But, despite what you think about me, I’m not a hypocrite. I won’t change my promise. I won’t shut it down unless you agree.”

  “Well, I do not agree.”

  Head still on the desk, I massage my scalp. My brain hurts. So does my heart. “Just think about it. That’s all I ask.”

  She doesn’t respond. The quiet lasts so long that, after a while, I look up to check whether she’s still here.

  She’s staring at me, arms crossed, foot waggling. “I hope you know that it won’t take Raj long to move on.”

  Oh man, she’s going for the jugular.

  “I mean, no one even knew you guys were together. Raj, like, didn’t want people to know. Did you ever wonder why he always took you to the shop room?”

  “Fine, Jacinda. You’ve made your point.” Tears leak out of my eyes. I think I liked it better when she wasn’t talking to me.

  “You seriously had me fooled. I thought you were different. But you’re not. You’re the same as everyone else. You’re just as mean and backbiting, and you—”

  “Jacinda.”

  “What.”

  “How would I have gotten in? To post the lightning? I don’t have a key. Have you thought about that?”

  She blinks rapidly. Her lips purse. “I—um—”

  “Maybe you should give me a little more credit.”

  “I think that you already give yourself more than enough credit,” she mutters. She’s lost some steam.

  I stand to leave. I’ve said everything I can.

  “And to think I was sticking up for you.” Her voice is quieter but still thick with anger. “I, like, defended you to everyone. Everyone thought you were a know-it-all and a total weirdo. Raj and I? We vouched for you. We said you were cool. Well, not anymore. Now you’re on your own.”

  “That’s okay. I’m used to it.” I grab the doorknob.

  “Everyone hates you for making Brookner leave.”

  “I’m sure.” I open the door.

  “And Ms. Gliss knows it was you who did her lightning. She told me. She said—”

  That’s it. That is it. I close the door and turn back to Jacinda. “I take it you didn’t bother to tell her you were involved with that one? God, Jacinda! We were a freaking team when we started PLUTOs! You knew Ms. Gliss was out of line. You wanted to do something good for the school! You went on and on about the sexism and sizeism Cheer Squad has to put up with. And what? Now you’re back to Ms. Gliss, kissing your coach’s ass like a good little cheerleader?” My hands are fists. “You don’t think I’m different? Fine. But you should do some soul-searching if you’re posting lightning calling me a hypocrite.”

  Without waiting for her response, I open the door, wishing that, instead of the school’s main corridor, this doorway led to another world—a peaceful homeschool world, a sustainable community of my own design. Far, far away from here.

  23

  In the banking concept of education, knowledge is a gift bestowed by those who consider themselves knowledgeable upon those whom they consider to know nothing… The teacher presents himself to his students as their necessary opposite; by considering their ignorance absolute, he justifies his own existence.

  —PAULO FRIERE, EDUCATOR AND THEORIST, 1921–1997

  The next morning, I poke at breakfast while Martha braids my hair. We get ready in silence. Even Hannah Bramble can’t make me feel better. I’m stuck. I pitched my tent on skunk scat, as Rich would say, and now I must sleep in it. If I drop out of school or start cutting classes, Cornell will find out.

  Climbing into The Clunker for school takes every ounce of my fortitude. At least it’s Friday. Eight hours until blessed freedom.

  When I drop Martha off at the Mart of Wal, she cups my face in her hands. “Be strong.” She kisses my cheek. “I adore you, darling.”

  School is buzzing when I get there. The hall is clogged with clumps—larger than usual—of waving arms and kids talking over each other, wielding phones. Their eyes follow me as I push through the crowd, but it doesn’t quiet, doesn’t pull me into its focus the way it did yesterday.

  And then I spot it. Holy crap. A student locker struck with lightning. Brown cardboard with painted letters, a girl crying as she tries to rip it down. DAVINA IS A SLUT!

  Oh God. Please tell me this is just a dream—albeit a freaking nightmare.

  I double back to the library. I need to check the PLUTOs blog.

  Along the way, another crowd, another locker: MATT JOHNSON CHEATS ON HIS GIRLFRIENDS!

  I speed up into a jog.

  In the library, a bubbling herd of kids—the downtrodden proletariat who can’t afford iPhones—surrounds the computers, trying to get a look at the PLUTOs website. The librarian is trying to shoo people away. “Students, these computers are for academic purposes only! Class research! Not rumor-mongering—”

  No one listens. I recognize Matt Johnson, jostling for a view of the screens. Then, a loud collective groan. Through the crowd, I catch a glimpse. All four screens have gone inky black. The librarian pops up, victoriously waving a three-prong plug. “The computers will remain off, and the internet unavailable, until further notice. Chop, chop. To your classes. Now. Skedaddle!”

