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

hands. His hands are a little
larger than mine, a bit rougher. The calluses on his
palm bump my own; his thumb is wrapped in a bandaid.
They are strong, capable hands. I sensed all this
before—this guy carried me out of the state forest,
after all—but seeing his work, it’s all coming together:
his hands, his subtle mind with a gift for constructing
things, for discerning beauty and utility. This is a person
who can make something exquisite and real.
    And it is a truth, an immutable, unchangeable truth:
I am falling in love with Rajas.
    I’m a believer.
    He reaches out to the rocker, gives it a push to set it
in motion.
    “Wow. This is fantastic,” I say about the chair—and
him, and being here. “It’s like something you would see
at a Blue Mountain art festival. It’s beautiful.” It
is
beautiful,
and not just the chair. The lightning. Subjecting
myself to the cheese grater of love. Rajas is worth it.
The chair proves it.
    “You think?” His smile flashes a glint of vulnerability,
like he can’t hide the fact that he was nervous to
show me and now he’s relieved and proud.
    “I really do.” I study the wood. “Maple?”
    His eyebrows rise like he’s impressed with my
knowledge, but not surprised. He nods.
    “I love the style. Not quite Shaker, but close. Strong
but delicate.” I squeeze his hand before I let it go. I
kneel to look along the chair’s lines and run my finger
along its arm. “You used tung oil instead of stain?”
    He nods again.
    I stand up and walk around the chair, taking it in.
“Most people go through their whole lives without creating
anything this beautiful. You should be so proud.”
    “It’s my first chair.”
    “I guess it’s a day for firsts.” Ha. I’m funny.
    “Guess so.” He grins. “Let’s eat.”
    “Sounds great.” I realize I’m beyond hungry, I’m
ravenous. Maybe it’s a metaphor for being alone with
Rajas, like my libido is fueling my appetite. Or maybe
I’m just really hungry. Give a girl a break—even Freud
said sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
    Opening the door to the outside, we pull two stools
into the sun. We’re in a hidden nook near the breezeway
between the high and middle schools. It seems
safe from detection. We unwrap our lunches. Being
here with Rajas is easy and exciting and awkward and
comfortable, all at the same time. How are such simultaneous
contradictions possible?
    “You have detention today?” he asks.
    “Mmm-hmm,” I mumble through the first bite of my
cheese, mustard, and arugula sandwich.
    “What’s this one for?”
    “This one is for snake liberation.”
    He laughs. “Only you, Eve.”
    “What?” I wipe mustard from my lip with a cloth
napkin. “The poor thing looked miserable!”
    “So you thought you’d take it upon yourself to set it
free.”
    “I didn’t snakenap him or anything. I wasn’t sneaky
about it. I just held him in the sunlight for a few minutes
between bells. I still don’t see the problem.”
    “Mr. Wysent’s cool. Don’t hold it against him. It’s just
school policy.” He laughs. “Too bad you weren’t here
last year. You should have seen those frogs flying out
of the jello.” Shaking his head, chuckling, he crunches
into an apple. “Guess it’s still taking some getting used
to, all the rules.”
    “Not the rules. Well, not
just
the rules. It’s the abuse
of power and lack of civil liberties I can’t get used to.”
    “It probably feels that way, to you.”
    “It doesn’t to you?”
    Eyebrows converging, he says, “Never really
thought about it that way. I don’t love it, it just…is what
it is, you know?” He chews his apple. “But you know
what I do hate? All the labels. Rich kid, poor kid, nerd,
goody-goody, troublemaker, jock—”
    “Popular cheerleader,” I offer.
    He laughs. “Popular cheerleader.”
    “Misfit homeschooler.”
    “Misfit home—” He frowns. “You’re not a misfit, Eve.
You’re just…different.” He looks at the sky,