This Girl Is Different (6 page)

And it is a truth, an immutable, unchangeable truth:
I am falling in love with Rajas.

I’m a believer.

He reaches out to the rocker, gives it a push to set it
in motion.

“Wow. This is fantastic,” I say about the chair—and
him, and being here. “It’s like something you would see
at a Blue Mountain art festival. It’s beautiful.” It
is
beautiful,
and not just the chair. The lightning. Subjecting
myself to the cheese grater of love. Rajas is worth it.
The chair proves it.

“You think?” His smile flashes a glint of vulnerability,
like he can’t hide the fact that he was nervous to
show me and now he’s relieved and proud.

“I really do.” I study the wood. “Maple?”

His eyebrows rise like he’s impressed with my
knowledge, but not surprised. He nods.

“I love the style. Not quite Shaker, but close. Strong
but delicate.” I squeeze his hand before I let it go. I
kneel to look along the chair’s lines and run my finger
along its arm. “You used tung oil instead of stain?”

He nods again.

I stand up and walk around the chair, taking it in.
“Most people go through their whole lives without creating
anything this beautiful. You should be so proud.”

“It’s my first chair.”

“I guess it’s a day for firsts.” Ha. I’m funny.

“Guess so.” He grins. “Let’s eat.”

“Sounds great.” I realize I’m beyond hungry, I’m
ravenous. Maybe it’s a metaphor for being alone with
Rajas, like my libido is fueling my appetite. Or maybe
I’m just really hungry. Give a girl a break—even Freud
said sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

Opening the door to the outside, we pull two stools
into the sun. We’re in a hidden nook near the breezeway
between the high and middle schools. It seems
safe from detection. We unwrap our lunches. Being
here with Rajas is easy and exciting and awkward and
comfortable, all at the same time. How are such simultaneous
contradictions possible?

“You have detention today?” he asks.

“Mmm-hmm,” I mumble through the first bite of my
cheese, mustard, and arugula sandwich.

“What’s this one for?”

“This one is for snake liberation.”

He laughs. “Only you, Eve.”

“What?” I wipe mustard from my lip with a cloth
napkin. “The poor thing looked miserable!”

“So you thought you’d take it upon yourself to set it
free.”

“I didn’t snakenap him or anything. I wasn’t sneaky
about it. I just held him in the sunlight for a few minutes
between bells. I still don’t see the problem.”

“Mr. Wysent’s cool. Don’t hold it against him. It’s just
school policy.” He laughs. “Too bad you weren’t here
last year. You should have seen those frogs flying out
of the jello.” Shaking his head, chuckling, he crunches
into an apple. “Guess it’s still taking some getting used
to, all the rules.”

“Not the rules. Well, not
just
the rules. It’s the abuse
of power and lack of civil liberties I can’t get used to.”

“It probably feels that way, to you.”

“It doesn’t to you?”

Eyebrows converging, he says, “Never really
thought about it that way. I don’t love it, it just…is what
it is, you know?” He chews his apple. “But you know
what I do hate? All the labels. Rich kid, poor kid, nerd,
goody-goody, troublemaker, jock—”

“Popular cheerleader,” I offer.

He laughs. “Popular cheerleader.”

“Misfit homeschooler.”

“Misfit home—” He frowns. “You’re not a misfit, Eve.
You’re just…different.” He looks at the sky, thinking.
“Plus, you’re not a homeschooler anymore. You busted
yourself out of that particular label, didn’t you?”

Whoa. I guess I did, didn’t I? Can I still consider
myself a homeschooler if I go to public school? It’s such
a huge part of my identity, I can’t just shed it like a
snakeskin. I appreciate reptilian skin-shedding, but I’m
not capable of it myself.

“Why can’t we all just get along?” Rajas says in a
high voice like he’s quoting someone. Taking another
bite of apple, he continues, “Everyone’s so stuck in their
labels they can’t see past the zits on their own noses. I
cannot wait to get out of here. Graduation, and I’m
gone. Real world apprenticeship, here I come.”

