The Rivals (15 page)

“And after I shower I’ll be brushing my teeth, then blow-drying my hair, then getting dressed. Feel free to let all your Mockingbirds friends know. I think I may have breakfast after that. Perhaps tea and jam. And I’ll be sure to submit a diary to you later today of my schedule.”

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, but I know it won’t cut it for her right now, not when she’s fuming.

“Or you can just follow me if that’s easier,” she says, then walks out.

I grab a brush from my desk, run it through my hair, then decide I’d much rather toss it against the wall. I chuck it halfway across the room and watch as it bangs the brick wall, then falls to the carpet with a dull thud. I wish it had shattered. I wish it had broken into a hundred satisfying pieces on the floor. I would have relished cleaning up the pieces. And the whole time as I filled one hand with the bits of my hairbrush, I’d think what I’m thinking now—that I wish someone would have told me what this was like. That I wish someone would have warned me that the Mockingbirds can save you in one breath, then slash your heart in the next. That being part of this group means being separate from other people, from the people we’re trying to help, from the people who are being hurt, and definitely from our friends.

But is this worth my friendships? They’re
my
moral code. My friends stood by me last year, no questions asked. Now I feel like I’m pitted against them, and this just isn’t worth it. It’s not fair that I have to do this. It’s not fair that any student has to do this. We shouldn’t be policing one another. We shouldn’t be spying on one another. We should only be helping one another, laughing with one another, goofing off with one another.

There is
only
one person who should be dealing with this, and her name is Ms. Merritt.

The woman who has an open-door policy.

She said I could trust her. She said I could come to her for anything. She said I should have come to her last year. Let’s see what she’ll do this year.

When I leave my dorm, I head straight to the administration building, my jaw set, my muscles tight, as I push open the door so hard, it smacks the inside wall. I pinpoint my destination at the far end of the hall, never wavering, never taking my eyes off the open door to the dean’s office. When I reach it, I knock once and step inside, the cushy chocolate brown carpet sinking beneath my red-and-white Vans.

Her secretary glances up from the computer and turns to me. “Hello. How may I help you?”

“I’m looking for Ms. Merritt. I need to see her, please,” I say.

“She’s not available right now. May I have her get back to you?”

“She’s not available?” I repeat, as if the words don’t compute.

She smiles and shakes her head. “That is correct. She is not available.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I thought she had an open-door policy. I thought students were allowed to come see her and talk to her. She said we could come see her anytime.”

“I understand that,” the secretary says robotically but sweetly, like this is how she was programmed by her maker. “But she is not available right now.”

“Well, when do you think she’ll be available?”

“When she frees up.”

“When will that be? This is important. This is really important. I guarantee this will be the most important thing she has to deal with all day, all semester.”

“She’s simply not available.”

I place my hands on the edge of the desk, not sure if I am coming across as crazed or desperate but not caring. “Why? Where is she?” I ask.

“I think it would be best if I give her a message and have her get back to you.”

“How? How will she get back to me?” I ask, holding my hands up in the air. “Does that mean she’ll call me? Does that mean she’ll set an appointment for me to come back? What will she do? How will I hear from her? Is she going to text me or something? Maybe with a smiley face and an OMG too?”

“I think I would feel more comfortable if you didn’t stand quite so close to my desk,” the secretary says, and makes a gentle shooing motion.

“I would feel more comfortable if I could talk to Ms. Merritt right now,” I say.

The secretary casts her eyes a few feet from me, making it clear I am to back up before she speaks again. I step back and fold my arms over my chest.

“Now, what is the message?” she asks.

I close my eyes for a second and the recklessness of what I am about to do almost overcomes me. But I have to be brash; I have to test the positive-reinforcement-only philosophy for myself. I’ve only known of it from reading our records of past cases. But I
need
to know firsthand if she really will turn a blind eye.

