This Girl Is Different

by J. J. Johnson

  I take a bigger bite. “Sweet Baby James, that’s good.” “Give me one of those.” She snatches a cookie from the bag, pokes it into her mouth, almost swallows it whole. “Now. You’re sure, my love? That you want to delete the blog? You know, the Black Panthers didn’t turn tail when the going got tough. Turn tail. Ha!” She chuckles. “Got to remember that one.”

  “PLUTOs isn’t the Panthers, Martha.” I straighten my shoulders and remind myself—or maybe convince myself—that I’m strong, that I know what I have to do. “It’s been derailed into something awful. Just… wretched. PLUTOs was supposed to empower people. Not hurt them.”

  “Hmm. ‘Let us not become the evil that we deplore.’”

  “Right.” I frown. “Who was that? Wait, don’t tell me. It was after the September eleventh bombings. A congresswoman from California…Barbara…It can’t be Barbara Boxer.”

  “No, Barbara Lee. From Oakland. Birthplace of the Black Panther Party, not for nothing.” She takes another cookie. “Sounds like Jacinda more or less gave you permission to take it off-line.”

  “Pretty much.” I brush Oreo crumbs off my sweatshirt.

  “It was probably the best she could do, poor thing.”

  In shock, I jerk the steering wheel. “You’re on her side?”

  “Hell no, my love! Hell no. I’m just saying she’s probably confused, being new to the insurrection and revolution business.”

  “Before you start feeling too sorry for her, keep in mind that she was totally into it when we started PLUTOs.”

  “Noted.”

  “And she surely doesn’t have the market cornered on confusion.”

  “Got it.”

  “And I’m not Angela Davis or Huey Newton. I’m pretty new at this too.”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Martha. I’m serious.”

  “Patronize you? I would never. Perish the thought, my love!” She grins, but I’m in no mood for her humor. She pinches me on the thigh and starts humming a Feist song.

  “Martha?”

  She reaches for my hair. “Yes, darling?”

  “My boyfriend dumped me. My best friend won’t talk to me. My future is in a garbage can. Everything has turned to crap. Can you please just let me be a sullen teenager, just this once?”

  She tugs my hair. So much for trying.

  When we get home, I boot up the computer. I sign in to the PLUTOs account.

  OPTIONS. DELETE BLOG.

  “DELETING CAN NOT BE UNDONE. ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DELETE?”

  I click YES.

  Martha watches over my shoulder. We both stare at the screen, looking more through it than at it, until a box comes up.

  BLOG DELETED.

  “There. It’s done. The revolution is dead.” I put my head on the table. “This one, anyway.”

  She rubs my back. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out, my love. But you must keep the faith, keep fighting—”

  I moan. “No more pep talks.”

  “You kick-started some dialogue at The Institution of School. You learned for yourself the evils of Freire’s notion of banking education. You spread the idea of transparency, and that is just what the world needs.”

  I hold up a hand to stop her. “I’m going to bed.”

  Martha nods, finally taking the hint. “I’ll bring you some tea.”

  “Don’t you have a shift at the co-op, or HSP coffee pals, or something? You should go.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not going. I may have worn out my welcome.”

  I screw up my face into a question.

  “Darling, your enthusiasm is overwhelming. Go to bed.”

  Too tired to argue, I climb to my loft and flop down on the futon. At least it’s over. I turn onto my side and pick at my bedspread, trying not to think about Rajas, and Jacinda, and Cornell. I breathe deep. The worst is over. The worst is over. Isn’t it?

  24

  The trouble ain’t that there is too many fools, but that the lightning ain’t distributed right.

  —MARK TWAIN, AUTHOR AND HUMORIST, 1835–1910

  Did you see it?

  Which one?

  Before first bell on Monday, a jabbering horde of students assemble around a locker. A locker with a lightning strike. Red poster board, black marker. DON’T TRUST JASON DRELLER! HE IS A LIAR!

  But I shut the blog down! What is happening?

  Another student’s locker: S. J. IS A TEASE!

  Further down, my geometry classroom. Paper lightning plastered to the door. MS. THEODORE IS RACIST.

  This is turning into a nightmare. The Tenth Circle of Hell.

