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This Girl Is Different

Page 19

by J. J. Johnson


  Dr. Folger holds up a hand. “Please excuse the interruption, Evie. But I have a question.”

  “Okay.”

  “A pep rally is designed to invigorate students, rile them up, if you will. Do you think it wise to invite dialogue at such a heated time?”

  Good point. I deflate a little.

  His smile shows a twinkle of camaraderie. “On the other hand, administrators and faculty, as a rule, are not keen to cancel classes. In that regard, a pep rally presents a rare opportunity for the entire school to convene. As you have pointed out.” Dr. Folger leans back. I’m expecting him to reach for a Slinky, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “As it happens, I’ve considered the idea.”

  “Really?” My eyes go wide. “Wow.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. I have some practice with free-speech rallies.” He grimaces. “Alas. I digress.”

  In my mind, Martha winks and chides me: The trick is to make it seem like his own idea. Sunlight.

  “I’ve discussed the idea with Dr. Jones,” Dr. Folger continues. “Something must be done to contain the chaos. As we see it, we are coming down to two choices. Either I clamp down harder and create a no-tolerance state of—”

  “Fascist dictatorship?”

  He chuckles. “Not quite the term I would use, but…that’s the general idea. Or, the other option is to create a valve to relieve some pressure. At its best, a speak-out would function as a safe yet effective means for students to discharge steam.”

  “Since clearly, from all the lightning, people have a lot to say.”

  “Be that as it may, I’m not convinced that what has been said has been worth saying. Much of it was neither warranted nor helpful.”

  “Right.” I take a deep breath. Evensong is a hypocrite! Evensong ruined the school! Warranted, maybe, but not helpful. But as bad as they were, those don’t compare to the horrendous injustice of being called a fag.

  “A speak-out adheres responsibility to freedom of expression. When one speaks in front of a crowd, one is accountable for his or her statements.”

  I nod. “No vicious, anonymous accusations.”

  “They certainly would not be anonymous. Whether or not they would be vicious would remain to be seen.” He taps his desk. “The bottom line is, Evie, I simply cannot take the risk.”

  “Wait. I thought you were into it.”

  “As an administrator,” he annunciates slowly, “I simply cannot take the risk.”

  “As an administrator.”

  “Indeed.” He folds his hands on his desk blotter. “In any event, a successful speak-out would have to be student-led, don’t you agree?”

  I pick up the rainbow Slinky, fiddling with it while I think. “Definitely. Yes. Because if the idea came from you, or a teacher—if it was top-down, it’d be just another tool of The Man. Kids would reject it.”

  “So we are in agreement.”

  I wrinkle my forehead. “I’m confused. You said you couldn’t condone a speak-out.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So how do we agree?”

  He doesn’t answer. He swivels to stare at the wall, his diplomas. Cornell. “I am reminded of one of our initial conversations about creating democracy and social justice.” Turning back to me, he clears his throat. Lines etch his face. “Why are you here, Evie?” The impatience in his voice stings.

  “To tell you my idea about the speak-out.”

  “You want my permission. My blessing.”

  “I guess so—”

  “You don’t have it.”

  I swallow.

  “But that wasn’t my question. I meant, why are you here, at this school? To what end did you enroll?”

  “I—I wanted to see what high school was like.”

  “That, as we used to say in the movement, is a copout.”

  Ouch.

  “Let us be honest with each other. You are no passive wallflower, Evie. You did not come here to observe. If you had, none of this would have occurred. As you know, this school has undergone a tremendous shift, due largely to your actions.”

  “I thought you liked—”

  He holds his hand out for the Slinky I’m playing with. I set it in his palm.

  “I will say this,” he says, “and then I will ask you to go home and reflect on it. The notion is as simple as it is important, if you are to embrace your calling as an agitator for fairness and justice: you simply cannot, and must not, expect the blessing of the very authority you are working to undermine.”

  I try to absorb what he’s saying.

  “I think you understand me.”

  “You’re saying I shouldn’t expect a stamp of approval from The Man.”

  A terse smile. “Indeed.”