Which seems pretty lame. But he’s a smart kid;
maybe it’s a smart survival skill? Keep your nose low,
keep out of the line of fire. Still, “Don’t you want to try
to make this place better while you’re here?”

“Nope.” He smiles. “I’m just getting the hell out of
Pandora.”

“Pandora?”

“From
Avatar
?”

“Oh. TV show?”

“It’s a movie! Incredible special effects. You haven’t
seen it?” He looks shocked and appalled.

I shake my head.

“Okay. That’s hard to imagine. Just please tell me
you’ve seen
The Matrix
.”

Again, I shake my head.

“Unacceptable. Not on my watch. We’re going to
have a DVD night. You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

DVD night with Rajas. I get feverish just thinking
about it.

“Consider it your cultural education.” He pauses,
drinks from his water bottle. “Anyway, I know you
don’t watch TV, but I thought you liked movies. Isn’t
that why you started here? All the movies about
teenagers and high school?”

“Not
all
the movies. Rich introduced me to the classics.
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Pretty in Pink. Footloose.
Dirty Dancing. Grease.
”

“And now you’re trying to change everything those
movies stand for?”

“I can’t help it!” I’m laughing but I’m serious. “It just
makes me crazy, all the injustices. Is that such a bad
thing?”

“No,” he sighs. “No, it’s part of what I like about you.
You see things in a totally unique way. And you have
the guts to actually do something about it. I just wasn’t
expecting you to be so gung ho.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m gung ho.”

“No? And you’ve written how many letters to the
Purple Tornado News
?”

“One.”

He narrows his eyes at me. Gorgeous eyes.
“One! That I edited and submitted three times,” I
admit.

He smirks that disarming half-smile. “Stiv still won’t
print it?”

“I toned it down and took out the names, and then
toned it down some more. And then you know what I
did? Toned it down some more. And then some more.
But he still says he can’t run it. It’s like hitting my head
against a brick wall.”

He reaches over and touches my hair. “Don’t do
that. Your head is beautiful.”

Heat floods my cheeks and toasts my ears. I manage
to say, “You’re sweet.” Translation:
you’re amazing and
smart and hilarious and you
get
me and even your hands
are sexy and your carpentry skills are mind-blowing and
you just called me beautiful…

With his bandaged thumb, he pushes my hair back
onto my shoulder. My heart thumps. We’re quiet awhile.
I eat my sandwich. “It’s so lame.”

He looks at me, confused. “What’s so lame?”

“The newspaper,” I explain. “It’s lame that they
won’t print any actual news. Stiv needs to grow a pair.”

He laughs. “Cut him some slack. He’s a good guy.
His hands are probably tied by the administration. Or
his advisor or whoever.”

“Hm. I’m detecting a theme here. Stiv’s a good guy.
Mr. Wysent’s a good guy. Their hands are tied. They’re
good people, just following the rules. Isn’t there a quote
about a Nazi soldier saying he was just following
orders?”

“Whoa there, cowgirl. Mr. Wysent’s not a Nazi. And
Stiv—although he does look like he could belong to the
Aryan nation, I’ll grant you that—he’s definitely not a
Nazi.”

“No,” I acquiesce. “They aren’t Nazis. I shouldn’t
have said that. I just—” I just what? “I just expected
more. From teachers. And students. I know that people
agree with me. They must! Students should be treated
with respect and equality. Who’s going to argue with
that? No one, that’s who. So why is it so hard to speak
out and change things?” A thought: “Wait. How about
student government? Isn’t that what it’s for?”

“Student government?” Rajas laughs. “Student government
is for looking good on college applications.”

“Aren’t they supposed to be the student leaders? A
voice for change?”

He almost rolls his eyes. Like he wants to be supportive
of my naiveté…but can’t believe my naiveté.
“You can try, Eve. But…” He frowns. “Just be careful.
They’re not used to—”

“People rocking the boat?”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Why would I get hurt?” I ask.

He presses his lips together.

“What? What are not saying?”

