The Mockingbirds

by Whitney, Daisy

  “I want to. I don’t want to be here in this laundry room anymore. I want to be in your room.”

  He holds out a hand and we head to his dorm. I keep the notebook tucked tightly under my arm the whole way. I walk into his room and it’s the first time I’ve been alone in a boy’s room since that night. But this boy’s room I want to be in. So I close the door behind us. I place the notebook gently on a chair, knowing it’s safe for now. I pull him to the bed, wrap my arms around his neck, and place my hands on his back.

  Then I look at my hands on his back.

  And it’s different. It’s completely different.

  Because here with my hands on his back, there’s no pretending, there’s no getting through it, there’s no getting past it. My hands are supposed to be here. They look right; they look good, like Beethoven, Mozart, Gershwin kind of good. Come to think of it, Liszt and Schumann too.

  I close my eyes, but not before I catch one last glimpse of the mockingbird on my new notebook watching me.

  Author’s Note

  Though The Mockingbirds is entirely fictional, I feel close to Alex. Like her, I was date-raped when I was a teenager.

  It happened in the fall of 1990, just a few months into my freshman year at Brown University. Even now, I can still picture that night with a harsh kind of clarity. I can still remember how it felt to walk the long way to class and avoid the cafeteria at all costs so I wouldn’t run into him. My entire schedule was dictated by staying far away from one boy.

  I didn’t want to spend the next four years of college living in fear, so I decided to do something about it. I pressed charges through the University Disciplinary Committee.

  It wasn’t an easy choice or an easy road. In fact, my case was one of the first heard at Brown after a very contentious time when it seemed to many that the school had looked the other way. Back then, many universities were largely ignoring women who were date-raped. Most schools didn’t have systems in place to hear cases. Awareness programs didn’t even register on their radar screens.

  Naturally, many students at colleges all around the country were angry. Some women refused to stay silent. At Brown, women who had been date-raped started writing down the names of the perpetrators on a bathroom wall in the university library. But they didn’t stop there. They went to the administration and demanded that the university step up. The New York Times even wrote about their efforts. It’s amazing what a group of vocal students, the image of a long list of names of rapists on a bathroom wall, and a national newspaper article can do!

  Brown began changing its own processes and procedures for handling date-rape cases, and I was able to file charges in this newly revised system, which operated a lot like a traditional court. Both students called witnesses and presented their sides to the disciplinary council through an “advocate,” who acted as a lawyer. The system was similar to the one in The Mockingbirds except for one big difference: The administration knew of and supported the process. Cases were heard in one of the university buildings, rather than in a basement laundry room.

  My case was tried one winter evening, and I testified in front of the council and in front of the boy.

  The committee ruled in my favor, and he was suspended for a semester. I felt safe again.

  So did other women who went on to press charges. I know because I heard from them. One night during my junior year, I got a phone call from a girl who’d been through the same thing. We met in her room and sat on the carpet while she told me what happened the night she was date-raped—the chilling effect it had on her studies, and what was said during the trial itself. It was as if we could finish each other’s sentences.

  I decided to keep speaking up. I wrote about my experiences for the school newspaper, and I heard from even more women who’d been date-raped and from others who hadn’t but who were glad the school was finally listening and acting. Other universities took notice of what happened at Brown and also started changing their policies and systems for handling date rape. Things are different now, and schools are doing a better job of protecting women.

  Looking back nearly twenty years later, I know my experience speaking up and listening to others was critical to my own healing and, eventually, forgiveness.

  As you can probably tell, I’m a big believer in speaking up, but I am also keenly aware of how it can feel to believe you have no options—to have to resort to writing on the walls. The Mockingbirds is inspired by one of my favorite books, to kill a Mockingbird, and born of that feeling of powerlessness I once felt. What if no one can protect us? What if the school can’t help us? Can we help ourselves? Can we do the right thing?

  I’d like to think the answer is yes.

