This Girl Is Different (8 page)

When a woman tells the truth she is creating the possibility for more truth around her.

—A
DRIENNE
R
ICH, POET AND FEMINIST, B.
1929

Hell yes! The PLUTOs plan has the desired effect
and then some. Word spreads even before the
homeroom warning bell rings. The place is
abuzz; neurons are zipping across synapses like the
whole school snorted Ritalin. Conversations fly, phones
ping, questions reverberate through the halls and
bounce into Brookner’s classroom.

—Did you see it?

—What’s it supposed to mean?

—The web page says it’s a mark against someone being a racist or whatever.

—That’s deep.

In Global View, Marcie swoops in on me before I
have a chance to sit down. “Was it you?” she whispers.

Next to me, Jacinda shoots a look: part freaking
out—
Ohmigod! Don’t say anything! This is so cool
—and
part annoyed—
Why isn’t Marcie asking ME if I posted it?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell
Marcie.

“Uh-huh.” She looks suspicious. “Well, I’m kind of
scared that Ms. Gliss will think it’s me!”

“She won’t,” says Jacinda. “The whole Cheer Squad
was there when she yelled at you. Anyone who heard
her could have done this. Plus, the boy’s soccer team
was on the other side of the gym.”

Marcie groans.

“Not that they would have heard anything! They
were too far away.” Jacinda touches Marcie’s arm. “Don’t worry, okay?”

“Seriously?” Marcie says.

“Seriously.”

Jacinda and I catch eyes.
Never tell, never be divided,
never be moved:
the oath the three of us—Jacinda and
me and Rajas—swore to each other in the middle of the
night. All for one and one for all. Our actions have to
be anonymous and we have to stick together. Because
if Mr. Pascal finds out Rajas used his shop room key to
help us, he’d revoke next year’s apprenticeship. And
who knows what would happen to Jacinda? No more
Cheer Squad captain? Her first-through-twentieth
detentions?

The bell sounds, jarring all of our jumpy nerves.
Brookner rushes in, uncharacteristically late, with a
laptop tucked under his arm. As he clears his throat to
speak, static pops from the PA speaker.

“Teachers, if you’ll excuse the interruption.” It’s Dr.
Folger. “I’ll be brief. Students, good morning. I would
like to remind you that vandalism and defacement of
school property is a crime. Indeed, it is not just a school
infraction but punishable by law as well. I’d also like to
remind you that we have a zero tolerance policy for
bullying, whether the target is a teacher or student.
This goes for online bullying as well. Violators of this
policy
will
be identified and summarily suspended, with
recommendation for expulsion. People’s good names
are not to be trifled with. That is all. Good day.” The
loudspeaker emits a series of clicks and goes silent.

Well. That answers my question about what would
happen if we get caught. Poor Jacinda and Rajas.
Thank God I’ve got a safety plan. I can always go back
to homeschool.

“Yes, well.” Brookner opens the laptop and prods a
button. He rocks onto his toes. “I trust that word has
traveled?”

Most of the class nods. A couple of students stare at
their desks, like they are reluctant to admit ignorance.
Marcie is so antsy and agitated she looks like she’s
about to combust.

Brookner taps some keys on the computer. “To
recap, for those of you who may not know: It seems
that a lightning bolt, made of cardboard or perhaps a
thin veneer of wood, has been affixed to the gymnasium
doors, as well as to the door of Ms. Gliss’s office.
The lightning bolt suggests a website to look up for further
elucidation. The lightning bolts have been glued
quite robustly and are not coming off, despite the
Herculean efforts of the janitorial staff.”

Good God, I hope my cheeks aren’t as red as they
feel. Is Jacinda holding herself together? I don’t dare
look.

“Yes, hmm.” Brookner presses his fingers onto his
desk and leans toward the laptop, scanning. As he
reads, his eyebrows rise until they are levitating over
his glasses. “Interesting, to say the least.” He turns from
the computer screen to stare directly at me. “Most
interesting, indeed.” A flash of something passes over
his face before he looks away. Amusement?
Approbation? “Since it is current events day, why not
start with this particular current event? Anyone interested
in what the website says?” Without waiting for an
answer, he finds the cable from the classroom TV and
connects it to the laptop.

Our blog pops onto the TV. Brookner steps back to
survey the screen. He rocks onto his toes, crosses his
arms. “Thoughts? Hmm?”

