The Mockingbirds

by Whitney, Daisy

  I shake my head.

  “Because the common barn owl has an insanely high metabolic rate!” He says this as if he just discovered a lost city of Aztec gold or stumbled upon buried treasure. I picture Martin in his garage in upstate New York, an old rickety wood garage with a workbench full of tools and a dead owl. He grabs an X-Acto blade and delicately, but ever so precisely, slices open the owl. Dead mice spill out of the owl’s belly, and Martin’s brown eyes crackle with delight.

  “So I’m going to do my project on how the barn owl’s metabolism is the embodiment of survival of the fittest,” he says.

  “Who’s your junior advisor? Mr. Christie is mine,” I say, then stick my tongue out to indicate how I feel about that travesty.

  “Yeah, he’s mine too. So I know the horror.”

  Martin begins his patented impression, complete with the booming, baritone voice. “How many of you,” he begins, then pauses heavily, portentously, “can write a seventeen-point-five-word essay on where our global economy is headed over the next one hundred years?”

  I laugh.

  Martin continues, back to his own voice now. “I can’t figure out if the dude is lazy or just a freaking genius. Like he figured out it’s so much easier to grade these essays that are the size of a molecule. Or if there actually is something to the whole idea of being succinct and being able to sum something up in ten words or less, or whatever.”

  “My dad always says you have to have your elevator pitch down,” I say. “He’s a succinct man. He says little, but it’s always high impact, he says. He heads up fund-raising at Yale, so he’s used to having to do the elevator pitch to hook people. He says that too.”

  “You do think Mr. Christie is a genius, then,” Martin says, pointing his finger at me as if he’s caught me in the act.

  “Hey, you started it! You said he might be a genius,” I fire back.

  “And you agreed! I guess we’re even.”

  “Even,” I say, then take the last bite of the sandwich. “Thanks again for dinner.”

  “It’s not Amy’s homemade mac and cheese, but it’s the best I can do,” he says as he removes textbooks, mostly biology ones, from his backpack.

  “So, were you assigned to me tonight?” I ask, because clearly the Mockingbirds share details and duties. Martin knew about Amy’s visit, after all.

  “Assigned to you?”

  “By the Mockingbirds. Did Amy tell you to hang out with me or something because of tomorrow?”

  “Are you nervous about tomorrow?” he asks, not answering my question.

  “Should I be?” I ask, not answering his. “What will it be like?”

  “I’ll walk you to all your classes,” he says.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to.”

  “Were you assigned to me?” I ask again. Now I want the answers I don’t have, the things Amy won’t tell me, the things Casey never told me. I don’t have to be just the girl under their wing. I can speak up, like I’m doing tomorrow.

  “I want to know,” I say.

  “No,” he says, and shakes his head. “And I wasn’t assigned to you tonight either. T.S. was going to bring the sandwich back; she had it all wrapped up, and I said I would. I offered. Amy didn’t tell me to. Besides, it’s not like that.”

  “What’s it like?”

  He laughs softly. “You think we’re like a secret society or a fraternity. We’re not. What you see is what you get. And you’ll get me walking you to class.”

  I continue my line of questioning. “Do you guys assign people to all the cases you work on?”

  “Like a bodyguard?” he asks.

  “Sort of.”

  “I have my own reasons,” he says, then he opens a book and says, “It’s the least I can do.”

  I look at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

  He swallows hard, then looks back at me, the same look he’d give me in physics class sometimes, the same look he’d give me when he was about to say something but stopped. “I feel like it was my fault,” he blurts out.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What happened with Carter.”

  I look at him as if he’s crazy. “What are you talking about? Why would you say that?”

  Martin runs his fingers through his hair. His hair’s soft, I remember from that night. “Because I was talking to you at the concert and then when you came back from the bathroom you were talking to him.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m really sorry, Alex.”

  “It’s not your fault. Don’t be crazy.”

  “I feel terrible. I should have kept you away from him. I should have done something.”

  “How could you have known, Martin?” I say softly. “No one could have known what he was going to do. He seemed just like any other guy at the concert and at the party.”

  “I shouldn’t have talked to Cleo. I had no idea talking to her could turn into this.”

  “Martin, really. It’s not a big deal.”

  His eyes widen with shock. “Not a big deal? He assaulted you.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant it’s not a big deal you talked to Cleo.”

  “I didn’t even want to talk to her. I just talked to her because you walked away.”

  “I had to go to the bathroom,” I say.

  “It seemed as if you were looking for an excuse to get away.”

  “I had to pee! I told you that. And when I got back you were talking to Cleo. So I figured you were…” My voice trails off.

  “Figured what?” he asks softly. “Figured I liked her?”

  “Well, duh.”

  He shakes his head. “She’s a cool girl. But I just…,” he says, not finishing the thought.

  “So is this why you’re helping me? Because you think it was somehow your fault, which is totally ridiculous.”

  “No, that’s not why I’m helping.”

  “How long have you been involved with the Mockingbirds?” I ask.

