The Rivals

by Daisy Whitney

  His eyes sparkle. I look into them, deep brown, with these crazy green flecks twinkling, flashing. He pulls me closer, pressing his body against me to let me know he wants what I want. But he’s more than just a guy. He’s a good guy. “I’ll wait for you. However long it takes. You’re worth waiting for,” he says, twirling a strand of my brown hair around his finger.

  And with those words it’s like one more of the dark shadows peels off the wall and leaves the room.

  Another kiss, and there’s only Martin and me here for this one. Then I whisper, “We’d better go.”

  Chapter Three

  A LINK TO THE PAST

  We leave together for D-Day, and the quad is bustling. We pass the bulletin board in front of McGregor Hall. It’s stuffed with flyers for groups, clubs, and teams, including ones I posted this morning before the sun even rose. I posted them early because we’re not supposed to be in-your-face, all swagger and bravado. The Mockingbirds are here to help, but the less we’re seen doing our work, the better off we all are.

  Obviously.

  Running just as fast as you can, you’ll find your way to the New Nine. Can you hit the right notes for the Mockingbirds? Let’s hear your best song.…

  It’s a recruitment poster; we’re looking for new runners for the Mockingbirds. They’re our on-the-ground members, and they’re also the only ones who can move up to form our council, the New Nine. We pick the jury for student trials from the council, so we like to remind potential runners of the path up in the Mockingbirds.

  Of course, the question really should be this: can we hit the right notes for Ms. Merritt in her Faculty Club show? And if we don’t, will she see through us? And if she sees through us, then what? Will she just clap and cheer and keep looking the other way?

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” I say to Martin.

  “Or a self-fulfilling prophecy,” he quips.

  Then I hear someone behind me.

  “If it isn’t Alexandra Nicole Patrick. The girl who just couldn’t say no.”

  I grit my teeth, take a deep breath, and then turn around. It’s Natalie Moretti. She testified against me last year in the Mockingbirds courtroom, painted me as some animal in heat. She was kind of rubbing up against him, she told the council. Her eyes are every bit as cold as they were that day. Her brown hair is pulled tight at her neck, and she’s wearing a sleeveless shirt, showing every smooth, toned muscle in her arms. Natalie is the überathlete here. Lacrosse superstar in the fall, track goddess in the spring. I don’t think her lean muscles would even permit an ounce of fat to reside on her body. They’d attack any fat molecule that dared appear, eating it up and spitting it out like a victorious cannibal.

  “Hello, Natalie,” I say coolly, determined to be the picture of poise, even though I’m burning up inside because her name, her face, her voice dredge up the worst memories of the trial. She is the face of judgment and, worse, the judgment of another girl. She is more living, breathing proof that there are people who think I asked for it. She is the reminder that I wasn’t raped in an alley at gunpoint, that I was drunk, that I flirted with Carter, that I kissed him.

  Before I said no. Before he went too far.

  She is the face of all my shame.

  I bet she’s the one who tipped off Ms. Merritt.

  “How was your summer? Plenty of time to think about all the stories you told, or were you too busy entertaining more young men?”

  “You can shut the hell up, Natalie,” Martin says, staring hard at her as he clenches his fists.

  “Oh, so cute. Your boyfriend defends you,” she says to me in a sickly sweet voice. Then she turns to Martin. “If I were you, I’d be careful, though. She might turn around and prosecute you next.”

  It’s my turn to get a word in, so I say to her, “You don’t have a clue about us or me or anything, Natalie. And you never will.”

  “Are you allowed to talk to me that way, Alex? Isn’t that bullying? Should I file charges with the Mockingbirds?”

  I want to slug her. I picture a fat red welt appearing across her cheek courtesy of my fist. I’ve never hit anyone, and have no clue how to land a punch, but it’s a nice image. Somehow I rein in the overwhelming urge to practice a right hook for the first time. “Feel free,” I mutter.