The class is quiet, taking in the words on the screen.
It is a manifesto,
our
manifesto, mine and Jacinda’s,
with a pinch of Founding Fathers, a dash of Martha,
and a sprinkling of bell hooks. This publicity is even
better than expected—broadcasted threats of expulsion,
Brookner donating classroom time to our cause.
Are other teachers doing the same? My heart thumps
with pride, basking in our words writ large on the TV
screen.

We, the
P
eople’s
L
ightning to
U
ndermine
T
rue
O
ppression
(PLUTOs)
hold these truths to be self-evident:

1. ALL
people should be Free to Be You and Me! It ain’t just a song, people!

Everyone—EVERYONE—deserves RESPECT, all the time.

This includes kids and adults, students and teachers.

2.
When disrespect and inequality is built into a system, it becomes
oppression. Some examples:

A. Students who can’t buy smartphones are
expected to do without the internet privileges
afforded to wealthier students.

B. Teachers are given better bathrooms than
students.

C. Teachers show disrespect toward students by
raising their voices and assigning detention whenever
they want for
insubordination
. Can you imagine
students yelling at teachers? We would get suspended!

These are just a few examples. Therefore, be it resolved, that our
school is an oppressive system, and many of its members are
complicit in enacting various forms of oppression.

3.
Types of systemic oppression include, but are not limited to, the
following: racism, sexism, elitism, ageism, authoritarianism, sizeism,
homophobia, and religious intolerance.
ALL
of them occur in our
school.

4.
Any attempt to oppress any person or group is unacceptable.

5.
Everyone makes mistakes. However, when someone does something
super egregious, or when the accumulated number of someone’s
mistakes
indicate
HABITS
of oppression, we
WILL
take action to hold that person
ACCOUNTABLE
. Lightning will
strike!

6.
People struck with lightning will be listed on this site by initials,
along with their infractions against humanity.

7.
The founders of
PLUTOs
will remain anonymous. So don’t ask!

Join our cause, anytime, anywhere,

by uniting against oppression!

Post comments on this page!

Free speech for all!

Speak up! Start the revolution!

COMMENTS

First lightning strike:
Ms. G. for blatant sexism and sizeism
and disrespect of students by yelling at students for their weight
and size. She thinks it’s appropriate to humiliate and shame students,
but guess what? You can’t hide from justice! Ha!

A staccato
rap rap rap
shakes the classroom door,
snapping my attention away from the genius that is the
PLUTOs blog.

Brookner opens the door, and there stands Dr.
Folger. Jacinda gasps and the color drains from her
face; she looks terrified.

“Mr. Brookner. Students. Excuse the interruption.” Dr.
Folger bows slightly. “A word?” He motions Brookner
forward and whispers something. Brookner nods, listening,
his hands clasped behind his back.

When the two men separate, Brookner swivels
around to regard me with what seems like a mix of
interest and pity. “Evie. Dr. Folger would like a word
with you.”

Jacinda doesn’t move; she is frozen, staring straight
ahead. I take a deep breath.

“Bring your things,” Dr. Folger says.

I guess this means I might be out of class a while.
Which does not seem good.

Another deep yoga breath. I pick up my stuff and
stand tall.

My heart is pounding, pounding, inching its way
into my throat.

If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies, we are determined to foment a rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we have no voice or representation.

—A
BIGAIL
A
DAMS, ABOLITIONIST,
1744–1818

Dr. Folger settles into a swivel chair behind his
big wooden desk. Plaques and degrees coat his
office walls. A huge herd of Slinkies populates
the horizontal surfaces of his bookshelves, desk, filing
cabinet. I set down my bag and move one of the two
empty chairs toward the door, so that we are on a diagonal.
I don’t like being maneuvered into talking over a
wide expanse of desk. It’s a proclamation of authority.
Dr. Folger raises his eyebrows at my move, but he
doesn’t object. A thin manila folder floats in the middle
of his desk. What’s in it? Results of my Battery of Tests?
Grade reports? The inscrutable white copies of those
triplicate detention forms?

“Thank you for meeting with me,” he says, as if I had
a choice in the matter, “Ms. Morningdew.”

“I prefer Evie.”

He tilts his head: an inquiry.

“Martha—my mom,” I explain, “went a little crazy
naming me. She didn’t just make up my first and middle
names, she made up the last name too.”