  I turn the corner. Another crowd.

  My locker. Again. Lightning. EVIE MORNINGDEW RUINED OUR SCHOOL!

  I elbow through the crowd and pull at the lightning bolt, try to rip it off. It’s stuck tight.

  Behind me, kids are murmuring: That is so true! and She deserves it! and School sucked before, but now it’s worse.

  Kicking now, I dent the dull metal of my locker. I scratch at the cardboard. A fingernail bends back and rips away from my skin, but the lightning doesn’t budge. I kick again, and again. It’s useless. I slump to the floor.

  “Show’s over!” I yell. A few people detach from the crowd and float away. The remaining onlookers mutter, blink, stare.

  “Please! Go!” I cry, batting at my tears. Bitter tears, frustrated and impotent. I pull up my hood to hide.

  “Guys, you’ve seen what there is to see.” It’s Stiv. “Dr. Folger will be here soon, and he’s going to be pissed at anyone hanging around.”

  People must believe him, because I hear feet shuffle away. But Stiv is still standing here. And I’m still sitting here.

  “Thanks,” I say to his legs.

  He blows out a breath. “Yeah,” is all he says before he walks toward Global View. And is stopped in his tracks by another kid.

  “You’re on her side, now?” The guy blocking Stiv looks at me like I’m dog crap. “Why? You nailing her? You hitting that?”

  Stiv glares. “Drop it, Brian.”

  Brian shoves Stiv.

  Stiv throws down his books. “You don’t want to start something. You really don’t.”

  The crowd rematerializes, all jeans and shoes from this angle.

  Brian shoves Stiv again. “Oh really?”

  “I’ll give you one more chance to walk away,” Stiv warns. “You mess with me, you mess with the whole soccer team.”

  “Yeah, you do!” A boy pushes his way through the mob to stand at Stiv’s side.

  “Hells yeah!” Another soccer player shows up next to Stiv. They fold their arms over their chests, forming a wall.

  Brian’s eyes dart from Stiv to the other guys; he looks like he’s debating whether protecting his pride is worth getting pummeled by three soccer players.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Dr. Folger booms. Kids scamper.

  Dr. Folger draws himself up, his suit coat straining at the shoulders. “Mr. Wagner? Mr. Beers? Mr. Buxford and Mr. Cobb. Shall we meet in my office?”

  Brian shakes his head. “No.”

  “Indeed, that was a rhetorical question. Come with me.”

  The four boys start walking. As they pass, they cast their eyes down at me. They are seething. A couple of them look like they will kick my ass as soon as Dr. Folger is done with them, and as soon as they’ve finished their own war.

  Dr. Folger pushes his hands into his pockets. “Evie. Mr. Heck is quite busy, but he will attend to your locker posthaste.” I search his face for the customary warmth. It is not there. “Please stand and get to class.” He catches up to the four boys.

  I thud the back of my head against my locker to unstick my brain. Think. Stop crying. Things have snowballed out of control: it’s an avalanche, a growing snowslide careening down a mountain. I knock my head against the metal again. The avalanche already smothered me last week. What’s another foot or two, if I’m already buried alive? At least today’s ligh
tning strike is true. I have ruined the school. But what about the other kids’ lightnings? Were they deserved?

  A snowball, an avalanche. Dr. Folger and the superintendent haven’t been able to stop it. So much for their top-down approach. And the bottom-up, grassroots approach is what started this mess in the first place. My stomach contorts. This is overwhelming. How can you stop an avalanche?

  And there is another, more basic question: how are people getting in after school hours to post lightning? The place is supposed to be locked tight.

  In Global View, Stiv doesn’t make an appearance, nor does Matt. Marcie won’t meet my eyes. And Jacinda? I don’t even bother trying to talk to her or write a note. What’s the point? The blog is down. She wanted to wash her hands of it, of me. But this huge wall between us is killing my heart. The heartbreak of a broken friendship—why don’t they show that in the movies? It’s every bit as bad as the hurt from Rajas.

  Rajas.

  I need to talk to him. Which will be as much fun as jumping into a meat grinder.

