This Girl Is Different (12 page)

Publicity is justly commended as a remedy for social and industrial diseases. Sunlight is said to be the best of disinfectants; electric light the most efficient policeman.

—L
OUIS
B
RANDEIS,
A
MERICAN
S
UPREME
C
OURT
J
USTICE,
1856–1941

I sigh and run my hand along the cinder blocks as I
make my way to first bell. Global View has become
my own personal Ninth Circle of Hell. I can’t stand
the sight of Brookner—I shudder to think of him letching
after Jacinda or any other girls. I keep having images
of him as a nasty, youth-sucking, power-hungry lamprey.
Worse still is Jacinda’s ongoing silent treatment.
How can wordlessness be so damned loud? Despite
Rajas’s constant assurance that she’ll forgive me, right
now she won’t even look at me. The last few days have
been torture. In the movies, everyone hates high school,
and I’m starting to comprehend why. It has nothing to
do with pedagogy or educational philosophy. It’s the
humans.

Like Sartre said in
No Exit
, “Hell is other people.”

Perfect quote for Brookner’s whiteboard.

Crap. I’m getting more jaded by the minute. Martha
would blame The Institution of School. And I must
admit, I’d like nothing better than to be homeschooling
right now, designing a community, pulling weeds, cloud
watching, mucking out the barn, doing an on-line
assignment, sketching wildlife. Actually, no: I’d like
nothing better than to be with Rajas right now. Alone.
Butterflies flutter in my stomach; my cheeks heat up just
thinking about it.

First things first: Global View. Jacinda and Brookner.

But wait a minute. Everyone’s milling around the
classroom door, students frothing in a small hubbub.
Getting closer, I catch snippets of conversation:

—What’s this one for?

—Whoever it was…

—I heard something was going on…

Oh my God. Brookner’s door is emblazoned with a
huge bolt of lightning. The PLUTOs website is written in
drippy red paint, caking now, like dried blood.

Rajas and I were going to strike
next
week! To give
Jacinda time to cool down and come to her senses.

So who did this?

In uncanny unison, the crowd turns. And once
again, it’s a wall of eyes.

“Class. Settle.” Brookner’s here; he parts the crowd.
Kids step back like no one wants to stand too close to
him. Brookner unlocks the classroom, acting casual.
“Please. After you.” He sweeps his arm magnanimously.
He’s clutching a laptop.

Everyone takes their seats. The board is blank—no
quote, which could mean that Brookner isn’t as calm
as he seems. Did he see the lightning strike and turn
tail? Fleeing to…where? The men’s room? The
teacher’s lounge?

Jacinda’s not here. I say hi to Marcie; we’ve gotten
friendlier since the lightning strike against Ms. Gliss.

Whispers wheeze around the room while Brookner
sets the computer on his desk. He wheels the TV cart
out of its corner. No way. He’s going to display the
PLUTOs site? How is that a good idea? Can he seriously
be more interested in
what
is written about him than he
is worried that
anything
is written about him in the first
place?

Well, good. I want to know what it says.

“Sorry, I, uh…” Brookner says, poking a button on
the laptop, “…don’t have a quote up yet. It’s been quite
an eventful morning, as you can see.” He smiles and
looks up, fidgeting with his tie. Marcie titters, catches
my eyes, and swings to look away. Brookner rocks onto
his heels. “Hmm. Well.” He grabs a marker and twists
the cap off, begins to write a quote on the board about
sunlight being a good disinfectant. Sounds familiar. It’s
the seed Martha planted in Dr. Folger’s ear. Maybe Dr. Folger passed that little gem on to Brookner.

Around me, students are exchanging wide-eyed
glances. Marcie and Matt and Stiv keep looking at me
like maybe I know something about this. When the bell
rings, Brookner jerks, messing up the
S
at the end of
Brandeis
. The mistake betrays his nervousness; clearly
he’s not as composed as he wants us to think. He erases
the mistake before snapping the cap onto his marker.
Looking straight at me, he opens his mouth to speak.
And then closes it again when Jacinda rushes past him,
her head down. All eyes follow her—she’s never late—
as she sets her books on her desk and smoothes her
short skirt to sit down.

I whip out my notebook and scribble a note to
Jacinda:
It wasn’t who you think it was!
I stare at the
paper, cross out the words, start over. I wish I could just
write
This wasn’t me and Rajas! Do you know who did it?
but I can’t write our names, lest the note fall into enemy
hands. I settle on
We need to talk, please!
and tear it quietly
from the wire spiral. As soon as Brookner turns his
back, I pass it to Jacinda.

She lets it drop to the floor. In slow motion, she turns
to lock me in a baleful stare.

