“So what’s the latest on your big case?” Amy asks.
I give her the details. When I finish I say, “It’s like there are all these little pieces—Delaney says Theo’s part of it; Beat says Theo’s not. Beat says half the Debate Club is using to win; Maia says no one is.”
“Yeah, I feel for you,” she says. “Most of the cases I dealt with were much more black-and-white.”
“Right! That’s my point,” I say, and even though she’s not telling me what to do, at least she’s agreeing with me.
I look at the two hands on the heart and feel for a second like mine is being pulled too. On the one hand are my friends. On the other are the people I am helping.
“I don’t know, Amy. Maybe it’s not a big deal. But I just think being the head of the Mockingbirds puts you in this weird position where you’re not just this normal person or friend anymore. T.S. and I had this silly fight yesterday over whether she could see a tip that came into the mailbox. And then I felt like I was questioning Maia back there. And then she was questioning me. She asked a few times why I was protecting all these unnamed sources. Did you ever feel this way?”
“Of course,” she says.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, take just now. With Jess. We were together last year too, but I didn’t say a word about you until you filed charges. I couldn’t. But she knew I was super involved in a case—meeting with you, meeting with the board, the vote we took to revise the code of conduct to include date rape. She’d ask what I was working on, but I couldn’t tell her. Because it was my job to protect you,” Amy says.
“You put me ahead of your girlfriend?” I ask, feeling like Amy just rubbed her hand over the blurry mirror and now I’m seeing things I wasn’t able to see before. Like how she took care of me. Like how taking care of me stretched her. “But people knew it was me. They knew I was pressing charges.”
“Some did. But it was never publicly posted anywhere. We didn’t hang a banner and say Alex is talking to us. So I couldn’t say anything to Jess. It’s the same here. No one has pressed charges yet. No one has asked you to serve notice. So you can’t reveal names.”
“And Jess understood?”
“She didn’t like it. But she knew it was the way it is.”
Then I blurt out, “Carter has a girlfriend.”
Amy raises her eyebrows. “Really?”
“Well, I don’t know if they’re boyfriend-girlfriend, but they were kissing on the quad.”
“I guess she hasn’t learned the truth yet.”
“Which makes me think—do we really do any good? I mean, the point was to take a stand and be the one to say no means no and you can’t get away with it and look what happened. Here he is hooking up with some freshman, probably.”
“Was that the point?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Was the point of your case to stop him from dating or for you to get yourself back?”
Did I press charges to punish him or to retrieve me? I’d like to think the latter. I’m not afraid anymore, like I was. But I am defined by it.
“But how do you even get yourself back? I feel that me is gone. Who I was is gone,” I say, and my throat catches as I finally—finally—say out loud that a ghost is haunting me and that ghost is me. Tears prick my eyes, so I cover my face with my hands. I hate crying in front of anyone. I blink, trying to hold the tears in. It works, so I take my hands away and continue. “I mean, how can you be so calm and normal and wise about everything? I’m not even remotely close to being over what happened. Are you?”
“Well, I don’t have to see the girl who did it every day, and that helps. But you’re right. I’m not the same as I was.”
“How? How are you different?”
“I’m better,” she says, and smiles, straightens up her back. “I’m stronger. Tougher.”
Like a broken bone that’s stronger when it heals. That’s what I can be.
“Besides,” Amy says, “I think life is about how you respond to the crap that happens. I was just your average girl before. I did my own thing, had my friends, and beat anyone who took me on in Rock Band. Then Ellery did this,” Amy says, tapping her back with her hand, narrowing her eyes, the latent anger that will always be there stirring. “And I was different. I couldn’t go back. There was no going back. So I learned who I could be. I learned I could be someone who could stand up to bullies. And then I could be someone who’d stand up to anyone, for anyone. I’m not afraid of anything now, Alex. What can anyone do to me now? I’ve already had someone slice my back open with a knife. What more can they do to me?” she says, holding her arms open wide as if to say bring it on. “The same goes for you, Alex. You’re not the same. You’re not supposed to be the same. You’re supposed to be different. This isn’t something you will ever forget. Twenty years from now, you’ll still remember what it felt like to be exposed. And you’ll remember too what it felt like to take a stand. You’ll probably remember that more.”
I know she’s right. I know it not just because the tears are now rolling down my face, but because she’s the only other person here who can remotely understand how I feel.
I wipe my tears and glance up at Amy’s wall, scanning her heart drawings, seeing one I didn’t notice before. A rudimentary sketch of a girl wearing a triangle-shaped dress, her legs nearly buckling under the weight of this gigantic heart she’s carrying that’s ten times her size. She’s about to toss the heart to another girl, and the caption reads Take it.
I look back at Amy, who’s carried the burdens for others, who’s carried their hearts when they needed her to, who carried me when I needed her last year. Back then I was the girl no one knew. I still want to be the girl no one knows.
But there is no going back. I am not the same, and I never will be. I have to let go of what other people think of me. I have to stop worrying about whether they see me as the girl who was raped. I am the girl who was raped.
