This Girl Is Different (3 page)

Education, therefore, is a process of living and not a preparation for future living.

—J
OHN
D
EWEY, PHILOSOPHER AND EDUCATOR,
1859–1952

The Clunker bumps hard over our road, swaying
and shimmying like the chicken buses we rode
to visit Rich when he was in Mexico. Next to me,
Martha is practically asleep; her forehead bonks
against the window whenever we hit a dip in the road.
My ankle is bandaged and sore and it hurts to shift
gears, but I’m too excited about school to sit back and
let Martha drive.

“You awake?” I ask her.

“Mmm.”

“Liar.” I smile. “So I’ll pick you up around three?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

When Jacinda and Rajas left my place on Friday,
Rajas offered to drive me to the first day of school.
Why on earth did I say no? Since then he and Jacinda
have friended me on Facebook and we’ve chatted a
little. I wish I were in the Blue Biohazard with them
now; I wish it so hard it’s almost an ache. I want to be
where Rajas is. But Martha would have been crestfallen.
Riding together, hearing about my day, spending
as much time with me as she can—it’s her strategy
for coping with my decision to attend The Institution
of School.

I stifle a yawn and take another sip from my travel
mug of yerba maté. I woke up at 5:00 as usual, to
shower, eat breakfast, and tend the animals and garden,
but mostly I sat; Martha wanted me to baby my
ankle. All morning, my heart’s been pounding, thoughts
in overdrive. I can’t stop thinking of Rajas. He and
Jacinda stayed for dinner the day of my non-rescue rescue,
and they hung out for a long time, talking and
laughing and playing Cranium with Martha and me. I
attempted to be coherent and add to the conversation
every now and then, but mostly I was Zenning out,
wondering all sorts of things about Rajas: What does he
think of me? Is he as attracted to me as I am to him? Is
he involved with someone? After he and Jacinda left, I
wrote in my diary, went out and stared at the stars, and
sketched a bunch of designs, trying to calm down and
fall asleep. Yoga would have helped, but my ankle
sprain put the kibosh on that. Point is, every moment
since they left I’ve been thinking about Rajas. I’m dying
to see him again.

Further toward town, the road smoothes into pavement,
houses begin to cluster. Stores appear, the first
of which is Walmart, Martha’s place of employ for the
last year. She hates it, but without a college degree, she
doesn’t have a lot of choices. She moves jobs a lot,
mostly retail, either quitting when she can’t stand one
more minute of it, or getting fired for appropriating
items for personal use. I can’t remember the last time
she had health insurance. Which is why she is so supportive
of my goal to study planning and design, my
dream to get a degree from Cornell. She wants me to
follow my bliss, of course, but she loves that it involves
a decent profession with potential benefits. Meanwhile, she works for The Man and volunteers at the
co-op to put food on the table. I can’t wait until it’s my
turn to take care of her.

“Did you remember your name tag?” I ask.

“Yes, darling.”

“And the stickers we made?” Today’s guerilla stickering
campaign will focus on the dangers of pesticides
and food additives and preservatives. She’s rotating
through the grocery section this week.

Martha leans over to kiss me and cups my cheeks in
her hands. “I love you. Don’t let that place break your
beautiful spirit.”

“Martha, please,” I assure her despite my nervous
stomach, “it’s just school.”

“Ha. Just like this place is just a store.” She yanks the
door handle, shaking it until the door rasps open.
“Promise me.”

“I promise I’ll be fine.”

“And you’ll be true to yourself?”

I give her a look. “I’ll pick you up after school.”

“Sure you don’t want to change your mind? You can
hang out—”

“Martha!”

“It was worth a shot.”

“See you later.” After she’s through the doors, I cajole
The Clunker back into what little traffic there is and
drive past the cemetery, McDonald’s, and the tire shop
on Broad Street. It’s one of the two primary streets in
town. Broad runs north-south, Main runs east to west.
I pass the Naturalista Food Co-op, Doug’s Sandwich
Shop, Nano’s Pizza, the movie theater. In the center of
town, by the county courthouse and a little park, I make
a right onto Main Street.

A few blocks up, another right turn, and here I am.
Zero hour. School.