Brookner connects the computer to the television. “I
chose today’s quote because…” His voice trails off.
“Well. ‘Sunlight is the best disinfectant.’” He shifts his
weight and leans against his desk. “Brandeis is saying
that things are best put out there in the open, hmm?
Rumors, accusations, the best thing is simply to air
them.” He’s looking a little pale. “Just put it out there,
and don’t let it fester. Light will shine. The notion of
transparency, making things transparent.” Pulling his
glasses off and inspecting them, he uses his tie to clean
the lenses. It’s as though he’s trying to distract himself
so he can keep from coming unglued. “Yes, well. Why
not just go straight to the website? Anyone remember
the blog address?”

Silence.

“No one?” He crosses his arms. “Evie? How about it?”

I shake my head while my stomach mops the floor.

“No?” He sounds disappointed. “Well. Fortunately,
we have a reference.” He opens the door, startling Mr.
Heck, the janitor, who is wielding a spackle knife. He
has managed to remove half of the lightning bolt.
Brookner picks up two of the larger scraped-off pieces
and studies them. “Cardboard this time, I see.”

Brookner closes the door unceremoniously in Mr.
Heck’s face and returns to the laptop. He types in the
address from the scraps. The PLUTOs blog appears
on the TV. “For those of you without smartphones.”
He reads, “‘We, the People’s Lightning to Undermine
True Oppression (PLUTOs) hold these truths to be
self-evident…’ Yes, yes.” He scrolls down the screen.
“Ah. Here we are.

“‘First lightning strike: Ms. G. for blatant sexism…’
Yes yes.

“‘Second, the PLUTOs put a strike on Brookner’s
door. Because he crosses the line with his female
students.’”

Brookner sits down fast. “Most interesting.
Interesting. Yes, well.” It’s as close to speechless as I’ve
ever seen him. He smoothes his tie again, readjusts his
glasses. He looks at me. “Much different tone to this
entry.”

I nod: a slight movement that doesn’t divulge the
tsunami of relief rushing through me. Thank God!
Brookner, at least, realizes it wasn’t me this time. Now
I just have to convince Jacinda. I slide my foot out to
retrieve the neglected note; I’ve got to try again. Just
before my toe gets there, Jacinda snatches it. Without
unfolding the note, she puts it on her desk and lays her
hands over it. Turning to regard me with a look of icy
hate, she raises her hand.

“Jacinda?” Brookner sounds agitated. Standing,
unsteady, he rocks onto his heels. “You…you would like
to address the class?” He sounds like what he wants to
say is,
Please, for the love of all things good and holy, keep
quiet!

She nods.

“Okay. Well. Enlighten us.”

She drums her fingers, her polished nails pounding
her perturbation. “I think that the quote is about trust.”
There goes her foot again, shaking, shaking.

“Trust?” He frowns. “How so?”

“Because you might think that sunlight is best for
things, but it’s not. Because you basically can’t
trust
people. People spread
lies
. And those people should
know”—her fingers stop drumming—“that other people
have sunlight of their own.”

“Yes. Well.” Brookner blinks at Jacinda’s baffling
contribution, but the way he looks from her to me, he
can tell something’s rotten in the state of Friendmark.
“Anyone else?”

Without enthusiasm, I raise my hand. “The quote
means that anyone can bring things to light and say
whatever they want. You might never even know
who.”

“Yes, that would be the point, wouldn’t it?” Brookner
asks with an impish smirk.

For a moment I return his smile, forgetting myself,
glad to glimpse the intriguing Brookner, the guy who
likes coloring outside the lines. Except—no. Having an
affair with a student? That’s coloring way too far outside
the lines. It’s another coloring book altogether.

Not that Martha ever gave me coloring books. My
childhood was all kraft paper murals and sloppy paints.

Brookner gets serious again. “The problem is that
once people speak up, you have no control over it.”

“Exactly,” I say. Palms up, I ask, “But what can you
do? That’s the price of democracy. And free speech.
Anyone can say anything.” I feel like kicking Jacinda’s
chair and screaming,
Do you get it, girl?

“Well. Anything except libel, which means defamation
in print.” Brookner freezes, eyes hazy. “Most interesting,”
he mutters to himself. He goes back into
motion, yanking the laptop cable out of the TV. “Shall
we change the subject? Global View. How about it?” He
goes to the board, selects a marker, and starts writing.

I take a deep yoga breath. Sure, this seems like a
disaster. Someone has hijacked PLUTOs and the lightning,
taken things into their own hands. Jacinda thinks
it’s me. But…breathe. Calm down. Think. I didn’t do
anything wrong. It’s not the end of the world. Rajas is
on my side. We’ll get everything sorted out.

