“He might not be a dealer, but I really don’t think we should just be doling out promises of immunity,” Martin says, and he sounds irritated.
“This isn’t some Wild West law and order, Martin. This was a measured, deliberate decision I made. Given the circumstances and given what he shared, I believe there were grounds to justify granting him immunity,” I say, like a well-trained lawyer, a veteran of the courtroom. “If it turns out he’s the culprit, obviously the immunity goes away. Let’s move on to other suspects.”
Martin nods and moves on. “So let’s get into it. Clearly we’re moving beyond the early investigation phase. Theo’s obviously a key suspect still. We have to deepen our investigation into him. We have enough concrete info to keep closer watch. We already know he’s on Annie. We know the debate team is potentially cheating, so now it’s time to figure out if he’s the one dealing and supplying to the team. We need to look for forged prescription pads, additional pill bottles, and most of all, signs of him dealing. Plus it adds up that it’s him. He has the motive. He can’t dance anymore, but he wants to compete still. He has the ability to debate. He’s a smart guy. He can hold his own with politics, issues, that sort of stuff. So debate is a natural sport for him to slide into—not as the team captain, not even as their best debater, but as someone who’s good enough to make the team. Only, he can’t win the Elite on his own, because it’s a team victory. So he devises a game plan to ensure the whole team can win. He starts using Annie. It ups his game. He realizes if it works for him, why not spread a little good cheer around the team? That’s just my theory, at least,” he says.
“And it’s a good one,” I say, ready to give praise where it’s due, to keep a strong front as the board.
Then Martin adds, “There’s one more reason it may be Theo. Access. If he had a knee injury so bad that it knocked him out of dancing, then he was probably on PKs for a while. Let’s say he gets started with a painkiller, maybe a little Vicodin. He likes the way it makes him feel. He goes back to the doc and gets more. Vicodin’s his summer-vacation drug, but Annie’s a much better fit for the school year. So he goes back to the doc, does a whole song and dance about how he can’t concentrate, can’t focus on schoolwork. Boom. He gets his Annie scrip.”
“I have another suggestion,” Parker says, and glances down at his notebook before clearing his throat and pushing his glasses higher up on his nose. He pauses, like he’s about to say something difficult. He breathes out, long and slow. “I hate to say it, since she’s your friend. But I think we should investigate Maia.”
I answer Parker quickly, glad that I had the foresight to already vet the accusation with my roommate. “She says they’re just rumors. And she doesn’t know anything about it.”
“What else would she say?” he says, and taps his notebook like there’s proof in it of Maia’s alleged culpability. “Let’s face it. She has the most to gain from the team’s success. Everyone knows she would pretty much give her firstborn to win the Elite and get into Harvard early. And she is notoriously ambitious.”
“Did she nab the only A in some class where you thought it was yours, Parker?” I ask.
“I have straight As in every class and have since I got here,” he shoots back.
“Well, Perfect Four-Point-Oh, we don’t prosecute people based on hunches. And all of that is extremely circumstantial evidence. In fact, it’s not even evidence at all,” I say, and now I’m pissed and I don’t bother to hide my anger. I’ve done things the right way; I’ve asked the right questions; I’ve made the right choices.
“All we have is circumstantial evidence,” Parker continues. “All we had was circumstantial evidence on Theo, and we started watching him. I’m just saying I think we should leave no stone unturned.”
“I already talked to her about this. She was reasonable and totally cool about everything. She didn’t flip out. She wasn’t defensive. Someone supplying drugs, someone setting up some massive drug ring isn’t like that. So, we’re not going to investigate her,” I repeat. Then I look to Martin. “Right?”
Martin holds my gaze, his brown eyes locked on mine. The flecks are quiet, his eyes solid brown.
“I don’t think Maia is involved,” he says heavily. “But I think we should keep our eyes and ears open in case it turns out she is connected.”
“How can you even suggest that?” I say, and now it’s my voice soaring into the stratosphere; now it’s me who’s shocked.