He smiles. “Fair enough. But you may have to remind
me. Evie.” He picks up a rainbow-colored plastic Slinky
and ripples it. “I’ve been meaning to officially welcome
you to our school.”

“Thanks,” I say, “for the welcome. But isn’t this
really about something else?”

He smiles, not an unfriendly smile. “Indeed. Yes, it is.”
Time for another deep breath.

“I’ve asked you to meet with me to discuss certain…
events.”

“The lightning? The PLUTOs website?”

He looks surprised. I bet he’s accustomed to students
trying to sidestep him instead of confronting him
head-on. He sets down the Slinky and opens the folder.
“It looks like you’ve had some trouble with Ms. Gliss
and Ms. Theodore and Mr. Wysent.”

“I’ve served my time.” I’m about to say something
about the bathrooms or the socioeconomic bias of the
phone policy when I remember we talked about it on
the PLUTOs blog. So I keep quiet.

He scans the folder. “Yes. But you’ve had some
other trouble.”

“Can I see that?” I hold my hand out.

He jerks the folder back as though he’s astonished—simply astonished!—that I would ask.

“It’s about me, right?”

“Indeed it is.”

“So why can’t I see it?”

He clears his throat. “I’m happy to tell you what is in
here,” he says, tapping the file, “but I can’t let you read
it. I have to protect my teachers’ confidentiality.”

My eyes bug out. “Your
teachers’
confidentiality?
They
can write in my file?
They
can see it?”

He strums a different Slinky, this one small and
metal. “They can add a note or two if they so desire.”

“Uh-huh. Okay. Right.” I undo my hair elastic, snap
it around my wrist like a bracelet. “Can I add a note too,
then? Since it is my file?”

Dr. Folger smiles and chuckles. “Ms. Morningdew—”

“Evie.”

“Evie. It’s unorthodox. But…yes, I would include a
note from you. What will you write?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Ah.” He returns to my file and is quiet for a
moment, reading. “I see you’ve expressed interest in
attending college.”

“Yes. Cornell. They have a program for Urban
Planning with a concentration in Social Justice.”

“So they do.” Smiling, he points to a frame on the
wall.

I glance at the framed diploma and jump up for a
closer look.
Cornell University confers…James Charles
Folger, Baccalaureate of Science in Urban and Regional
Studies.
My hands fly to my mouth. “You’re kidding! I
don’t believe it!”

Dr. Folger chuckles.

“That’s the same department!” I study the diploma,
visualizing having one of my own, with my name on it,
and then I look at the one next to it. “And you got your
doctorate from Harvard. Not too shabby.”

“The Ed school at Harvard. A bit more down-to-earth
than the rest of the place. All of the excellence, less of
the hubris.”

“Wow.” I shake my head as I sit. “Did you like
Cornell?”

“No.”

“No?”

He grins. “I didn’t like it—I loved it.” He swivels in his
chair. “It was a wonderful program, phenomenal
teachers. I learned so much there, both from classes
and the practicums. And I made lifelong friends.”

“Wow. You could write me a letter of recommendation!”
It’s a thought and suggestion and question—until
I remember why I’m here. That he pulled me out of
class, ostensibly for a big-time infraction.

He looks at his hands. His suit jacket pulls a bit at its
shoulder seams. “I would love to, Ms. Morn—Evie. If,”
he raises a finger, “if I were certain I could do so in
good conscience.”

My heart sinks. Wait for it…

“Now. You and I both know that this…lightning
strike…is a rather alarming development. I must take it
quite seriously.” He clears his throat. “And it coincides
with your appearance at this school, as well as your
interest in, shall we say, social justice activism.”

So. There might be a copy of my petition to the student
council in that folder. Possibly even my letter to
the editor? Both of which went over like lead balloons.
What else lurks in those pages? “Correlation does not
imply causation,” I say.

“Indeed not,” he concedes. “And yet, where there’s
smoke there’s often fire.”

I pull the elastic off my wrist and wrap my hair into
a long ponytail. How much should I say? Dr. Folger
seems cool, but what if he’s playing Good Cop, only to
become Bad Cop two minutes from now? After all, he
is the principal. He is The Man. I take another deep
breath before asking, “Just for the sake of argument, it
isn’t a crime for a student to create a blog, is it? I mean,
free speech is protected by the First Amendment. I
assume that public school students can exercise their
constitutional rights. Although I could be wrong.
Freedom of the press seems pretty subjective around
here.”

