This Girl Is Different (17 page)

A strong woman is a woman who is straining.

—M
ARGE
P
IERCY, POET AND NOVELIST, B.
1936

Long after the dismissal bell, the school feels like
an industrial wasteland. Even more than usual.
Hollow creaks ease into silence, and echoes skitter
off the walls and lockers. Sports and activities have
wrapped up, but a smattering of stragglers remains, so
if I bump into one of the new security guards, my presence
here is not entirely suspect.

Now. If a door is being left unlocked at night for people
to sneak in and out, it would have to be somewhere
kids know about, but obscure enough for Dr. Folger and
the security guards to overlook. And if it has something
to do with Ms. Gliss…I’ll start with the gym.

Lights off and empty, the gym seems cavernous.
Paper murals slouch from masking-tape points, covering
walls and windows.
Go Purple Tornado! Show your
spirit!
The Cheer Squad’s preparation for the homecoming
pep rally tomorrow, the one Rajas mentioned. Rajas.
My heart sags, tired and achy, thinking about him.

I give myself a mental kick; no time for heartache.
I’m on a mission.

Checking again to be sure no one is around, I jog to
the emergency exits. Both sets are locked. I make my
way into the girls’ locker room. A few of the lockers are
still open, and someone has left her shoes on the floor,
but it’s deserted, lit only by the flickering Exit sign over
the door to the fields. This would be the perfect door for
Ms. Gliss to leave open. It would make so much sense.
I check the latch.

It’s locked.

Crap. Maybe Brookner threw me a red herring?
Maybe it’s not Ms. Gliss.

Sighing, I turn to go. Wait. A creaking sound—a
locker door? No, it’s my imagination. I’m alone.
I head back out in the gym—and there’s a
click
and
movement: the door to the boys’ locker room slipping
shut. This time I’m sure it’s real. I tiptoe-jog across the
gym and go in. The smell hits me first: sweaty jockstraps,
musty cleats, body odor. The layout is a reversed
version of the girls’ locker room. Mr. D’s office door is
closed. I tiptoe to the door that exits to the fields.

And there she is. Ms. Gliss. She’s biting a piece of
duct tape, using her teeth to rip it from the roll. She
props the door open with her foot. Holding the latch
down, she stretches a strip of tape over it. With a turn
of her head, she bites off another piece, uses it to cover
the strike plate. She runs her fingers over the tape, as if
making sure it will hold.

Brookner was right: Ms. Gliss is leaving the door
unlocked. She
wants
people to post lightning. It makes
sense. The more teachers who get struck by lightning,
the less bad she’ll look. Mr. Brookner, Mr. Wolman, Mr.
Campoto, Ms. Theodore…who’s next? Step on up, faculty.
Misery loves company.

Ms. Gliss eases the door into the frame. I duck
behind the lockers before she turns around.

“I know you’re there.” Her voice is shrill. “Evie.
Would you like to tell me what you’re doing in the boys’
locker room after school hours?”

Damn! Think. Do I want a confrontation? If I bolt, I
could probably make it to The Clunker. But I’d have to
come back to undo the tape and lock the door. Tonight,
and every night after that. And what if Ms. Gliss started
changing doors? I’d have to search for the right door
every night. When would it end?

If I stay, maybe I can convince her to stop.

Stay or run? Fight or flight?

I step out from the lockers. If I’m honest, I made my
decision long ago: Stay. Fight.

“I saw you taping the lock,” I say.

She starts walking, passing me on the way to the
gym.

“Hey!” I hurry to follow her. “Wait.”

In the gym, she twirls around. “What do you want?”

“I
saw
you taping the lock.”

“Really? Let me tell you what I saw: I saw a female
student in the boys’ locker room. A student who is in
school, after hours, without a reason.” She pushes her
hand through the roll of duct tape and wears it like a
huge bracelet. “I’m afraid I have no choice but to report
you to the authorities, since I can only assume you are
here to post a lightning, something damning against a
student. Or, more likely, a teacher.”

My stomach starts to fold in on itself. “But I wasn’t—
you can’t—”

“No? I’m really sorry, but it’s just my obligation,
m’kay? I’ve been targeted myself, you see.” She lifts her
hand to her hair, the duct tape falling to her elbow. The
corners of her mouth turn down. There is a hint of sadness
in her face. Is she human after all?