“I said I don’t think she’s involved. But the fact is, there is some serious shit going down on her team. And she is the captain. If it were another team, we’d have to consider the captain too, just by virtue of being the captain.”
Then there’s silence in the laundry room so thick you could bottle it. Parker breaks it. “We need to investigate her,” he says, and the majority wins. Maia is now under investigation.
Then he clears his throat and continues. “I have another suggestion. I think Anjali should be tasked with looking into Maia’s activities. After all, I think the three of us might be too close to it. And we did bring Anjali on to help with the investigation.”
I bet he never cuts in line. I bet he returns his library books on time. I bet he holds the chess rule book at Anjali’s parties and checks it before every move. He is so by the book, so in love with the letter of the law.
He is also completely right, and I hate it. I hate it because back there in the theater with Beat I felt like the leader of the Mockingbirds for the first time. It’s as if I had left last year behind me; the potholes and crags in the road had been filled in, leaving only a smooth, easy ride. But now it’s bumpy and jarring and my hands are gripped tight on the wheel, just trying to hold on again.
I exhale and look away. “Fine. I will let Anjali know. Martin, you want to look into Beat?”
He nods.
“Parker. You want Theo?”
Parker nods.
I stuff my notebook into my backpack, zipping it up tightly. “I’ll look into other angles,” I say, and I’m hoping the other angles are the ones that pan out. I don’t want it to be my roommate, I don’t want it to be the guy who’s like me, and I don’t even want it to be the person I just gave immunity to. I want it to be someone else.
But the truth is, I don’t want it to be anyone. Because if what Beat is saying is true, if what Delaney is saying is true, then Maia is hurtling headfirst into something that cannot possibly end the way she wants.
This can end only one way.
Badly.
Now I know who I am fighting for, and it’s my roommate.
Chapter Twelve
STRATOCASTER BET
Hours later, I am fuming at Parker’s suggestion as I slip into my Science Rules T-shirt.
Maia, who’s already under the covers and sound asleep, would never be involved in something like this, I tell myself as I get into bed.
Maia, hard-edged Maia. Ambitious, tough-as-nails, do-the-right-thing Maia. She’s got a soft side too, a side she lets very few people see. Like how she has a thing for hats. And I don’t just mean her Manchester United cap. I mean wide-brimmed, ladies-who-lunch hats that you buy at a milliner’s. She’d never wear them here, but she and her mom put on their proper dresses and their proper shoes and their proper hats every Saturday afternoon in the summers in London and go out for high tea. Or how she has a pet bunny rabbit back home. He’s black-and-white, and they named him Silvio. “I don’t know why we picked that name, but it’s just funny to have a bunny named Silvio, don’t you think?” she told us one night last year.
“Dude, you are such an only child,” T.S. remarked. “Only only children have bunnies.”
“I suppose when you have brothers you have dogs?” Maia asked T.S., who is the youngest of four and the only girl.
“Yes, we have dogs. Mutts. They chase Frisbees and catch sticks in the Pacific Ocean. And we give them dog names like Fred and Susie,” T.S. said, then started laughing.
Maia tossed a pillow at he
r and cracked up too. “Your dogs aren’t named Fred and Susie.”
“Okay. Archibald and Fiona. We gave them British names,” T.S. teased again.
Maia hopped out of bed then and pretended to stare down T.S. “Wait till I get my own dog someday. I’m going to name him T.S.”
“I would love to be your dog’s namesake,” T.S. said. “Just not a bunny’s!”
“It could be worse, guys. You could have cats for pets,” I said. “My mom got these Maine coon cats, and they spend the entire day in the linen closet. They only come out at night, and when they do they meow while pacing back and forth on the kitchen counters. You wonder why I had to get away from home. And you want to know what they’re named? Raoul and Aurelia.”
“You so totally win,” T.S. declared.
Maia hopped back into her own bed and pulled up her covers. “Silvio sleeps on my bed sometimes. I don’t know when he shows up, but sometimes I wake up and he’s sleeping on my feet.”
