The Mockingbirds

by Whitney, Daisy

  But then I stop thinking about them because we’re leaving the food line now. I feel my muscles tighten. Amy senses the change and whispers, “You can do this.”

  We walk out into the cafeteria together, Amy on one side, Ilana on the other. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carter look up, then Kevin. It’s all in slow motion, as if it’s playing out on a movie reel, slowed down frame by frame. They see me, then Ilana, then Amy. The two Mockingbird girls stare at the two water polo boys. The boys look down instantly. They don’t look up again, even when we sit down at our table, where T.S., Maia, Martin, and Sandeep are already parked.

  Flanking me, Amy and Ilana pick seats so we’re facing the water polo boys from across the room. That’s how I know Carter and Kevin never look at me again for the whole meal. Even when I go to the salad bar, Amy by my side, they stay like that.

  When I finish my pasta, a girl with broad shoulders and sandy blond hair tucked behind her ears, the ends curling back out under them, walks over to our table. She circles around my side and crouches down next to me. She places one hand on my back, the other on the back of Amy’s chair.

  “I’m Dana Golden,” she says.

  “Hi, Dana,” I say tensely.

  “I’m on the girls’ water polo team.”

  Uh-oh. She’s probably his girlfriend or his buddy, maybe even his henchwoman. She’s probably going to give us a taste of our medicine. She’s probably going to pin me down and swing at my face a couple of times.

  “Was it you?” she asks me. “Because I know he was spreading rumors about you at the start of the term, and then when I heard he was in the book, I figured it was you. What a pig,” she says.

  “You know him?” I ask, but I don’t answer her first question, even though I’m relieved she’s not a friend of Carter’s, or a fan.

  “He’s a douche,” Dana answers. “I went out with him a couple times last year and all he wanted to do was get his hands on me. I literally had to slap him one time to stop him. He was pushing himself on me.”

  “Did you stop him?” I ask.

  Dana nods proudly, her broad shoulders moving up and down as she does. Dana’s got a swimmer’s build and she looks tough. She fought him off. I didn’t.

  “Yeah, and he tried to start some rumors about me too, like he did to you. Last spring he started telling all the guys that I totally put out for him. So I just marched right up to him in front of his friends and asked if he had told them how I slapped him too. That shut him up.”

  “Wow…,” I say.

  “So listen. If you need a character witness, I will totally do it.”

  T.S. chimes in. “That’s a great idea, don’t you think, Alex?”

  “Sure,” I say, because it sounds like the sort of thing they’d do on Law and Order.

  “Anyway, keep up the good work. See you around,” Dana says, and heads out of the cafeteria.

  “That was bloody brilliant,” Maia says with a clap of approval. “Character witness. I love it!”

  “Speaking of character witnesses, have you picked your student advocate yet to try your case?” Amy asks me.

  Maia jumps in, waving her arms in the air. “Like a lawyer? Like a prosecutor?”

  Amy nods and Maia turns to me. “You know there’d be no one better.”

  “Maia, are you trying to say you want to defend me?” I say playfully.

  Maia bats her eyelashes, giving me a coquettish smile. Maia’s been dreaming about attending Harvard Law School since she was three, so I’m not surprised she’s salivating at the chance to play attorney here. Then I feel that same pang of doubt I felt yesterday. Is Maia interested for me or for herself?

  I turn to T.S. “Did you want to do it?” I ask her.

  Maia emits a huff. “C’mon. You know T.S. doesn’t.”

  “Maia, would it kill you to let Alex decide?” T.S. asks.

  Maia holds up her hands, like she did the night we first went to the Mockingbirds.

  “Do you want to do it?” I ask T.S. again.

  “I want you to decide,” T.S. says.

  There’s no question. “Maia would be perfect,” I say.

  When we leave the cafeteria Ilana gives me my hat back. It looks like I won’t need it again.

  Chapter Twenty

  ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW

  That evening Jones meets me outside my dorm and we head over to the music hall. Mr. Christie and Ms. Peck—she’s Jones’s advisor, so it’s like they doubled up on us—were so enamored of the Gershwin idea, they asked us to perform Rhapsody in Blue for their staff meeting. Not even the Faculty Club, just a regular weekly meeting. I know it’s supposed to be an honor, like extra credit for extra-special students, but still it just feels so ridiculous. Wind us up, watch us go.

  “What do you say we go wild tonight and screw the old masters?” Jones suggests.

  “Ooh, that sounds vaguely dirty, Jones,” I say as we cross the quad. Yellow light from the old-fashioned streetlamps lining the quad spills across the stone pathway, guiding our way. I use the light to avoid another run-in with an ice slick.

  “I’m serious. Do you really want to practice frigging Gershwin again?”

  “I like Gershwin,” I say. “Even if we have to perform it at their stupid meeting.”

  “But what if we did it like we were rappers or something covering Rhapsody in Blue?”

  “So just totally subvert things?” I ask as he opens the door, unlocked as always, to the music hall. We both pull off our fleece pullovers and toss them on the floor. No teacher, no need to use a coat rack.

  “Yeah. What do you think?”

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t think so.”