And I can take my past and declare it mine. I can make it my own.
It no longer has to be my shame. It no longer has to be the thing I have to live down.
So what if the whole school knows my history? I can make a choice to be stronger for it, tougher for it, better for it. I can choose to be on the other side, to be someone who takes a stand not just for herself but for others.
“As they say, there’s no turning back.”
“No, there’s not,” Amy says, and her smile is as wide as the sea. And now I’m smiling too, and I’m still kind of crying, and I still kind of hate it because I definitely still hate crying. But I’m not crying because I’m sad; I’m crying because I’m letting go of who I was. I’m stepping into my new self.
I stand up and reach for Amy’s black plastic guitar. “One song. We play for bragging rights.”
“No fair! You’re a musician.”
“All’s fair in love and music,” I say, and turn on her Rock Band, where I proceed to demolish her in Nirvana, Radiohead, the Who, and more because she can’t stop asking for just one more song, just one more song.
Maybe it’s from all my piano training, or maybe it’s just because I’m feeling pretty kick-ass right now.
Chapter Eleven
WILD WEST
After I make Amy beg for mercy, she gives me a suggestion for the case.
“You need the runners to step up their game. Here’s what I would do: I would ask a couple of the runners to help out with the investigation. The three of you on the board won’t be enough.” Amy gives me a wink. “I know who you want to ask.”
“Anjali,” I say with a smile, because Anjali is one of thirteen runners this year. Council members who aren’t selected for the board can choose to stay on as runners. They have to repeat some of the more menial runner tasks like attendance mistakes, but these “tier-two runners”—like Anjali—have more seniority; they manage many of the on-the-ground assignments, and they often assist the board with investigations.
I stop b
y Anjali’s room on the first floor. I ask her to help. She says yes immediately.
“I loved being on the council last year, and I so wanted to help out more,” she says.
“I’m really psyched too, because I wanted to work with you in the first place and now we can,” I say.
“Totally up for anything,” she says, and gives me a crisp salute, then tucks her wispy blond hair behind her ears. She’s taller than me by a few inches, maybe five nine, five ten. She stands barefoot and is wearing a short purple skirt with a red tank top and a blue tank top layered over each other. Today’s scarf: thin and emerald green with silver streaks. I love how she wears scarves every day, even when it’s hot out. I love how they’re random and don’t match her outfits either.
We discuss the Mockingbirds assignment for a few minutes, then we shift to English class and Mr. Baumann’s boarding-school assignments, then to chess.
“I’m having a chess party tonight. Do you want to come?” Her voice rises a bit when she asks me, that cocktail of nerves and hope like when you ask someone on a date.
I hate to let her down, but I haven’t spent time with my true love—the piano—today. “I would love to, seriously. But I have a meeting and then a date with the music hall.”
“It’s going to be so much fun, and you could even be on my team,” she presses. “Plus we have the best snacks and lavender soda.”
“Lavender soda?”
“Oh, it’s great! Have you ever had it before?” she asks, and it’s funny because when she’s excited like this, the trace of French in her accent is stronger.
“Can’t say that I have,” I say.
“Plus, Parker’s coming,” she adds.
“Can I have a rain check? I promise to come to another one. But I’ve got to get my act together for my Juilliard audition.”
“But of course. You are welcome anytime,” she says, and clasps her hands together and then tips her head to me, always the gracious hostess. “And I know Jamie is hoping you can make it soon. She’s so excited about you maybe being her mentor.”
“I didn’t realize you were friends with Jamie,” I say, surprised. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Anjali hang out with anyone outside of her year before. “Her being a freshman and all.”
“McKenna made a big production out of introducing me to her. Well, everyone really,” Anjali says, then rolls her eyes. “It’s like she’s the personal welcoming committee for Jamie. But Jamie’s just pretty cool, period.”
“Have fun, then,” I say, and head down to the basement to meet the boys. I texted them earlier today calling this meeting.
“Hey, you,” Martin says, and slides his hand into mine when I sit next to him on the mustard-colored couch. The tips of his hair are still wet from getting out of the shower. I want to lean in and kiss him, then maybe even pounce on him, thanks to my newfound confidence. I entertain a brief fantasy of Parker as one of those small high-strung dogs that chase tennis balls all day. I toss one across the room, he zooms after it, while I steal a kiss with Martin.
Then another.
Then maybe I throw a tennis ball so far away that Parker’s gone for a long time and Martin and I are all alone and the thought of last year never even crosses my mind. I squeeze Martin’s hand tighter as a ribbon of heat runs through me, then I sneak a quick look at him. He gives me a slight grin, then lifts his eyebrows as if to ask, What’s up? I squeeze his hand again and when I do he traces the inside of my palm with his index finger and I want to melt into him.
I force myself to focus.
“Busy day,” I say as I take out my notebook and give them the details—the note, the dressing-room meeting, the Annie show-and-tell, Theo landing a spot on the debate team, and even Amy’s advice to get Anjali involved in the investigation.
