This Girl Is Different (15 page)

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.

—P
AULO
F
RIERE, 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 their 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.

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?

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

—M
ARK
T
WAIN, 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 lightning 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.