  “You’re saying I’m on my own.”

  Without a word, he stands.

  Hint taken.

  Social Justice 101: What happens when the revolution you started turns around to bite you in the butt. Social Justice 102: why you shouldn’t expect help—from friends or from The Man.

  These classes should come with a warning: Enroll at your own peril. Courses guaranteed to induce fear and loneliness. And make you take risks you never dreamed you would.

  29

  Women are never stronger than when they arm themselves with their weaknesses.

  —MARIE ANNE VICHY-CHAMROND, MARQUISE DU DEFFAND, PATRON OF THE ARTS, 1697–1780

  Looking at the stars visible through its translucent roof, I try to find some solace in the beauty of the Dome Home. Martha pulls my hair out of its elastic and runs her fingers through it. We are sitting crosslegged on her bed. “I’m sure you can make Jacinda see the light, darling.”

  “Not without a thousand-kilowatt bulb and some major retinal damage.”

  “She’ll come around. Push a little, then back off and give her more time.”

  “There’s no more time to give. The pep rally’s tomorrow.” I rub my face in misery. “I can’t do this, Martha. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

  “Of course you can. You’re strong, my love.”

  “I don’t feel strong.” I close my eyes. “It’s going to be brutal, like the massacre at Wounded Knee. Except minus the ethnic cleansing.” I sigh. “I just wish I had someone on my side.”

  “Well, you should’ve known not to count on The Man for support.” She tsks. “Too bad. That one almost had me fooled.”

  “Dr. Folger won’t help me, but he won’t stop me, either. That’s what he was trying to say.”

  She snorts. “That’s quite an endorsement.”

  I blow out a big breath. “Man, Jacinda would be perfect. Everyone would listen to her.”

  “I’ll come with you, darling. I can be your cheerleader.”

  “Showing up with my mom in spanky pants won’t help the cause. I’m already universally despised.”

  “Surely you exaggerate.” She begins to braid my hair.

  “Surely I do not exaggerate. When will you comprehend I’m the school untouchable? Everyone, and I mean everyone, teachers included”—I shiver at the thought of Ms. Gliss and her duct tape—“hates me. We’re not talking mild disapproval here. It’s elemental, vampire-versus-slayer hate.” I take a deep breath and feel Martha do the same. The tugging while she braids feels good.

  “Yowza, you’re tense.”

  “Comes with the territory. Of being hated with a fiery passion—”

  “Of a million burning suns? Of a thousand-kilowatt bulb? Of vampires? And Colonel Forsyth?”

  “Finally, you’re appreciating the magnitude of the situation.”

  She drops my braid over my shoulder. “Lean forward, I’ll rub your back.”

  We are quiet awhile, thinking.

  “It’s the hard thing to do,” Martha says eventually, “but it’s the right thing to do.”

  “I know.” I set out to create justice, not ruin the school. “I just hope it works. We have to bring some sunlight back.” I swallow hard. Sunlight. There’s something else t
hat needs to be brought into sunlight: a final piece of the puzzle. My heart squeezes at what I need to ask Martha. I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.

  “Martha, why aren’t you going to HSP anymore? Or meeting them for coffee?”

  She sniffs. “I’m through with the Horny Singletons, my love.”

  “You wore out your welcome, you said?”

  “C’est vrai.” Kneading my shoulders, she starts humming an Ani DiFranco song, the one about goldfish having no memory.

  I take the plunge. “Why don’t you just tell me the truth?”

  Her hands freeze for a moment. “What do you mean?” She runs her thumbs down the grooves along my spine.

  “I figured it out. It was you, not Dr. Folger.”

  Another pause. “I’m still not following.”

  “I’m shining light on the fact that you haven’t been forthcoming with me.”

  “Darling—”

  “Know how I put it together? Brookner said something about why he broke it off with Jacinda. He said, ‘a mutual friend paid me a visit.’ I figured he meant Dr. Folger. And then it hit me: you recognized Jacinda’s name, way back when I sprained my ankle and she and Rajas brought me home.” Saying Rajas’s name feels like needles jabbing my throat. “Jacinda had put up a flyer for baby-sitting. A flyer you saw at HSP.”

