This Girl Is Different (4 page)

“How are classes so far?” Rajas asks, nearly shouting
to be heard over the din. Our table seems to be the
epicenter of the cafeteria.

“Okay,” I shrug. “I’m a bit whiplashed from the newness
of it all. But so far, so good.”

Across the table, Jacinda peels her orange and leans
into our conversation. “Ohmigod, stop being so modest!”
Turning to Rajas, she says, “You should have seen
her in Global View!”

“Not a big deal,” I say, poking at my shredded iceberg
lettuce in its Styrofoam (Styrofoam! How has that
not been banned yet?) bowl.

“Whatever! You totally went toe-to-toe with
Brookner!” She pulls off the last bit of orange peel and
picks at the white membrane. “Raj, will you please tell
Evie The Way of The Brookner? And more specifically,
his quotes?” She sections her orange and offers me a
piece. “Raj took Global View last year.”

Rajas’s eyes widen. “Holy crap! You discussed the
quote?”

“Not only discussed,” Jacinda squeals, “she wrote
her response
on the board
!”

Rajas grins. “Nice.” He shakes his head and takes a
section of orange. “Be warned that Brookner takes
those quotes seriously.”

Jacinda nods. “They are, like, his thing.”

Rajas says, “It’s his intellectual gauntlet. He always
starts class with a quote. He’ll swear that he wants a
discussion, but really he just wants to explain it himself
and then jump into his lecture.”

“That’s not true!” Jacinda comes to Mr. Brookner’s
defense.

Rajas gives her a dubious look.

“Well,” I say, “either way, people must discuss the
quotes with him all the time.”

Rajas and Jacinda shake their heads, their gazes
sticking on me so their eyes roll side to side while they
say no. Rajas says, “Not really. Not until today, sounds
like.”

“Well, that’s just weird,” I say. “I can’t be held responsible
for throwing down the gauntlet if I didn’t even
know that’s what I was doing.”

“Now you do, though. Know, I mean,” says Jacinda.
She pops another piece of orange in her mouth and
turns to Rajas. “He seemed impressed. And slightly irritated.”
She spits out a seed into her napkin. Leave it to
Jacinda to make seed spitting look polished and ladylike.
“I wish it had been me sounding so smart about
his quote,” she sighs.

Rajas leans toward me—and I almost drop my plastic
fork because Oh God he smells so good; today it’s
cinnamon and coffee beans and oranges. He speaks
into my ear, “Jacinda gets wiggy when it comes to
Brookner. She’s been lusting after him for a year.” He
says it in a kidding-but-not-really kind of way, and his
disapproval is clear.

“Shut up! I can tell what you’re saying!” Jacinda
scrunches up her face; her eyes dart around our table.
People keep looking at us, but it’s so loud in here that I
don’t think anyone can hear our actual conversation.
Jacinda leans closer to me and says, “Okay, maybe I
have a crush—but you cannot tell anyone.”

“Well, he does seem pretty cool. For a teacher.”
More interesting than any other teachers I’ve encountered
this morning. “Besides, who am I going to tell?
You two are the only people I know at this school.”

Rajas lowers his voice to say something to
Jacinda, and I manage to catch a word or two:
I mean
it…careful…sketchy.

Jacinda pouts. “Those are just rumors and you know
it.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out her phone.

I take a forkful of salad. They’re talking about
Brookner—they must be—but I can’t catch the exact
words. Should I ask? Would that be too nosy? I’m still
debating when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I dig it
out and flip it open. I don’t have to look at the number
to know who it is. “I’m fine, Martha.”

“Darling! I just wanted to check in. How’s it going?
It’s pretty slow here at the Mart of Wal.”

Typical Martha: she calls to check on me but talks
about
her
day first. Gazing out the window, I muse,
“Maybe it’s because it’s so nice out.”

Rajas catches my attention. He looks horrified, like
I’m mutilating puppies, or something equally heinous.

“What?” I ask, but he’s looking over me now, behind
me. So is Jacinda and everyone else.

“No phones!” A voice from earlier in the day. A small
hand appears in front of me. “Hand it over.”

I turn to face the owner of the hand. Ms. Gliss.

