“Sure,” I say. “That’d be fun. And do you want to have dinner together sometime?”
“Yes!”
After music class, Miss Damata calls Jones and me aside.
“As you probably know, I have a few friends at Juilliard still,” Miss Damata begins, and the mere mention of the word Juilliard causes an involuntary reaction in me—I stand straighter, taller. She went there, and she taught there. I’ll be there too for my weekend visit in just a few weeks. “And a group of us has this tradition every October, where we have a kind of mash-up performance slash jam fest at a local coffee shop,” she continues, and I wonder if she means local as in New York or local as in Providence. “It’s in the Village. We’ll often invite some of our top students to play with us. The only catch is it’s in New York.”
“Catch? That doesn’t sound like a catch. It sounds cool!” I say, then I stop myself because she hasn’t technically invited us.
“And since our get-together happens to be the weekend of your Juilliard visit, Alex, I thought you might want to play with us,” she says, and all I can think is yes yes yes, and that’s all I can say too.
Then she turns to Jones. “Our best guitarist is eight months pregnant, so she is going to be out of commission. Would you like to take her place? I know you’d rather be on the guitar than the violin, anyway.”
“So it’s basically like a gig in New York City?” Jones asks.
“I suppose you could call it that,” Miss Damata says.
He nods approvingly. “I just booked my first gig in New York,” he says to me, and holds up a hand in the air. I high-five him.
“Your parents are in the city, right? Will you stay with them, or do you want me to make arrangements for you to stay in one of the dorm rooms at Juilliard for the night, like Alex is doing?” she asks Jones. I notice him tense for just the tiniest sliver of a second when she asks about staying with his parents. Jones and his dad aren’t exactly having warm family reunions these days. Standoffs is more like it.
“My brother’s in Brooklyn, so I’m all good. And Miss Damata?”
“Yes?”
“You rock,” he says.
She smiles, then says, “If I were you, I’d brush up on Handel, Haydn, and Hendrix.”
We thank her again and then head to the caf. “Are you even going to tell your parents you’re in town?”
“Hell no,” Jones says. “My dad knows the score. I’m not staying with them as long as he’s still spinning lies to the press. He was in the paper again yesterday.”
“Same thing?”
Jones nods. “Yup. His usual denial. We had no prior knowledge of the complications caused by this product, and we are working hard to rectify the situation. That’s his standard line.”
Jones’s dad is this big-deal corporate strategist in New York, the kind of crisis-communications guy that car companies call when their tires explode and kill families, that energy companies call when they spill tons of oil in the ocean. This summer a pharmaceutical company phoned up Jones’s dad when some of its researchers discovered that—oops!—its new brand of children’s aspirin actually caused some serious health problems in babies. Jones’s dad hired teams of people from the ranks of the unemployed to buy up every last aspirin bottle in every store in every city all across the country and dispose of them.
Jones overheard his dad’s conversations and confronted him, telling him to just own up to it. His dad didn’t.
Now the company’s being investigated by some government agency, and it’s his dad’s job to keep the real story—the prior knowledge of the complication—from getting out.
“He called last night acting all casual and interested in how school was going. I said, ‘Dad, don’t think we’re going to talk like we used to while you’re still lying to everyone.’”
“Good for you. What did he say?”
“That someday he hoped I’d understand that the grown-up world isn’t quite so black-and-white,” Jones says, sketching air quotes as he imitates his father.
I scoff. “Right. Because here in the kid world, everything is crystal clear and there are no shades of gray.”
“Anyway, don’t tell Martin, okay? It’s totally embarrassing what my dad is doing.”
My chest tightens for a second, because even though I haven’t told anyone, I kind of wish he hadn’t singled out Martin. Still, I reassure him. “Jones, you know I don’t tell anyone what we talk about. Ever. I told you that this summer,” I say, reminding him of my promise to keep this secret way back when he first told me about it.
“I know. I just don’t want anyone knowing my stuff,” he says.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” I say.
“So what’s the latest with the Annie case? Have you figured out yet who’s supplying to the Debate Club?”
I stop in my tracks and stare at him.
“See! You’re shocked I know it’s the Debate Club. But your old friend Jones keeps his ear to the ground.”
I shake my head but still say nothing.
“Alex,” he says, all serious now, “you can cut it with the whole act. I know you’re investigating the Debate Club. I hear the same crap you hear.”
I feel stretched and pulled again, like Amy felt like last year when Jess asked about me. I breathe out hard. “Jones,” I say.
“Oh, c’mon, Alex. Enough. I tell you all my stuff.”
“This isn’t mine to tell.”
“Do you think you’re maybe taking this a little too seriously?”
“No,” I say quickly, because I have to take this seriously, especially when I am already bending some of the rules, when I am already doling out little white lies to the board.
“Well, since you’re so serious about it, does that mean you’re spying on your roomie too? Because Maia’s on Anderin.”
I place my finger on my lips and shush him. Then I grab his arm and pull him by the side of one of the buildings, down a quiet path.
“How do you know that? Do you know that for sure?” I whisper, thinking of the white cap I saw the other night and of what might lie beneath it.