“I don’t know. I just honestly don’t think student
government does anything, apart from—” He stops
midsentence. “Okay, I have no idea what they do…”

But I lose track of what he’s saying, because in my
mind, I’m already writing a petition.

Our problems stem from our acceptance of this filthy, rotten system.

—D
OROTHY
D
AY, RADICAL CATHOLIC ACTIVIST,
1897–1980

Minutes of Student Council Officers Meeting


Second meeting of fall semester


Present: Megan Atwater (Secretary), Kelly Lupito (President), Tera McClernon (Treasurer), Stiv Wagner (Vice President)


Minutes submitted by Megan Atwater, Student Council Secretary


First order of business: Treasurer’s report. Tera says student
council has $428. After our upcoming $200 donation to
senior class’s homecoming preparations (for decorations), we
will have $228. Stiv suggested having a fundraiser so we can
have money to donate to the other class’s upcoming activities.
Kelly said funk that, seniors rule. We all laughed. Tera recommended
a car wash. Kelly said no way, doodles, it’s too cold.
Tera recommended a donut sale during lunch. Megan (me)’s
brother works at Dunkin so she (I) will ask him if they can
donate donuts for the fundraiser. Stiv will get approval from Dr.
Folger. We will put this on the agenda for student council general
meeting, with a sign-up sheet for volunteers. All in favor of
donut fundraiser: 4.


Second order of business: Petition written to student council.
Evie M. (she didn’t put her whole last name on it?) submitted
a “petition” to the student government mailbox (see
attachment). She wants us to present it at the next student
council meeting. Kelly says funk that, the demands are unrealistic
and we’re not hippie homeschoolers. Tera wondered about
the actual purpose of the petition. Megan (me) doesn’t think we
(the officers), should take an official stance on political issues.
Stiv suggested that we put the petition on a desk at the next
student council meeting and if anyone comes up and reads it
and wants to sign it, fine. That way we’ve done what Evie asked
but not really. All in favor: 4.


Third order of business: None.


Meeting adjourned.


Attachment: petition from Evie M.


TO STUDENT GOVERNMENT OFFICERS: You guys are the leaders
of this school so please discuss at your meeting and distribute for signatures!
And then we will present it to Dr. Folger and the administrators!

PETITION TO DR. FOLGER AND THE SCHOOL
ADMINISTRATION AND THE SCHOOL BOARD

This is an official petition for a redress of grievances. Students demand
the rights granted to us in the U.S. Constitution and Bill of Rights.
We should have the same rights in school as we have outside of school.
These include, but are not limited to, the following:

• Students should be treated with the same respect and
dignity from teachers that teachers receive from students. After
all, we’re part of this community too!

• Students have a right to a clean environment, especially
toilets and restrooms

• Students have the right to use phones to make phone calls
during lunch and free periods

• Students have the right to healthful choices in lunch foods

• Students have the right to fresh air and sunlight

We, the undersigned, petition Dr. Folger and the school administration
to address these matters in a timely and responsive fashion.

Sincerely,

(Add names here)(Class)

Evie M., Senior

[Attach more signature pages as necessary]

The internet is the first thing that humanity has built that humanity doesn’t understand, the largest experiment in anarchy that we have ever had.

—E
RIC
S
CHMIDT, CHAIRMAN OF
G
OOGLE, B.
1955

Today, Brookner doesn’t ask for a response to the
quote. As soon as the bell rings, he rocks onto
his toes and says, “Let’s jump right in, get the lecture
over with, so we have time for something different
today, hmm?”

After a bout of lecturing, he pauses and surveys the
room. He claps to refocus attention. “Now. Move your
desks aside and arrange your chairs in a circle.”

There are groans, like everyone’s feeling lazy, but the
protests seem superficial, because people rearrange the
desks and chairs pretty fast. A shift in routine is welcome,
especially on a day like this when it’s drizzling
and chilly and the sky is a low ceiling of musty concrete.
After the chairs are circled, Brookner takes a stack of
index cards from his drawer, along with a box of safety
pins. “Take one of each. It doesn’t matter which card,
so just pick one and pass it along, right? Pin your card
to your shirt so that everyone can see it. Please.”