  Silence.

  “Jacinda knew Brookner before she had class with him. From baby-sitting. Brookner found her the same way you did: the flyer at HSP. He’s one of the Horny Singletons.”

  “Darling.”

  I turn around to face her. “Why all the secrecy?”

  “We don’t do much with last names at Horny Singletons—at HSP. It’s not the kind of place where you give out business cards. And there’s a lot of Johns in the world.”

  “You must have known he was a teacher.”

  Her hands drop to her lap. She doesn’t answer.

  “So…that night when Jacinda was baby-sitting and Javier the snake got loose, you ended up coming home early. Were you out with him? With Brookner?” I start to unwind the braid Martha started. “You know what? Don’t answer that. I don’t even want to know.”

  “Evensong Sparkling Morningdew. You know I would never, ever, in a million years, knowingly do anything that might hurt you. But you are always encouraging me to have a social life.”

  “But Brookner is crap nasty!” I make a face. “Okay. I’ll admit, at first he sucks you in with his smarts and his stupid meta-ironic nerd glasses. But the man is a toad.”

  “Preach it, sister.”

  “Why did you keep it a secret? It’s just plain weird of you not to—”

  “You’ve been so amazing, darling. Creating PLUTOs, making new friends, sticking up for yourself, taking a stand. I’ve just been in awe.” Unaccustomed to tears, Martha’s eyes become a roadmap of veins. “When I put it together that John Horny Singleton was John Brookner, when I found out what he was up to—”

  “You went to him yourself. You told him to stop with Jacinda, or else.”

  “Yes, darling,” she murmurs, smoothing a finger under her eye. “I did.”

  “Why not just tell me everything? We always tell each other everything.”

  “I didn’t want to interfere! I was—I am—spitting mad at him. I couldn’t let that jackass continue to be a predator!” She stops mid-rant, shaking her head. “I wanted to do it quietly, without focusing attention. This isn’t about me, darling. This is your fight. I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

  “Funny. This whole thing started out with lightning, not thunder.” I slide off the bed.

  “Evensong—”

  I hold up a hand. “I’ll be okay. I get it. I forgive you. I just need some air.”

  Outside, I lie down on my favorite little hillock.

  The cold air is dappled with wispy stratus clouds, haloing the thin sliver of moon. A barred owl’s plaintive hoot—Whoooo, whoooo, who cooks for you all?—reminds me to breathe. Hannah Bramble’s bell clunks faintly as she lows in the barn. I hug myself to keep off the chill. Above me, Vega shines huge and powerful, the earth speeding toward her at twelve miles a second. How is that possible? How do we not get blown off the planet by the sheer force of the universe?

  I breathe and breathe. What if the earth could stop moving? Would time stop? I long for it to let me go back. Let me stay homeschooled, let me get into Cornell. Let me trust Martha to tell me everything. Let me meet Jacinda, let me fall in love with Rajas without all this. Let me not be alone and shunned.

  I tremble from cold, from tears I’m sick of crying.

  I’ve come this far. I’m a part of this world, as much as the owl and the moon and Hannah Bramble. And I’m not going down without a fight.

  30

  Real courage is when you know you’re licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what.

  —HARPER LEE, AUTHOR, B. 1926

  You know, this would be a whole a lot easier if Jacinda didn’t hate me so much. With her help, a speak-out would be manageable. Maybe even successful.

  I’ll give her one more try. I have to.

  In Global View, Ms. Bemis might as well be a kitten stuck up a tree, she seems so ineffectual. The whiteboard, once a site for controversy and provocation, now bears the forlorn suggestion, Silent study, please review chapters 20-21. Half of the class has vanished. Did they change their schedules, or are they permanently skipping? Who knows? The remaining students rearranged the seating chart. Now I sit alone.

