The Mockingbirds

by Whitney, Daisy

  “So listen to this,” Maia says, quickly moving to a new topic. “Mr. Baumann already wants the whole debate team to do one of the patented Themis performances for the Faculty Club. Can you believe it? We’ll be doing a parliamentary debate on the pros and cons of the foreign policy of the current White House administration when the club meets again.”

  “First Merry Wives, then foreign policy,” I say, grateful there’s one person who doesn’t want to talk about last night.

  “It’s pointless too. I mean, it doesn’t count toward the debate circuit,” she adds, referring to the national debate tournaments held every year. “But they say it’s practice, good practice, for the circuit.” She pumps a fist in the air, imitating her debate advisor. “You know it’s just for show though.”

  “Totally for show.”

  “I swear, Alex, someday I’m going to write a bloody exposé on this weird fetish, practically an obsession, Themis has for its students. The teachers constantly want us to perform.”

  Themis fancies itself as some sort of Utopia, drawing the best and the brightest, and the school loves to trot us out in these bizarre sort of private performances for the faculty—debate, music, acting. It’s the faculty’s reward for teaching here or something, puppet shows by the students themselves.

  “Hey, do you happen to know Hadley Blaine?” Maia asks.

  I shake my head. “Why?”

  “He mentioned your name today at the Debate Club meeting.”

  “Why would he mention my name?”

  Maia shrugs. “I don’t know. I overheard him talking to another guy there.”

  “Who?”

  “Henry Rowland. They’re both swimmers.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “Don’t know. I asked them to be quiet because I had to start the meeting.”

  “Oh,” I say. Then I see a flash of red.

  I point to Maia’s neck. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  “On your neck.”

  “Oh, it’s my new scarf. Isn’t it delicious? I went to the basement to get my clothes out of the dryer, and there it was on the floor, next to the lost-and-found bin. I thought it was vaguely ironic to wear something from the lost-and-found bin.”

  “Take it off.”

  “What?”

  “Take it off, Maia.”

  “Why? I think it’s kind of cool, don’t you, in a retro kind of way?”

  “No. Just please take it off.”

  “It’s just a scarf, Alex. Are you okay?” she asks. “You’re kind of freaking me out here.”

  No, I’m not okay. Because it’s not just a scarf. It’s a reminder that Carter was nothing like Daniel at the lost-and-found bin.

  “I’m sorry, Maia. I have this crazy headache and I just need to sleep.”

  And without looking at her, I slide into my bed, under the covers, where I should have been last night.

  Chapter Six

  WHILE I WAS SLEEPING

  I don’t run into Carter the rest of the weekend, but I know I won’t be lucky enough to avoid him altogether. So on Monday morning I survey English class cautiously. I peer over my left shoulder, then my right. I don’t see his white-blond hair, so I breathe. He’s not in English, not in French. I tell myself it’s entirely possible I could have zero shared classes with him. Of course, it’s also entirely possible I could fly to Jupiter tomorrow.

  Themis isn’t one of those so-small-it’s-claustrophobic schools, but it’s not massive either. There are about two hundred students in each year. It’s hard to know everyone, but it’s easy to know most students.

  “Who are you looking for?” someone whispers.

  I turn to see my good friend and music buddy Jones Miner, who’s sitting behind me. His light brown hair falls in his face. He keeps his hair shoulder-length, rock-star length, he says. I’ve known him since we were freshmen because he plays violin. We play together often, in orchestra, in quartets, in two-on-one practices with the music teacher, and of course in puppet show performances for the Faculty Club, like this one we have to do next month—a Mozart sonata. Because, well, we’re really the two best musicians the school has.

  Funny thing is, Jones would rather be playing electric guitar. His parents don’t want him to, so he compromised, or really, tricked them. He scored a ticket out of the house for four years, where he can play guitar in his room all he wants.

  “No one,” I whisper back as Julie walks into the classroom. She lives down the hall from me and she is going to save the world someday, I’m sure of it. She started a group here called Change Agents, so she’s always heading up this or that fund-raising drive or volunteer project. We’ll chitchat in the common room or while we brush our teeth at night and she’ll often suggest I come help out on her latest feed-the-homeless efforts.

