The Rivals (21 page)

“Oh, you do?”

“Yeah. I kind of do,” I say as I reach for his other hand. He lets me lace my fingers through his. I look down at our hands together and though they’re not musician hands, they’re
his
hands. They’re the ones I want to be holding. He’s the one I want to be touching. He’s the one I hurt. But even more than that, he’s the one I want. And I want him. I want him now. “It’s kind of sexy.”

“Is it? Sexy?” he asks playfully.

“Yes,” I say slowly in a whisper, and pull him near me. “I want to kiss you. And then I want to do more than kiss you. Because you’re the guy I’m in love with.”

Then he groans, a low sound that tells me he wants exactly the same. But before he gives in to me, he turns around and opens a drawer in the lab. He pulls out one of those long lighters, like the kind for a fireplace, with a blue plastic handle.

“You going to burn the joint down?” I ask.

He shakes his head and reaches into another drawer. There’s a bag of cotton balls in the drawer. He takes one out and pulls it apart, breaking off a feathery bit of cotton. He dips his hand back in the first drawer and now he’s got a long metal stick that looks like a barbecue skewer with a bulbous wick of white fabric at the tip. He flicks on the lighter, leans into the wick, and lights it. The next thing I know, he’s moving his other hand into the flame, peeling off a fireball into his palm, then dropping it into his mouth. He keeps his mouth open for a second, showing me his tongue on fire, then closes his mouth and smiles. He turns the lighter off, then takes the cotton ball out of his mouth.

To say I am amazed would be an understatement.

“How did you do that?”

“Simple physics,” he says. “The moisture in your mouth starts to douse the flames. Then you take the air away like this,” he says, closing his mouth in demonstration, then opening it again, “and the flame is killed.”

“You can eat fire.”

He nods proudly.

“My boyfriend can eat fire.”

“There’s more where that came from,” he says, and proceeds to show me how he can rub the flame against his jeans without setting the denim on fire, how he can shift a flame back and forth between his hands, then how he can lean his head back and eat the flame that’s burning at the end of the makeshift torch.

“How did you learn to eat fire?” I ask.

“Alex, I’ve been playing with fire for a long time.”

“C’mon. Seriously. How do you do all this?”

He shrugs happily, that familiar Martin shrug. “What can I say? I’m a science geek. You watch a few Web videos, try a few things, you teach yourself how to eat fire. I’ve been doing it since I was twelve.”

“Amazing,” I say.

“Want to try?”

“Not for a second.”

“You can do it. I’ll walk you through it.”

“You’re crazy.”

“C’mon. You’re not afraid of anything,” he says, and I feel myself bending.

“Fine. But just that little cotton ball.”

“I wouldn’t let you use the torch. The torch is only for seasoned pros,” Martin says. Then he walks me through the cotton-ball trick. I hesitate the first time, blowing it out. The second time I hand it off to him and he douses the flame with his tongue. The third time I just do it. I pop the lit cotton ball in my mouth and clamp my lips down on it instantly.

My eyes light up as I take the cotton ball out. “I ate fire!”

“You ate fire,” he says.

I put my hands on his face and kiss his lips.

“Your mouth is warm,” he whispers.

“So is yours,” I say. But, really,
hot
would be a much more accurate adjective right now.

I am a fire-eater.

I am a stealthy spy.

I am the defender of the powerless.

I am the protector of the student body.

I am Robin Hood.

That is what I tell myself the next day. All day long. In every class. To steel myself for my mission tonight.

I say the words under my breath in English class as Mr. Baumann scoots up on the edge of his desk and pushes up the sleeves on his blue button-down shirt.

“Power,” he begins. “Tell me about the kind of power
The Chocolate War
addresses.”

Maia—shocker—is the first one to raise a hand.

“The power of fear. The Vigils exist solely for the purpose of pushing others around,” she says, referring to the secret society in
The Chocolate War
that makes other students do their bidding. “Their only mission is to keep other students on edge, and they do it through psychological intimidation. The most masterful and chilling psychological intimidation. I wouldn’t want to cross their leader.”

“Is that enough to maintain a hierarchy? Fear?” Mr. Baumann asks.