  Without allowing hope to creep into my heart, I trek over to Jacinda. Marcie and another member of Cheer Squad sit to her left and front. They are in uniform for the pep rally. They chant softly, practicing cheers, inspecting the hems of their skirts. Jacinda is touching up her nail polish. It’s a scene from a movie—cheerleaders being shallow and cliquey. Before I came here, I thought that’s all there was to them. Jacinda taught me there’s more. But right now, that’s pretty hard to see.

  As I take a seat, my book slams onto the desk, a nervous accident. Heads lift like startled deer interrupted from grazing. Ms. Bemis frowns and marks something in her roster.

  “Jacinda, can we talk?”

  Jacinda dips her nail polish brush into the pot, twists the top shut. She blows on her fingernails and nods at something Marcie is whispering.

  It’s a united front. How good must it feel for so many people to have your back? My heart bristles with envy.

  I try again. “Can we talk…alone?”

  Jacinda looks at me, her dark eyes wary. “Anything you want to say to me should be something you can say to the whole squad.” Hmm. A clever way for her to curtail any talk of Brookner? Or is she feeling so vulnerable she needs her team?

  “It’s private.”

  I search Jacinda for the girl I used to know. What happened to all the love and goodwill that used to tumble out of her? Where’s the slow burn of her generous wit? I long for the friend who came to my rescue/nonrescue at the creek, who giggled with me about Rajas, who helped start PLUTOs. But that Jacinda is gone.

  I lower my voice. “I’m planning a speak-out, for after the pep rally. I think it could help bring the school back together, and still give students their free speech rights. But without hurting people, you know?” I swallow. “I really need your help.”

  Jacinda’s toe starts tapping. “I have to—” Her eyes pop wide, looking past me.

  I turn to look. Ms. Bemis is crossing the room to open the door for Ms. Gliss. Ms. Gliss, who smiles at her Cheer Squad. Then, catching sight of me, her smile degenerates into a scowl. Frost lines my stomach.

  Ms. Bemis looks glad of the interruption. “How can I help you?”

  Ms. Gliss recovers her smile. “I need my Cheer Squad. Dr. Folger excused them so we can finish preparations for the pep rally.”

  “Oh.” Ms. Bemis turns to the cheerleaders. “Okay girls? Go ahead.”

  “Please!” I whisper. “I really need you.”

  Jacinda
flicks a glance at Ms. Gliss. As she tucks her things into her purse, she says, “I just…can’t.” Then, louder, “We’re not buying what you’re selling.” She lifts a shoulder and turns. “Come on, girls. Let’s go.”

  The door clicks shut behind them.

  So that’s it. It’s official. I’m on my own.

  Maybe I depleted my tear allotment for the week, or maybe I’m too tired for sadness, because all I feel is nothing. I open my textbook and stare at it, but the words won’t arrange themselves into any meaning.

  The bell rings.

  In the hallway, eyes down, heading to my locker, I bump into someone.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, but I don’t bother looking up. I know who it is. I know the feel of the chest, I know the warm, spicy smell.

  Rajas brushes a finger down my arm. “Eve. Are you okay? Talk to me.”

  “You made your choice.” What else is there to say? I push past him.

  How much worse can this day get?

  I have a feeling I’m about to find out.

  31

  The idealists and visionaries, foolish enough to throw caution to the winds and express their ardor and faith in some supreme deed, have advanced mankind and have enriched the world.

  —EMMA GOLDMAN, WRITER AND ANARCHIST, 1869–1940

  The pep rally is period seven and eight combined, so it can go on interminably, until the end of school. Or perhaps till the end of time. I crack the gym door and peer in. Everyone’s here. The place is teeming, the walls seem bowed outward like they will burst. In full spanky pants regalia, the Cheer Squad has whipped the entire school into frothing paroxysms of pep. All the athletes have their purple jerseys on. The student jazz band is playing. The collapsible wooden bleachers, expanded down to the court lines, vibrate with all the cheering and yelling. They look on the verge of collapse under the stomping feet.

  Dread slams into me, hard. This was not a good idea. It isn’t going to work.

  With trembling fingers, I pocket my keys and put down the posters I’ve brought in from The Clunker, the ones Martha helped me make.

 

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