“I’ll be off in a second,” I tell her. Speaking into my
phone, I say, “Martha? I have to go, but I’ll see you
when I pick you up, okay?”

Sighing, “I’ll be waiting with bated breath, my love.”

“Okay. I love you—”

But the cell phone has been yanked out of my hand
by Ms. Gliss. Apparently in this case, The Man is A
Woman.

It is not desirable to cultivate a respect for the law, so much as for the right.

—H
ENRY
D
AVID
T
HOREAU, WRITER AND PHILOSOPHER,
1817–1862

s. Gliss confiscates my phone. “The Fourth
Amendment protects from illegal search and
seizure,” I tell her. “So you can’t take my
phone.” Ha! Schooled.

Her forehead wrinkles, but she recovers quickly.
“The Fourth Amendment protects you in your own
home. You’re in
my
house now.”

Whoa. The woman seems to know her history. But
she can’t be right. Even at school, you can’t be subjected
to search and seizure, can you? Not without a
warrant. Anyway, it’s moot now. She already has my
phone.

“You can pick it up at the main office at the end of
the day,” she says. The smugness in her voice is almost
tangible.

I look around the cafeteria. What’s with all the other
kids tapping away on their phones? Why isn’t she giving
them grief?

“I’d say you’re not off to a very good start here,
young lady.” Ms. Gliss writes something on a form, rips
off one of a triplicate page, and hands it to me. A yellow
carbon copy. “Your parent or guardian will need to
sign this.”

“You could have just talked to her. That’s who I was
on the phone with.”

Her eyes harden. “You watch your step.”

“Are the rules written down somewhere? Because I
didn’t get the memo about phones.” I am now beyond
confused.

From the look on her face, Ms. Gliss isn’t a big fan
of explication. Or levity.

As soon as Ms. Gliss is gone, Jacinda, who has been
silent, studying her hands in her lap, starts talking. “I’m
so sorry, Evie! Ms. Gliss can be a real stickler. We
should have told you that you can’t use your phone in
school.”

I still don’t get it. Jacinda follows my gaze to the
other kids with phones. “Oh! You can’t use your
phone
in school. But you can use the
internet
. During lunch,
before and after school, and also if you have a free bell.
Which you don’t,” she remembers.

Internet, okay. Phone calls, not okay. Interesting.
“Does the school give out iPhones?”

Jacinda looks at me like I’m crazy. It’s the Did-you-just-
get-back-from-the-moon? look. “This is a
public
school, Evie.”

“Then that’s discriminatory.”

“How do you mean?” Jacinda asks.

“Smartphones are expensive. The school should
either ban them completely or provide them to everyone.
Otherwise it’s biased, socioeconomically.”

“There are computers in the media center,” Jacinda
offers. “Anyone can use those.”

“Are they portable? Small, and up-to-date?”

“No,” Jacinda frowns, “they’re big old desktops.”

“And how many are there?”

“I don’t know. Like three or four?”

“For the whole school?” I shake my head. “That’s
not the same. It’s less convenient,
and
there’s a limited
number.”

“You’re right,” Rajas says. “The policy isn’t fair. I’ve
thought about that too.”

Jacinda stares at Rajas. “You want to give up your
iPhone?”

Rajas ignores the question. “Technically, you’re only
supposed to use them for academics. But it’s not really
enforceable.”

“Yeah,” Jacinda agrees, “they don’t, like, check your
internet history or anything.” She makes a face. “At
least, I don’t think they do.” She looks around the table.
“Can the school check your internet history?”

Marcie and Stiv shrug. Matt says, “Mr. Wolman said
you can be investigated for anything you do during
school hours.”

“Really?” Rajas says, like he doubts it.

Stiv says, “Doesn’t matter. You can always erase
your history and delete your cookies.”

Man, I have a lot to learn.

After lunch, I limp my way—figuratively and literally—
through English, geometry, and trigonometry. The
teachers seem decent, if not super exciting, and I recognize
a few faces from the morning. The English teacher,
Mr. Wolman, asks us to write down our favorite books
on index cards so he can get to know us. When he sees
I’ve filled the entire front and back of my card, he
smiles. It’s promising.