“Damn. Impressive stuff,” Martin says, and gives me a smile. The green flecks in his brown eyes are lit up and I know that means he’s excited, happy. He rubs his hands together. “Now we know it’s localized to the debate team, so what we’ll need to do next is home in on who’s the ringleader. Or ringleaders, because I have a feeling we’re not just talking about one culprit here.”
Parker furrows his brow and taps his pen against his infernally present reporter’s notebook. He clears his throat, then says, “I don’t understand why you went alone to see Beat.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t understand why you didn’t bring one of us with you.”
“The note said come alone.”
“But wouldn’t it have been better to have backup? A third person to help record the details and hear what Beat had to say,” he points out, and bends his head to scribble something in his notebook. I hate that notebook. Why is it that he always seems to be writing in it when he’s disagreeing with me? Next time I’m in Martin’s room, I think I’ll steal that notebook. Then I’ll ship it off to Madagascar. A group of lemurs will await its arrival and rip it to shreds while swinging from tall trees. They’ll toss the torn pages to the ground like confetti.
“Are you saying I’m not able to report what went down? That I’m not a reliable witness or something?” I ask.
“No,” Parker says, holding up his hands like he’s been caught. “Of course not. I was just suggesting it might have been useful to have a third person present. Someone else there. But you didn’t do that. So let’s move on.”
“Let’s not move on,” I say, slapping my notebook down next to me. “Let’s address this now. You don’t think I’m capable of leading, do you?”
Parker’s pupils seem to dilate instantly, brimming with surprise. “I’m not saying that. I just want to make sure we are vetting everything according to proper procedures.”
“Dude, there’s no rule that says she has to bring another board member,” Martin says.
Translation: back off, buddy.
Then Parker does that thing he does. That self-deprecating shrug followed by a lopsided smile. “I’m sorry, guys,” he says, throwing in a quick chuckle for good measure. I bet he learned that from his tax-evading dad, good old example-setting Senator Hume. Hey, son, when all else fails and you’re cornered for having been a dick, just toss in a little laugh. Wins the constituents over every time.
But then it hits me. Parker only backed down when Martin told him to. Not when I told him to. And I’m not okay with that anymore. Because I am finally figuring out how to do this job. I can see it; I need Parker to see it too. I look directly at him. “Parker, I’m going to need you to start showing some respect.”
He coughs and sputters and generally kicks his feet in the air like a cartoon baby picked up by someone much bigger. “But-but-but I do respect you.”
“You don’t act like it,” I point out. “And I’m not asking you to agree with everything I do. And I’m not asking you to stop bringing an opinion to the table. But I am asking you to stop acting as if Martin is the only one you will listen to,” I say, and I like this new me, I like this confident me, this girl on the other side. So does Martin, because he squeezes my hand again.
“Of course,” Parker mumbles. Then in a louder voice, “I’m really sorry, Alex. I’ll do better.”
“Thank you. So let’s figure out who we should zero in on,” I say, shifting gears. I let go of Martin’s hand, reach for my own notebook, and flip it open to list possible suspects.
“I’d say Beat,” Martin says quickly.
“What?” I spit out. I couldn’t be more shocked if he said me.
“Hell yeah,” he says. “He’s an actor. He probably even wrote out a script for his meeting with you earlier today.”
“You’re totally wrong,” I say. But I’m not defensive; I’m not angry. I say the words like I’m answering a question in a class and I’m sure of the answer. Because I am sure. I know Beat was telling the truth; I know the Evita incident is behind him. “You didn’t see him. You didn’t see what he was like,” I say, but then I hear myself and I’m proving Parker’s point. I’m proving that it woul
d have been smart to have brought someone else along.
“What was he like?” Martin asks.
I straighten my back, sitting tall, and now I do feel like I have to prove something, so I am precise and deliberate as I describe the meeting, the pained look in his eyes, the way he implored me to help, his earnestness. I leave out the part about my finding him insanely good-looking.
“Well, he is an actor, Alex,” Martin says softly.
I press my lips tightly together. The suggestion that I was somehow duped makes me want to erect a wall, put up a shield. “So you think he was just putting me on?”
“It’s possible. He copped to drugging those seniors last year, so it’s not like he’s squeaky-clean.”
“Are we judging him guilty already just because he has a record?” Parker asks Martin, directing his stickler rules at someone else for a change.
“No. I’m just saying let’s not rule him out,” Martin says coolly. He is not rattled easily, certainly not by someone like Parker.
“I already ruled him out. I offered him immunity for now,” I say, standing firm, holding my ground.
“Immunity?” Martin says, and for the first time ever his voice shoots higher. “You can’t just offer him immunity. Or anyone.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t offer immunity.”
“Where does it say that?”
“Alex, this isn’t like a grand jury here,” he says.
“Right, but I believe him. He may not have a perfect record, but who does in any criminal-justice system? Everyone has a motive for sharing info. He wants to stay out of more trouble. He’s terrified of being pulled into this, just like Delaney. And we’re not investigating her. Plus he showed me his Annie scrip. It was totally legit. So he may be an actor, but I don’t think he’s a drug dealer.”
The Rivals Page 9