This Girl Is Different (13 page)

This life of separateness may be compared to a dream, a phantasm, a bubble, a shadow, a drop of dew, a flash of lightning.

—T
HE
B
UDDHA,
(P
PRINCE
S
IDDHARTHA
G
AUTAMA
),
FOUNDER OF
B
UDDHISM,
563–483
BC

My heart flies when the Blue Biohazard thunders
up my driveway. It’s the sound I’ve been
waiting for since I beat a hasty retreat from
school this morning. Rajas texted during lunch to ask if
he could come over after he helped his mom with
something. Time has crawled. I need his support, his
ear, his ideas for what to do. His lips, for distraction.
And I have a question for him.

I come up from boat pose and bow a quick
Namaste
to the trees and clouds, then jog from my favorite grassy
knoll to the driveway. Unlike the rest of me, my ankle
feels fine. The Biohazard stops and I grab Rajas’s hand
to lead him to the barn.

“Where’s Martha?”

“She went back to work, and I made her promise to
do her volunteer shift at the co-op after that.”

“So it’s just us?”

“And the cats and piranha chickens and Hannah
Bramble.”

“Let’s go inside,” he says.

“First I have a question: it wasn’t you was it? You
didn’t post the lightning on Brookner’s door?”

“We agreed to wait a few days,” he says.

Relief! “Oh, thank God. I didn’t think you did it, but I
just had to ask, you know?” I take his hand. “Come on,
I want to show you something.” I lead him up the ladder
to the hayloft in the second floor of the barn. There’s
a swing up here, tied to the rafters, with such an amazing
parabola you feel like you’re flying.

When he sees it, his face lights up. “You put this
here?”

“It was here when we moved in.”

We swing. And then we kiss. As usual, his touch
makes me lose all track of time. Kissing my neck, Rajas
says, “Never thought I’d have a roll in the hay, not
literally.”

“Pretty great, isn’t it? Except for the pokey bits.” I
laugh at the unintended innuendo. Wrapped in blankets
to cushion ourselves from the sharp points of
straw, I’m down to my tank top and underwear. He’s
in his boxers. As much as I want to feel his skin on
mine—
all
of his skin on
all
of mine—I’m holding back.
Complete nakedness would be too tempting, and I
promised myself—not to mention Martha—I’d wait for
sex until I was absolutely, without question, completely
ready in heart, body, and soul. I refuse to succumb
to hormones and horniness. My decision will be
rational and intentional. This girl is different.

And this girl is burning in all the right places.

Rajas runs his hand under my tank top again, circles
my nipple with his thumb. My stomach does cartwheels.
I could die happy, right now. Except for the
menacing alternate reality hanging over me: the one
where I’m in a big boiling cauldron of trouble, where I
might not get into Cornell, where Jacinda’s giving me
the silent treatment.

I roll onto my back and heave a sigh.

“Worrying?”

I nod.

“Thought so.” He tugs my hair, coaxing me to rest my
cheek on the hollow below his collarbone. Listening to
the comfort of his heartbeat, I watch his belly rise and
fall. A thin patch of hair insulates his chest. Not
Neanderthal hairy, not pre-pubescent bald, it’s just the
right amount. I set my palm on his stomach. He seems
content, sated. Is it because of the physical stuff we’ve
been doing? Or just from being together? I wonder:
would a label set my mind at ease?

We have the love label now. And I do love me some
love. So why am I still itchy? Besides the straw pricking
me through the blanket, ha ha. I sigh. The difference is
publicity. Being public. When you’re officially boyfriend-girlfriend,
it’s a known thing. You’ve proclaimed it to the
world. That’s why you change your Facebook status to
“In a relationship.”

“Which part bothers you the most?” Rajas asks.

I’m about to say
The part about not going public with
our relationship
, until I realize he’s asking about school
and PLUTOs and Jacinda. So instead, I shrug, my bare
shoulder sliding against him. It reminds me of the day
we met, how our skin touched while he carried me to
the Biohazard, how he non-rescued me and took me
home. He and I both know I’m not that damsel in distress.
I’m equal and strong. But I’m also learning that
it’s nice being held.