All grades, kindergarten through twelfth, share a
campus of three buildings on the east side of town. The
elementary school is set to the north, surrounded by
jungle gyms and playgrounds. To the south is the high
school, grades nine through twelve. The middle school,
grades seven and eight, is wedged—you guessed it—in
the middle.

With sweaty palms slipping on the steering wheel,
I turn into the parking lot. I’m more nervous than I
thought. I’ve only been inside the building twice
before. Once to interview with the principal, Dr.
Folger, who set me to work on The Battery of Tests to
determine my placement. Military terminology is truly
appropriate; the day of testing left me feeling beat-up
and exhausted. The second visit was to meet my guidance
counselor, who said I scored well enough to
become a senior, as long as I double-up on math and
science so I’ll meet state requirements for graduation.
Starting today, my daily routine will be rather intense:
Global View, gym, biology, physics, lunch. With Rajas!
Then English, geometry, trigonometry.

The Clunker’s brakes squeal as I look around for a
parking space. The lot is full, stacked with old
Mustangs, battered minivans, pickup trucks, a few
shiny new cars. A lot of kids must drive to school, juniors
and seniors, I assume. Scanning the throngs, congregated
in clusters, I see a couple of vaguely familiar
faces, but I don’t really know anyone. Deep yoga breath.
Jacinda pops into view. And Rajas! A thousand flitty
moths take flight in my stomach. The tips of my fingers
tingle.
Lightning.

I park and climb down from The Clunker and limp
across the asphalt. My ankle can hold some weight if I
go easy.

I am greeted with wide smiles. The most welcome
smiles.

“Eve!” Rajas’s voice is the best sound I’ve ever heard.

“Is it everything you expected and more?” Jacinda
chirps.

“So far, so good.” I give them each a small hug hello.
Touching Rajas shoots electricity up and down my
spine. He wrestles my backpack from me. Around us,
other students are watching. They seem curious,
maybe even a little suspicious, but neither Rajas nor
Jacinda seems to care.

They walk me into the building and help me find my
first class. The halls are like Mexico City in rush-hour
traffic, minus the cars. Kids are crammed into every
space, zooming around. I had no idea it would be this
crowded. “This is Global View and also our homeroom,”
Jacinda explains.

“Homeroom?” I think I know what that means, but
I’m not completely sure.

Jacinda looks surprised. “Homeroom? When the
teacher takes attendance and reads announcements?”

“Huh,” I say without thinking.

“‘Huh,’ what?” asks Rajas.

“Nothing. Nothing. I knew they keep records of
whether you show up or not. It’s just…I’m not used to
that kind of thing.” My stomach sinks a little. Education
should be exhilarating, not compulsory.

“You’ll get used to everything soon,” Jacinda assures me.

“That’s a scary thought.”

The light in here makes everyone look greenish and
alien. The classrooms have windows, but fluorescents
drone on the ceilings, casting unnatural shadows. The
halls have no natural light. Gray tile floors, cinder-block
walls, dented metal lockers. It’s so sterile and impersonal.
I can’t think of a less appealing environment. It’s
like a warehouse. Except worse.

Maybe enrolling in a regular school wasn’t such a
good idea. But then again, what did I expect?

I take another deep breath and try to focus on the
positive: Rajas. Jacinda. Other new friends, new perspectives,
a fresh look at things. Speaking of fresh,
would it have killed someone to add skylights? Some
live plants?

The walls seem lined with eyeballs. And when Rajas
leans close to wish me good luck, those eyeballs grow
wide. I straighten my shoulders and take yet another
deep breath. Hobbling away from Rajas feels like ripping
off a band-aid. I check the clock: T-minus three
and a half hours until lunch.

Religion is the opium of the people.

—K
ARL
M
ARX, PHILOSOPHER AND ECONOMIST,
1818–1883

The quote from Marx on the whiteboard in the
front of the classroom, and the question below
it—
Agree or disagree?
—boosts my spirits immediately.
Like I told Rajas the other day, I’ve been collecting
quotes for years. And even better, Martha,
Rich, and I have spent many a supper discussing Marx
and his theories. I make a tottering beeline to the
board and pick up a marker, blue and chemical-fumy,
to write my response:
Disagree. TELEVISION is the
opium of the people.