I consider my words carefully, giving only enough info to cause concern, not enough to implicate, but punctuating each word so nothing is lost in the translation, so the honor pledge we all took is underlined, as I say, “Please tell her it is about Anderin abuse.”

The secretary smiles at me without showing any teeth.

“And please tell her I need to talk to her right away,” I add, giving her my name, my e-mail address, and my phone number.

“Of course,” she says, and I watch as the secretary writes the message down in her pristine, crisp handwriting. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” I say, and as I leave I catch a glimpse of Ms. Merritt’s office and the empty spot on her shelves for that dumb trophy.

I’m in my room later, pacing, waiting, checking my phone, checking my e-mail. It’s as if Juilliard itself is going to get in touch with me, that’s how much I want to hear from Ms. Merritt, and not because I
want
to hear from her. Not because I want her to solve this really big freaking problem at her school. But because I want to know if she even will.

I flip open my phone again, just in case there is a message I missed. None. I shut it just as Maia walks in.

She nods curtly, straightens up, and walks to her desk, where she sits down.

“What’s going on, Maia?” I ask casually, the way I would have asked before our friendship turned to tundra this morning.

“Why are you asking?”

“I’m just curious,” I say, wishing we could go back to the way we were before, wishing I knew how to navigate that route. But the map has been lost somewhere, several miles ago, under the passenger seat, next to crumbs and food wrappers, and the driver doesn’t have a clue where to find it.

“I’m studying for a debate tournament coming up in Miami. You can see the proof of my hard work there in my bag where I keep all my
uppers
that I share with the team.”

“Can we just move on from here, please? I said I was sorry.”

“I don’t know. Can we?” she asks pointedly. “Are you
really
sorry or just sorry I know you were snooping?”

But before I can say anything, I hear a sound, like a slight
whoosh
. I look in the direction of the door and see a slim white envelope that’s been slipped underneath. My name is on it, so I grab it. I open it and there’s a brochure inside. It’s on Anderin abuse, the warning signs, the dangers, the symptoms, and a phone number for a hotline for help. Paper-clipped to it is a note on plain white paper:

In pristine, crisp handwriting.

I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe out, a hard breath, deep, full of the kind of anger that could fuel a small city if you channeled me to a power plant right now. I open my eyes and crush the brochure and the note into a ball, the note the dean couldn’t even bother to write herself.

She treats us just like her dogs.

Maia is looking at me, waiting for me to tell her what the note is.

“It’s from the dean and I hate her,” I say, and then I do something rash. Totally and utterly stupid and dumb. I slam my fist against the brick wall. And it hurts like hell. I shake my hand out and see Maia staring at me like I’ve gone crazy.

“Sorry,” I say, but it comes out like a hiss, so I just leave. I head to the music hall, where I’m alone, just like I am with this case, just like we all are at this school.

All I can do now is find a way to clear Maia’s name. Because no one else—no adult in charge—is going to help me.

Ms. Merritt waits outside the administration building, holding the door open, a smile of epic proportions plastered across her face. She’s happy; of course she’s happy. We’re about to perform and she loves a good show. I picture reaching out and peeling that stupid grin off her like a Band-Aid. I bet it’d hurt and be all raw and red underneath.

“Good morning, Martin. Good morning, Anjali. Good morning, T.S. Good morning, Parker. Good morning, Delaney. Good morning, Alex,” she says, then says hello to a few runners who are also singing with us today. Then she shuts the door with them inside, separating me from my merry band of Mockingbirds.

“Alex, is everything all right? I was so concerned when I learned you had dropped by and I couldn’t be there in person to help you. I do hope everything has been sorted out since then?”

“Sorted out?” I ask, shocked at the ridiculousness of the question. “No. Nothing’s been sorted out.”

She sighs heavily, then pushes her glasses against her nose. “I’m sorry to hear that. I do hope this isn’t distracting you from your goals this semester.”

“I assume those would be our shared goals,” I say sarcastically.