She sucks her teeth. “I’m afraid that, at this point,
with all the damage that’s been done, Dr. Folger will
probably have no choice but to suspend you. Or possibly
expel you.”

My mouth goes dry. Expelled? She wouldn’t turn me
in to be expelled, would she?

Yes. Of course she would. And I don’t know why I
didn’t see it before, but it’s not just because she’s angry.
It’s because she’s hurt.

“Wait. No.” I dig down for my resolve. “You are the
one rigging the door.”

Ms. Gliss curls her lips. “How about we both go to Dr.
Folger and offer him our different points of view? Who
do you think he’ll believe? Me, a tenured faculty member
who’s been teaching and coaching for eleven years?
Lightning strike notwithstanding,” she frowns. “Or you.
A student with no history, who’s been here for…how
long is it? Oh yes, I remember! Didn’t you show up
just
exactly
when all this trouble started? Wow, what a coinky
dink.” She taps her chin, as if mulling it over. “Yes,
let’s do that. Let’s go to Dr. Folger together. I like my
chances.”

Dr. Folger has all but given up on me. What if he
believes Ms. Gliss? Even if he didn’t, he’d be obligated
to investigate. The superintendent might step in. Dr.
Folger’s hands would be tied. No more leniency.

“But we both know the truth,” I say.

“Do we? The truth where you slandered me for
being human and having a bad day, and now I’m being
reviewed by the school board? Or the truth that you
came to this school and all hell broke loose, and you
should be expelled?” She fiddles with her duct tape
bracelet. “I was going to apologize to Marcie, you
know. I brought in frozen yogurt for the whole squad,
because I felt bad. That was the morning I found your
pleasant surprise on my door. Well, Evie. I’m a bigger
person than you might think. Tell you what. How about
I do you a huge favor and let you off the hook this one
time?”

I can’t meet her eyes. I’m so confused—she was
going to apologize to Marcie? “Okay,” I mumble.

“Well then. You may go.”

“Thanks.” Wait a second.
Thanks?
Why am I thanking
her for letting me go after I witnessed
her
doing
something wrong? Ms. Gliss should be held accountable—
for what she said to Marcie and for what she’s
doing now.

Talk about irony. Accountability is why we started
PLUTOs in the first place. We wanted Ms. Gliss to have
a reckoning.

I curl my hands into fists.

I don’t want irony. I don’t even want revenge.

I want justice.

The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any.

—A
LICE
W
ALKER, AUTHOR AND ACTIVIST, B.
1944

I walk through the nearly empty parking lot, climb
into The Clunker, and rest my head on the steering
wheel. Dusk is beginning to settle; the days are
getting shorter. My shoulders hump in an involuntary
shudder of humiliation and rage. And impotence.

No. I refuse to give in to these feelings. Ms. Gliss will
not stop me. I will think of something. Gritting my teeth,
I crank The Clunker to a start.

I fight the gearshift into first and swerve to avoid
two cheerleaders emerging from school, pom-poms in
hand. Which is weird because I was sure the place was
empty. They must have been doing last-minute pep
rally preparations.

Wait. The pep rally!

I stomp on the brakes, turn the engine off. Hop out
of The Clunker and run back into the school. The main
office is locked; Ms. Franklin has already left for the day.
I pound on the door.

Dr. Folger looks up from the teachers’ mail cubbies.
His eyebrows rise as he opens the door. “Evie.”

“A speak-out! An open mic for students to talk!” I’m
breathing hard, from running and from excitement.
“That’s what we have to do!”

He straightens the stack of papers he’s holding, sets
them down on Ms. Franklin’s desk.

“You said I should come up with a solution to make
things right. This is it. It’s perfect! There’s a pep rally, so
the whole school will already be together.”

He regards me for a long moment. “Let us sit down,
shall we?”

I explain as I follow him. “PLUTOs started for a reason:
to empower students to speak up against injustice,
and to hold teachers accountable so they can’t abuse
their authority. I mean, just for the sake of argument.
That’s why I assume PLUTOs started…” I trail off.

In his office, I plop down onto my customary chair.
Dr. Folger takes a seat behind his desk, adjusts his suit
jacket.

“Students need a form of expression. We need a way
to talk to each other and reopen the lines of communication.
More of a give-and-take, instead of the lightnings,
right?” I don’t wait for his answer. “Yes. Freedom
of speech. I’ll always believe in it. But, if the problem
with PLUTOs and the lightning is that it’s anonymous,
then a speak-out—”

Dr. Folger holds up a hand. “Please excuse the interruption,
Evie. But I have a question.”

