This Girl Is Different

by J. J. Johnson

  I leave, taking the lightning with me. Scottie’s got enough to deal with, without being associated with the loathsome Evensong Morningdew. Anger pulses against my tired, empty skull. I rumple the cardboard lightning and stuff it in the garbage. This homophobic slur is by far the worst. It’s antithetical to why we started PLUTOs. The diametric opposite. We wanted a flashy way to confront abuse and oppression. Instead we turned the fight for justice into plain old bullying. Anonymous bullying, no less. The most cowardly kind.

  PLUTOs striking Ms. Gliss was warranted. I stand by that. And Brookner got what he deserved. As for the other strikes against teachers…are they true? Were they justified? I don’t know. I’m not a big fan of Ms. Theodore, but is she racist? It’s not impossible.

  Then there are the strikes against kids. Maybe some people are assholes, and do cheat on their girlfriends or their tests. Or someone got a nose job. Who cares? It’s personal. They’re not oppressing others. Striking lightning for that stuff is just plain petty.

  And calling someone a fag? That’s worse than petty: it’s hateful. Inexcusable. It’s taking the lightning and turning it into a tool of oppression.

  Dr. Folger is right. I have to act. But how? If Rajas and Jacinda were with me, maybe we could do something. Maybe, although I don’t know what. But they aren’t with me. I’m alone. I’m the school pariah. Struck twice by lightning, blamed for ruining the school. At this point, I have as about as much influence as a leper in a cave.

  In Global View, Jacinda looks sullen and pallid. She rests her head on her desk most of the period, but at least she’s here. Some days she doesn’t come to class at all.

  At lunchtime, I hide out in my Fortress of Solitude, The Clunker. I choke down a few bites of apple. I Zen out and try to take deep yoga breaths. Think. A solution. I stare at the familiar cracks on the dashboard. I roll my head on the steering wheel. The only thoughts I can muster are questions: How are people getting into school to post the lightning? How did things go so wrong? How can I make it all just go away?

  I can’t think. I have to get out of here. At least for now. If I make it back before geometry I won’t get detention. I drive in a daze and I end up in the Walmart parking lot. Out of habit, I suppose; I didn’t make a conscious decision. Since I’m here, should I call Martha? She’d come flying out in a heartbeat. But she’s been missing shifts as it is, thanks to me. What if she got fired? I don’t want to add her to the list of people getting hurt.

  Ugh.

  A revolution, taking a moral stand, is one thing. Hurting people is another. Being hurt.

  Betrayal. Heartbreak. Jacinda. Rajas. Cornell.

  I groan and crawl into the back of The Clunker and lie down. I’ve got to think of something. I have to. Think of Scottie Forest and Matt Johnson and Jamie Cleary and Davina Whoever and the others. And Stiv and the kids who are fighting each other, set off by the divisive lightning. The whole school is imploding.

  Focus.

  But my mind won’t center on anything other than all the hating, the pain.

  I rub my temples. Time to try to stoke up some positive energy.

  Bam bam bam!

  Holy crap! I’m startled nearly out of my skin because someone’s knocking so hard The Clunker shimmies.

  Bam bam bam!

  What now? Walmart security guards? But you’re allowed to camp in Walmart parking lots! It’s the only good thing about them! I grab the latch and slide the door open to tell whoever it is to—

  Brookner. Brookner is standing in front of me.

  He rocks onto his heels. “Evie.”

  My stomach clenches, churning resentment and disgust. “How did you find me?”

  “I have my ways.”

  “What are you doing? Are you stalking me? This is all your fault! Everything went to hell because of you!”

  “Now now. Don’t be snippy. May I come in?” Brookner asks.

  I glare at him. “Are you kidding me? You really think that’s a good idea? To be alone in a van with a female student?”

  “Hmm. You might be right. I’ll stay out here.” He wags his head in the direction of his car. “Booker’s in there. Better that he can see me. More reassuring.”

  I peer past Brookner and give a small wave to Booker. He sags in the passenger seat, looking miserable. He looks down at something.

  Brookner follows my gaze. “He takes that snake with him everywhere now.”