  Acknowledgments

  I am fortunate to have the support of so very many incredible people. First and foremost, none of this would be possible without the guidance, dedication, and insane business savvy of Andy McNicol at William Morris Endeavor. Andy, you are a fierce matchmaker. Also at WME, a big thanks to Caroline D’Onofrio, an early champion, and to Anais Borja, who got to place “the call.”

  I have a thoroughly amazing and brilliant editor at Little, Brown in Nancy Conescu, who fought for this story. Nancy, you wanted the best for these characters, and under your direction The Mockingbirds became a much better book. I adore your commitment to excellence. Many thanks to everyone at Little, Brown who has supported this book from the start, including Jennifer Hunt, Megan Tingley, Lauren Hodge, and Melanie Chang.

  I am deeply grateful for Amy Tipton, the first professional to see my potential, who is both a friend and a colleague.

  I have learned so much about writing from Danelle McCafferty, whose early coaching and editorial insight left an imprint. Danelle, I still hear your voice in my head when I write.

  My parents, Michael and Polly Whitney, instilled in me a love of learning, a persistent spirit, and the need to create. Thank you for teaching me to be relentless and expecting my best. My entire family has been endlessly supportive of my writing. Barbara, Kathy, and Jill, you buoyed me when I needed support and you read, read, read.

  Classical music plays a big part in The Mockingbirds. Mark Owen at classicalreview.co.uk, as well as Brian Reinhart, Crystal Manich, and Petronel Malan, answered my very rudimentary piano questions and also introduced me to Franz Liszt’s transcription of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Petronel especially made herself available as an ongoing resource on all matters of music, small and large. Any inaccuracies regarding music are solely mine. The website Beabondgrrl.com was useful for the Bond Girl scene.

  Josyan McGregor checked and corrected the French in this novel. Greg Baumann taught me not to be married to my words.

  When it comes to writing friends, I count myself lucky to have Suzanne Young, Amanda Morgan, Courtney Summers, Victoria Schwab, Bill Tancer, Gary Morgenstein, and my long-time friend Theresa Shaw in my camp. Amanda, you get a medal for reading pretty much every single draft of this book. Suz, you were my cheerleader. Courtney, there has never been a better line editor and brainstormer.

  There to weather the tough times and celebrate the successes were Michelle Hay, DeeDee Taft, Ilene Braff, Cammi Bell, Wadooah Wali, Jim Maiella, Kristin Morelli, Jennifer Mai, Jerilyn Bliss, Bob Christie, Kika Kane, David Bloom, Clint Stinchcomb, Len Ostroff, and Jill Ciambriello.

  Thanks to my friends at This Week in Media, Beet.TV, iMedia, Twitter, Facebook, and all the other places I hang out during my day job for letting me share this journey with you.

  To those who stood by me when I stood up at age eighteen—Geoff, Gigi, Jamin, Shari, Josh, Elaine—I remain grateful.

  My dogs have been my daily companions, logging countless hours by my side while I wrote. Lucy and Violet—best dogs ever!

  My children deserve so many more thanks than I will ever be able to give, for letting me slip away to my stories and for wanting this just as much as I did. I love you both so much and am glad you take karate and gymnastics, so I can “sneak write” while you run, kick,
and flip.

  Most of all, I thank my husband, Jeff. You never once stopped believing, and I hope you know how very much that means to me. And if you don’t, just check the dedication. (I couldn’t help myself—the dog insisted on playing a role in it!)

  Finally, this book would not be possible without its inspiration, Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. She said it best—it’s about a code of honor and conduct.

  have a new case—and some new rules….

  Turn the page for a first look at The Rivals,

  Daisy Whitney’s shocking and bold

  sequel to The Mockingbirds.