  “C’mon, Alex. Don’t you just want to shake things up a bit?”

  I’m already shaking things up, I want to say. Instead I say, “Not that way,” and sit down at the piano, then rub my hands together to warm them up.

  He grabs his violin and pulls up a chair. “Saw you having lunch with Amy and Ilana. What’s that all about?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, not looking at him.

  “Alex, I’m not stupid.”

  “I never thought you were.”

  “They’re in the Mockingbirds,” he says firmly.

  “How do you know?” I ask, trying to sound casual, but wondering if he went by the mailbox like T.S., like Carter.

  “Because I pay attention. So are you in the Mockingbirds?” he asks point-blank.

  I scoff. “No! Me? C’mon. Why would I be in the Mockingbirds?”

  “Then why are you hanging out with them at lunch? You’re not part of the cheating case.”

  “Cheating case? What are you talking about?” I ask him.

  Jones shakes his head, kind of disapprovingly. “This dude in my dorm says his roommates are forcing him to do all their math and chem homework. He’s this total math savant. I mean, he’s actually taking math classes at Williamson right now, applied math, not even intro level college math. He is already way beyond that. So his roommates are making him do all their math work. Guess they’re telling him they’ll tell everyone what he says in his sleep if he stops doing their homework. I don’t know—sounds as if he’s a major sleeptalker and maybe shares a little TMI while he’s snoozing.”

  “That kind of sucks,” I say.

  “Yeah, and he’s talking to the Mockingbirds about taking on his case.”

  The math genius must be one of the other cases Amy alluded to before lunch, one of the ones she wouldn’t tell me about. “How do you know?” I ask.

  He gives me a look, then rolls his eyes. “Alex, he lives down the hall from me. I know what’s going on. I keep my eyes and ears open. Besides, they’ve been by, talking to him, talking to the roommates too. I guess they’re investigating,” he says with a note of derision as he sketches air quotes with his fingers. “It’s kind of lame, though,” Jones adds.

  “What do you mean? The cheating? Or the sleeptalking?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “The wh
ole thing. Like he can’t deal with it on his own?”

  “Well, maybe he feels helpless,” I say defensively.

  “Anyway,” Jones steers the conversation back. “So why are you hanging out with the Mockingbirds?”

  “Why not hang out with them?”

  “You’re not answering the question.”

  “What’s the question, Jones?”

  “If you’re not in the Mockingbirds, then what happened to you?”

  He lays the violin gently across his thighs and leans toward me. His hair falls forward, but he makes no move to push it out of the way. He just waits for me.

  I should tell him. The whole school is going to know any day now when Carter is served his summons. But when I try to speak, my throat closes, as if there’s a hand on my neck, gripping tighter, choking the words into silence. I’m afraid to tell Jones for some reason. Maybe it was the way he said the math wiz was lame for going to the Mockingbirds, or the way he seems to disapprove of the Mockingbirds.

  “What happened to you, Alex? If you don’t tell me I’ll go all Beastie Boys with Gershwin next week.”

  “Jones,” I manage to get out before the hand clamps my throat again.

  “Alex, I’m your friend. I’ve known you since we started here. You and me, we’re the same. You’re the only other person here who understands how I feel about music and I’m the only person who understands exactly how you feel too.”

  The hand loosens its grip, one finger after another slowly peeling off my throat. “Do you know Carter Hutchinson?” I ask quietly.

  “Water polo dude?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  Jones sighs heavily. “I heard his name went into the book yesterday. Don’t tell me he…”

  I tell Jones the story. When I’m done, he lets out a long breath of air. “Man, I wish you came to me.”

  “Came to you?”

  “I would have taken care of this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I would have bashed his head in.”

  “Stop it, Jones.”

  “I’m serious. I can’t believe he hurt you like this.”

  “I’m fine,” I insist, and it’s strangely true. I felt fine—good, really—when Maia told me about the pool. I felt better—strong, even—when I walked through the cafeteria with my protectors. “Besides, I don’t want you resorting to violence, Jones. I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

  “I know, and, look, I just meant this is crazy. There are other ways to deal with this.”

  “Oh, like you attacking him?”

  “No, Alex. Forget that,” he says, calming down a bit.

  “You mean I should have dealt with it on my own like you think the math dude in your dorm should?”

  “No! This is different, way different. That’s small-time. This is a crime. Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “Give me a break. This is not a police matter.”

  “He raped you!”

  “It was date rape, okay? I was drunk. I was passed out. It’s not like when someone rapes you in a dark alley with a knife to your throat.”

  “It’s still a crime. And you should treat it like a crime. Why didn’t you go to the cops?”

  “I didn’t want to. And you know as well as I do how these things turn out with the cops involved. It turns into a he said, she said, and they turn my life upside down.”

  “It’s going to be he said, she said with the Mockingbirds.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Fine, but what about your parents? Have you told them?”

  I laugh. “My parents? I’m not telling my parents. My mom is a drama queen. She’d totally freak. My dad would enlist a few key contacts and secretly hunt him down.”

  “Maybe they should hunt him down.”

  “They’d pull me out of Themis. They’d send me to school in New Haven and make me live at home. You think I want that?”

