The Mockingbirds

by Whitney, Daisy

  “You’re not a pity project, Alex. I wish you’d get that.”

  “I know. But I just want to know that this is just for this, not for any other reason. You know you can’t change what happened.”

  “I’m not trying to change the past. The future, maybe. Like tomorrow night. Maybe we could hang out then too?”

  I nod, but as we order ice cream a part of me worries we’re both fooling ourselves in thinking this is real—being with me eases his guilt, being with him helps me heal. But for now, I’ll have an ice-cream cone with my secret boyfriend. Who knows how long these secret boyfriends can last, anyway….

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ANY GIRL

  I get raised eyebrows from both T.S. and Maia when I return two hours later.

  “Late night at the music hall?” Maia asks, her brown eyes like a ray gun surveying the telltale sign of my true evening activities on the way home from the Brain Freeze—messed-up hair, extra-red lips, shirt freshly tucked in.

  “Yes,” I say, and change into my pajamas.

  “And you got all your practicing done for your performance?” T.S. throws in, and I wonder if she’s getting ready to cross-examine me too.

  “Yes,” I mutter, and then head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I open the toothpaste, I remember the cap that rolled onto the floor that morning in Carter’s room, and I’m suddenly somewhere else.

  “Uh.”

  There’s a noise, a sound, like a cross between a bark and a whisper, like an “oomph.” It’s like someone just sat on my chest. It’s dark and my mouth tastes like a sock, feels like wool. And there’s Carter. On me. Over me. In me. He’s pushing in me and I can feel him. I can feel his penis in me, even though I’m barely aware, half-asleep, half-awake, half-dreaming, half-dead. But I can feel him and he’s breathing. He’s breathing kind of heavy, hitting some sort of rhythm.

  I realize the noise came from me. The “uh” came from me, from the feel of someone’s weight on me, someone’s body on me. And it’s as if I just came to or something, the “uh” marking the line between sleep and awake, there and here. Now I’m here, still in his bed, still naked, still under him. Only now he’s pressing into me and he’s going faster and faster and I want to do something, say something, but all I feel is slower and slower and slower and all I can do is breathe, breathe, breathe….

  I stand there, the toothpaste tube in one hand, the toothbrush in the other and the memory of my second time no longer dormant but vivid, alive and awful. I brush my teeth furiously as if I could erase the memory.

  But I can’t. It’s here now, it’s part of me.

  I don’t leave my dorm the rest of the weekend. I don’t see Martin, I don’t call him, I don’t text him. Who was I kidding? I’m not the girl who sneaks off campus with her secret boyfriend. I’m the girl who got date-raped.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Miss Damata says after I practice the Ninth Symphony one more time for her during my free period Monday morning. “One of my colleagues at Juilliard will be visiting with my family and me next weekend. The weekend of your performance. And he is an admissions officer at the university.”

  “Does he,” I start, practically tingling with the possibility I think she is dangling before me, “want to come see my performance?”

  She nods, a smile unfolding into a full-blown grin across her face.

  I jump up and down, “This is amazing; this is too good to be true. Are you totally serious? You’re not joking?”

  “I think you know me well enough by now to know I’m not much of a joker.”

  “This would be…” I trail off, because the sheer and utter coolness of having scored a real, live Juilliard admissions officer at my performance is too awesome for words.

  She adds, “You know this won’t count toward your application next year. I just figured it couldn’t hurt.”

  “It definitely can’t hurt,” I say, feeling like a bottle of Coca-Cola about to burst fun, frothy, fizzy bubbles everywhere. “I am so happy.”

  I lean in and give her a hug, she hugs back, then I leave for French, ducking into the classroom early, ten minutes before the bell. I’m the first student there, so I take my seat in the back. Ms. Dumas is writing on the board. “Bonjour, Alex.”

  “Bonjour, Madame Dumas.”

  I take out my French book as Martin walks by, tapping my desk as he does. I look away. I should feel guilty for not calling him, not seeing him on Saturday like I said I would. But I’m sick of feeling, sick of shoulds.