Megan has English with me, and she’s friendlier
than she was at lunch. Matt, the guy from Global View
and lunch, invites me to sit next to him in trigonometry.
All in all, I survive my first day intact.

After the dismissal bell, I limp to the main office to
retrieve my contraband. Ms. Franklin, the secretary,
seems sweet. “Rough first day, hon?” She tilts a plastic
container toward me. “Fudge? It’s my specialty.”

“Ah. You’re speaking my language.” I select a piece
of fudge; it melts in my mouth. “Mmm. Chocolate heals
all wounds. Thank you so much.”

“Anytime.” She opens a drawer in her desk and
hands me my phone. “Maybe you should leave this at
home tomorrow.”

“Or hide it better.”

She smiles. “I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that. Take
another piece of fudge for the road.”

“Love to. Thanks again.” I hobble to the parking lot.
My backpack is heavy with homework. Such a strange
notion.

Halfway to the parking lot, Rajas finds me. He
reaches out to take my bag.

“It’s okay, I’ve got it.”

“This is not chivalry,” he says. “Just while your ankle
heals.” His hand is still out.

I give it over. We don’t talk much, but it’s a companionable
quiet, comforting while we travel through
the hectic lot. What I would give to be alone with him.
I sneak a glance at his lips. How amazing would they
be to kiss? He’s often chatting with girls, but I haven’t
seen him sticking to any one particular girl besides
Jacinda. So maybe he isn’t involved? Could he be
interested in me? My legs turn to blueberry jam thinking
about it.

We get to The Clunker. I climb in and he hands me
my bag. “See you tomorrow,” he says.

I’m reluctant to leave, but I can’t think of anything
else to say. “See you.”

He waves as I rumble off to pick up Martha.

She is waiting at the side of the building. “Tell me
all, my love.” She swings herself into the passenger
seat. “Have you been completely corrupted yet? My
day was just awful. I almost got busted and had to
flush our stickers. Which clogged the toilet. How’s
your ankle?”

“Sore. Better overall, but worse than this morning.”

She nods. “It needs rest.”

We bump through the streets, then onto gravel
roads home, and I listen to her recap her shift. As usual,
she complains about overconsumption, the customers
who come in every day to buy things they don’t need.
After a while she loses steam. “Okay, let’s have it. How
was The Institution of School?”

“The jury’s still out. It was mostly okay. And weird. I
got detention, you’ll be pleased to know.”

Martha grunts. “For what?”

“Socioeconomic status.” I explain the phone rule.

“Darling. I’d say it speaks volumes about a place
when the best punishment they can cook up is to
spend more time there. It really brings to mind Freire’s
theory of banking education—”

I hold up a hand to stop her. “Please do not commence
rant. I don’t need a diatribe right now.”

“Fine. But let me say this.” She reaches over and
musses with my hair. “If your goal is The Great Social
Experiment, then you shouldn’t waste time before you
start shaking things up.”

Right. The investigative reporter, the school shaker-upper.
That’s what I’d told Martha to get her to let me
enroll, but… “What if that’s not my main goal right
now?”

“What else could possibly—” She chuckles with
delight. “Ooh. And how is Rajas?”

I can’t help but give her a big, sloppy grin.
“Wonderful.”

“Lightning.”

My stomach does cartwheels. I nod.

“Is he spoken for? Will you have to steal him away
from someone?”

“Don’t know. His Facebook status doesn’t specify.”

“So that means he’s available?”

I sigh. “It means he didn’t answer the question.”

She gives me an incredulous look. “It hasn’t
occurred to you to ask?”

“It seems like an odd question to just vomit out.”

“My love, my darling,” she clucks, “I raised you to be
bold. But,
c’est la vie
…If you don’t want to ask Rajas,
ask Jacinda.”

“Isn’t that kind of lame? I feel like it’s going behind
his back. It’s cowardly.”

“Darling,” Martha says, “information is what girlfriends
are for! Anyhoo, that boy’s got eyes for you. I
can tell these things.”

My stomach flips again. “It does seem like it.”

“So don’t just stand there—”

“Bust a move?” I cajole The Clunker up our driveway.

“No wallflowering.
Viva la revolución
already! And if
you must fall in love in the meantime, well…” She tugs
my hair. “I suppose that’s allowed. Not that you need
my permission.”