  Grumbling students take to the hall. Matt and a couple of others mutter at me, almost too quiet to make out their brutal words. Homeschool freak. Go back to where you came from. I blow out a deep breath. Fine. I get it. I come in and shake things up a little, and things are getting feral. Maybe they believe the lightning Jacinda posted. Maybe they think I’m a hypocrite. Or worse.

  But I had nothing to do with these recent strikes! How can I tell them?

  Surely Dr. Folger knows these weren’t my doing. Please, let him know it wasn’t me.

  I’ll tell him myself.

  The main office is busier than usual. Dr. Folger’s office door is closed.

  “Hi, hon,” Ms. Franklin says. “Rough day yesterday, huh?”

  “Today too,” I say. “Is Dr. Folger here? May I see him?”

  She frowns. “He’s in a meeting at the moment.”

  “Can I wait?”

  Ms. Franklin leans forward and motions me closer. She lowers her voice. “He doesn’t think you were involved with what happened today, hon. He’s meeting with Dr. Jones right now. They are looking into whether they can shut down the PLUTOs website. They’re trying to verify their authority and persuade the blog administrators to delete it. Now, if the person who started it would just shut it down,” she pauses, “life would certainly be simpler—”

  The three-minute warning bell makes us both jump. Ms. Franklin sips her Diet Coke. “He’ll send for you if he needs to. Best for you to get to class now. And take what I said into consideration.”

  My feet are made of cement. I look again at Dr. Folger’s office door.

  “Go on, hon.”

  “Okay.” I don’t want to leave, but I try to trust Ms. Franklin’s advice. The woman has her finger on the pulse of the school.

  In Brookner’s classroom, Ms. Bemis is attempting to instill order over chaos. Jacinda stares at me while I take my seat. Her skin, usually so luminous, is dull and sallow. Her hair is flat instead of spiky. Her foot is wiggling.

  Ms. Bemis starts taking attendance, but no one stops talking. Static on the PA interrupts Ms. Bemis and manages to hush the class.

  “Students, teachers, if you’ll excuse the interruption.” Dr. Folger pauses. “I will again remind you that bullying, whether online or in print, is a crime, as is defacement of school property. It will not be tolerated. A forensics team is gathering evidence as I speak.” Around me, people exchange looks. Is he serious? “Students who are involved are encouraged to come forward of t
heir own accord. That is all. Good day.”

  I’m scribbling a note to Jacinda: It has to be shut down. I flip it toward her when Ms. Bemis isn’t looking.

  Jacinda picks the note up and taps it on her desk. I hold my breath. Will she agree?

  She opens the note, smoothes it out. Clicks her pen.

  “Please open your books to page 183.” Ms. Bemis’s tone sounds more like begging than instruction.

  Jacinda, writing with one hand, lifts the other one skyward. “Um, Ms. Bemis?”

  Oh no. She’s going to show the note? I was so careless. Is it enough to incriminate me?

  Jacinda clicks her pen closed and folds the note while she talks. “May I use the restroom?”

  Ms. Bemis looks around, like she’s worried an early bathroom excusal will set a bad precedent. “Class just started, I don’t think that’s such a good—”

  Stiv pipes up, “Mr. Brookner always let us.”

  Jacinda smiles at Stiv. Satisfied that this is permission enough, she stands, scooting her chair with the back of her knees. “I’ll be right back.” She drops the folded page on my desk as she goes to the door.

  “I really don’t think—” Ms. Bemis swallows, folds her arms across her chest and reverses tack. “Okay. Yes. Go ahead.” Which is smart, since Jacinda’s already at the door.

  I slide the note onto my lap and open it. Underneath my imploring scribbles, Jacinda wrote, Do what you want. I’m done with this.

  Jacinda looks back before leaving. She seems angry. And sad.

  When I pick her up after school, Martha is holding a bag of Oreos. She shakes it as she climbs into The Clunker. “I come bearing gifts.” She rips open the package and hands it to me.

  “Thanks.” I nibble a cookie. My appetite’s been terrible lately. “You realize this is actual processed food. High fructose corn syrup, artificial flavor, the whole nine yards.”

  “Darling, after the week you’ve had, I figure you can handle the hard stuff. I was relabeling the cookie section when you called…” She twirls her hand and trails off. Neither of us needs to replay the tearful call from my lunch hideout—my self-imposed solitary confinement in The Clunker.

 

‹ Prev