The cards and pins travel around the circle; by the
time they get to Jacinda and me, only a few cards
remain. We exchange glances. This is why I love
Brookner. He piques your curiosity.

My card says,
Artist, 55, three kids.
I poke my safety
pin through and fasten it onto my sweatshirt.

Jacinda pins
Gay prostitute, 32, no kids
through a
buttonhole in her top. “So it doesn’t leave a mark,” she
says.

Brookner says, “Everyone got one? Good. Take a look around. Peruse your cohorts.”

The class has become a montage of cards listing varying occupations, ages, family statuses:

Doctor, 62, three grandchildren

College student, 19

Student, 8

Housewife, 42, two kids

Movie star, 35, three adopted kids

Lawyer, 50, two grown kids

Firefighter, 30, one kid, divorced

Factory worker, 45, one kid

Burglar, 47, no kids

Cashier, 35, five kids, divorced

Writer, 90, lots of grandkids

Teacher, 39, two kids

Bartender, 22, no kids

Drug dealer, 25, one kid

Carpenter, 60, ten grandchildren

Janitor, 42, two kids

Priest, 35, no kids

Computer programmer, 33, one kid

Brookner clears his throat. “Class. Settle. Here’s the
deal: You are in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Your
cruise ship has sunk, the water is full of bloodthirsty
sharks, and your lifeboat has sprung a leak. If you don’t
throw someone off within five minutes, you will capsize
and everyone will die.”

There’s a flood of smiles. Everyone gets engaged,
studying each other’s cards and posturing so others
can read theirs. Brookner’s plan—which, I assume, was
to change venue enough to involve everyone in some
actual dialogue—seems to be working. Clever move.
Why did it take him this long to come up with it?

“Okay. Time starts…” Brookner makes a show of
pressing a button on his wristwatch. “Now!”

After a moment of quiet, Jacinda clears her throat
and lifts her hand skyward. It’s the first time she’s
raised her hand without Brookner calling on her. “You
should throw me off,” she announces.

“Not so fast,” Brookner interrupts, adding, “Sorry,
Jacinda.” She blushes—she does this every time
Brookner says her name. He continues, “I forgot two
important rules. One: no one can volunteer himself or
herself for sacrifice. Two: all decisions must be unanimous.”
He presses the button on his watch again. “Five
minutes. Go.”

Across the circle, Stiv clears his throat. “I vote for
Jacinda, the gay prostitute.” Rajas keeps telling me
Stiv’s a decent guy, and he’s nice enough, but he’s got
some work to do to convince me of his
cojones
. “She
doesn’t have any kids, so no one will miss her,” he
shrugs. “Plus she might be spreading AIDS.”

“And she’s a fag,” Matt says.

Shocked, I look at Brookner. He is frowning but
doesn’t say anything.

Jacinda says, “Shut up! That’s a hate word. Besides,
just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I have AIDS.” Go,
Jacinda!

“No, not because you’re gay,” Stiv says. “Because
you’re a prostitute.”

Heads nod around the circle. Marcie says, “We’d
um…we’d probably be saving lives in the long run by
sacrificing her.”

“Okay,” says Stiv. “Let’s vote. All in favor?”

Hands rise in unison, flowers reaching toward the
sun. Stiv, Marcie, Matt, Jacinda, everyone’s except mine.
Stiv looks at me. “What’s the problem?”

I make an apologetic face. “It’s not right to base a
decision on someone’s occupation. Or sexual orientation.
Or whether they have kids, or if they have AIDS.”

Stiv frowns and crosses his arms like he’s thinking.

I lean forward. “Okay. Just for the sake of argument:
What if Jacinda became a prostitute because her
mother has cancer? What if being a hooker is the only
way she can pay for her mom’s expensive medicine?
Maybe she uses condoms every time and gets HIV tests
every month. How can we possibly know people’s
motivation for what they do?”

“That’s true,” Jacinda agrees. “You don’t know.”