  An hour later, D-Day is in full swing. Technically, the school calls it Diversity Day, but we’ve coined our own special nickname. It’s like a pep rally, only the energy is radiating from the teachers, the administrators, the headmistress, and the dean herself. All the adults are hooting, hollering, whooping it up from their seats on the stage. Ms. Merritt is leading the show, and she has been trotting out each and every teacher to wax on and on about each of their subjects and how history, philosophy, French, calculus, and so on can all lead to the betterment not just of our nimble minds but, by golly, society as a whole!

  My roommate Maia’s sitting on one side of me, wisely using the time to read her favorite news blogs on her phone—gotta stay current on politics, government, and all that jazz for Debate Club. Her focus is the stuff of legend. She hasn’t once looked away from the stories she’s reading, or sighed, or whispered a comment to one of us. She is machinelike as she digests information, storing it up so she can call upon it at any moment.

  Martin and Sandeep are on the other side of Maia, and from the looks of it they’re using Sandeep’s phone to make fantasy football trades. If Martin can segue from Natalie’s insults to pretend sports team ownership, I should perk up too. Besides, if I don’t want others to linger on my past, I shouldn’t either. I should put on my best game face. So I tap T.S., my other roommate, on the shoulder and roll my eyes when she looks my way. She rolls her green eyes back at me, and we proceed to keep ourselves occupied with eye rolls and fake gags for the next few minutes as Mr. Bandoro, the school’s Spanish teacher, effuses about the Spanish language, promising fluency for all students who apply themselves fully to his curriculum and declaring that said fluency will make us better global citizens.

  I hold up my hand at T.S., lifting four fingers. “Fourth time I’ve heard this,” I whisper. “And I’m still not a good global citizen.”

  “Oh no? I hereby sentence you to four readings of the school handbook and a recitation of it on the quad in front of the entire student body this evening. Backward. And while wearing sunglasses.”

  “Is there even a school handbook to read from?” I ask.

  “Collecting dust somewhere,” T.S. whispers, her bob-length blond hair swinging against her cheek as she leans in.

  “Being sold at a garage sale,” I say.

  “Used as a coaster in the Faculty Club,” she says.

  “Being peddled as an artifact at a boarding-school exhibit in some museum.”

  “You totally win,” she says, giving me a high five.

  The voice of the headmistress, Ms. Vartan, echoes through the auditorium. She informs us that she will spend most of the semester visiting prep schools around the world as she gathers best practices to implement here at Themis. “But before I go, let us take the honor pledge, as we do at the start of every year. The honor pledge is the foundation of our academic excellence. We must always keep honor above all else, and your pledge on all tests, examinations, papers, academic activities, competitions, and assignments is that you have neither given nor received any assistance in completing the work. And now…,” she says, holding up her right hand as if she’s testifying in court.

  We recite the pledge along with her. “I will not lie. I will not cheat. I will not tolerate any dishonorable behavior on behalf of myself or others.”

  Ms. Vartan nods and then gestures to Ms. Merritt. “Our beloved dean will be acting in my stead while I am on my journeys. And she has some very exciting news, so I will pass the baton to our very own Ms. Merritt.”

  Ms. Merritt thanks the headmistress and then says, “Some of you may know this is potentially a very special year for Themis, and I personally am so thrilled that the amply decorated debate team is in line to compete for a very prestigious honor with the Elite.” That statement catches Maia’s attention; she pops her head up from her phone and taps me on the shoulder.

  “The Elite,” she whispers to me, and then grins. The Elite is a very specialized tournament for debaters that occurs the last week in October, just in time to be reflected in early-admissions apps, which are due in early November. But here’s the catch—invitations are harder to come by than Ivy League admission. You have to be handpicked by a supersecret selection committee composed of former Elite winners, Nationals winners, and other past debate stars. Maia’s been praying for an invite since her freshman year. She finally landed one for this year’s tournament after taking the Themis team to Nationals, where they placed third, in our junior year. That alone constituted an invite to the Elite.

  “Well, you know, you have to live down the shame of that third-place victory at Nationals,” I tease.

  “I so know,” she whispers. “I will do whatever it takes to win the Elite.”

  “You totally will win,” I say.