“The Jacinda silent treatment is ridiculously unpleasant,”
I say. “And the second meeting with Dr. Folger
wasn’t a picnic, either.” I sigh again, not sure whether I
should tell Rajas that Dr. Folger mentioned him and
Jacinda. Maybe later. “Martha says it’s my first major
lesson in social justice activism.”

“Meaning?”

“She called it Social Justice 101.” I draw the numbers
on his chest. “Learning what happens when the revolution
you’ve started turns around and bites you in the
butt.”

“The butt?” He gives mine a squeeze. “Got an awful
nice one of those.”

We kiss some more. And touch. Until the clattering
of Hannah Bramble in her stall brings us back to the
earth, the barn, the chores that need doing.

“I need to milk Hannah Bramble.”

“I need more cowbell.” He rolls on top of me. “But
you probably have no idea what I’m talking about, do
you?”

“You’re saying you’ve got a fever. And the only prescription.
Is more cowbell.”

He laughs. “Eve, you are full of surprises.”

“Explore the studio space!” I shout. Ah, YouTube,
the great social equalizer.

We laugh and kiss. Our laughter fades and still we
kiss: harder, pressing into each other, intense.

Rajas reaches down to slide off my undies. “Can
we?” His breath is hot in my ear.

“I don’t know.” I pull back to look at him, trying to
center myself. Yoga breath. “Not yet. Can we just keep
fooling around until I’m definitely, one hundred percent
ready?”

His face falls for a half a second—or did just I imagine
it?—before he smiles. “Yeah. Of course.”

But the mood is killed. I tug my underwear up. “I
really need to milk Hannah.” This time he doesn’t
argue. We dress in silence.

Downstairs, the kittens and cats mewl until I give
them their milk. I set down the cats’ bowl and settle
into a rhythm with Hannah Bramble.

Rajas sits down and chews on a blade of straw.
“That’s quite a grip you got there, cowgirl.”

“You would know.”

He laughs, dispersing the tension from upstairs.

Hannah shifts, and her tail swats me like it does a
thousand times, twice a day, every day. As the pail fills
with milk, I breathe in the scents of cream and hay and
cow. Comfort smells. Habit smells. Home. Everyone on
earth should have a place where they feel this peaceful.
A world of farming collectives. Designs fly into my
mind. Small houses surrounding shared fields and
barns: public core, private edges. Wind turbines on a
hill, solar panels…

“Eve? Cowgirl? You there?”

“Sorry. Just Zenning out.”

“Designing?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Nice.” He scratches his nose. “You okay? With
everything that’s going on?”

“Yes. No.” Thinking. “I just wish I knew who did it.”

“Today’s lightning?” The straw in his mouth bobs as
he speaks. “Does it make a difference?”

“Hell yes.” I stand up, stretch. Hannah Bramble
leans toward me; I stroke her velvet nose to thank her.
I cover the milk bucket so the cats won’t drink it or fall
in. Taking out my hair elastic, I let my hair tumble down,
and finger through the straw-head scarecrow snarls.
“How’s Jacinda doing?”

“Terrible. Never seen her like this. All this stuff with
you, and now the lightning with Brookner, and cheerleading
crap.”

“Well, at least Ms. Gliss has laid off the overt Cheer
Squad fat attacks. According to Marcie.”

He nods. “Yeah. She’s being investigated, I guess. Jay
says a guy from the school board is hanging around, so
Ms. Gliss has to watch her step. So she’s always in a
crappy mood.”

“Jacinda or Ms. Gliss?”

“Both. There’s some stupid pep rally coming up that
they’re all freaking out about.”

We are quiet awhile. I stretch more, ending up on
one foot, in tree pose, to strengthen my ankle. A
thought: “What if it was Jacinda?”

“What was Jacinda?”

“Who put up the lightning and posted on PLUTOs.” I
start to wobble so I change sides. “Maybe Brookner
called things off with her? She could have done it for
revenge.”

“No. She’s more into him than ever.” He winces. “I
can tell.”

“Hm. Maybe some other girl Brookner tried to hit on?
I’ve got this weird feeling Marcie posted it.”

“He’s messing with Marcie too?” Rajas looks like he
wants to hit something.

“Calm down! I have no idea. Maybe it’s crazy, but
since she was the impetus for the first lightning strike, it
would be kind of poetic.” I divide my hair to braid while
I think. “It has to be someone who has access to the
school.”

