This Girl Is Different (9 page)

Stare. It’s the way to educate your eyes. Stare. Pry, listen, eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long.

—W
ALKER
E
VANS, PHOTOGRAPHER,
1903–1975

“Well darling, it ain’t a revolution if nothing’s at
stake,” Martha tells me when we get home
from school and work. She wiggles her eyebrows.
“And not for nothing, I planted a seed in Dr.
Folger’s ear.”

“That’s quite an image. A seed sprouting in earwax.”
I frown. “He called already?”

Martha hands me a mason jar of lemonade and
clinks hers to mine. “I talked to him during my allotted
twenty minutes of freedom. Congratulations, darling.
You’ve made it to the top of The Man’s priority list.”

“Thanks.”

“Why so blue?”

“Cornell.” I sip some lemonade and try to pull myself
together. “So. What’s this seed you planted?”

“Hell, I thought you’d never ask!” She turns a kitchen
chair around to straddle it, crossing her arms over the
backrest. “He told me the situation, of course, being
very careful not to actually accuse you of anything. But
he gave me an overview of PLUTOs and the lightning,
which I already
knew
—”

“You didn’t tell him it was us, did you!”

Martha gives me her most insulted look. “I would
sell my own flesh and blood and her friends down the
river? How can you even—”

I put up my hands. “Okay, okay! Abort rant, please.
The seed?”

“Right. So he told me what happened.” She twirls her
hand to show she’s skipping to the good part. “And,
because I am a grown-up, he listened to me.” She sniffs.
“I think.” She tilts her head. “Yes, he listened. Seems like
a decent guy. How the hell he ended up as principal of
a—”

“Martha. Keeping you on point is like herding cats.”

“What? Am I rambling?”

“The seed!”

“Right. The seed.” She takes a swig of lemonade.
“He told me what happened. I told him that, when all is
said and done, sunlight is the best disinfectant.” She
flips her hand to say,
Ta-da!

I wait for more. “That’s it?”

“Of course, that’s not it! Well, yes, that’s it.” She sets
down her lemonade and sighs dramatically. “The trick
is to make it seem like his idea,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Make
what
seem like—”

“That sunlight is the best…that free speech is the
best thing, in the long run.”

“I don’t think he would agree. In fact, I’m pretty sure
he wouldn’t.”

“Listen. The point of your revolution is empowerment,
is it not? If students feel empowered, they speak
up. Nothing scares The Man more. But,” she adds, holding
up a finger, “if The Man can feel like he has some
control, some influence over people, even if they are
bucking the system, well, then…” She trails off and
smiles, very satisfied with herself.

“I’m still not following.”

Martha rolls her eyes. “Just you wait, my darling. I
planted that seed. And if things get crazy—
when
things
get crazy—he’s going to come back to it and think it’s
his own idea.”

At this point I’m completely lost. “
What
is his own
idea?”

“
Sunlight
, darling. Free speech.” She shakes her head.
“I’m a tad disappointed you didn’t think of it yourself.”

“News flash, Martha? I
did
think of it—the free
speech part—if that’s what you’re talking about. The
whole point of the blog is to encourage students to
write comments and air grievances.”

“Ah, but the trick is in the
strategery
, darling. Make
Dr. Folger think it’s his own idea.” She stands.
“Anyway. When are you gonna see that gorgeous boy
Rajas again?”

Good question. I am dying to be alone with Rajas
somewhere other than shop room Shangri-la. But the
rest of it? The stuff about strategy and Dr. Folger?
That’s about as clear as mud.

On Friday night, Rajas and I have a date. Martha has
some HSP get-together and Jacinda is babysitting, so
it’s just me and Rajas, with nothing tugging us in separate
directions. We’re meeting Jacinda downtown at
11:00 after her baby-sitting gig; she’s sleeping over
chez
Dome.

Rajas has parked the Blue Biohazard by a little-used
playground on the edge of town, just past McDonald’s
and the cemetery.

The stars are barely visible, dimmed by the light of
the moon. I can feel the air turning my cheeks apple red,
crisp and rosy. Rajas has spread a picnic blanket onto
the hood of the Biohazard. We’ve been lying here, kissing,
for hours…or minutes…or weeks. I’ve lost track of
everything except his tongue, his lips, his hands, his
breath, his eyes.

I’m evanescing into him.

Until something buzzes in my pocket. My phone
vibrates, then rings.