“Yes,” Maia answers. “The Vigils set the rules. And everyone else follows them. And if you don’t follow the rules, then, like Jerry, you lose.”

“Mr. Cormier was not one for happy endings, was he?” Mr. Baumann asks.

Anjali raises a hand, and he calls on her. “That’s where I disagree with Cormier. You said you want us to find truth in fiction, and I think the ending is needlessly depressing. I think you can stand up, you can disturb the universe, without just winding up back where you started. Isn’t that where all good revolutions come from? From someone standing up to the way it’s been and saying,
No, let’s change things. Let’s make them better!
”

Maia swivels around to look at Anjali, the sleek, black-haired Brit taking on the wispy, blond French girl. “Are you honestly saying you think Cormier should have written a happy ending where Jerry just trots off without selling the chocolate and everyone follows him, doe-eyed, into the happily-ever-after?”

“I don’t know that everyone would follow him. But I think some would. I don’t think everyone wants to sell chocolates. And I think people are strong enough to say no to chocolate-selling.”

Whoa.

Could there be more of a double entendre to their conversation? I glance around at the other fourteen students in the room, wondering if they too are picking up on all the undertones between Maia and Anjali, who might as well be talking about the Anderin case.

“What would happen if you said no to chocolate-selling? Would anyone listen? Would the teachers listen?” Mr. Baumann asks.

Theo answers immediately.

“Not in Robert Cormier’s construction of this universe, where everything is bleak and everyone is violent and everyone gives in to all their baser instincts. Because the teachers succumbed to cruelty too. They were fully complicit; they allowed the Vigils to operate. They didn’t even turn a blind eye. They let Vigils do their bidding, making them their own personal army of sorts.”

No wonder the debate team is winning. That stuff works.

Then I flash on something. Theo
only
talks like this in class. He doesn’t talk like this, all sharply cut and smooth as glass, when I see him in the dance studio. He’s muddier then with words, but softer too. He must be taking the Annie right before classes and right before Debate Club practice. But in the studio, he’s not on anything. In the studio, he’s still trying to be himself.

“But step aside from this book. We’re talking about
you
. That’s the theme this semester. Truth in fiction. Your truth. What would happen if you said no to chocolate-selling? Would the teachers listen?” Mr. Baumann asks again.

I cock my head to the side and consider Mr. Baumann, the gray streaking through his hair, the casual way he sits on the desk like he wants to be part of a circle with us, like he wants to connect with us. Could I talk to him? Could I tell him what’s going on right under his nose? Could I tell him what I know about the student who just answered his questions? Would he listen? Could he act? He is the Debate Club advisor, after all, and this case should be his jurisdiction, not mine, not ours.

I start imagining how good it would feel to slough off this role, to push it onto him, to let the teachers carry the yoke. I find myself wiggling my shoulders ever so slightly, once to the left, once to the right, as if I just let go of something very heavy.

But there is no letting go. There are no teachers to talk to. There is no dean who cares. We are the only ones.

When class ends, I head to the music hall for a private lesson with Miss Damata. And even though she’s the only teacher I trust, I can’t talk to her about this. I might have told her what happened to me last year, but I’ve never told her about the Mockingbirds. Besides, what could she do? I’ve practically told Ms. Merritt and she was more concerned about my college apps.

Miss Damata listens to me play Ravel’s one-handed song.

“Technically it’s pristine. But I can’t help but think something’s off. It’s as if something is missing, not in the music, but behind the music,” she says. “It’s as if there’s a layer of emotion left unexplored.”

I try the piece again, but as I play, the music sounds empty.

“We’ll return to Ravel. Let’s hear your Bach,” she says.

When we’re done, I think back to what Mr. Baumann said earlier about teachers, when he asked if they’d listen.

“Miss Damata, what would you do if you found out that, say, one of the other teachers was doing something wrong?”

She smiles. “That’s kind of a broad hypothetical, Alex. Can you be more specific?”

“Well, what if a teacher were supplying drugs?”

Miss Damata places a hand on my forearm. “Alex, if there’s a teacher here who’s supplying drugs of any kind to students, I need to know. We need to do something about it.”