Now I flip over to my other side and picture Maia’s pet rabbit, Silvio, curling up at her feet. Then I hear Maia flip over too.
Weird.
Maia doesn’t toss and turn.
Maia’s made an art form of conking out the second she hits the pillow. But right now she’s not operating at the only two speeds she knows: all-out or dead to the world. Instead she’s lying in bed wide awake, and she’s breathing like she’s pretending to be asleep.
I fall asleep, then wake up later to the sound of a door creaking. It’s probably T.S., tiptoeing in after another late night with Sandeep. I open my eyes, but T.S. must have slipped in earlier because she’s zonked out on top of her covers. It’s Maia making the noise, sliding the closet door closed, then slinking back over to her bed, holding something in her hands. I can’t entirely make out what it is, but I see a small brown paper bag and near the top a fat white cap.
Like a pill bottle.
For a moment the blood stops pumping inside me, the air ceases to fill my lungs. I’ve seen something I don’t want to see; I know something I don’t want to know.
Only, it’s not about her.
It’s about me.
It’s about me being duped, being played, being stupid again.
I don’t move, don’t let on that I heard her, that I’m now the one pretending to be asleep as I watch her with my eyes like slits. She slides open the side zipper on her black messenger bag, then places the thing she doesn’t want me to see inside gingerly, like when you try to open a bag of chips without it making a sound. Something crinkles for a second, and the sound of it splits open the dark silence so completely that I shut my eyes tight and I hear Maia hold in her breath. I peer out again as she completes her mission, zipping the side pocket back up and stuffing the bag at the foot of her bed, where Silvio would be sleeping if she were back in England.
Her behavior is a bit dodgy, if you ask me.
*
A hard coldness fills me overnight, like I’ve slept in an igloo, like I’ve cuddled blocks of ice. I’m not shivering, though. I’m one with the ice because now I’m determined to unearth the truth, especially as that messenger bag becomes a part of her, it seems. She’s like a toddler clutching a worn little doll everywhere she goes. It goes to class with her, to the caf with her, to bed with her.
As Mr. Baumann launches into his discussion of Jane Eyre in our next English class, I shift my eyes down to Maia’s black messenger bag, the strap looped around her ankle. I zero in on it, that side pocket, my eyes like lasers, and everything else in the room becomes fuzzy. It’s as if I’m the only one in the class. Other students fade away; Mr. Baumann’s voice mutes. It’s just the bag and me, and I have to find a way to separate her from it.
I have to know what she’s protecting. I have to know if I’ve been played by my very own roommate.
When class ends, Maia darts out, telling me she’ll catch up with me later. I leave the classroom and bend down at the white marble water fountain for a sip. When I straighten up, Anjali is waiting for me, her blue eyes lit up with excitement.
“I have news for you on other angles,” she says.
I glance up and down the long, carpeted hallway of Morgan-Young Hall. We’re surrounded by other students. I shake my head and gesture with my eyes to the others. We walk outside, where we can talk about other angles, because that’s what I actually asked her to investigate instead. I decided not to assign her Maia, because whatever Maia is hiding is mine to figure out. I’m not going to farm out that assignment, no matter what Parker thinks. If Maia’s playing me, I’ll be the one who’ll figure out the truth. If she’s not, I’ll be the one to clear her name with the board.
“Freshmen are involved,” Anjali proclaims in a low whisper.
“Freshmen?” I repeat.
Anjali nods firmly. “That’s what I hear. I’m going to do some more digging, though. See if they’ll name names.”
“Who’s they?”
“Some other freshmen who saw it going down.”
“Are they in the Debate Club?” I ask, wondering if these freshmen are Theo’s suppliers.
Anjali shakes her head. “I think they’re just opportunists. Besides, they heard Ms. Merritt going on and on about the Elite at D-Day, so I think they jumped at the opportunity to become the team’s suppliers.”
“Figures it’d be her tip-off in some way,” I say, shaking my head.