“Ignore it,” Rajas mumbles through a kiss.

“Planning to.” I stash my phone under the blanket.
Whoever it is can wait. This is the most…the ultimate—I don’t have the words to describe it, the tautness of my
nerves, the tingling in every inch of skin. Rajas’s hand
finds its way under my sweatshirt. My cotton tank wrinkles
as he moves his palm up my ribcage. His thumb is
so close to my breast I think I might stop breathing at
any moment.

We roll over on the blanket, squishing the baguette
that Rajas bought for our picnic. We kiss more, and
more, and the moon is nearly full, bursting with light
like my breasts surely will when he touches them. His
fingertips could start fires.

“Hang on a second.” I take a breath of courage and
sit up to pull my sweatshirt over my head. Rajas’s look
of surprise and delight makes me feel strong. “Don’t tell
me you’ve never seen a girl do this before,” I tease.

“Not like that.” He smiles. “I usually do it.”

My heart drops like it’s tied to a bucket of rocks. I tug
my sweatshirt back over my head and pull it down.
“Really.”

“Hey. I didn’t mean it like that.” He leans in, but
there’s a hint of frustration. At my displeasure? Or
because my sweatshirt’s back on?

“Listen, I’m here with you. That’s what matters.”
Rajas raises his eyebrows, like that statement should
clarify everything.

“I know I shouldn’t care, but I have to ask. Have
there been a lot?”

“A lot of what?”

“A lot of girls.”

He’s looking amused. He doesn’t want to make this
easy.

“You know what I mean! A lot of girlfriend-y type
people.”

“Hundreds,” he says. “Thousands.” He runs a finger
down the bridge of my nose. “Does that make you feel
better?”

“No.”

“Then how about if I said I’ve never had a girlfriend?”

“No, because I know that’s not true.”

“But it is. I don’t believe in the whole boyfriendgirlfriend
thing.”

“Because you hate labels.”

“Yes. Boyfriend, girlfriend, it’s demeaning. A girl is a
complete person in her own right. She shouldn’t be
identified by her relationship to me. Plus, it just complicates
things.”

Okay, I’m with him on the girl power thing. But why
would a label complicate a relationship? I don’t love
the word “girlfriend” either, but in this case it would be
so nice. It would clarify a whole lot; I would know
where I stand with him. Actually it would be downright
lovely. “Right. Okay. Well.” I’m trying to pick my heart
up from the ground. It must be around here somewhere.
“I just thought—”

“Eve. I really like you. I want to be with you. Why put
a name on it?”

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I manage a weak
“Sure.” Breathe. “Sure. I get it. I’m anti-label. I’m an
anti-label kind of gal. Anti-sweatshop too. And pesticides.
And definitely labels. Labels, bad. Unless they say
organic or fair trade or sweatshop-free…” I can’t stop
talking. I sound like an idiot. Why can’t I stop? “Or, you
know, phthalate-free, or—”

He touches my cheek and kisses me. “You okay?”

I nod instead of talking. God forbid I should blather
on about sustainable, fair trade, shade grown, organic,
bird-friendly coffee standards.

Rajas smiles his amazing half-smile. His gaze goes
foggy. “Eve. We can do, or not do, whatever you want.
We can just hang out and look at the stars if you like.”

Damn it. I’m acting insecure and jealous. Which I
hate. I refuse to be that girl. This girl is different. This
girl is true to herself. What do
I
want? I want
this
. I sit
up straight and meet Rajas’s molten eyes and peel my
sweatshirt off again. I smile at Rajas and smooth my
hair, which is staticky from the sweatshirt’s repeat
trips. Rajas reaches, slowly, toward my breast. And
action! I’m back in the moment in an instant. Bubbling,
tingling, evaporating.

My phone rings again. Rajas swears under his breath.
Without looking, I reach under the blanket to silence the
ringer.

His hands are on the move. My body rises to meet
him.

The phone vibrates wildly.

“Gah!” Rajas moans in frustration. “Turn it off!”

“Already done.” Flipping open the phone to power it
off, I frown at the display. “Why would Jacinda be calling?
Over and over? And wait, there’s three texts telling
me to call, it’s an emergency.”

“Probably because I told her
not
to bother us.” Rajas
rubs his face. The phone starts buzzing again. “No!
Don’t—”

“Hello?” I answer, shrugging an apology to Rajas.

“Evie? Ohmigod! I need help!” Jacinda’s voice is a
squeak attack. She sounds like a dolphin.