Still, I have to wonder if this whole Institution of
School experiment is really worth it. I didn’t meet Rajas
and Jacinda at school; I met them in a creek in the state
forest. If I’d stayed a homeschooler, Rajas and I could
have fallen in love anyway. And Jacinda and I could be
friends. If only I hadn’t had a class with her and
Brookner, if only I hadn’t spoken up, if only we hadn’t
started PLUTOs. If only Cornell wasn’t on the line.

But that’s a lot of if-onlys, and a lot of lightning has
struck between each of them.

I take another deep breath.

A note lands on my desk. From Jacinda. Please tell
me she knows Rajas and I didn’t do it!

It’s the piece of paper I passed to her earlier. She
scribbled on it without opening it. My heart sinks
while I read her curly handwriting:
Be careful what you
wish for—free speech, democracy. YOU are NOT
immune.

What is that supposed to mean? I start to scribble a
response, but a rapid-fire knocking stops me.
Someone’s at the classroom door.

It swings open. It is Dr. Folger, standing next to Mr.
Heck.

Brookner’s face goes slack with dread; he can’t
hide it this time.

Dr. Folger says, “Excuse the interruption, Mr.
Brookner. Students.” He whispers something to
Brookner. Listening, Brookner nods. The corners of
his mouth turn down; he looks as though he’s received
a temporary reprieve but knows he’s still got a lot to
answer for.

“Evie. Would you please go with Dr. Folger?”

As I stand, visions of my future whirl in my mind,
blurred images being sucked down a drain. This
school is a gigantic toilet, flushing away my chance at
Cornell.

There’s a very optimistic premise that I have, which is, if you give people tools, their natural ability, their curiosity, will develop it in ways that will surprise you very much beyond what you might have expected.

—B
ILL
G
ATES, FOUNDER OF
M
ICROSOFT, B.
1955

Somehow, Martha is here. She rushes out of Dr.
Folger’s office, where she has been tampering
with his collection of Slinkies, setting them up to
descend from shelf to filing cabinet to desk to chair.
She gathers me into a hug. “Darling.”

“How’d you get here?”

“Taxi.” She smiles at Ms. Franklin. “Thanks again for
the tea, Melinda.”

Mrs. Franklin sets down her can of Diet Coke.
“You’re quite welcome.”

Martha relegates me to her left arm so she can
shake a finger at Ms. Franklin. “Not for nothing, I’ll give
you some advice. You’ve got to quit the juice. Those
artificial sweeteners will kill you.”

Ms. Franklin looks at her soda can. “I’ll take that
into consideration.”

“Corporations profiting by poisoning. Poison profits,”
Martha sucks her teeth and seems about to commence
rant—I smell a new sticker campaign for Walmart—but
Dr. Folger is all business.

Walking past Martha, he gestures to the chairs in his
office. “Please, come in.”

He slides the nameplate on his door to the center of
its track. “Ms. Mornin—” He shakes his head and says,
“Evie. And Mrs.—” Frowning, he corrects himself again,
“Martha. Take a seat.”

We sit. The diploma from Cornell seems three times
the size it was the other day. It looms over the entire
room. Martha holds my hand.

Dr. Folger tips one of the Slinkies that Martha set up.
We watch it walk from one surface to the next until it
droops onto his chair. He picks it up and sits. “Evie.
This time. Was it you?” No preamble.
This time, was it
you?
like he assumes it was me the last time and he’s
not sure about today.

Martha doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Darling.
Did…Mr. Brookner…did he do anything to you?”

“No.” I shake my head. “It wasn’t me.”

“Wasn’t you he did it to, darling?”

Dr. Folger says, “Or wasn’t you who—”

“He didn’t do anything to me and I didn’t do the
lightning.”

Martha considers this and pats my hand. “Even if you
did do, my love, there’s no harm in speaking out.” A
pointed look over the desk. “Is there, Dr. Folger?”

He grimaces. “Let us unpack that statement, if you
will, Martha. And Evie.” He clears his throat. “Is there
harm in speaking out? Yes, and no. I value freedom of
expression. However, I also believe that such freedom
comes with responsibility. They are two sides of the
same coin, shall we say. We can’t go around publishing
wild allegations.” He ripples the Slinky. “I have a school
to run. Students to look after. Teachers’ good names to
protect.”

Martha squirms in her chair. Ten to one she’s thinking
his language of protection is both cause and effect
of the hierarchy of The Institution of School.

Dr. Folger sets the Slinky on his desk blotter. “I happen
to like you, Evie. It’s clear you possess a keen mind,
a strong moral foundation. Perhaps your spontaneity
and judgmental streak could use some modulating, but
that will come with time and experience, I suspect. The
point is, the law is the law. Libel is illegal. Smearing
somebody’s good name when—”

“It isn’t libel if the allegations are true.” Martha is
working very hard to keep her voice under control, keep
her arms from whirling.