  “No.”

  “So that’s why.”

  “I know; it’s just this is so big. I think you should at least tell your parents.”

  I point a finger at him. “You don’t even tell your parents you play the electric guitar. I’m not telling mine I was date-raped at boarding school.”

  He holds up his hands. “Fair enough.” Then he adds, “So when is the hearing?”

  “It hasn’t been set yet. They’re supposed to notify him Monday he’s being charged. But I’m pretty sure he knows it’s coming.”

  “Well, you know I’ll do anything for you, okay? You know that, right?”

  I nod.

  “I mean it. Anything. If I can help in any way, I will.”

  “I know.”

  “You know I asked Amy out last year,” he offers.

  “You did? What’d she say?”

  “Well, I’m not dating her, am I?”

  “Why would she turn you down?”

  “She said I wasn’t her type.”

  “Her loss,” I say.

  “Anyway, should we practice?”

  I raise an eyebrow playfully. “You want to practice? I’m shocked.”

  We settle in and play Gershwin—the normal way, not hip-hop. I’ll take all the normal I can get right now.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  FOR THE LONGEST TIME

  Carter’s getting served tomorrow—Monday morning. I do my best to keep my mind in the present by working on my spring project. Alone in my room, I sift through the research I’ve compiled for my spring project—books and articles from musicologists, theorists, biographers, and others, some debating Beethoven’s genius, others questioning whether the Ninth Symphony breaches the rules of classic composition, but none that acknowledge the central problem I’ve unearthed. The lack of a piano.

  So it’s up to me and Liszt.

  Liszt, who adored Beethoven but didn’t simply imitate the master. Liszt reclaimed Beethoven, made the piano-less work his very own. He didn’t stand for things the way they were. He changed them. He stood up and made them better. I open a file to start the written portion of my spring project. As I write the first sentence, At some point an artist must break with the past, I feel a kinship with Liszt, knowing I am doing the same in my own way.

  I write for another thirty minutes when there’s a knock on my door. I get up and look through the keyhole. It’s Martin. I tell myself there’s no point in applying lip gloss this time, but I still run a brush through my hair before I let him in.

  “Hey,” he says. “I have dinner for you.”

  He hands me a napkin. I unwrap it and there’s a sandwich inside, hummus and cheese on three-seed bread. T.S. was supposed to bring dinner back.

  “Thanks.”

  “T.S. and Sandeep had a project to work on together,” he says, explaining why he is the delivery boy.

  “I didn’t know they were working on a project.”

  He gives me an insider look.

  “Oh,” I say, nodding and understanding. “I guess that means you’re out of a room for a couple hours.”

  “Yep,” he says, patting his backpack. “I’m off to the library. Want to come?”

  I remember last time, reading the book. I remember the time before, seeing Carter. I shake my head. “But do you want to study here instead?” I offer, gesturing to my room. I think back to when he visited a few weeks ago. I didn’t let him stay in my room then. But I’m like Liszt now, I’m reclaiming me. I’m standing up for something tomorrow, so I can do things differently tonight. “Is that allowed?” I add.

  “Allowed?” he asks curiously.

  “You know, allowed. Are you allowed to consort with me outside of the group?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because you’re a Mockingbird and I’m a…” I pause, looking for the right word for what I am—but all I can think is I am under their wing. Is there a word for that?

  “You think we have all these weird rules, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. Then I add, “Yeah,
I guess I do.”

  “Like you thought we were going to make you dry your clothes without washing them.”

  “Well, it’s not as if I know much about how you work.”

  “Casey never told you?”

  “She told me some stuff. Not details.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you the details, and the details are I’m allowed to study in your room, just like I was allowed to work with you in the common room. If it’s still okay with you?”

  “It is,” I say.

  “Good,” he says, then shrugs his shoulders happily. He comes in and sits down at T.S.’s desk. I return to mine and begin my sandwich.

  “What are you working on tonight?” he asks.

  I tell him about my spring project, then ask about his.

  “Barn owls,” he states.

  “Interesting. How’d you get that idea?”

  “I was driving this summer and I drove past this injured owl on the side of the road. I was about to call the Humane Society, but then he just died, so I took him home and I dissected him—”

  I cut him off. “You dissected him?” I ask incredulously. “What, on the kitchen counter?”

  “Uh, no,” he tosses back at me. “In the garage.”

  “That’s weird, Martin.”

  “What’s weird about it?”

  “You find a dead owl and take him home to slice him open. That’s weird!” I cross my arms and lean back in my desk chair.

  “He was already dead. It was a learning opportunity. It’s no different than you going off to play the piano all the time even at night. This is how I practice what I want to do.”

  “Okay, fine. So tell me what you found when you dissected your roadside discovery.”

  “His stomach was full of rodents. Mice, chipmunks, even a gopher!” Martin grows more animated; his eyes sparkle as he talks about the contents of the owl’s belly. I find myself both repulsed and curious.

  “How could you tell?”

  “I can just tell,” he says. “Same way you can tell which chord is a C minor if someone blindfolded you. Anyway, you know why the owl had so much food in its stomach?”