  A few minutes later, Ms. Dumas asks us to hand in our essays chronicling our school day using the on fait construction. Then she tells us we will use ça fait for the remainder of the class.

  When class ends I jam papers and books into my backpack. I can feel Martin near me, behind me, maybe waiting by the door. I zip my bag shut and stand up.

  “Hey, you,” he says.

  “Hi,” I say halfheartedly.

  “You holding up okay? I know the trial’s in less than a week.”

  “I don’t want to talk about the trial,” I say coldly.

  Martin tenses, then starts to ask something else. But there’s nothing I want to say about me or the trial or the Mockingbirds. So I deflect with a question. “What’d you do this weekend?”

  “Wrote half of my paper on barn owls, watched hockey. My Buffalo Sabres lost. I know that breaks your heart too. So I took an epic three-hour afternoon nap, you know the kind where you’re dead to the world?”

  “God, I could use one right now.”

  “So ditch.”

  “Ditch and nap?”

  “Ditch and nap. What’s better than that?”

  “Who would have thought you had such a lawless side to you,” I say.

  “Sometimes I like to break the rules,” he says.

  Then we lapse into silence, walk a few more feet to nowhere.

  “So, I was hoping to see you Saturday like we talked about, but maybe you didn’t want to,” he says quietly.

  I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want to do anything. Then I look at him, his brown eyes, the green flecks muted right now. And I see the slightest bit of hurt in them. Because he wanted to see me; he hoped to see me. He is feeling, feeling for me. He’s not just Martin the Mockingbird, Martin the science geek, Martin the most excellent kisser. He’s Martin, just a boy who likes a girl.

  A girl the Juilliard admissions officer wants to see perform. A piano girl.

  So I do something I’m not supposed to do. I reach for his hand and pull him into an empty classroom. I put my palms on his face, then push my fingers back through his hair, soft and feathery on my hands. I press my lips against his mouth, sweet and salty, warm and hungry for me. I take a few steps backward, holding on to him the whole time, until my back meets the blackboard, far out of view of other students, of any teachers. I lean against the blackboard and kiss him harder, draw his body closer to mine, his jeans against mine, his belt loops against mine. He’s mine and I want him and I’m not letting him go. I pull him tighter and he responds, pushing up against me, his body pressed against mine, so there’s no space between us and I can’t stop kissing him and he can’t stop kissing me and we’re pressed together skintight and snug and I can’t stand it—really, I can’t stand it—how much I want him in every way right now.

  Because I’m not that girl anymore. I’m just any girl now kissing her guy how she wants, where she wants, when she wants.

  I am ready.

  Chapter Thirty

  A LOT OF LAUNDRY

  I look at myself in the mirror and pull at my skirt. “This looks stupid,” I say to Maia.

  I’m wearing a cream-colored blouse and a long blue skirt. It’s hideous. Maia selected it.

  “It says class,” Maia says.

  “It says no taste,” I say, picking at the dark blue cotton. “I mean, look at me, Maia!”

  I stand in the middle of the room, planting myself in front of her, f
orcing her to eye my grotesque getup.

  “It looks tasteful,” Maia says.

  “Tasteful?” I scoff.

  “Alex,” Maia snaps, “this isn’t a bloody fashion show. Everyone has invested in this.”

  “Like I’m just a pet project,” I say, finally revealing the tiny bit of doubt I’ve had about her.

  Maia shakes her head. “You know that’s not true.”

  “Seems that way,” I say, knowing that I’m being a tad ungrateful.

  Maia purses her lips, lets out an exhale, and pauses. “Alex, I know this is hard on you and I’m sorry. You’re the one who went through this, not me. I’m sorry for jumping on you.”

  “I just think this outfit is stupid. I would never wear this. It’s like you’re trying to dress me up as some sort of virginal girl who would never even spread her legs for a guy. That’s how this outfit feels. As if it’s part of the show.”

  “Then change,” Maia says softly. “I want you to be comfortable. I want you to be yourself.” Then, even softer. “I’m doing this for you, Alex. Not for any other reason.”