“How did you know the website is a blog?”

“Mr. Brookner just showed it to us.” Thank God!
That was a close one.

“Did he, now?” He picks up the rainbow Slinky
again. “As it happens, you are correct. Keeping a blog
is not a crime. However, as it pertains to school systems,
First Amendment rights must be tempered by the
best interest of the institution.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to figure that out. So let me get
this straight: You can and would, in good conscience,
deny individual students their rights? As in, the greatest
good for the greatest number? You’re that much of
a utilitarian?”

“Not strictly, no.” He smiles, very slightly, like he is
impressed with our discussion. “However, the fact is,
Evie, that bullying is a crime. We have specific rules
about online bullying, internet bullying.” He sets up the
Slinky to watch it flip. “And libel is a crime—the crime
of defaming someone in print. We are talking about a
teacher’s good name.”

“Are you sure her name is good?” I ask carefully. “I
mean, hypothetically, what if the website was telling
the truth? What if she did say horrendously awful
things to a student?”

“I have an obligation to protect my students, of
course. So without divulging anything, I can tell you
that Dr. Jones—the superintendent—and I shall investigate
the claims.”

I nod. Our eyes meet. He clears his throat. It’s a
standoff. I wouldn’t be surprised if tumbleweeds rolled
across the floor between us.

Clearing his throat, he says, “Without sounding too
nefarious, I will be keeping an eye on you, Evie.” He
dips his head like our conversation is finished. “Ms.
Franklin will write you a pass. Thank you for your
time.”

“Right. Okay.” I pick up my books.

I’m opening his office door when he says, “Evie.”

I turn around. “Dr. Folger.”

“I want to make sure you realize something.”

“What’s that?”

He taps his fingers on my file. “This is your first time
attending a traditional school. And it is your senior
year.”

I smile. “So far you’re not telling me anything I don’t
already know.”

He returns the smile. “What you may not know is
that your record will follow your application to Cornell.”

“Right, right. The dreaded
Permanent Record
.”

“Indeed.”

“Thank you for the warning.” I turn back to the door. I can’t wait to rehash this with Jacinda and Rajas. She
would have told him by now and they’ll both be dying
to hear.

“It will follow you even if you decide to…cease coming
to school.”

What? My brain falls to my stomach, and they both
drop to the floor. Holy freaking crap. “You mean—”

“If you drop out of school, Cornell shall still have
access to your record. A record that will detail all the
events concurrent with your time here.”

I head back to the chair and sit.

“You may go.”

No. School and PLUTOs just changed from interesting
novelty to a really, really bad idea. Now my dreams
for the future are at stake.

“I just wanted to be clear about that.”

He’s managed to silence me. I nod.

“I will also need to call your parents about this,” he
says. “I generally follow up conversations like these
with parents. Over the years I have learned it pays to
keep them in the loop, as it were. To avoid surprises
further down the line.”

I can’t help but snort.

“Is something funny?”

“I’m sorry. Go ahead…call her. But be prepared.”

He looks perplexed. “She’s very strict? You’d rather I
didn’t contact her at this time?”

“Martha’s as anti-strict as they come. Go for it. But
you might want to brush up on your educational philosophy.
She’ll probably throw Dewey at you.”

“Ah. ‘Education, therefore, is a process of living and
not a preparation for future living.’”

Despite the turmoil Dr. Folger has spun my entire
future into, I eke out a smile. “One of my favorite
quotes.”

He bows a little, a nice gesture that seems meant to
convey respect. “I will look forward to talking with her.”

We leave his office for the main office. Ms. Franklin,
who was not here when we came in, looks up. She sets
a can of Diet Coke down next to a needlepoint tissue
box holder. “Hi, hon.”

“You two have met,” Dr. Folger says.

“Yes.” She smiles. “Evie, right?”

I nod.

“Shall I write a pass?”

Dr. Folger says, “If you would.”

Ms. Franklin pulls a blue notepad out of a drawer
and begins writing.

“Thank you for your time, Ms. M—” He shakes his
head. “I’m sorry. Evie. Do stay out of trouble. So I can
write you that recommendation for Cornell.”

Cornell. In case I’d forgotten.

A Permanent Record that is truly permanent.

All along, Martha has said this was a bad idea, and
now I have to agree. Another fine mess I’ve gotten
myself into.