This Girl Is Different by J. J. Johnson Read Free Book Online

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