Encouraged, I press on: “And why is it relevant that
she’s gay? No one else’s card specifies their sexual orientation.”

Jacinda chimes in, “Totally. Do we just, like, assume
that straight is the norm?”

I beam at her.

Stiv says, “You guys have a point, but if we don’t
choose someone, we all die. Most of the rest of us have
kids, or are like—”

“I’m a fireman, dude,” says Matt. “You can’t kill a hero.”

I squint, thinking. “What if we—”

“We don’t have much time,” Stiv reminds us. “We
should vote. All in favor?” Hands, including Jacinda’s,
reach skyward. Everyone’s except mine.

Groans.

“Time!” calls Mr. Brookner. “Well. You’re all shark
bait.”

“Thanks a lot,” says Marcie.

Jacinda bumps me on the shoulder. “Whatever!”
She raises her voice so everyone can hear. “Personally,
I appreciate not being thrown to the sharks.”

But she voted for herself! I was the lone voice of dissent.
Obviously this was just a pretend lifeboat—but the
lesson feels real. And harsh. People talk a good game,
yet when it comes down to it…who can you trust? How
do you know for sure? You think you’ve got friends but
suddenly it’s Mutiny on the Brookner Bounty.

“Class, settle. Interesting.” Brookner rocks forward,
claps his hands and swings back. “You are the only
class to all die.”

“Thanks to Evie,” someone mumbles—Matt, I think,
but I’m not sure.

“Yes, thanks to Evie.” Brookner squeezes his way
around the circle. He stops in back of me and presses
his hands onto my shoulders. The bell buzzes. Like
Pavlov’s dogs, everyone pops into motion, trained to
move to the next class at the synthetic beep. “Chairs
back where they were!” Brookner calls. “Don’t forget:
Tomorrow is global event day and your report is due.
Print or internet, just be certain to cite the source. It
will
be graded!”

I move my chair and gather my things, but Brookner
holds a finger up. “Evie. If you’ll stay behind.”

Jacinda’s eyes go wide. “I’ll catch up with you later,”
she says, adding in a whisper, “tell me
everything
.”

As the class files out, Brookner closes in on me and
hovers a little too close. Is it on purpose? Or does he
have a warped sense of personal space? Was he raised
in a cage full of battery hens, or is it some strange
assertion of power? Either way, I refuse to budge an
inch.

“I wonder,” he whispers, leaning even closer and
lowering his voice like a conspirator, “did you have
something else in mind just then?” His breath smells
like coffee and sour milk.

I do not move. “What do you mean?”

“Surely you didn’t just want everyone to die.”

“Of course not.”

“Mmm-hmm. I thought so. You had something in mind.”

“I didn’t get time to explain it.”

“Please, enlighten me.”

I cross my arms. “Okay. Clearly you wanted us to
base our decisions on what’s listed on the cards. That’s
not rocket science.”

He smiles. “Go on.”

“But there’s a lot more to a person than age, occupation,
whether they have kids. And who are we to
judge anyway?”

“Condemning people to death is better than placing
value judgments?”

“No. There’s a better way—better ways. I can think
of at least two.”

Brookner leans close enough that I can smell the
soap on his skin. He’s way, way too close; it’s immensely
distracting. I give in and pull back a little.

“Well?” he prompts.

“Um, right. One, go by age, starting with the oldest.
They’ve lived more, so they should give the younger
people a fighting chance. Or two, draw straws. Make it
completely random. Otherwise you’re placing your values
onto other people. You have to go by age or nothing
at all.”

“Interesting.”

“Everyone gets a chance that way. It’s called fairness?”
I’m goading him now. “You may have heard
of it?”

“Sounds more like anarchy.”

I snort without meaning to. “No, it doesn’t. But even
so, what’s so bad about anarchy? There are worse
things. Fascism, for one. Authoritarianism.”

Brookner chuckles. He leans on the corner of a desk.
“Hmm. Well, you can go now. You’re not in trouble.”

“Why on earth would I be in trouble?”