“She has all the signs of being on Annie,” Jones says. “Have you seen a more productive person than Maia? She goes without stopping. She never needs breaks. She could power a small city with her energy. You think that’s all-natural energy?”
I shake my head and hold up a hand. “You’re saying Maia is the way she is from Anderin?”
“I’m sure she needs the meds, unlike those scumbags who are taking it to cheat or whatever. But I’m also saying her natural intensity is amplified by the drug. You didn’t really know her well freshman year. But she struggled then. She was so scattered. Distracted in class. Trouble focusing. She came back sophomore year like a well-oiled machine. I bet that summer she was diagnosed with ADHD and went on meds.”
“How could you know this and I knew nothing? Did she tell you?” I ask, feeling stung that Maia would never tell me.
“No. She didn’t tell me. I’m just saying it all adds up. And, look, I never rooted around in her bag or whatever. But I’d bet my Stratocaster I’m right.”
That’s a bet I’m going to have to take.
“Can you do me a favor?”
“Of course. What is it?”
“Please don’t tell anyone about what you just said.”
He tilts his head to the side and studies my face, like he can find the answer in my eyes or my cheeks or my nose. But there’s no answer. Just questions—questions about my roommate that I don’t want anyone else asking yet.
“You keep my secrets. I keep yours,” he says, then slings his arm around my shoulder.
We make our way to the caf like that, and as I walk in with Jones I realize I was supposed to meet Martin here ten minutes ago. He’s seated with Sandeep and T.S. at our usual table, but when he sees me with Jones, he has this strange look in his eyes.
Then he looks away.
I glance briefly at Jones, then at Martin,
and in an instant, their roles have been reversed. Jones is the one who knows more about the case than Martin. And for now I have to keep it that way.
I do, however, step ahead of Jones in line so his arm is no longer around me.
Chapter Thirteen
TWO HALVES
I do my best to finish Jane Eyre, but the words are scribbles levitating off the page. Black letters that make no sense mutate in front of my eyes. As I stare at the page that might as well be blank, I shoot glances at Maia, over at her desk, typing away on her laptop as the Smiths blasts through her headphones. Twists and knots dig into my sides as my stomach nose-dives ceaselessly. Maybe I saw the pill bottle wrong in the dark. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe Jones got it wrong and is just being Jones—suspicious, on-alert Jones. Maia wouldn’t hide drugs, because she wouldn’t supply drugs, she wouldn’t engineer a cheating ring, and she definitely wouldn’t deceive me about any of it. Especially not after last year and what we all went through. She defended me last year, stood by me every step of the way. She wouldn’t lie to me.
So how can I root around in her bag? How can I spy on one of my best friends?
Because she wouldn’t tell me the truth.
I put my head down on the desk, taking a deep breath, knowing I have to do this, knowing this is the choice I made that day in Amy’s room. This isn’t just about me anymore. I remind myself of Delaney, of what she stands to lose. Of Beat and what he stands to lose. Of my job: to be the one who helps them, who listens, who gives everyone a fair shot.
The one who has to spy on her roommate to be fair.
My stomach spins again, making cruel loops inside me.
A chair scrapes across the floor.
“Going to the loo,” she says. As soon as I hear the bathroom door down the hall slam shut, I pounce on her bag. I don’t let myself give it a second thought. I don’t drag my feet or peer around the corner. I just lunge. It takes all of five seconds for me to unzip the side pocket, open up the brown paper bag, and confirm my suspicions, to verify what Jones had surmised. Because inside that bag are three ridiculously large bottles full of little orange pills. There are prescription labels on them, with the name of a doctor and a pharmacy in London.
I stuff them in the pocket, zip the bag, and return to my desk. I even manage to pretend-read two full pages before Maia returns, settles at her desk, and pops her headphones on.
But as she plunges back into her music, I feel bruised all over, little tender black-and-blue marks spread across my skin because my own roommate wouldn’t tell me she’s on Anderin. She knows everything about me. The whole school knows everything about me. I’m public record. So why wouldn’t Maia tell me about a freaking prescription for ADHD meds?
The only reason I can figure is because they’re not just for her. They’re for the team.
I steal a glance at the back of her head, bopping to Morrissey’s lyrics of self-loathing.
I leave without a word. Down the hall, down the steps, out the door. I walk around the perimeter of the campus trying to sort out what’s going on, trying to understand how Maia could be a pill pusher. I make three loops around campus before it hits me. It hits me so hard, I laugh.
Just because she has the pills doesn’t mean she’s supplying. She’s worried she’ll be implicated, same as Beat, simply because she has a legit scrip. So she hid her meds. It’s that simple. She’s just a girl with ADHD, not a drug dealer, not a cheater who’d do anything to win the Elite.
Right?
I return to the room and I don’t prep, I don’t practice, I just go for it.
“Maia, why didn’t you tell me you have ADHD?” I ask.
“What?” she says.
“I saw your pills.”
She cocks her head to the side, raises her eyebrows, and says, “You looked through my bag.”
“Well, why were you hiding them?”
“Why are you spying?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been on meds? You never once mentioned it, and we’ve roomed together for two years now.”