“Okay.”

“A pep rally is designed to invigorate students, rile
them up, if you will. Do you think it wise to invite dialogue
at such a heated time?”

Good point. I deflate a little.

His smile shows a twinkle of camaraderie. “On the
other hand, administrators and faculty, as a rule, are not
keen to cancel classes. In that regard, a pep rally presents
a rare opportunity for the entire school to convene.
As you have pointed out.” Dr. Folger leans back. I’m
expecting him to reach for a Slinky, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he says, “As it happens, I’ve considered the
idea.”

“Really?” My eyes go wide. “Wow.”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I have some practice with
free-speech rallies.” He grimaces. “Alas. I digress.”

In my mind, Martha winks and chides me:
The trick
is to make it seem like his own idea. Sunlight.

“I’ve discussed the idea with Dr. Jones,” Dr. Folger
continues. “Something must be done to contain the
chaos. As we see it, we are coming down to two choices.
Either I clamp down harder and create a no-tolerance
state of—”

“Fascist dictatorship?”

He chuckles. “Not quite the term I would use,
but…that’s the general idea. Or, the other option is to
create a valve to relieve some pressure. At its best, a
speak-out would function as a safe yet effective means
for students to discharge steam.”

“Since clearly, from all the lightning, people have a
lot to say.”

“Be that as it may, I’m not convinced that what has
been said has been worth saying. Much of it was neither
warranted nor helpful.”

“Right.” I take a deep breath.
Evensong is a hypocrite!
Evensong ruined the school!
Warranted, maybe, but not
helpful. But as bad as they were, those don’t compare to
the horrendous injustice of being called a fag.

“A speak-out adheres responsibility to freedom of
expression. When one speaks in front of a crowd, one
is accountable for his or her statements.”

I nod. “No vicious, anonymous accusations.”

“They certainly would not be anonymous. Whether
or not they would be vicious would remain to be seen.”
He taps his desk. “The bottom line is, Evie, I simply cannot
take the risk.”

“Wait. I thought you were into it.”

“As an
administrator
,” he annunciates slowly, “I simply
cannot take the risk.”

“As an administrator.”

“Indeed.” He folds his hands on his desk blotter. “In
any event, a successful speak-out would have to be
student-led, don’t you agree?”

I pick up the rainbow Slinky, fiddling with it while I
think. “Definitely. Yes. Because if the idea came from
you, or a teacher—if it was top-down, it’d be just
another tool of The Man. Kids would reject it.”

“So we are in agreement.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “I’m confused. You said you
couldn’t condone a speak-out.”

“That’s correct.”

“So how do we agree?”

He doesn’t answer. He swivels to stare at the wall,
his diplomas. Cornell. “I am reminded of one of our initial
conversations about creating democracy and social
justice.” Turning back to me, he clears his throat. Lines
etch his face. “Why are you here, Evie?” The impatience
in his voice stings.

“To tell you my idea about the speak-out.”

“You want my permission. My blessing.”

“I guess so—”

“You don’t have it.”

I swallow.

“But that wasn’t my question. I meant, why are you
here, at this school? To what end did you enroll?”

“I—I wanted to see what high school was like.”

“That, as we used to say in the movement, is a copout.”

Ouch.

“Let us be honest with each other. You are no passive
wallflower, Evie. You did not come here to observe.
If you had, none of this would have occurred. As you
know, this school has undergone a tremendous shift,
due largely to your actions.”

“I thought you liked—”

He holds his hand out for the Slinky I’m playing with.
I set it in his palm.

“I will say this,” he says, “and then I will ask you to
go home and reflect on it. The notion is as simple as it
is important, if you are to embrace your calling as an
agitator for fairness and justice: you simply cannot, and
must not, expect the blessing of the very authority you
are working to undermine.”

I try to absorb what he’s saying.

“I think you understand me.”

“You’re saying I shouldn’t expect a stamp of approval
from The Man.”

A terse smile. “Indeed.”

“You’re saying I’m on my own.”

Without a word, he stands.

Hint taken.

Social Justice 101: What happens when the revolution
you started turns around to bite you in the butt.
Social Justice 102: why you shouldn’t expect help—from
friends or from The Man.

These classes should come with a warning: Enroll at
your own peril. Courses guaranteed to induce fear and
loneliness. And make you take risks you never dreamed
you would.