There is only one person who should be dealing with this, and her name is Ms. Merritt.
The woman who has an open-door policy.
She said I could trust her. She said I could come to her for anything. She said I should have come to her last year. Let’s see what she’ll do this year.
When I leave my dorm, I head straight to the administration building, my jaw set, my muscles tight, as I push open the door so hard, it smacks the inside wall. I pinpoint my destination at the far end of the hall, never wavering, never taking my eyes off the open door to the dean’s office. When I reach it, I knock once and step inside, the cushy chocolate brown carpet sinking beneath my red-and-white Vans.
Her secretary glances up from the computer and turns to me. “Hello. How may I help you?”
“I’m looking for Ms. Merritt. I need to see her, please,” I say.
“She’s not available right now. May I have her get back to you?”
“She’s not available?” I repeat, as if the words don’t compute.
She smiles and shakes her head. “That is correct. She is not available.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I thought she had an open-door policy. I thought students were allowed to come see her and talk to her. She said we could come see her anytime.”
“I understand that,” the secretary says robotically but sweetly, like this is how she was programmed by her maker. “But she is not available right now.”
“Well, when do you think she’ll be available?”
“When she frees up.”
“When will that be? This is important. This is really important. I guarantee this will be the most important thing she has to deal with all day, all semester.”
“She’s simply not available.”
I place my hands on the edge of the desk, not sure if I am coming across as crazed or desperate but not caring. “Why? Where is she?” I ask.
“I think it would be best if I give her a message and have her get back to you.”
“How? How will she get back to me?” I ask, holding my hands up in the air. “Does that mean she’ll call me? Does that mean she’ll set an appointment for me to come back? What will she do? How will I hear from her? Is she going to text me or something? Maybe with a smiley face and an OMG too?”
“I think I would feel more comfortable if you didn’t stand quite so close to my desk,” the secretary says, and makes a gentle shooing motion.
“I would feel more comfortable if I could talk to Ms. Merritt right now,” I say.
The secretary casts her eyes a few feet from me, making it clear I am to back up before she speaks again. I step back and fold my arms over my chest.
“Now, what is the message?” she asks.
I close my eyes for a second and the recklessness of what I am about to do almost overcomes me. But I have to be brash; I have to test the positive-reinforcement-only philosophy for myself. I’ve only known of it from reading our records of past cases. But I need to know firsthand if she really will turn a blind eye.
I consider my words carefully, giving only enough info to cause concern, not enough to implicate, but punctuating each word so nothing is lost in the translation, so the honor pledge we all took is underlined, as I say, “Please tell her it is about Anderin abuse.”
The secretary smiles at me without showing any teeth.
“And please tell her I need to talk to her right away,” I add, giving her my name, my e-mail address, and my phone number.
“Of course,” she says, and I watch as the secretary writes the message down in her pristine, crisp handwriting. “Is there anything else?”
“No,” I say, and as I leave I catch a glimpse of Ms. Merritt’s office and the empty spot on her shelves for that dumb trophy.
*
I’m in my room later, pacing, waiting, checking my phone, checking my e-mail. It’s as if Juilliard itself is going to get in touch with me, that’s how much I want to hear from Ms. Merritt, and not because I want to hear from her. Not because I want her to solve this really big freaking problem at her school. But because I want to know if she even will.
I flip open my phone again, just in case there is a message I missed. None. I shut it just as Maia walks in.
She nods curtly, straightens up, and walks to her desk, where she sits down.
“What’s going on, Maia?” I ask casually, the way I would have asked before our friendship turned to tundra this morning.
“Why are you asking?”
“I’m just curious,” I say, wishing we could go back to the way we were before, wishing I knew how to navigate that route. But the map has been lost somewhere, several miles ago, under the passenger seat, next to crumbs and food wrappers, and the driver doesn’t have a clue where to find it.
“I’m studying for a debate tournament coming up in Miami. You can see the proof of my hard work there in my bag where I keep all my uppers that I share with the team.”
“Can we just move on from here, please? I said I was sorry.”
“I don’t know. Can we?” she asks pointedly. “Are you really sorry or just sorry I know you were snooping?”
But before I can say anything, I hear a sound, like a slight whoosh. I look in the direction of the door and see a slim white envelope that’s been slipped underneath. My name is on it, so I grab it. I open it and there’s a brochure inside. It’s on Anderin abuse, the warning signs, the dangers, the symptoms, and a phone number for a hotline for help. Paper-clipped to it is a note on plain white paper:
I’m so very glad you came to me about this, Alex. I do hope this information helps, and please don’t hesitate to let me know if there is anything else I can assist with. Can’t wait for your Faculty Club performance. It’s going to be great! —Ms. M.
In pristine, crisp handwriting.