  “Just make sure he keeps Javier well fed. I’d hate for him to—” Wait. Enough distraction! “What do you want?” I demand of Brookner. “Go on in and do your shopping.”

  “I’m not here to shop. I’m here to talk to you.”

  “So you are stalking me?”

  Instead of responding, he adjusts his glasses. For the first time, he seems to notice my eyes, red, chiseled out from dark circles caused by tears and lack of sleep. “Evie, have you been crying?”

  “No!”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  We’re both quiet, as if daring the other person to talk first. Brookner leans on The Clunker. “Well. You know that I’ve been put on leave? That I’m being investigated?”

  “I would feel sorry for you, except that you completely deserve it.”

  “Yes, well. Kind of nice, the quiet. We’re making the best of it. It gives me a lot of time to think. Maybe I’ll homeschool Booker. He’s been keeping me company, helping me dig up some new quotes.” He smiles. “I’ve got a good one. It’s contextual. ‘Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds.’”

  My breath catches. “Einstein.” It’s one of my favorite lines of all time.

  He nods.

  I straighten my spine, recover my anger. “I take that to mean you consider yourself a great spirit?”

  “You don’t?”

  “Consider you a great spirit? No.”

  He laughs. “We’re a lot alike, you and I.”

  I cross my arms. “No we’re not.” I sound every bit the petulant teenager, but I don’t have the energy for anything else.

  “We certainly are. We both fancy ourselves mavericks. Idealists. We question the arbitrary boundaries society places upon us.”

  “I don’t do sketchy things. I don’t hurt people.”

  “Oh no? Well. I wonder…how do you suppose Ms. Gliss felt after the first lightning strike?”

  “She deserved it. Besides, why would you assume that was me?”

  “Please.” He waves a hand, like he’s not interested in that argument. “Posting anonymously on the internet. Not giving someone a chance to redeem herself, or at the very least, respond to the charges. How sketchy—to use your term—is that?”

  “She could have posted a response,” I mutter.

  “And how effective could that have possibly been?” I don’t answer, because he’s right. About one thing. It wouldn’t have done any good for Ms. Gliss to respond.

  There’s a spark in his eye. “Perhaps I shouldn’t speak in the past tense about Ms. Gliss’s response.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Perhaps she’s leaving the door open, as it were, to the possibilities of diluting the accusations against her, hmm?”

  I blink.

  He chuckles. “You’re not the only person with a strong mind and ideas in her head, Evie. You should give people some credit.” Pressing his elbow against the door frame, he shifts his weight, turns, and leaves.

  But I do. I do give people credit. Don’t I?

  Jacinda says I give myself too much credit. “You’re the one who should give her some credit!” I shout at Brookner.

  He swivels around to face me. “And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean? Enlighten me.”

  “You manipulated Jacinda. You made her think it was okay to be dating you.”

  Scanning the parking lot for anyone who might have heard me, he walks back toward The Clunker. “On the contrary. I simply treated her like a human being, with whom I enjoyed talking. I made it very
clear that we must wait until she graduated, until she was no longer a student, for our relationship to progress.”

  “Then answer me this: if you’re so sure that you didn’t do anything wrong, why did you break it off with her?”

  “Besides the lightning strike and the ensuing investigation?” He takes off his glasses and rubs them on his shirt. “Let’s just say that a mutual acquaintance paid me a visit.”

  I lean back, realizing. “Dr. Folger.”

  He puts his glasses back on. “You know, Evie, for someone who prides herself on her precocity, you really can be quite dense.” He jogs to his car, jerks the door open. He says something to Booker and ducks in.

  Seething, I watch him drive away.

  He’s abhorrent. But he’s done me a favor. He’s given me some clues, some pieces of the puzzle.

  I know how people are getting into school after hours.

  27

  A strong woman is a woman who is straining.

  —MARGE PIERCY, POET AND NOVELIST, B.1936

  Long after the dismissal bell, the school feels like an industrial wasteland. Even more than usual. Hollow creaks ease into silence, and echoes skitter off the walls and lockers. Sports and activities have wrapped up, but a smattering of stragglers remains, so if I bump into one of the new security guards, my presence here is not entirely suspect.