  “Maybe I will, then,” Natalie says, leaning closer to me, her breath now inches from my face. “Maybe I’ll be your case this year, and I’ll accuse you. How would that feel, Alexandra Nicole Patrick? How would it feel for you to be the accused?” Then she lowers her voice, her mouth coming closer to me, and more words slither out in a low hiss. “You’re only leading the group because you couldn’t keep your legs closed.”

  My entire body coils, every muscle and nerve ending tightening and then snapping as I start to raise my right hand to slap her, to whack her across the face for real this time.

  But before I can even lift my hand, there’s another voice.

  “Who’s excited for D-Day!”

  I turn around and see McKenna Foster. I stuff my hand into my pocket. I brush my other hand against my shirt, like I’m wiping Natalie off, getting rid of the coat of filth she breathed onto me. Even though neither Martin nor McKenna could hear the last thing Natalie said, I can’t help but wonder if other students will blame me for what happened last year. If they’ll think I asked for it, if they’ll think I don’t deserve to lead the Mockingbirds.

  If they all believe in shared culpability.

  I wonder if McKenna knows why I’m a Mockingbird and if she has an opinion on it too. But for now I’m just glad she’s here, defusing Natalie. McKenna and I have had a few classes together, including government in our sophomore year, which she killed in. She’s a senior and on the student council, maybe VP or treasurer, I’m not sure. She has wild, curly black hair, and she’s always pulling it back, putting it up, wearing sunglasses on her head to keep her hair off her face. Today she’s twisted the crazy strands with a pencil, though a few errant ones have come loose. She’s standing next to a younger version of herself.

  “C’mon, guys! It’s not as if your parents are going to embarrass you by making a dumb speech,” she says, and rolls her eyes, cutting through the tension. Her parents are world-renowned research doctors—behavioral psychologists, I think—who get big bucks to travel and lecture around the world. McKenna’s mom is a Themis alum, and our D-Day is on their lecture circuit, though I’m pretty sure it’s the one pro bono stop.

  The girl next to her clears her throat.

  “Sorry,” McKenna adds, with a nod to her companion. “Alex, this is my sister, Jamie, but you’ll probably get to know her soon enough because she’s in the orchestra too. She plays flute,” McKenna says, and there’s a touch of pride in her voice.

  “I’m a freshman. I just started here,” Jamie says, and she has an eerie confidence for a fourteen-year-old. She looks like McKenna except her hair is straight, the follicular opposite.

  “And Alex here is the kick-ass leader of the Mockingbirds,” McKenna adds, and somehow I manage a combination of “thanks” and “hi” before McKenna keeps going. “C’mon, enough gabbing. We’ve got to go see Mommy and Daddy. Oh, and don’t forget to check out my awesome signs for student council,” she adds, this time to me, as she points a thumb at a poster positioned right next to my Mockingbirds one—on hers is a drawing of a gavel with a smiling cartoonish face on it.

  She heads off with her sister to the assembly hall. I notice that Natalie is right behind them. It crosses my mind that McKenna only introduced her sister to me, not to Natalie. Please don’t tell me McKenna would be friends with that evil witch. McKenna’s got to have better taste than that.

  Martin turns to me and sees my jaw set tight, my lips pressed together hard. “What did Natalie say when she whispered to you?”

  “I don’t want to repeat it,” I say quickly.

  “But I already heard the first thing she said.”

  “And the second thing she said was far worse. Which is why I don�
�t want to repeat it,” I say, but I wonder again if people see me as someone who stood up for herself, or if they picture me in Carter’s room, drunk, legs open, on his bed?

  Either way, I have become fused to the crime against me. That’s what happens when you take a stand, because then everyone knows what you were taking a stand for.

  Martin and I walk into the auditorium together, and I see McKenna slide into a seat near the front and say something to Jamie. Jamie glances quickly back at me. I look down at the hallway into the auditorium, feeling a pang of longing for the way my life was before my past became public.

  Chapter Four

  THE THEMIS WAY

  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 hand 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.