“Why is it your concern?”
“Because I’m your friend,” I say, as if it’s obvious. It’s obvious to me at least. Why isn’t it obvious to her?
“But that has nothing to do with why you were snooping, does it? Were you snooping because you’re my friend or because you’re a Mockingbird?”
“Maia! Me being a Mockingbird has nothing to do with this conversation,” I say, and I’m verging on shouting. How can she not get this?
“Hardly. Whether or not I’m on Anderin has never been an issue in two years of rooming together, and now suddenly it’s an issue simply because the Mockingbirds are investigating an Anderin case. It absolutely seems like this conversation has everything to do with the Mockingbirds and nothing to do with us,” she says coolly, like I’m the latest opponent in a debate match and she’s going to mow me down with her calm demeanor, with her headfake. Then she adds, “Which makes me wonder if I’m going to need to request my attorney to talk to you? Do you want to read me my Miranda rights?”
“I’m not talking about the Mockingbirds right now, Maia. I’m asking you personally. I’m trying to talk to you as a friend.”
“But this would never have mattered to the old Alex. The old Alex respected privacy.”
It’s like she lit a torch and set the room on fire and now I’m burning white-hot. “Do not even go there with me when it comes to privacy. I have had my entire freaking past plastered all over this school. So don’t give me crap about privacy.”
“Then you of all people should respect my need for it.”
I cut through her words, her rhetoric, and ask her again, the words coming out hard and coarse. “Are you on Anderin, Maia? Do you have ADHD?”
She remains unruffled. “I’m going to need to know if you’re asking me on the record for your case or as my friend.”
“As your friend. As the girl you represented in the laundry room last year,” I say, playing the rape card for sympathy for the first time. Then my voice breaks, and tears start to well up in my eyes. I say softly, “This isn’t about the case right now. This is about us. Why would you keep it a secret? We talk about everything.”
“Because it’s personal,” she says softly, and her throat catches on the last word. Her cheeks turn the faintest color of red and she looks away, swallowing quickly, sucking in her almost tears. She is no longer the girl at the podium plowing down challengers. She’s the girl who likes hats, the girl who has a pet bunny, the girl who has a secret she didn’t want anyone to know. I feel like the worst friend in the world, because now I’ve forced my roommate to admit something she wanted to keep private.
“I never would have judged you for having ADHD,” I say gently. “I want to be here for you. I want to support you.”
She turns back to me, steely-eyed again, tough again. “Thank you. But I don’t need any support. I am fine. I take them for me, only me, and only as prescribed. I didn’t tell you, because it’s not something that needs to be shared. It’s not something that needs to be supported. And it’s not something that needs to be investigated. Because I’m not the one supplying the team. I would never do that. I don’t cheat. I don’t need to. And I would never ever encourage or suggest or condone it. And if you really are Alex my friend, then you better believe it’s not me.”
“I know it’s not you,” I say, wanting to get down on my knees and beg and plead and prove.
“Then please act like it.”
*
I am now a snoop.
It doesn’t happen over several agonizing, painstaking months of transformation. It happens in a heartbeat. You make a choice, you make the wrong choice, you root through your friend’s stuff, and you become someone you’re not, someone you never wanted to be.
Someone your friend doesn’t trust.
Someone who violates privacy.
Someone who breaks the rules. Because digging through my roomie’s bag surely goes beyond t
he Mockingbirds’ keep your eyes and ears open for clues guideline. So does lying by omission to the board, another thing I’ve been doing.
The next morning Maia grabs her shower basket from the closet and then turns to me, since T.S. is off at soccer practice. “I’m going to the shower now, Alex,” she says. “Just in case you’re keeping a log of all my activities.”
“I’m not, Maia,” I say.
“And after I shower I’ll be brushing my teeth, then blow-drying my hair, then getting dressed. Feel free to let all your Mockingbirds friends know. I think I may have breakfast after that. Perhaps tea and jam. And I’ll be sure to submit a diary to you later today of my schedule.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, but I know it won’t cut it for her right now, not when she’s fuming.
“Or you can just follow me if that’s easier,” she says, then walks out.
I grab a brush from my desk, run it through my hair, then decide I’d much rather toss it against the wall. I chuck it halfway across the room and watch as it bangs the brick wall, then falls to the carpet with a dull thud. I wish it had shattered. I wish it had broken into a hundred satisfying pieces on the floor. I would have relished cleaning up the pieces. And the whole time as I filled one hand with the bits of my hairbrush, I’d think what I’m thinking now—that I wish someone would have told me what this was like. That I wish someone would have warned me that the Mockingbirds can save you in one breath, then slash your heart in the next. That being part of this group means being separate from other people, from the people we’re trying to help, from the people who are being hurt, and definitely from our friends.
But is this worth my friendships? They’re my moral code. My friends stood by me last year, no questions asked. Now I feel like I’m pitted against them, and this just isn’t worth it. It’s not fair that I have to do this. It’s not fair that any student has to do this. We shouldn’t be policing one another. We shouldn’t be spying on one another. We should only be helping one another, laughing with one another, goofing off with one another.
The Rivals Page 11