The bell rings, but it doesn’t sound like school bells
in movies. Rather than a hammer-on-metal bell
brrring,
the “bell” is a prolonged, grating, synthetic beep, a noise
so artificial and startling that I almost drop the marker.
I hop to a desk near Jacinda, passing a girl who stares
at me with her mouth open. Behind Jacinda, a boy is
tapping the screen of his phone. Jacinda pats the empty
chair next to her. I sit and set my things on the desk.

“Bold move!” Jacinda nods toward the quote,
sounding impressed. Something catches her attention;
I follow her gaze. Our teacher is coming through the
door. He’s wearing a button-down shirt tucked into
faded jeans. His tie is already loosened. Thick-rimmed
glasses frame his eyes. He’s good-looking and stylish—
in a pushing-forty, post-tragicially hip, old-timey kind
of way.

The man clears his throat. “Good morning and welcome
back. I’m—”

Static pops from the speaker near the ceiling. It is
the only adornment on the cinder-block wall except for
two lengths of whiteboard, a television on a rolling cart
in the corner, and a big analog clock. Has the teacher
not had a chance to decorate, or does he not care?

The teacher frowns, “It sounds as if—”

“Hello students. Teachers,” squawks the speaker, “if
you’ll excuse the interruption, this is Dr. Folger. I’d like
to welcome our sophomores, juniors, and seniors back
from summer vacation, and extend a warm welcome to
our first-year students. I trust you are rested and ready
to learn. I’m indeed pleased to announce that, due to
your high marks on end-of-grade tests, we are now a
Striving-for-Excellence school. If we repeat a good performance
this year, we shall become a Governor’s
School of Distinction.”

No one seems to be listening. Jacinda rolls her eyes,
twirling her index finger in a sarcastic whoop-de-doo
gesture.

Dr. Folger continues, “I expect this year to be our
most successful year to date.” Papers rustle like he’s
moving things around. “I’ll turn things over to your
capable teachers. My door is always open. Go Purple
Tornado!” The speaker sputters and clicks off.

At the front of the class, the teacher half-sits, halfleans
on his desk, which is clunky and industrial and
looks like it was made in 1950. He uncrosses his arms
and smoothes his tie. “Well. As I was saying. I’m Mr.
Brookner and this is Global View. There aren’t any
announcements.” He smiles and sweeps his arm
toward the speaker. “Well, any
other
announcements,
so after I put faces to the names on my list here, we’ll
jump right in.”

Mr. Brookner lifts a folder off of his desk. “Before I
call roll, I don’t need to remind you that phones need
to be silenced and stowed during class.” There is a bit
of shuffling as phones are put in bags or pockets.
Brookner starts taking roll; most kids raise their hands
or mumble as he calls their names. I’m semiconscious
of gripping the sides of my desk, bracing myself as Mr.
Brookner closes in on the first letter of my last name.

“Tera McClernon?”

“Here.”

Mr. Brookner checks it off. He pauses and squints at
the paper. “Hmm. Is this right?” he murmurs. “Uh—”

I raise my hand to stop him. “I just go by Evie.
Please. For obvious reasons.”

Mr. Brookner studies me for a moment, then nods.
“Understood.” He makes a note on his list.

Phew. One roll down, six to go.

When he’s finished with the list, Mr. Brookner turns
to the board. “Well. I thought we’d start today with…”
But he trails off. “Interesting. I see someone has
already added a thought.” He sounds charmed—and
maybe also a little annoyed?

The class titters. Behind me, someone whispers in
sibilant S’s. I give Jacinda a look,
So I guess it was a
rhetorical question?
She sort of shrugs and smiles.

“Class. Settle.” Mr. Brookner clears his throat.
“Someone has shown some enthusiasm this morning.”

Enthusiasm? A response to a question demonstrates
enthusiasm? Yikes.

“
Television
is the opium of the people. Hmm. Would
the writer care to elaborate?” He levels his gaze at me.
The jig is up.

“Um.” I shift in my seat. “Sure.” I take a breath to
gather my thoughts. “So. Marx was implying that religion
is an illusion to make oppressed people feel better
without actually confronting the reasons for their
oppression. Which there probably is some truth to, in
the sense that religions tend to focus on other realms—
like heaven or the afterlife—rather than this plane of
existence, you know what I mean?”

Mr. Brookner’s eyebrows have crept up; they are
hovering above the frames of his glasses. “Go on.”