Then we both spot Parker walking toward us. Anjali gives him a broad wave and turns up the wattage on her smile. Before he reaches us, I whisper, “Let’s keep this between us until we know more, okay?”
She nods and winks. “Of course.”
“Hi, Anjali,” Parker says, a little breathy, and I can tell from the way he says her name that he has a crush on her.
“Hi, Parker,” she says, and then leans in to air kiss him on each cheek.
Parker’s eyes turn into saucers, moons even, as his face lights up. Next he’ll probably press his palm against his cheek and try to capture the almost-touch of her lips.
Then he realizes his tail is wagging and his tongue is hanging out and he might as well be a dog greeting his master after a week’s absence, so he hastily tries to unscrew the happiness from his face.
“How’s it going?” he asks her, assuming his best all-business tone. “Find out anything good on Maia?”
Great. Now Anjali knows Maia is under investigation, and I don’t want anyone to know that. I’d like to kick Parker under the table and shoot him a hard stare. But I can’t, because then he’d know I’m lying to him about who’s tracking who.
“Not yet, but I’ll be sure to let Alex know what I find out,” Anjali says, without skipping a beat. She’s got a great poker face.
The bell rings for my next class: French. “We’ll talk plus tard, d’accord?” I say to Anjali.
“Bien sûr,” she says, and gives me that salute again. “You know where to find me,” she says to me, then blows a kiss to Parker before she swivels around and heads off to her class, her flower-patterned scarf trailing down her back.
I turn to Parker, who’s floating again. “I don’t think we should be talking about the case so freely out in public, okay?”
“Well, weren’t you talking to her about it?”
“No,” I say, lying again. “We were talking about”—I pause for the briefest of seconds, cycling through innocuous cover-ups—“shoes.”
Parker glances at my Vans. “I didn’t know you were a shoe person.”
“Yeah, it’s the one thing I don’t wear on my sleeve. Anyway, did you learn anything related to your assignment?” I ask pointedly.
“Not yet,” he says.
“Let’s focus on that, then,” I say, without breathing Theo’s name, in a feeble attempt to set some sort of example on how to lead. But really, I’m not so sure I’m setting an example anymore.
*
I arrive early for music class. Miss Damata greets me with a smile. “Good to see you, Alex.”
Her blond hai
r is piled up on her head in a bun. Loose strands fall around her face. Like Ms. Merritt, she’s pretty—but she doesn’t try to disguise it. Miss Damata is the only teacher here who’s a verifiable human being. At least as far as I know. She was instrumental in me having the guts to stand up to Carter last year in our secret underground court. Not that she knows about the student courtroom. But she knows what happened to me. And she also knows I wasn’t culpable in any way, shape, or form. I think I love her.
“Miss Damata, I was wondering if you had assigned mentors yet for the freshmen, because if you haven’t, I would like to request Jamie Foster,” I say, making good on the promise I made McKenna in the student-activities office.
“Any particular reason why you want to work with her?” Miss Damata asks.
I’m guessing because her sister wants me to isn’t going to cut it. “Because she rocked the Vivaldi,” I say, referring to the flute concerto she played last week in orchestra practice. “And because I think she could benefit from learning to work in concert more with other musicians. I think I can help her with that.”
Miss Damata nods approvingly. It’s a far better answer than the one I don’t say about her sister, and it also happens to be true. When Jamie enters the music hall, Miss Damata shares the news. I watch Jamie’s eyes light up, and then she actually claps her hands together. She grabs my arm and tells me how excited she is to be my protégé. I laugh at the word because it’s so silly-sounding, but even so I tell her I’m happy to be her senior mentor.
“Maybe we can practice later today,” she suggests, a hopeful sound to her request. I think back to the first time I met her, before D-Day, and how confident and poised she seemed. Now she’s more like a normal fourteen-year-old freshman, awkward and youngish. I wonder if she’s different around McKenna, always trying to impress her or something.
The Rivals Page 10