  At lunchtime, the cafeteria thrums as if the entire student body is on the verge of anarchy. It feels like an unseen force is thrusting people into constant motion. Everyone is pacing around, orbiting tables, circling prey. Fights break out. Teachers—there are more here than usual—spring into motion, knocking over chairs to push sparring kids apart.

  At tables, people aren’t talking, they’re shouting.

  Except Rajas’s table, which lapses into dead silence when I show up. Jacinda’s not here. She must be at Cheer Squad? No, that can’t be it, because Marcie’s here.

  “Can I talk to you?” I ask Rajas over the din of the surrounding tables.

  He looks impassive, except for the blotches rapidly staining his skin. Please tell me it’s because he misses me. The audacity of hope. More likely it’s embarrassment that I’m addressing him in public. Or pity over the lightning strikes against me? A surge of anger makes my hands pulse. I don’t need his pity, I don’t want it. This girl is different.

  I say it again. “Can we talk?”

  Rajas scratches his nose. “Yeah, okay.”

  “I assume you’d prefer to go somewhere private?”

  “Sure.” If he caught my irony, he doesn’t let on. He grabs his tray and empties it in the garbage as we go out the door.

  We walk in silence until we’re passing the gym.

  “Stop,” I tell him. Because he’s leading us to the shop room, and I can’t bear the thought of it. As much as I’ve tried to shut them out, Jacinda’s words still echo in my mind: Did you ever wonder why he always took you to the shop room? No one even knew you guys were together. Rajas didn’t want people to know.

  I thought it was so we could have each other all to ourselves. To talk and kiss and kiss some more.

  Was I really that naive? Humiliating. Time to change. Nobody puts baby in a corner.

  Rajas leans on the gym doors. “What do you want to talk about?” His voice is neutral.

  I want to talk about the way we broke up! I want to talk about you choosing Jacinda over me! I want to talk about you telling me you love me! I want to know if your heart is as wrecked as mine! But I don’t say those things. Instead, I clear the lump blocking my throat and say, “I want to talk about how people are getting into school. At night. To post the lightning.”

  He jerks his head around to make sure no one is listening. “How would I know?”

  “Please, spare me the innocent act. I just want the truth.”

  He runs his hand through his hair. “Don’t know. That is the truth.”

  “Does Jacinda? Does she know?”

  “She’s not talking to me.”

  “Really? Why? Did you come clean and admit it was you who—”

  “Eve.” He holds up a hand to indicate he doesn’t want to talk about it, just as a group of girls walks by.

  “Hi, Rajas,” says one of the girls, smiling broadly and waving with her fingers.

  “Hey, Rosemary.”

  “See you after school?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” He smiles his crooked smile. “Of course.”

  “Good!” The girl bounces a little. When they continue on, she and her friends burst into giggles. They look back at Rajas before disappearing around the corner.

  See you after school. And now my heart is beyond broken. It has circled back from being numb, and is crumpling into itself. It’s a black hole in my chest from which nothing, not even light, can escape.

  “Eve, I—”

  “Okay. Thanks for the information.” I take off.

  I manage to hold back my tears until I’m in The Clunker.

  In the driver’s seat, I crank the ignition. Her name was Rosemary. I’ve seen her around. First year student, I think. Always giggling and looking a little boy crazy. Have she and Rajas been seeing each other all along? Wouldn’t Jacinda have told me? Or maybe Rosemary had her eye on Rajas and she was just waiting for us to break up. Except that she wouldn’t have had to wait, because no one—other than Jacinda—knew we were together.

  I stomp the clutch and pry The Clunker’s gearshift into reverse, then jam it back into park. There’s still half a day of school left. I hit the steering wheel, shut the engine off. My fingers hurt from trying to rip the lightning from my locker. And the tears keep coming.

  25

  If we don’t fight hard enough for the things we stand for, at some point we have to recognize that we don’t really stand for them.

  —PAUL WELLSTONE, U.S. SENATOR, 1944–2002

  n Tuesday, a police car is parked in the student parking lot. A cop stands beside it, looking menacing, trying to dissuade students from breaking into fights.

  Locker. ABRAM PAUL IS AN ASSHOLE!

  Classroom door. MR. WOLMAN SUCKS UP TO RICH KIDS.