His look makes me lose momentum. “Well, uh, with
religion, in another sense,” I say, “it’s something that at
least makes you think about your values. And really, at
its best”—I’m getting my groove back—“religion
prompts you to take action and
do
something to help
others. Like the Catholic Workers movement, how they
worked for fair labor standards. Or Quakers, who were
abolitionists, helping enslaved people follow the
Underground Railroad, and who now lobby for peace.

“But television? It’s just passive. Worse than passive.
Did you know you burn fewer calories watching television
than you do sleeping? It’s less active than sleep!
Plus, it’s basically advertisers feeding you a load of crap:
that you are defective and not good enough, and that
you have to buy stuff to make up for it.” Man, I’m on a
roll! “Ad campaigns and TV programs dictate your values.
It’s the opium of our time because it sedates you
with bad self-esteem and consumerism while you get
type two diabetes from drinking soda and eating potato
chips and sitting on your ass.”

I look around, pleased with the cohesiveness of my
argument. But eyeballs are bugged out. Kids are staring
at me. Staring. “Sorry. Sitting on your butts,” I amend.

Silence.

“Rear ends?” I try. “Cute little tushies?”

Mr. Brookner chuckles. “I don’t think your word
choice is the issue.” He turns to the rest of the class.
“Well. This is quite the jumping-off point. Who has
something to add to Evie’s assessment?”

Butts, asses, rear ends, cute little tushies shift in
seats. A girl in the front row—Marcie, I think?—clears
her throat, but no one says anything. It’s a thundering
silence. Jacinda inspects her fingernails.

“Okay, well then.” Mr. Brookner picks up a green
marker. “Let’s look at the quote in context.” He starts
adding dates to the board. Around me, students flip
their notebooks open and seem to relax, their bodies
slouching like deflating tires. This must be what they
are more used to: listening. Writing stuff down.

I open my notebook and stare at its blue delineations.
My cheeks feel hot and chapped, like I’ve just
been in a windstorm that no one else even felt. Ten
minutes into the first day of school and I’m already
weirding people out. This must be some kind of
record.

Gym class, the other class Jacinda and I share, is next.
As I limp along beside her, Jacinda entertains me with
a running commentary: “Ohmigod, that was crazy! Tata,
Marcie!” She wiggles her polished fingers at the girl
from Global View. “Hi, Neil!” she says to a redheaded
guy on the other side of the hall. “The way you went
toe-to-toe with Brookner! He is so smart, that was
incredible. Hi, Peter, hey, Sarah!” Good God, the girl
knows
everyone
. “Okay. Having gym second bell is seriously
lame. Like I’m going to get all sweaty in the
morning? I don’t think so. Too bad we don’t have Mr.
D, he’s awesome. Lord knows I get enough of Ms.
Gliss.” She waggles her fingers to another girl: “Hi,
Carrie!”

Her train of thought is interpolated with so many
hellos and goodbyes, it’s harder to follow than usual.
But “bell” must mean both the horrid sound and the
class period itself. Noted.

Our gym teacher, Ms. Gliss, is all business. She’s tiny
and curvy like Jacinda, dressed head to toe in purple
and white, which I’m going to go ahead and presume
are the school colors. She’s wearing one of those sport
skort things and she’s got expensive-looking sneakers
with fluffy pom-poms on the laces. At the bell, she
blows her whistle—unnecessary since we’re all milling
around in a small group—and marches our all-girl
class into the locker room (dim light, rusting lockers,
musty smell). She tucks her pouffy blonde hair behind
her ears and sets her fists on her small hips.

“Gym class is a
real
class and you need it to graduate,”
Ms. Gliss begins. “So please do not come to me
with excuses. Physical fitness is extraordinarily important
in this day and age. September is National
Childhood Obesity Awareness Month. We have an epidemic
on our hands, ladies, and I for one am determined
to do my part in combating it.” She pauses as if for
emphasis. I’m intrigued—until I realize that she’s giving
obvious, pointed looks to the heavier girls. Which just
seems mean and prejudiced. “So gym class will be strenuous
and you will take it seriously. I have no time for
senioritis, m’kay, ladies? I
will
fail you if you do not participate.
Participation means,”—she touches her thumb
to each finger as she lists—“changing into appropriate
gym clothes each and every day, completing all assignments…”
Good gravy, how many rules do you need for
gym class?

