Free This Girl Is Different by J. J. Johnson Page A

superficial,
airhead, mean-girl cheerleader stereotype. Maybe it’s
time to reexamine said stereotype?
    “Brought your lunch?” Rajas asks, bringing me out
of my thoughts.
    I lift my cloth lunch bag to answer.
    “Good.” He looks around, all shifty-eyed, and takes
hold of my arm. His touch electrifies every nerve ending,
scalp to toes. “Come on.” Careful of my not-fullyhealed
ankle, he jogs me away from the cafeteria, past
the gym, turning a corner into a hallway I swear I never
knew existed.
    “Where are we going?”
    “Shh,” he says. “Be stealth.”
    We turn another corner and stop in front of a classroom.
He pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks the
door, peering into the room like he’s making sure the
coast is clear. He motions me to follow.
    In the dark, I bump into him. He fumbles around
until a switch clicks and fluorescents flicker on, bringing
the huge room—about half the size of the gym, but
without its wall of windows—to light. Table saws, circular
sanders, miter boxes, work benches.
    “The mythical shop class,” I marvel. “You have a key
to Camelot?”
    Rajas cocks his half-grin. “Mr. Pascal just gave me
one. Not supposed to let anyone else in here but…I figured
you’d like it. Plus, look—” He points to a door I
hadn’t noticed, on the outside wall. “We can duck outside
for fresh air. Which I know you’ve been jonesing
for.”
    “It’s perfect!” I throw my arms around him. “I love
it!”
    His muscles tense. Oh nooooo. Is he uncomfortable
or just surprised?
    I shrink back, unhugging, but he stops me.
    He leans in. I lean in. And I don’t believe it, because
it’s all happening so fast, but our lips pull into each
other and we’re kissing, his tongue warm but not as
wet as I’d imagined, and our chests pressing together
and it smells like sawdust in here and my stomach
floats because I’m in free fall. It’s not a face-mashing
kiss like in the movies. It’s the perfect first kiss. Gentle
and sweet and slow and sexy all at the same time.
    Rajas pulls away. “I swear this wasn’t my plan. For
bringing you here.”
    “Fine by me if it was.” I smile, but now things feel
awkward. “So. Show me around?”
    He wipes a thumb across his chin.
    “Crap!” I clamp my hands over my face. “Did I drool
or something? I’m kind of new at all this.”
    “Really? You don’t say.” Laughing, Rajas tries to pry
my hands from my cheeks.
    I grab his hands. “Maybe I just need more practice.”
    “Just what I was thinking.”
    We kiss again. Oh God. If we keep going, I will melt
into a puddle on the floor. Deep breath. I pull back just
enough to say, “Okay. What are we doing here?”
    “Um, hooking up?” His dark eyes twinkle.
    “No, I mean what are we doing
here
, in shop class.”
    “Oh yeah.” He laughs. “Well, remember when we
met?”
    How could I not? One tends to recall being struck by
lightning. “What part?”
    He nods toward a corner of the room. “I brought my
rocker in. I finished it.”
    So he did have an innocent reason. Damn. Does that
make our kiss more exciting—a spontaneous ourattraction-
cannot-be-suppressed thing? Or is it lame
that I practically jumped him?
    Wait. What am I doing? What’s with the self-doubt,
Suzy Self-conscious? I’m nothing if not thick-skinned
and confident. But…the way I feel about Rajas. It makes
me soft and exposed, like a raw oyster. My protective
shell has been shucked. And then tossed out to sea.
And then sucked away with a riptide. I wonder about
Rajas: does he feel insecure and vulnerable too?
Sometimes I think I catch glimpses of it.
    Rajas takes my hand to lead me to his chair.
    Oh man. What a chair. It’s amazing. It’s not fancy,
not cheesy or ornate. It’s simple, classic, well-made.
Clean lines, with bark on the arms and splats, so you
can appreciate the wood’s origin. It is functional and
artistic, totally connected to the natural world.
    It is stunning. Wow. He made this.
    We’re still holding