  Now. If a door is being left unlocked at night for people to sneak in and out, it would have to be somewhere kids know about, but obscure enough for Dr. Folger and the security guards to overlook. And if it has something to do with Ms. Gliss…I’ll start with the gym.

  Lights off and empty, the gym seems cavernous. Paper murals slouch from masking-tape points, covering walls and windows. Go Purple Tornado! Show your spirit! The Cheer Squad’s preparation for the homecoming pep rally tomorrow, the one Rajas mentioned. Rajas. My heart sags, tired and achy, thinking about him.

  I give myself a mental kick; no time for heartache. I’m on a mission.

  Checking again to be sure no one is around, I jog to the emergency exits. Both sets are locked. I make my way into the girls’ locker room. A few of the lockers are still open, and someone has left her shoes on the floor, but it’s deserted, lit only by the flickering Exit sign over the door to the fields. This would be the perfect door for Ms. Gliss to leave open. It would make so much sense. I check the latch.

  It’s locked.

  Crap. Maybe Brookner threw me a red herring? Maybe it’s not Ms. Gliss.

  Sighing, I turn to go. Wait. A creaking sound—a locker door? No, it’s my imagination. I’m alone. I head back out in the gym—and there’s a click and movement: the door to the boys’ locker room slipping shut. This time I’m sure it’s real. I tiptoe-jog across the gym and go in. The smell hits me first: sweaty jockstraps, musty cleats, body odor. The layout is a reversed version of the girls’ locker room. Mr. D’s office door is closed. I tiptoe to the door that exits to the fields.

  And there she is. Ms. Gliss. She’s biting a piece of duct tape, using her teeth to rip it from the roll. She props the door open with her foot. Holding the latch down, she stretches a strip of tape over it. With a turn of her head, she bites off another piece, uses it to cover the strike plate. She runs her fingers over the tape, as if making sure it will hold.

  Brookner was right: Ms. Gliss is leaving the door unlocked. She wants people to post lightning. It makes sense. The more teachers who get struck by lightning, the less bad she’ll look. Mr. Brookner, Mr. Wolman, Mr. Campoto, Ms. Theodore…who’s next? Step on up, faculty. Misery loves company.

  Ms. Gliss eases the door into the frame. I duck behind the lockers before she turns around.

  “I know you’re there.” Her voice is shrill. “Evie. Would you like to tell me what you’re doing in the boys’ locker room after school hours?”

  Damn! Think. Do I want a confrontation? If I bolt, I could probably make it to The Clunker. But I’d have to come back to undo the tape and lock the door. Tonight, and every night after that. And what if Ms. Gliss started changing doors? I’d have to search for the right door every night. When would it end?

  If I stay, maybe I can convince her to stop.

  Stay or run? Fight or flight?

  I step out from the lockers. If I’m honest, I made my decision long ago: Stay. Fight.

  “I saw you taping the lock,” I say.

  She starts walking, passing me on the way to the gym.

  “Hey!” I hurry to follow her. “Wait.”

  In the gym, she twirls around. “What do you want?”

  “I saw you taping the lock.”

  “Really? Let me tell you what I saw: I saw a female student in the boys’ locker room. A student who is in school, after hours, without a reason.” She pushes her hand through the roll of duct tape and wears it like a huge bracelet. “I’m afraid I have no choice but to report you to the authorities, since I can only assume you are here to post a lightning, something damning against a student. Or, more likely, a teacher.”

  My stomach starts to fold in on itself. “But I wasn’t— you can’t—”

  “No? I’m really sorry, but it’s just my obligation, m’kay? I’ve been targeted myself, you see.” She lifts her hand to her hair, the duct tape falling to her elbow. The corners of her mouth turn down. There is a hint of sadness in her face. Is she human after all?

  She sucks her teeth. “I’m afraid that, at this point, with all the damage that’s been done, Dr. Folger will probably have no choice but to suspend you. Or possibly expel you.”

  My mouth goes dry. Expelled? She wouldn’t turn me in to be expelled, would she?