  “I know,” I say calmly, and my doubt leaves. I take off the skirt, toss it onto T.S.’s bed. “And I’m glad you’re the one doing this.”

  I grab a pair of black slacks from my closet. I pull them on, model them. Maia smiles widely. She opens the door. “Ready?”

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  We leave, laundry-less this time. I guess we’ve graduated or something. But when we reach the basement it’s clear someone brought laundry. Someone brought a lot of laundry. The machines rattle from all the way down the hallway, making background music. Martin and Ilana are stationed like sentries outside the laundry room doors. We walk past them and once we’re inside, the doors close, as if by magic, but I’m sure Martin and Ilana pulled them shut. The dryers are running at full blast, the washers too. Loads and loads of sheets and towels fly around in them.

  The couch and chair have been pushed aside and in their place are two long brown tables, one parked against the back wall, the other about ten feet in front. Next to the far table is a single chair, positioned at an angle.

  Seated at the back table are the three students who form the council for this case. They’re all dressed in button-down shirts and classic sweaters. Amy introduces them, and some I know, like Callie Regis from biology last year, and Parker Hume, whose dad is a senator. Then there’s Lila Wong, a sophomore who’s on the student council too, Amy says. That means she started early, a runner her freshman year. They each nod as they’re introduced and smile quickly. Their smiles fade equally quickly. They look like judges. They are judges. They will judge me; they will judge Carter.

  Amy motions for us to sit down, so I do at the far end of the unoccupied table. Maia sits next to me. There are three more empty chairs. Maia and I wait a few wordless minutes; only the noise of the washers and the dryers breaks the silence. Then Amy announces, “The defendant is entering now.”

  My heart catches in my chest. I decide to pretend this is just another performance, just another recital, a concert, like the one I’ll give tonight, and Carter is just an audience member, just an average Joe here to see me perform. The ruse calms my skipping heart as Carter sits at the end of my table, the farthest seat away from me. Kevin Ward sits next to him. Kevin’s his student advocate. The middle chair remains empty, a buffer between the sides.

  Amy looks to the door, confirming it’s shut. Martin and Ilana remain on the other side to stand guard for the rest of the morning. Amy introduces the council members to Carter this time. They do the same thing they did with me—nod, smile, stop smiling.

  “Hello,” Carter says.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Kevin says with a slight bow.

  Amy reaches for her notebook and clears her throat. “The function of the council is to listen to the evidence presented in the case against Carter Hutchinson for alleged violation of the students’ code of conduct as it relates to sexual assault of another student. The council will listen to the evidence and determine the verdict. The punishment if Carter Hutchinson is found guilty will be voluntary withdrawal from the water polo team. He’s signed the papers agreeing to these terms. If he’s found not guilty, we will remove his name from the book and invite him to serve on the Mockingbirds.”

  Then Amy looks to Callie. “Callie Regis, I turn the proceedings over to you,” she says, and moves toward the door, where she stands.

  Callie peers through her thick black glasses and reads the charges; her longish blond hair falls against her face as she starts reading, so she tucks it behind her ears. “Alexandra Nicole Patrick charges Carter Drake Hutchinson with sexual assault,” she says, then reads from the recently revised code of conduct.

  Sexual assault is against the standards to which Themis students hold themselves. Sexual assault is sexual contact (not just intercourse) where one of the parties has not given or cannot give active verbal consent, i.e., uttered a clear “yes” to the action. If a person does not say “no,” that does not mean he or she said “yes.” Silence does not equal consent. Silence could mean fear, confusion, inebriation. The only thing that means yes is yes. A lack of yes is a no.

  She looks to Carter and Kevin, then Maia and me, and explains. “As I’m sure you are aware, what we will do here today is hear your case. You each will tell us what happened, in your own words. You each can call witnesses. After each side is done presenting, we will deliberate and issue a verdict. The plaintiff may begin opening arguments.”