  “Since start of sophomore year.”

  “A year and a half.”

  He nods.

  “You were a runner sophomore year,” I say.

  “I was.”

  “And the runners become Mockingbirds, right?”

  He nods.

  “So you just go from runner to board?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Is there a step in between?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well? What is the step in between?”

  He leans closer to me, like he’s about to tell a secret. “Well, you know the runners are the first level, almost like—”

  “Like a pledge!” I say, because I’m starting to get how they work. Before he can answer, I continue, “So you go from runner to council to board.”

  Martin lightly taps his nose with his index finger, then points at me. “You’re brilliant, Alex.”

  I jump up from my chair, the puzzle pieces fitting in. “So I bet it goes like this. You have to prove yourself as a runner. Maybe some lose interest and drop out. Those who remain interested try out for the New Nine—the students who form the council. And you have tryouts for the council each semester, so you’ll have a fresh batch of council members—judges—so they won’t get corrupted, right?”

  “You got it.”

  “And then who decides which council members become board members?”

  “The board does and the leader.”

  I nod a few times, feeling as if I just cracked a code or something. I’m on fire tonight. I am writing a kick-ass spring project, I am giving notice to the asshole who assaulted me, and I am deciphering the inner workings of the school’s very own underground judge, jury, and police.

  “But if you were a runner last year, when were you on the council?”

  “Last semester. The fall.”

  “You only did half a year? What, are you that good they just said, ‘Wow, we have to have Martin on the board right now’?” I tease.

  He laug
hs, then shakes his head. “Not exactly. One of the seniors on the board the first half went back to the grassroots side, so to speak.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask quizzically.

  “He’d been through the system—runner to council to board, and he said he kind of missed the on-the-ground feel of being a runner. So he’s a runner again.”

  “That’s kind of funny.”

  “Yeah, he’s going to be one of those community organizers, I bet. Sort of an of-the-people type of guy.”

  “So Mr. Grassroots steps down,” I say, continuing my detective work, “and you step up. It’s that simple?”

  “Well, there’s an interview process, a vetting process and all that.”

  “What do they ask you?”

  “I can’t tell you everything, Alex,” he says playfully. “But point being, I had served on the council and Amy felt I was ready to move up and be a full-on board member.”

  “So when you said you heard the case with the freshmen theater students last semester, you really heard it, as in you were on the council?”

  “Well, there are nine council members each semester, three get called for a trial, so there was a 33.33 percent chance of my hearing it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Okay, math geek. Were you in the 33.33 percent of the council that heard it?”

  “Remember, the case was settled.”

  “If you didn’t hear it, how do you know about it?”

  “It all gets passed on.”

  Like the mac-and-cheese visit. “What made you want to be a Mockingbird?” I ask.

  “My dad’s a judge, my mom a prosecutor. I guess you can say justice is in my blood. I’m an idealist too, just like them. I guess I just believe we can do good. We can be the good the school can’t be.”

  “You really believe that?”

  He nods enthusiastically. “Look, it’s not perfect. Nothing ever is. But I just think we have to exist, right? I mean, look at the teachers. They don’t lock their offices, they leave the music hall open. They live in la-la land, like the little private Gershwin performance you have to give at their meeting,” he says with a derisive snort. “Next thing you know they’ll ask me to dissect a barn owl at the Faculty Club next month and everyone will stand around and ooh and ahh.”

  “Yeah, pretty silly,” I say. “So would you ever be the leader, like Amy?”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t.”

  “You can’t? Why not?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Do you have to be a girl to be the leader?” I press.

  “No, it’s not like that.”

  “What’s it like, then?”

  “Can we talk about something else?” he asks.

  “Like your own reasons?” I ask, bringing the conversation back to where it was before.

  He smiles. “My reasons…”

  “You feel guilty. That’s why you’re here.”

  “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Because,” he begins, and then it’s silent. We’re silent. We don’t say anything. Our quietness fills up the room like a balloon expanding.

  I decide to pop it. I am take-charge Alex tonight. “Do you want to skip studying and watch TV?”

  He smiles, as if we just decided to do something terribly naughty. I grab my laptop from my desk and move over to my bed.

  “You can sit on my bed too,” I say. I pat my comforter with its purple, orange, and pink swirls and stripes and shapes. I sit with my back to the wall, knees up, feet on the bed. “Wait, is that allowed?” I ask, teasing him.

  “Let me check the rule book,” he says as he moves over to join me, the short way, like we’re two buddies on a makeshift couch.

  “Do you like Law and Order?” I ask.

  “My favorite,” Martin says, his long legs dangling off the bed. “And I’m pretty sure Law and Order is allowed,” he adds, then looks at me, hoping I’ll laugh. I do laugh, because I think he’s funny, because I mean it, because I want him here watching television with me on my make-believe couch.

  A half-hour later, some chick in a suit is discussing an arraignment, but I can barely follow what she’s saying. Not because I’m bad at legalese—I’m good, I’ve been watching this show since I was thirteen—but because I have this overwhelming urge to kiss Martin. I can smell him near me and he smells good, he smells like a shower, like clean soap. And his hair, I felt it against my shoulder when he leaned over to turn the volume up, and it’s making me crazy because I want to touch his hair so badly.