  Yes. Of course she would. And I don’t know why I didn’t see it before, but it’s not just because she’s angry. It’s because she’s hurt.

  “Wait. No.” I dig down for my resolve. “You are the one rigging the door.”

  Ms. Gliss curls her lips. “How about we both go to Dr. Folger and offer him our different points of view? Who do you think he’ll believe? Me, a tenured faculty member who’s been teaching and coaching for eleven years? Lightning strike notwithstanding,” she frowns. “Or you. A student with no history, who’s been here for…how long is it? Oh yes, I remember! Didn’t you show up just exactly when all this trouble started? Wow, what a coinky dink.” She taps her chin, as if mulling it over. “Yes, let’s do that. Let’s go to Dr. Folger together. I like my chances.”

  Dr. Folger has all but given up on me. What if he believes Ms. Gliss? Even if he didn’t, he’d be obligated to investigate. The superintendent might step in. Dr. Folger’s hands would be tied. No more leniency.

  “But we both know the truth,” I say.

  “Do we? The truth where you slandered me for being human and having a bad day, and now I’m being reviewed by the school board? Or the truth that you came to this school and all hell broke loose, and you should be expelled?” She fiddles with her duct tape bracelet. “I was going to apologize to Marcie, you know. I brought in frozen yogurt for the whole squad, because I felt bad. That was the morning I found your pleasant surprise on my door. Well, Evie. I’m a bigger person than you might think. Tell you what. How about I do you a huge favor and let you off the hook this one time?”

  I can’t meet her eyes. I’m so confused—she was going to apologize to Marcie? “Okay,” I mumble.

  “Well then. You may go.”

  “Thanks.” Wait a second. Thanks? Why am I thanking her for letting me go after I witnessed her doing something wrong? Ms. Gliss should be held accountable— for what she said to Marcie and for what she’s doing now.

  Talk about irony. Accountability is why we started PLUTOs in the first place. We wanted Ms. Gliss to have a reckoning.

  I curl my hands into fists.

  I don’t want irony. I don’t even want revenge.

  I want justice.

  28

  The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any.

  —ALICE WALKER, AUTHOR AND ACTIVIST, B.1
944

  I walk through the nearly empty parking lot, climb into The Clunker, and rest my head on the steering wheel. Dusk is beginning to settle; the days are getting shorter. My shoulders hump in an involuntary shudder of humiliation and rage. And impotence.

  No. I refuse to give in to these feelings. Ms. Gliss will not stop me. I will think of something. Gritting my teeth, I crank The Clunker to a start.

  I fight the gearshift into first and swerve to avoid two cheerleaders emerging from school, pom-poms in hand. Which is weird because I was sure the place was empty. They must have been doing last-minute pep rally preparations.

  Wait. The pep rally!

  I stomp on the brakes, turn the engine off. Hop out of The Clunker and run back into the school. The main office is locked; Ms. Franklin has already left for the day. I pound on the door.

  Dr. Folger looks up from the teachers’ mail cubbies. His eyebrows rise as he opens the door. “Evie.”

  “A speak-out! An open mic for students to talk!” I’m breathing hard, from running and from excitement. “That’s what we have to do!”

  He straightens the stack of papers he’s holding, sets them down on Ms. Franklin’s desk.

  “You said I should come up with a solution to make things right. This is it. It’s perfect! There’s a pep rally, so the whole school will already be together.”

  He regards me for a long moment. “Let us sit down, shall we?”

  I explain as I follow him. “PLUTOs started for a reason: to empower students to speak up against injustice, and to hold teachers accountable so they can’t abuse their authority. I mean, just for the sake of argument. That’s why I assume PLUTOs started…” I trail off.

  In his office, I plop down onto my customary chair. Dr. Folger takes a seat behind his desk, adjusts his suit jacket.

  “Students need a form of expression. We need a way to talk to each other and reopen the lines of communication. More of a give-and-take, instead of the lightnings, right?” I don’t wait for his answer. “Yes. Freedom of speech. I’ll always believe in it. But, if the problem with PLUTOs and the lightning is that it’s anonymous, then a speak-out—”