“Here are your locker assignments—
quiet!
—and I
want to remind you girls that I am not as gullible
as…certain male gym teachers. Menstrual periods are
a fact of life and you will
not
be excused from class during
menses.” There is giggling.

Ms. Gliss raises her voice. “
I said quiet!
If you need a
sanitary pad or tampon, I am happy to provide you one.
Just please do not start thinking of my office as a drugstore.”
She smiles for the first time. It’s one of those
lovely, beguiling smiles you sense has served its bearer
well.

“I encourage all of you to participate in after-school
sports. It’s not too late to join the JV or intramural soccer
or field hockey teams. And, as usual, throughout the
semester I will be having sign-ups for regional walk/jog
fundraisers: Crop Walk, Race for the Cure, AIDS Walk,
et cetera.” Finally, the woman says something I can get
on board with! “These fundraisers are not required, but
I urge you to participate. They are good for your body
and your character.

“Now, as many of you know, it’s a big year for Cheer
Squad.” Her smile starts to sparkle. “We have an excellent
shot at making state finals. Isn’t that right, Jacinda?”

“Yes, Ms. Gliss.”

Ms. Gliss nods and continues talking, extolling the
virtues of fitness, sports, nutrition, and weight loss to
attain a healthy body mass index, until the bell slices
into her monologue.

Jacinda and I make our way out of the locker room.

“What was that about?” I ask.

“What? Ms. Gliss?”

“Yeah. The Cheer Squad?”

“Oh, she’s the coach. Hi, Julie!” She waves at someone.
“It’s, like, so
Glee
, right?”

“So
Glee
?”

“
Glee
? The TV show? You haven’t seen
Glee
?
Seriously, I don’t know how you survive without a TV.”
She waves at another girl going by. “Ta-ta, Andrea!
Come on, Evie, let’s get you—hi again, Stiv!—to your
next bell.”

Okay, I’m totally lost. But she’s too busy social butterflying
to explain.

Biology, physics, and at last it’s time for lunch. Rajas—
Rajas! Yes!
—and Jacinda guide me into the serving line
of the cafeteria. And holy crap. The food? Horrendous.
Beyond horrendous. A forensic scientist would be gobsmacked.
Hamburger patties on soggy white buns…
how would you ever trace this oily gray circle back to a
cow? Uck. And the jello. Show me any food in the natural
world that shade of neon green. You can’t.

The salad bar offers the only food bearing any semblance
of…food. Note to self: pack a lunch tomorrow.
And forever.

I limp through the cash register line and start to follow
Jacinda and Rajas to a table.

“Hold on,” I call to them. “It’s such a beautiful day,
why don’t we dine alfresco?”

Rajas grimaces. “Sorry, Eve. Outside’s not an option
unless you want detention.”

Even a total school virgin like me knows detention is
something to be avoided, so I follow Jacinda to a
cramped table. There are two empty chairs, which seem
to have Rajas’s and Jacinda’s names on them.

“Sit,” Rajas tells me. “I’ll go find another chair.” Too
tired to argue, I plop down and Jacinda introduces me
around the table. Most of the kids smile. The placement
of their cheeks and lips are right, but there is a hollowness,
a hesitancy around their teeth. One of the girls—
Megan?—looks up from her phone and frowns, her eyes
going up and down my body, taking in my Levis, my
shabby T-shirt. Her lips purse and she looks back down,
resumes tapping her phone’s screen. The boys, in general,
seem friendlier and less judgmental. The girls need
to step up their game.

Jacinda smiles and laughs at someone’s joke, someone
else’s bit of gossip, while I inwardly quiz myself on
people’s names. Marcie, Stiv, Megan (I’m pretty sure),
Matt, Jim. This blur of faces and hair and clothes and
food and phones and chatter, it’s more than a little
overwhelming. When Rajas returns and sets his chair
down next to me, I melt with relief, and I touch his
elbow with mine to convey my gratitude. He seems to
shiver at my touch—or am I just imagining it? Wishful
thinking? He smiles. My stomach flips, my heart
thumps. Being near him is the heart-rate boosting
equivalent of ascending a Mayan pyramid.