  She was there that night, and when I see her walk past my desk, I look the other way because I can’t help but wonder what she saw, if she thinks I asked for it. My chest tightens and I half-expect her to say something cruel, even though Julie doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. Instead, she just gives me a wave before she sits down.

  Then a runner darts into the room. The runner never says a word; he just waits for an attendance slip from our teacher, Ms. Peck. Runners help out in the office by collecting attendance slips from each class. This would be a menial task at many other schools. But thanks to the point system here, their job is actually pretty important. Themis awards attendance points you can cash in for off campus privileges, sort of like a weekend pass but to the movies or the coffee shop. Points are key if you ever want a real social life, if you ever want to have a real date. The rewards get better with each passing year. Freshmen can use points to have lunch off campus once a month, sophomores once a week. Juniors can cash them in for three lunches per week, including weekends. Plus, you can use points in the second half of junior year for Friday Night Out privileges. Seniors can come and go as they please for lunch and can leave campus Friday and Saturday nights. Of course, you can also lose points if you skip class or don’t show up for your extracurricular activities.

  Ms. Peck hands the paper to the runner, who dashes out, then clears her throat, peering at us over the top of her tortoiseshell glasses with lenses the size of Frisbees. “Good Monday morning to you all,” she says. She still has a slight Texan accent—she’s from there—but she rarely slips up with y’all. That wouldn’t really go over well at Themis.

  “Good morning, Ms. Peck,” we say in unison. All the female teachers here are referred to as Ms. whether they’re married or not. With this policy, the administration thinks the faculty’s marital status is off the table, a non-topic of discussion for the students. As if we all don’t already know exactly which teachers are married, divorced, single, cheating, in marriage counseling, or dating. We know everything that goes on here and we always will.

  The consequence of that is someone probably knows about me. Natalie knows where I was Friday night and Saturday morning. Then I remember her boyfriend, Kevin, is a water polo player, like Carter. I slump down in my chair, the reality hitting me. I’m sure she’s told the whole track team she saw me doing what she thinks was the walk of shame from Carter’s room. And Kevin has probably told the water polo team.

  I shake my head, shake the thought away like a leaf that has fallen in my hair. The leaf falls to the ground, and I picture myself stepping on it. The brown, crackling leaf turns to rubble under my foot. I kind of wish it were Natalie under my foot.

  “This semester, as you may well know,” Ms. Peck continues, tucking her dishwater blond pageboy-cut hair behind her ears, “is dedicated to Shakespeare. We’re going to read a play a week. So that’s five acts per play, one act per night for all you math wizzes out there.” She thinks she’s funny. She even adds her own comic pause as if we’re all just about to cue up our laugh track right now. But we don’t give her the satisfaction. “And since term is sixteen weeks with one week for finals, you can expect to hav
e read”—she pauses again, the shameless ham—“four squared plays by Shakespeare.”

  Thanks for the math. We suck at math here at Themis so your arithmetic prowess helps immensely.

  She marches over to the blackboard, her comedy routine having fallen flat, and reaches for a piece of chalk. “And as part of our Shakespeare immersion this term, you each are going to write a modern adaptation of one of Shakespeare’s plays, and you can expect that to be at least forty pages.”

  Now she pauses for dramatic effect because that is dramatic. I would groan, all fifteen of us would groan right now if we weren’t masters of restraint. You take your assignments like a man here. Ms. Peck looks a tad defeated. I bet the sadist in her—the sadist in every teacher—was hoping for some resistance, some squirming in our chairs at least.

  “I have already assigned a different play to each student. I will go through the list now.”

  She turns to the blackboard and begins scratching out names of plays, then a slash mark, then the name of a student.

  Emily gets Romeo and Juliet. I scoff silently. That’s the easiest one to adapt. You don’t even have to read it to rewrite it.

  Brent lands Hamlet. Same deal. No-brainer.