  I wonder where this desire came from, how long it’s been in me, how long it’s been dormant, waiting for me to remember it. To remember that this is what I wanted that night, and maybe what he wanted to, but he thought I wasn’t into him, so he talked to Cleo, and I thought he wasn’t into me, so I talked to… But I refuse to go there tonight. I am breaking with the past. I am reclaiming my present. Because what’s happening now is something I want very much.

  I want a kiss.

  The only thing going through my brain is a kiss—all the permutations of a kiss—whether Martin wants to kiss me, whether I can kiss him, whether he’s allowed to. I force myself to stare at the computer screen that rests on my legs, but I know my eyes keep darting his way. I’m trying to be cool, as if I’m just enjoying the show, but my mind is a pinball machine. The silver ball hits a bumper, a light goes off, the shiny orb swirls, another ball appears, then another, then flippers bang and crazy pinball sirens blare and suddenly the game is going into overdrive. Balls appear from nowhere, and everything is just so loud; the whole machine clangs in on itself.

  And finally, everything is silent.

  I hit the pause button on the computer screen and turn to him. “What are the other reasons?” I ask him again.

  A half-grin lights up his face; the green flecks in his eyes sparkle as he smiles. “Other ones?”

  “Yes,” I say, insisting this time. I got the Mockingbirds info out of him. I want this info too. “What are the other reasons you’re here?”

  He doesn’t say anything, just kind of holds my gaze with his eyes and my insides flip. I’m warm everywhere, my face, my chest, my hands, and he won’t stop looking at me. I don’t want him to stop looking at me.

  “Martin,” I whisper.

  “Yes?”

  “Are there rules against…?”

  “Yes,” he says immediately.

  “You don’t know what I was going to ask.”

  “I do know what you were going to ask, Alex.”

  “What was I going to ask?”

  “Are there rules against someone in the group being involved with someone we’re helping,” he says.

  I nod, slowly, my breath feeling heavier, filling up my whole chest, my whole body.

  “Yes, there are rules against it,” he repeats, and his breathing sounds heavy too.

  “But you’re only being nice to me because you feel you have to, right? Not for any other reason?”

  “For other reasons, Alex. For other reasons.”

  “What are the other reasons, Martin?” I ask, and I’m aware of how we’re saying each other’s names with every sentence, it seems. As if saying our names brings us closer, even closer than this little bed and the twelve or so inches separating us. He looks away, swallows, runs a hand through his hair. God, how I wish that was my hand touching his hair. How I wish I knew if he wants me to be touching his hair.

  He looks back to me. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  I shake my head.

  “It would be easier for me if you knew what I was talking about.”

  “Why would it be easier?”

  “When I told you I didn’t want to be talking to Cleo. I’d rather have been…”

  He waits for me to finish.

  “Talking to me?”

  He nods.

  “Why is it easier if I knew that?” I ask.

  “It would be easier for me if you started things,”
he says.

  “If I started things, would you tell the Mockingbirds?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Would you tell anyone?” I ask.

  He shakes his head again, then speaks. “Would you?”

  “Not if I wasn’t supposed to.”

  “It’s not that I wouldn’t want to tell everyone. I would. I would really want to. I really like you, Alex. I have for the longest time.”

  I’m speechless for a moment. The only thing I’m aware of is my body, how my face is tingling, how all I want is to be close to him, to this boy who has liked me for the longest time. I manage two words. “You have?” I ask.

  “Yes, but you had a boyfriend and I had a girlfriend and then finally we both were single at the same time,” he says, then stops. “I’m not supposed to be doing this.”

  “You mean being here just as you?”

  He nods. “So I kind of want you to go first.”

  I take the computer off my lap and put it next to me on the bed. “I want to kiss you right now,” I say, feeling something a bit like bliss about getting a say in the matter.

  He just smiles and reaches for me, putting a hand in my hair and pulling me close to his face. His lips are soft and sweet and they linger on mine and he takes his time and I take mine too and I touch his hair and it’s soft just like it felt on my face that night. The kiss could last for ten minutes, ten hours. I lose track of time because with every touch, every taste of his warm lips, his cool breath, I’m reprogramming kissing, making it mine again, the way it should be.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  THE UNTOUCHABLES

  “How do they do it, Casey?” I ask, clutching my phone tight to my ear, pacing back and forth in my room. “Do they just go right up to his room and knock on the door like some private detective?”

  “Pretty much,” she says.

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Yes, really. It’s pretty basic. Knock on the door. Hand him a summons.”

  My stomach twists in a gigantic knot. “Casey, this is the scariest and craziest thing I’ve ever done.”

  “You performed in front of hundreds of people. You played a Chopin solo at Yale when you were thirteen, remember?”

  “That was nothing. It was just a young musicians’ showcase. Everyone was thirteen.”