He smirks. In the space of a millisecond, his eyes
flick down to my shoes, travel up my Levis, skim over
my dark gray hoodie, jump to my eyes. He looks
intrigued, as if he thinks of me as a challenge. A puzzle
he can solve. It’s both flattering and unsettling.

“I should go.” I pick up my books.

Brookner steps toward me, compressing the air
between us again. Is this a power thing? Is he
that
concerned
I’ll forget who’s in charge? Why is he so invested
in making me uncomfortable? He sighs and turns,
reaching for a notepad. “You’ll be late for your next
class. Let me write you a pass.”

There it is: another assertion of power.

I do not say thank you, because I refuse to let him
feel superior.

As he hands me the pass, his fingers graze my palm.
I can feel the heat from his fingertips. They linger a little
too long.

Lunch in the shop room with Rajas. Oh, how it can take
my mind off everything. Ms. Gliss giving me more crap
about my ankle, and then ranting to the class about
body mass? Gone. Mr. Wysent’s confusing assignment
about Punnett squares? No longer an issue. Power
dynamic weirdness with Brookner? It all just floats
away like wisps of cloud in the wind. Now it’s just me
and Rajas: kissing, eating, talking. So far we’ve managed
to keep our shop room trysts a secret.

Jacinda doesn’t miss us during lunch, because she
started scheduling regular lunchtime practices for
Cheer Squad. God only knows when they eat. Jacinda is
committed to qualifying for state cheerleading finals at
the expense of almost anything else. I have to hand it to
her, she excels at what she does. Her squad respects her
leadership and, in the little bits of their practices I’ve
seen, it does seem like it takes skill. Especially their
dance routines. If I tried to do them, I’d look like a
charging bull moose. With rabies. On meth.

After lunch, down the hall from shop class, Rajas
and I start to peel apart. But near the gym, a sustained
screeching stops us cold. What
is
that? I look at Rajas;
he shrugs at my unspoken question. We step into the
gym to investigate.

From inside a crowd of cheerleaders, Jacinda spots
us. Her eyes go wide and she holds up her hand to tell
me and Rajas to stop where we are. We do—and stay
to listen. It’s difficult to understand the shrill shrieks.
When the yelling finally starts making sense, my stomach
tightens. The words are awful.

“I have
had
it with this squad!” Ms. Gliss screeches.
“Look at yourselves! It’s like you don’t even care!” She
appears to start crying. “I’ve never seen such muffin tops! You’re bulging out of your uniforms! No wonder
you keep dropping your lifts!”

I start toward her.

“Wait, Eve.” Rajas catches my arm and whispers,
“What are you doing?”

“I don’t know yet. Something!”

Ms. Gliss hiccups. “Fitness doesn’t just mean exercise,
ladies! It means
limiting
your
calories
for heaven’s
sake!”

Jacinda catches my attention. Eyebrows knit, lips
pursed into a concerned O, she shakes her head. She
doesn’t want me to intervene.

Rajas is shaking his head too. “This is Jay’s territory.
Let her handle it.”

We stand, horrified, as Ms. Gliss wipes her running
mascara and continues, “Get yourselves together,
ladies! Your appearance is inexcusable. Inexcusable!
Especially you,” she wags a finger at Marcie. “Don’t
think I haven’t noticed those five pounds! Or is it ten?”

Ms. Gliss walks toward her office, her white sneakers
squeaking on the floor. She turns around. “And do
not make me out to be the bad guy here, ladies.” She
sniffs. “I don’t mean to sound harsh. But the truth can
be painful. I’m telling you this for your own good.
You’ve got a pep rally and homecoming soon. If I don’t
say something now, the whole school will be talking
later, and that would be much worse.” She whips open
the door to the locker room and disappears into her
office.

Girls start whispering. Jacinda hugs Marcie, who is
crying. The Cheer Squad converges en masse. Their
eyes seem to plead with Jacinda, their captain, to do
something. Across the gym, a cluster of boys is loitering
by the door to their locker room. Marcie’s was a
very public humiliation.