“What’s wrong? Jacinda, calm down. Come down
an octave. Only whales can understand you.”

After listening to her panicked explanation, I say,
“Okay. We’ll be right—”

“No!” Rajas grabs my phone. Is he playing? His tone
is intense. “Jay. Don’t be ridiculous. We’re busy.” He
jabs a button and chucks my phone into the open window
of the Biohazard. “Now. Where were we?” He pulls
me to him.

“Rajas. I want to stay, believe me.” I have to get the
words out before I melt into thick hot liquid again. “But
Jacinda needs me.”

“I need you.”

“And you,” I tell him, grabbing my sweatshirt, “can
have me. After I help Jacinda. The snake got loose.”

“Not yet,” he teases, “but if you’re ready for it—”

“Wow. That is lame, my friend.” I laugh through my
sweatshirt as I pull it back on. “I’m not making an innuendo
about your…” I wrinkle my nose.
Penis
sounds so
clinical and ridiculous, yet the other options aren’t any
better:
wiener, cock, dick, package?
They sound either
preschool or prostitute; there’s no middle ground. I
change approaches. “The kid Jacinda’s baby-sitting has
a snake. It got loose—again, not a double entendre—but she can’t get ahold of the parents and she’s freaking
out.”

Rajas breathes a heavy, mournful sigh. “Fine. Let’s
go.”

At the address she gave us, Jacinda is waiting on the
front porch, clutching her cell phone, hopping from
foot to foot. She jumps at every noise, as if, out of
nowhere, a snake might fling itself onto her, poison
dripping from enormous, glistening fangs.

“Watch out, Jay.” Rajas shuts the Biohazard’s door
and takes the porch steps two at a time. “Snakes move
like lightning.” He fakes a karate chop for emphasis.

Jacinda makes a sour face at Rajas and brings me
into a tight hug. “Ohmigod, thank you so much for
coming! Um, okay. You two can just go in. I’ll stay in
the Biohazard and keep trying to call Brook—”

Rajas freezes. “Keep trying to call
who
?”

Jacinda covers her mouth, eyes wide.

“This”—Rajas points—“is Brookner’s house.” He
sounds pissed.

Why? I look from Rajas to Jacinda.

Rajas glares at her. “Isn’t it?”

“Okay. I know you think he’s sketchy and all, but just
listen. His regular baby-sitter canceled and so he called
me to see if I could fill in. Should I just leave him in the
lurch? Just because my overprotective, paranoid cousin
heard some rumors?” She crosses her arms. “I don’t
think so. That is, like, totally unprofessional. It’s against
the baby-sitting code of ethics.”

“He has your number?”

“Everyone has my number. I’ve been hanging babysitting
flyers all over town.”

Rajas shakes his head. “I’m not snooping through
Sketchy Brookner’s house for some snake on the lam.”

I turn to him, surprised he’s being so stubborn.
What’s up with that? These two always have each
other’s backs. They are the poster children for close family
relationships. “Why are you being so harsh?” I ask.
“You can’t abandon your cousin.”

His expression is full of meaning. “Eve. There are
other things I’d much,
much
rather be doing right now.
And,” he says to Jacinda, “Brookner isn’t just sketchy.
He’s bad news, Jay. You know what Nishi said.” Nishi is
Rajas’s sister, Jacinda’s cousin. But what does she have
to do with any of this?

Rajas’s frown deepens. “And why isn’t Brookner
answering his phone? What about his wife? Doesn’t she
have her own phone?”

Jacinda crosses her arms. “It’s just him. He’s
divorced.”

Rajas snorts. “Figures. She probably left him because
he’s a letch.”

“Whatever, Raj. Thanks a lot.” Jacinda sounds
annoyed and looks apprehensive—probably about a
snake ambush. She looks at me. “Okay. Booker’s in his
room. You just go all the way through—”

“Wait.” I stop her. “Did you say
Booker
? The kid’s
name is Booker?”

She nods.

Rajas finishes my thought: “Booker Brookner. He
named his kid Booker Brookner. Now I
know
the guy’s
an asshole.”

I sigh, and repeat the line I’ve had to say a thousand
times. “It’s a parent’s prerogative to name a child what
they want.”

“You don’t really think that,” Rajas says.

“No. I don’t.” But for now I’ll table my feelings about
terrible names for children. “Where does Booker think
the snake is?”