  Julie snags Othello. Jealousy, piece of cake.

  I wonder vaguely if Ms. Peck is playing favorites, if she likes that trio of students best. She doles out the next round, Henry V, Richard III, Antony and Cleopatra. My name’s not next to any of those so I dodge a bullet, though Jones winds up with Antony and Cleopatra. Then she sidesteps to the obscure, actually assigning Troilus and Cressida and Titus Andronicus for this project, to Henry and Elyse, respectively. Ms. Peck must have a wicked bone to pick with them!

  Then I’m next, and my task, it turns out, is to adapt The Tempest.

  I know nothing about The Tempest.

  When she writes my name, Henry turns around and gives me a look, more like a leer, as if he had a dirty dream about me last night or something. Henry Rowland. He was one of the guys who mentioned my name in Maia’s Debate Club meeting. Natalie Moretti isn’t the only person talking about me behind my back. Henry Rowland is too. It’s like there’s a sandwich board on me; the front says I’m Easy, Just Ask Carter. But the back would say He’s Wrong, People. He’s Totally Completely Wrong. I look down at my books, not wanting to meet Henry’s eyes. Fifty minutes later the bell rings and I gather my books, keeping my eyes averted.

  “Hey, Alex. It was fun hanging with you Friday night,” Julie says, tapping my desk. “You know, I’m organizing a new project to mentor underprivileged grade-schoolers here in Providence. Would love to talk to you about it sometime.”

  “Great. Totally. Count me in,” I say as I grab my backpack, relieved she has no interest in discussing Friday night.

  “I’ll catch up with you soon, then,” Julie says, and leaves.

  “So, you think there’s any way I could work in a little guitar solo into Antony and Cleopatra?” Jones asks.

  “That would totally rock,” I say, and wait for Jones so we can walk out together. I don’t want to be alone if I run into Carter, so I’m making Jones my secret buffer, my safety net.

  “Pretty crazy assignment, don’t you think?” he asks as we walk down the hall and file out onto the quad. I wrap my scarf around my neck and pull on gloves, wishing I could go all Audrey Hepburn and place the scarf over my head, then don a pair of massive brown sunglasses. No one would recognize me. No one could stare at me.

  “Yeah,” I say. “But they’re all like that. It’s like a battle to give the most bizarre, complicated, unusual, cutting-edge assignment.”

  “I know,” he says, shaking his head. “I bet they have contests.”

  “They probably place bets on who has the best students. They think we’re perfect in every possible way.”

  “Perfect grades, perfect attendance, perfect performance,” he says. “Hey, I gotta run. I have Spanish now.”

  My face feels hot for a second. He’s probably in the same Spanish class with Carter. I look away; even hearing the name of the class Carter might be in embarrasses me.

  “See ya,” I say, and then scoot off to Taft-Hay Hall. I have an open period so I might as well do a little research on The Tempest. I sprint up the three flights of stairs to my room and slam the door behind me. I peel off my gloves, coat, and scarf, sit down at my desk, flip open my computer, and fire up a browser window. I’m a good student. I don’t procrastinate and I do my homework on time, but for some reason I feel insanely compelled to look up The Tempest this very second.

  I find its Wikipedia entry.

  A sorcerer who’s a duke, sent to an island with his daughter, banished there by his own brother…

  Okay, I can do that…. A modern-day hipster magician who wears pencil-thin skinny jeans gets duped by his brother, some kind of power monger–type who wants to be the sole heir to the family’s skateboarding business….

  I read more.

  A storm, a ship run aground…

  Instead of a storm, our hero shuts down Internet access for a day, the brother’s business grinds to a halt…. Yes, that works.

  I read more of the play’s synopsis until I see something on Wikipedia that I can’t not see.

  Following Caliban’s attempted rape of Miranda…

  I read that line again. There must be a mistake; I’m seeing things, inventing things. Wikipedia could be wrong, so I Google other Tempest synopses. I look up Shakespeare scholars and the backstory is still the same: Attempted rape, attempted rape, attempted rape.