  Maia stands up and take a few steps closer to the council. “This is a simple case,” she begins. She wears khaki pants, navy flats, and a navy blue sweater set. Her sleek black hair is clipped back in a brown tortoiseshell comb. “We intend to show that Carter Hutchinson had sex with Alexandra Patrick twice while she was sleeping. She had been drinking, and based on the number of drinks consumed—as witnessed by fellow Themis students—her blood alcohol content was point zero eight. Above the legal limit, as a matter of fact. The sex was not consensual. Alex was sleeping and therefore was not able to give consent. Just as there is no gray area in the revised code of conduct, there was no gray area in the events that transpired. A lack of a yes is a no, plain and simple. Thank you for your time.”

  Maia sits down and Kevin stands.

  “I will agree with one thing my good friend Maia said—this is a simple case. This is a very simple case indeed,” Kevin says in his slight New Hampshire accent. “And here’s what’s so simple about it,” he adds, holding his arms wide open, his palms out, as if he’s some genial Southern lawyer on a TV show. “Alex and Carter had sex. It’s that simple. That’s what high school students do, right?” He lets out a knowing laugh; I think he even winks at the council. “They were a couple of teenagers having a good time, having good old-fashioned consensual sex. And Alex is a girl who’s been known to engage in consensual sexual conduct with the opposite sex, as we will learn here this morning.”

  Daniel. He’s going to bring up Daniel. I dig my nails deep into my palms because Daniel has nothing to do with Carter. The two of them could not have less in common. I learned that way back at the lost-and-found bin the morning after. I stare hard at the brown brick wall in front of me, pretending it’s a landscape painting of some serene mountain brook. Maia squeezes my wrist hard and I say nothing, do nothing, just like that night.

  Sandeep is the first witness. He sits down on the lone chair, the one angled out near the council table. He’s here to testify about how much I drank, to establish my state of mind. He talks about Circle of Death, about how many red cups of vodka and orange juice I consumed, how I stumbled when I walked, how I left with Carter.

  I sound disgusting. I sound like a disgusting, dirty whore. I look at my hands most of the time while he talks.

  Kevin asks him questions, tries to rattle him, but Sandeep holds his ground.

  Next is Julie. She corroborates Sandeep’s testimony, backs up what he’s said. I make a mental note to follow
through next time she asks me to help on a project.

  Then she’s dismissed. Amy announces Dana as the next witness. I turn around and watch as Amy opens the door for her. Dana walks in wearing jeans and a crisp button-down shirt. Her short hair looks freshly blow-dried. She walks toward us, all broad shoulders and wide hips and big muscles evident under her clothes. She’s a big girl, but not fat. Just strong and sturdy and powerful. She parks herself in the chair Julie just occupied and Sandeep before her. Maia stands, smoothes an unseen wrinkle on her pant leg, and asks Dana how she knows Carter.

  “I’m on the girls’ water polo team. Sometimes we play scrimmages against the boys’ team. And, you know, we just all know each other.”

  “And did you have a specific relationship with Carter beyond that last year?” Maia asks.

  Dana nods. “We went on a couple dates. We went to pizza on Harris Street one night and then we went to a swim meet together another time.”

  “And was there anything unusual about those dates?”

  “Besides the fact he’s a total pig?”

  Kevin bolts up from his seat. “Objection. Character defamation.”

  Maia interjects. “This is about character. This is about his character.”

  It’s Callie’s turn and she looks at Maia. “Perhaps you could ask the question another way.”

  “Can you tell us what happened on those dates besides the pizza and the swimming?” Maia asks.

  “Sure,” Dana says. “We had pizza together one night after practice. We went down to Ambrosia Pizza on Harris Street and he kept putting his hands on my legs while we were eating.”

  “What did you do when he did that?”

  She shrugs. “I kind of just brushed him off. So we left and walked back to school and he walked me to my dorm and asked to come in. I said no. Then he leaned in to kiss me and I gave him a quick kiss on the lips and then he tried to push his tongue in my mouth. I shook my head and pulled away. I said, ‘Not yet.’ ”