  I have to talk to Dr. Folger. Just to…I don’t even know. Express my condolences at the accelerating decline of The Institution of School? Bear witness to the whirling vortex of a toilet flush that is his school? And my role in creating that cosmic sewage? Should I confess? Should I have known this was going to happen? Should I have seen it coming?

  When I open the door to the main office, Ms. Franklin waves me in. “He’s expecting you, hon.”

  I take a deep, cleansing breath and knock on Dr. Folger’s office door, which is slightly ajar. Sitting at his desk, Dr. Folger looks contemplative. He’s holding a Slinky over the floor, springing it up and down. “Evie. Come in.”

  I sit. My throat is dry. What should I say? I put my hands on my lap and try not to think about his Cornell diploma. “Dr. Folger, I—”

  “Please, Evie. For your own sake, let me do the talking.” He sets down the Slinky. “Let us start at the beginning.

  “I strongly suspect that you, and quite possibly an accomplice or two, began the PLUTOs website. I believe that you were behind the lightning strike against Ms. Gliss.”

  “But I—”

  “Enough.” It’s the harshest tone he’s ever taken with me, and it makes me want to crawl under the chair. Dr. Folger steeples his hands and taps index finger to chin. “You should count yourself very fortunate indeed that I lack the evidence to prove my suspicion.”

  Guilt singes the tips of my ears. And relief washes through me. He wasn’t able to connect us to the blog. And obviously neither Jacinda nor Rajas has been persuaded to confess. They don’t hate me quite enough to self-destruct. Thank God for small favors.

  “Assuming my suspicions are correct, I have no doubt that your intentions were honorable, if grossly— and I do mean grossly—misguided. Alas, we have covered this ground before.” His chair pivots as he leans back. “The blog has gone off-line, and that is good. But we are approaching a crisis point here. I’ve put the school on veritable lockdown and posted security guards at the main entrances. We are petitioning the school board to fund an alarm system. But as you can see, students are still finding their way into the building after hours.”

  I keep my face neutral. Raja
s says he’s not using his key, and I believe him. But kids are trickling in somehow. Where is the leak?

  “This is disturbing, to say the least. And momentum has not shifted,” Dr. Folger continues. “Indeed, the lightning strikes are occurring with even greater frequency. This is becoming, to use an expression from my younger days, a shitstorm.”

  I smile at his term, but his eyes don’t concede one iota of levity.

  “I’ve said it before: I like you, Evie. But I am not happy, not by any stretch of the imagination, about this situation.” His gaze fills me with so much remorse that I need to look away.

  “Evie, you may fashion yourself something of an advocate for democracy—”

  “But can I just—”

  “No.” He lifts a finger in warning. “No. I am not finished.”

  Chastened, I nod and sit on my hands to keep quiet.

  “Now. If you want to be taken seriously, if you are truly the advocate for justice you think you are, you must accept responsibility for the consequences of your actions. All of the consequences, intended or not.

  “If you are the person I think and hope you are, you will put your strong ideas to work. You will do everything in your power to rectify this situation.” He dips his head. “That is all. You are excused, Evie.”

  Dismissed and then some, I leave. Dr. Folger’s disappointment is an acid eroding the scant remains of my heart. I can’t even look at Ms. Franklin, because if she gives me a sympathetic smile, I’ll dissolve into tiny pieces. Dr. Folger wants me to do something. But I’m so empty. What’s left to do something with?

  26

  Learning carries within itself certain dangers because out of necessity one has to learn from one’s enemies.

  LEON TROTSKY, MARXIST THEORIST AND BOLSHEVIK REVOLUTIONARY, 1879–1940

  Wednesday morning, one police officer monitors the bus circle. Another leans on his cruiser in the parking lot.

  Inside, a locker: JAMIE CLEARY HAD A NOSE JOB!

  A classroom door: MR. CAMPOTO GIVES FOOTBALL PLAYERS GRADES THEY DON’T DESERVE!

  Another locker: SCOTTIE FOREST IS A TOTAL FAG. Sobbing, a kid is pulling at the lightning. He looks desperate. I run over and help him pull it down. This one comes off, thank God. “Thank you,” he whispers, but his face changes when he sees who I am. “You,” he snarls. “You started this. Get away from me.”