Dr. Folger says, “If there is evidence to conclude
guilt, then you are correct: the act is not libelous. Please
be assured that I will investigate these allegations.
Indeed I take them very seriously. I’ve already called Dr.
Jones, the superintendent of schools. However, in the
meantime—”

“Right, right. I get it,” I interrupt. “You have to
do…whatever it is you have to do.”

Dr. Folger inclines his head, waiting for me to say
more. Martha stares at me, shocked, I’m sure, at my
apparent acquiescence.

“But it wasn’t me.”
Please,
I add silently,
don’t ruin my
chances for Cornell!
“I didn’t make the accusation about
Brookner. Did you notice the posting sounds entirely
different?”

“Indeed?” He leans forward. “And how would you
know that?”

Martha barricades me with her arm. “Don’t answer
that, my love!”

I nudge her back. “Martha, please.” To Dr. Folger I
say, “I know what it says because Brook—Mr.
Brookner—showed it to us in class.”

Dr. Folger’s eyes go wide. “He
showed
the class?”

Martha looks equally surprised. “Why would—”

“He said sunlight is the best disinfectant.”

“Did he now.” Dr. Folger leans back, steepling his
hands in front of him. “Most interesting. Justice
Brandeis and the concept of transparency.” He looks
pointedly at Martha. “Interesting.”

Martha shifts. “Huh. That’s been coming up a lot
lately.” She shakes her head like she’s refocusing.
“Transparency is a concept employed by the most successful
factions of the radical and not so radical—”

“Martha,” I snap.

“Right.” She pulls a pretend zipper across her lips.
“Your turn, darling.”

I turn to Dr. Folger. “That’s how I know that this post
is so different from the first one.” I’ve got to be careful.
“Whoever posted them, it seems to be different people.”

Dr. Folger picks up the rainbow-colored Slinky. He
moves it back and forth, as if he’s weighing his
thoughts. “As it happens, I did note the difference in
tone. Of course that’s small comfort to Mandy Gliss and
John Brookner.”

“John Brookner.” Martha suddenly seems a thousand
miles away. What’s going on? I give her a look but she
doesn’t notice.

Dr. Folger also casts an inquisitive glance to Martha
before he continues, “Quite inventive, isn’t it, to have
created a blog format so that anyone can join the…” He
tilts the Slinky. “…discussion, shall we say?”

“Revolution,” Martha corrects, still a little distant.
She mutters, “The revolution will not be televised.”

“No, but apparently it will be blogged.” Dr. Folger
smiles.

Martha smiles. “Apparently so.” It seems like she’s
come back into the conversation, and, despite herself,
is warming up to Dr. Folger. Good. Maybe she’ll dial
back the fanaticism.

“I just don’t want this to get out of hand,” I say. “If it’s
not okay to post lightning accusing teachers unless
there’s evidence, then it’s not okay to accuse students of
posting the lightning unless there’s evidence. Right?”

“Darn tootin’!” Martha says.

“Indeed, it isn’t. However, as you know: where
there’s smoke there’s often—”

“A bong!” Martha quips. She snorts a laugh.

I could throttle her!

“What.” Martha shrugs off the look I’m giving. She
waves at the diplomas. “Dr. Folger went to school.” Not
having attended university herself, Martha conflates
cannabis with college campuses.

Dr. Folger frowns, but with a glint in his eye. “Yes,
well. What I meant is that I will be watching you, Evie.
I am quite concerned about these developments.”

I keep quiet and pray Martha will too.

Dr. Folger jiggles the rainbow Slinky. “I’m told that
you’ve become quite close with Rajas Messer and
Jacinda Harrod.”

My stomach churns. I squeeze Martha’s hand to
keep her quiet. “They didn’t…” I don’t finish. How can I
assert their innocence without incriminating myself?

“Please, Evie. You need not comment. Just be aware
that I will be keeping tabs on them as well. Dr. Folger
puts down the Slinky. “Meanwhile, it would behoove us
all if the PLUTOs blog went off-line.”

“Evie wouldn’t know anything about that.” Martha is
indignant.

Dr. Folger regards her a moment, then speaks. “Be
that as it may, it would simplify things immeasurably.”

Crap. I’m stymied for a response, yet again. Should I
plead the Fifth? Should I make a stand for the First
Amendment? Should I break down in tears and beg for
mercy? Should I scream that Rajas and Jacinda are
innocent? I twist my hair. I want to do the right thing. I
just have no clue what that is right now.

The Cornell diploma is growing so immense that it
would crush all of us if it fell off Dr. Folger’s office wall.

In the end, I remain silent, let Dr. Folger excuse us,
hand The Clunker keys to Martha, and let her take me
home.