“Could have come in as soon as the school was
unlocked this morning.”

“No. The paint was almost dry. It must have been
done last night, by someone with a key.”

Rajas selects a new piece of straw, peels it, and
places it between his teeth.

A thought hits me. “Oh, man! It was a teacher!”

He gives me a look of incredulity.

“Just hear me out. Teachers have keys. What if a
teacher found out about Brookner and Jacinda, and
wanted to say something, but anonymously?”

“Let a student take the fall?”

I snort. “Let
me
take the fall.”

His forehead wrinkles. He seems pained to think
about me getting in trouble. “Maybe they didn’t think
you’d be singled out.”

“Maybe they thought wrong.”

His eyes flash, shining like onyx. “Not like you didn’t
bring it on yourself!”

“What?” I step back, startled by this attack. “What
are you saying?”

Rajas tosses the piece of straw down. “Just saying,
Eve. You make things difficult.”

“Oh, okay. So I deserve this? To ruin Cornell and
lose a friend, just for speaking out and taking a stand
for what’s right?”

“Why do you have to be such a magnet for controversy?
Why do you have to look at things so differently
than everyone else?”

I stare at him. “Funny. I was under the impression
you
liked
that about me.”

Rajas’s face softens. “I do.” He scrunches his nose.
“Yeah, I do.”

“Wow. Is it that hard to convince yourself?”

“No.” He gets quiet. “Just that…you’re tough to figure
out. Not like all the other girls.”

God.
All the other girls.
Why not just stab me in the
heart?
All
the others. How many have there been? But
Rajas is still talking, so I take a deep breath—lungs
snagging on my heart—and try to listen.

“…and that’s cool about you. But why do you have
to fight so hard? Why does every single thing have to
be a struggle or a revolution? Maybe you could take it
down a notch—”

“Right. I see. I should make things easier for you.
Maybe do what you do: hide out in the shop room?”

Scarlet blotches spread onto his cheeks. “Holy crap,
Eve. Don’t act like such a—”

“Wait a second.” My body goes cold. Realization
seeps through me, gradual and unwelcome. Something
about his mood, the way he’s gone from defense to
attack. “You never answered my question. Did you post
the lightning? You said, ‘We agreed to wait,’ but you
didn’t say it wasn’t you.”

He stares at me a long moment, then looks down at
his hands.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

He doesn’t look up.

My words get quieter but drip with anger. “Tell me it
wasn’t you.”

Nothing.

“You went behind my back! We agreed to wait.
And…you let Dr. Folger think I did it.”

His shoulders sink. “Eve, if I’d have known that would
happen…that he would single you out—”

“Well it’s not rocket science!” I draw back, attempt a
deep breath. It’s like a python is squeezing my chest.
“What about Jacinda? Did you bother to tell her who
really posted the lightning?”

He heaves a sad sigh. “She assumes you did.”

“So tell her! Tell her the truth!”

“Eve. I can’t. She’d never speak to me again. She’s
furious as it is.”

“News flash, Rajas! She’s not speaking to me at all!”

“I can’t risk it. She needs someone.”

“Why the hell didn’t you wait like we planned?”

“Because she’s getting worse. She told me she’s in
love with him. I just
had
to do something.”

“Are you freaking kidding me? You just
had
to do
something? You just
had
to stab me in the back? You
just
had
to leave me hanging out to dry?” Hot tears
from a brutal betrayal.

He puts his head in his hands. “Look. If Jay knew…if
she ever told anyone that I used my shop key—” He
shudders. “I could lose my apprenticeship.”

“Your apprenticeship! What about Cornell?” I swipe
at my tears. “What about us? I thought you were…I
thought we were—”

“We
are
, Eve. We are.” He wades through the straw
to take my hands. His cheeks are wet; he’s crying too.
“I love you.”

My heart contorts as I wring my hands free.

“I love you, Eve.”

“Sucks for you.”

“I love you.”

“Bullshit! You don’t love me. If you loved me, you
wouldn’t sell me out like this.” Fueled by pain and anger,
my brain is starting to work again, starting to recover the
capacity for reason and logic. “If you loved me? You’d tell
Jacinda the truth. You would accept responsibility for
your actions, and take what she gives you.” I feel my feet
under me again. “And you’d take responsibility for us
instead of shirking labels.”