“You got that right.” I pull in next to The Dome and
The Clunker shudders to a stop.

Hallelujah. Home. I hobble to the porch.

“You know what, my love?” Martha reaches into a
tree to pluck an apple, one of the first of the season.
“We’re both tuckered. You could use some company.
I’m going to ditch Horny Singletons tonight.”

“Don’t even think about it, Martha. You need to
hang out with people your own age.” I crunch into the
apple. “Besides, I have homework.” Heaps of homework.

Martha screws up her face. “It’s my turn for Share
Your Divorce Story night—”

“So make something up! Something torrid and
lewd, with lots of drama and intrigue.” I wag my fingers
at her. “Or better yet,” I say, “tell them the truth! ‘Truth
is stranger than fiction.’”

Martha laughs, “I do what I can.”

I’m in the barn with Hannah Bramble’s warm company,
my ankle propped on the milking stool. I’m writing in
my diary, daydreaming about Rajas, when The Clunker
rumbles home. Next to me, a pail of milk is cooling,
steam twisting in languid circles over the creamy top.
The cats have long since finished their milk—I always
give them the first bit—and retreated to private corners
to tidy their whiskers and paws. Nearby, the chickens
cluck softly in their coop. In a few minutes, Martha
appears with a glass of wine. She holds it out to offer
me a sip. I shake my head and set my journal and pen
aside. Martha sits in the straw.

“How was HSP?” I ask.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She motions for me to
move closer.

I lean back onto her leg, sigh as she pulls my hair
elastic out of my hair. She nods toward my diary.
“Planning the revolution?”

“Not yet. I’m making notes for a beautiful, sustainable
school. Holistic architecture, natural materials,
solar panels. Lots of natural sunlight. My goodness.
Why does the place have to be such a factory? I bet
every student there has a vitamin—”

“Vitamin D deficiency,” she finishes my sentence. “I
have no doubt.” She sips her wine. “Well, darling, did
you talk to Jacinda? Is Rajas a free man?”

I shake my head. “I feel sort of weird calling or texting
her just to ask about Rajas. I’ll ask her first thing
tomorrow.”

“Please do, my love.” We settle into quiet, listening
to Hannah Bramble swish her tail. Martha strokes my
hair, and I feel her divide it into three sections. I love it
when Martha plays with my hair. It’s the most relaxing
thing in the world. It’s her way of letting me know she’s
listening, that she wants to hear more about my life,
my thoughts.

“It was weird, school. Problematic.”

“Par exemple?”

I sigh. “Several. For one thing, there’s our gym
teacher, Ms. Gliss.”

She snorts. “The one from the detention form?”

“That’s the one. You wouldn’t believe the way she
took my phone. Just grabbed it right out of my hand.
She acts like because she’s a teacher and I’m a student,
I have no rights at all and she can do whatever she
wants. With impunity.”

“Typical,” she harrumphs. “You said there were several
things?”

“Well, it’s not as overt, but she’s also obsessed with
fitness. I know she’s a gym teacher, but the way she
looked at the heavier girls? Her lecture about body
mass index seemed more about appearance and being
thin than it was about being healthy.”

Martha keeps braiding. “And this surprises you?”

“I just couldn’t believe how blatant she was. I’m surprised
she didn’t whip out a scale and weigh everyone.”

“So do something. Expose her. Write something,
publish it somewhere. That’s why you’re there, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “I don’t know. There’s probably a
student newspaper.”

Martha tugs my hair to tell me she’s unhappy with
my blasé attitude.

“I’m just tired, Martha.”

“Biding your time.”

“Sure.” If that’s what she wants to call it. Right now
I’d just call it exhausted.

“Biding your time until you get it on with Rajas.”

I swat her. “Martha! Boundaries, woman! You are
my
mother
.”

“You know I’m kidding, my love. And as your
mother
, I am required to advise you not to get it on
until—”

“I know, I know: wait until I’m good and ready.”

“Wait until you’re good and ready, and then wait
some more just to be sure.” Martha smiles into her
wineglass. I close my eyes and lose myself in daydreams
about Rajas, picking up right where I left off.