  Then I tune back in to Ms. Merritt, who’s rattling off the rest of her hopes and dreams for this year. “I also have it on good authority that we are one of the contenders to receive the J. Sullivan James National Prep School of the Year Award.”

  There’s an orchestrated hush throughout the auditorium, as if it were written into the stage directions. I scan the teachers’ faces, wondering if they too are salivating for this award, and most of them are enrapt, their eyes glossy with desire. But there’s one teacher up there who’s not quite buying it, although it takes a practiced eye to tell. I can tell that Miss Damata, my music teacher, doesn’t have J. Sullivan James’s picture taped to her locker. She sits gracefully, with her hands in her lap, but she looks out at the students in the auditorium rather than at Ms. Merritt at the podium.

  Ms. Merritt continues. “It’s exciting, I know! It’s been ten years since Themis received such an honor, and I don’t think I need to remind anyone here that the J. Sullivan James Award is indeed the highest honor a prep school can achieve, because it’s voted on solely by our peers in the world of preparatory-school education,” she says, and I do a quick mental calculation. Ms. Merritt started as dean exactly nine years ago, so this would be the first time in her tenure that the school is in contention for whatever this silly award is. I wonder if a win would catapult her to the headmistress level here or elsewhere, and if she’s gunning for it to get a promotion. Maybe she’s even planning a coup while Ms. Vartan is touring the world of academia. “And I have no doubt that your tremendous academic achievements, extracurricular activities, and, of course, rigorous code of excellence in all matters related to character and community will help us bring it home.”

  Right home to her office, where she’s prepped and polished the shelf space for this trophy.

  “The award is also determined by excellence in the arts. So let us not forget that we must aim for the highest stars when we dance, when we sing, when we play piano. Which is, of course, what you wonderful students do already!”

  She claps heartily, turning to the faculty to urge them to join her, and they do. Then she gestures to the students, and we clap as well. I make a mental note that the instrument she singled out was the piano. Somehow, this feels like another message: Please get into Juilliard, Alex. You’re my only hope.

  “On to other matters,” Ms. Merritt says, this time with a sober look on her face. Which means it must be time for Bring-on-the-Experts. “There are, of course, aspects to Themis Academy beyond the intellectual rigors, challenges, and opportunities an education here affords, and they include character. Hand in h
and with the honor pledge is character, one of the key pillars of a Themis education. We have an exceptional student body, and our students are exceptional not just in their intellect but in their character. Because they know how to behave…”

  T.S. leans close to me, imitates Ms. Merritt’s pregnant pause, and then says on cue with our dean, “… the Themis way.”

  Ms. Merritt goes into her introduction of Dr. and Dr. Foster, McKenna and Jamie’s parents, who bound up to the stage from the first row. They’re here to talk about hate speech, bullying, cheating, respect, individualism, and other assorted blah-blah-blah. Look, it’s not that I don’t believe it’s important to talk about those things. I do. But Themis faculty are like the parents who say to their daughter, Now, be careful not to get an eating disorder, and then don’t notice when she heads to the bathroom and yaks up every meal.

  In my Mockingbirds notebook, I have documentation of every time the faculty looked the other way. Because there’s a common thread with all our prior cases—nearly every time, a student had tried talking to a faculty member before coming to us.

  “Peer pressure is intense,” Dr. Foster says, and he sounds like Tony Robbins. “It is scary and dangerous, and we are here today to help you with strategies for dealing with it.”

  The other Dr. Foster chimes in. “We have to encourage an environment of trust and honesty and mutual respect, where students can say no to drugs, stand up to bullies, and speak their minds without putting others down.”

  Then Ms. Merritt weighs in. “You know I have an open-door policy, and you can always come to me to talk about anything.”

  Right. The only door that gets knocked on is the Mockingbirds’.

  Then I sit up straight in my chair, realizing I forgot to add my name and contact info to the Mockingbirds mailbox so students would know how to reach me.