Then I laugh. “No! That’s not what I meant. What I meant was what if a teacher were supplying to other teachers? Like selling and stuff?”

She relaxes a bit. “There is a code of conduct for the faculty. It outlines ethical guidelines we must adhere to in teaching and in our conduct with one another. How we behave, how we treat one another, how we treat students. And it governs anything that’s a criminal act, like
selling and stuff
, as you say.”

“But does anyone enforce it? Because a code only matters if it’s enforced.”

“Absolutely. There are clearly spelled-out sanctions and disciplinary actions. Obviously we all strive to the highest standards, but there have certainly been punishments doled out. Ms. Merritt is very involved. She spends a lot of time with the teachers, and she listens to us. She listens to concerns we share with her and she can act upon them. The code is very important to her.”

I go cold all over because the faculty has a code.

A code that matters. The dean enforces it, she disciplines, she does more than slap hands. But only with her peers. What does she do with us? She leaves us to the wolves—we are the wolves. She won’t fight for us; she won’t protect us; she won’t help us.

“Why do you ask, Alex?”

I can’t speak right now. If I open my mouth, I will breathe fire. I will burn the music hall down in a towering blaze. I place my left hand on the keys while my right hand lies limp, lifeless on my leg. Useless, like the faculty with us. The left does everything. The left hand bears all the burden.

I look down at my hands, one working, one not, and then I explode through the music. I storm across Ravel, a general on the battlefield, tearing over it, marching forward, plowing down enemies, leaving nothing behind but charred earth. That’s how Ravel meant the music to be played. With rage, with unbridled, all-consuming, red-hot, fiery, flaming fury. After all, who wouldn’t be pissed to have only one hand?

When I stop, Miss Damata says, “I believe you’ve found what’s missing.”

My anger carries me into the night like a wave hurtling toward the shore. It carries me from my dorm and across the quad and into the administration building to the mission I have been plotting all day. I turn a key in the lock and let myself in. Anjali gave me hers to use. She has one, being a runner.

The building is dark, except for a few hallway lights. I walk down the hall, glancing back and forth at the portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses dating back to the founding of Themis in 1912. I want to rip every one from their gilded frames. I want to slash the canvases with a razor blade. I want to leave them all in a pile of mangled portraits outside Ms. Merritt’s door for her to discover. What’s the big deal anyway? So what if I slice a bunch of dumb portraits? It’s not like I’d get in trouble. It’s not like I’d be disciplined. I’m not a teacher. I don’t matter.

At the end of the hall, I make a left and reach a dark wood door with a pewter half-circle knocker. I don’t knock. No one’s in the Faculty Club right now. It’s only fitting that my meeting is here in the seat of their self-congratulatory power. The place where they make us perform for them.

I sit down on a high-backed leather chair, then survey the room—the shelves stacked with bound books, the rich mahogany walls, the blue Turkish rug. I envision taking it over, camping out here and protesting their illusions. Holding up picket signs and shouting through bullhorns. But they’d never notice; they wouldn’t care; they’d just hand me a self-help book on growing out of teenage rebellion. As if that was all that ailed us. Knowing this gives me strength to do the thing I’m about to do.

My eyes adjust to the dark, since I didn’t turn on a light. Beat doesn’t turn one on either when he joins me a minute later.

“You got my note,” I say, and gesture to the chair across from me. After I borrowed Anjali’s key, I slipped a note under Beat’s door instructing him to meet here.

“I did and I’m here,” he says, and sits down in the darkened room.

I cross my legs and place my hands together, painting my own false front of steady calm. But inside I am a jangled box of exposed nerves, and when I look into Beat’s dark brown eyes and see the tiniest bit of fear, my resolve weakens. But then I think of the brochure, of the code, of Ms. Merritt’s concern for the school’s record, rather than us. What choice do I have? What choices have we ever had? If she had done her job, I wouldn’t have had to snoop in Maia’s things, lie to the board, look through Vanessa’s phone, or do this. So I plow onward, venturing into territory I should be straying far away from, but doing it anyway, violating all our rules.