“But of course. Are you able to focus on your music? On your application to Juilliard? Do you need any extra help from myself, or perhaps even from Miss Damata, because I could certainly arrange that. I know how very hard it is to be a student here.”

“You have no idea what it’s like to be a student here these days,” I say, and then take a step back because it’s as if I just discovered a superpower I didn’t know I had, like I’ve just learned I could fly or lift cars with one hand. Because I can’t believe I have it in me to talk back to the dean herself.

“Excuse me?” she says, arching an eyebrow. I watch as it rises above her hideous glasses. Her face looks pinched, pulled back tight by her French braid.

“Nothing,” I say.

She nods several times, as if she’s forgiving my impudence. “I understand what you’re going through, Alex. It’s not an easy time. Senior year is particularly tough,” she says, then gestures to the doors. “So let’s enjoy the rest of the day. Because I am certainly eager to see why the Mockingbirds are indeed the finest singers in the school.”

Then she walks ahead of me, and I hear a voice, loud and booming, behind me.

“Still room for one more?”

It’s Jones, and he has his guitar with him, the sleek, silver Stratocaster.

“Jones! You didn’t tell me you were coming!”

“I like surprises. I like surprising you.”

“I am definitely surprised in more ways than one. And so you’re not,” I say, reaching into my back pocket for a sheet of paper, “here are the lyrics.”

As we walk into the Faculty Club, I inhale deeply, imagining the air filling my lungs, giving me strength, guts, sinew to face the one real enemy we all have. Martin is taken aback when he sees Jones and shoots me another curious look like that day in the caf when Jones and I walked in late. So is Parker, who leans in to whisper, “But he’s not a Mockingbird.”

“Neither is Delaney,” I whisper back.

“Right. But I thought she was an unofficial one?”

“Like a mascot?” I joke.

That eases things with Parker, the stickler. But he feels even better when I remind him of
why
we need ringers. “The more believable we are, the less likely Senator Hume is to find out,” I whisper.

I take a step forward, the rest of the Mockingbirds, real and fake, forming a line behind me. I bow to the faculty members who have gathered for our performance. They’re all here—Miss Damata; Mr. Baumann; the French teacher, Ms. Dumas; the Spanish teacher, Mr. Bandoro; my former history teacher Mr. Christie; and even the headmistress herself is back for this performance. I guess Ms. Vartan is taking a break from her Prep Schools of the World Tour. How very lovely for her to return for the show.

Some faculty members are seated in the high-backed leather chairs; some are standing casually next to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, lined with leather-bound first editions. A nearby table is packed with fresh fruit and bakery breads that look like they rose in the oven this very morning. Then I notice another table—this one is manned by a gentleman in a white chef hat and jacket. He’s presiding over a skillet, and next to the skillet are sliced mushrooms, shredded cheeses, delicately cut tomatoes. Ms. Merritt hired a caterer.

She’s going to serve omelets after we perform.

She’s going to maintain her grand illusion.

I fix my eyes on her, because if I look at Miss Damata, if I look at someone I respect, I might break, I might laugh, I might run. Instead, I lock Ms. Merritt into my crosshairs. Then I speak.

“Let me begin by thanking you, Ms. Merritt, for bestowing the honor of the very first Faculty Club performance of the new school year on the Mockingbirds. Thank you, Ms. Vartan, for being here as well. I speak for all of us when I say we are deeply flattered and humbled,” I say, then gesture to my merry band of Mockingbirds. They bow before the faculty. “And because this is Themis and because we believe in excellence in all endeavors—we wrote you a song. Actually it’s kind of like a mash-up of some tunes we all know from childhood.
Early
childhood. Because who doesn’t want to reconnect with their inner child while here in high school?”

Miss Damata shoots me a curious look, but I go on. “I’m presuming you’ve all heard ‘Pussycat, Pussycat, Where Have You Been?’”

Many of the teachers nod, and I gesture for them to join in my recitation. They do.
“I’ve been to London to visit the queen. Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you there? I frightened a little mouse under the chair.”