  I don’t really believe in signs, but I do kind of believe in karma and the universe and stuff like that. Is this the universe telling me something? Like there’s a reason Ms. Peck gave me this play? Like this play was meant to be assigned to me?

  I look down at the floor, contemplating. It’s then that I see a red sheet of paper on the carpet. I pick it up. It’s that bird again. The same flyer I saw before.

  Join the Mockingbirds! Stand up, sing out! We’re scouting new singers, so run, run, run on your way to our New Nine, where you can learn a simple trick….

  There’s a note on this one from T.S. In her curlicue writing—she still uses a heart on top of each little i—it reads: Think about it.

  I fold it into quarters and put it in my back pocket.

  Think about it, she says. She’s not telling me to think about trying out for the Mockingbirds’ New Nine. She’s telling me to think about going to the Mockingbirds. Asking for their help.

  I think about the words—learn a simple trick—and where they come from.

  “First of all, if you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you’ll get along better with all kinds of folks.”

  They’re from To Kill a Mockingbird, naturally, since that’s where the Mockingbirds get their name. We read it in freshman English. Our teacher gave us this crazy assignment where we had to take the first half of the book and compare the characters and their challenges back in the 1930s to modern day. It was supposed to make the book more relevant, but it still seemed kind of dated to me. The only part I liked was the trial.

  The trial.

  It’s like a train just slammed into me. Because the trial was about a rape. Only in To Kill a Mockingbird he didn’t do it. Tom Robinson was unjustly accused of rape. I crumple down onto my bed, a flash of doubt coursing through me. What if Carter is my Tom Robinson? What if I’m the one who’s wrong?

  I twist around so I can look out the window. All the way on the other side of the quad is the white door that leads into Richardson Hall, Carter’s dorm. I stare hard at the door, as if it offers answers, secrets. Then a boy walks up the steps, not Carter, just someone else, and opens the door.

  We didn’t go in that door. We went in a back door and then…

  The room looks bigger than mine. A lot bigger. And he has a single. I wonder how he got a single. At least I think it’s a single. The room feels tilted, or maybe that’s just the fact that my shoulders are kind of swaying back and fort
h right now.

  “I’m going to use the bathroom for a sec. Be right back,” he says, and the door shuts softly behind him. I hear “Ode to Joy” crashing through the speakers.

  I nod. At least I think I do. I think I move my head. My feet feel funny, kind of loose on the ground, and I’m already sinking down. So I decide to lie down. The bed’s so far away. I don’t think I can make it. So I just sink down onto the crimson and tan diamonds. Better. But what would be even better is full horizontality. I somehow manage to take off my coat, leave it on the floor, make my way to the bed, and collapse into sleep.

  The door closes, and the boy is inside Richardson Hall. Inside the building where Carter fucked me while I was sleeping.

  Chapter Seven

  BEGGING FOR IT

  Lunchtime.

  Part of me feels like I’m walking into the lion’s den. Another part of me knows I can’t become the freak who eats in her room just to avoid other students. Besides, maybe there’s nothing to be worried about, I reason as I walk into the cafeteria with Maia and T.S. Maybe no one’s really talking about me. Maybe they already gossiped over the weekend and they’re on to someone else.

  “I saw your note back in the room,” I say to T.S. Her short blond hair hits her cheeks.

  “And?” she asks.

  “What note?” Maia interrupts.

  “Nothing,” I say quickly.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” Maia says firmly as we drop our bags at our usual spot, a wooden table near the edge of the cafeteria. Martin and Sandeep are already seated. “What’s going on?” Maia asks.

  I head over to the food line, grab an apple, then make my way to the salad bar. As I spoon lettuce onto my plate, someone starts talking to me. It’s Kevin Ward. My stomach drops.

  “Hi, Alex,” he says. He has light brown hair, wavy, and cool brown eyes. I picture him playing water polo as I dunk him, press his head underwater for a very long time so he can’t talk to me. When he rises to the surface, his hair is flat and wet, his eyes are red, and he’s gasping for air at the side of the pool.