I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe out, a hard breath, deep, full of the kind of anger that could fuel a small city if you channeled me to a power plant right now. I open my eyes and crush the brochure and the note into a ball, the note the dean couldn’t even bother to write herself.
She treats us just like her dogs.
Maia is looking at me, waiting for me to tell her what the note is.
“It’s from the dean and I hate her,” I say, and then I do something rash. Totally and utterly stupid and dumb. I slam my fist against the brick wall. And it hurts like hell. I shake my hand out and see Maia staring at me like I’ve gone crazy.
“Sorry,” I say, but it comes out like a hiss, so I just leave. I head to the music hall, where I’m alone, just like I am with this case, just like we all are at this school.
All I can do now is find a way to clear Maia’s name. Because no one else—no adult in charge—is going to help me.
Chapter Fourteen
THE GRAND ILLUSION
Ms. Merritt waits outside the administration building, holding the door open, a smile of epic proportions plastered across her face. She’s happy; of course she’s happy. We’re about to perform and she loves a good show. I picture reaching out and peeling that stupid grin off her like a Band-Aid. I bet it’d hurt and be all raw and red underneath.
“Good morning, Martin. Good morning, Anjali. Good morning, T.S. Good morning, Parker. Good morning, Delaney. Good morning, Alex,” she says, then says hello to a few runners who are also singing with us today. Then she shuts the door with them inside, separating me from my merry band of Mockingbirds.
“Alex, is everything all right? I was so concerned when I learned you had dropped by and I couldn’t be there in person to help you. I do hope everything has been sorted out since then?”
“Sorted out?” I ask, shocked at the ridiculousness of the question. “No. Nothing’s been sorted out.”
She sighs heavily, then pushes her glasses against her nose. “I’m sorry to hear that. I do hope this isn’t distracting you from your goals this semester.”
“I assume those would be our shared goals,” I say sarcastically.
; “But of course. Are you able to focus on your music? On your application to Juilliard? Do you need any extra help from myself, or perhaps even from Miss Damata, because I could certainly arrange that. I know how very hard it is to be a student here.”
“You have no idea what it’s like to be a student here these days,” I say, and then take a step back because it’s as if I just discovered a superpower I didn’t know I had, like I’ve just learned I could fly or lift cars with one hand. Because I can’t believe I have it in me to talk back to the dean herself.
“Excuse me?” she says, arching an eyebrow. I watch as it rises above her hideous glasses. Her face looks pinched, pulled back tight by her French braid.
“Nothing,” I say.
She nods several times, as if she’s forgiving my impudence. “I understand what you’re going through, Alex. It’s not an easy time. Senior year is particularly tough,” she says, then gestures to the doors. “So let’s enjoy the rest of the day. Because I am certainly eager to see why the Mockingbirds are indeed the finest singers in the school.”
Then she walks ahead of me, and I hear a voice, loud and booming, behind me.
“Still room for one more?”
It’s Jones, and he has his guitar with him, the sleek, silver Stratocaster.
“Jones! You didn’t tell me you were coming!”
“I like surprises. I like surprising you.”
“I am definitely surprised in more ways than one. And so you’re not,” I say, reaching into my back pocket for a sheet of paper, “here are the lyrics.”
As we walk into the Faculty Club, I inhale deeply, imagining the air filling my lungs, giving me strength, guts, sinew to face the one real enemy we all have. Martin is taken aback when he sees Jones and shoots me another curious look like that day in the caf when Jones and I walked in late. So is Parker, who leans in to whisper, “But he’s not a Mockingbird.”
“Neither is Delaney,” I whisper back.
“Right. But I thought she was an unofficial one?”
“Like a mascot?” I joke.
That eases things with Parker, the stickler. But he feels even better when I remind him of why we need ringers. “The more believable we are, the less likely Senator Hume is to find out,” I whisper.
I take a step forward, the rest of the Mockingbirds, real and fake, forming a line behind me. I bow to the faculty members who have gathered for our performance. They’re all here—Miss Damata; Mr. Baumann; the French teacher, Ms. Dumas; the Spanish teacher, Mr. Bandoro; my former history teacher Mr. Christie; and even the headmistress herself is back for this performance. I guess Ms. Vartan is taking a break from her Prep Schools of the World Tour. How very lovely for her to return for the show.
Some faculty members are seated in the high-backed leather chairs; some are standing casually next to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, lined with leather-bound first editions. A nearby table is packed with fresh fruit and bakery breads that look like they rose in the oven this very morning. Then I notice another table—this one is manned by a gentleman in a white chef hat and jacket. He’s presiding over a skillet, and next to the skillet are sliced mushrooms, shredded cheeses, delicately cut tomatoes. Ms. Merritt hired a caterer.
She’s going to serve omelets after we perform.
She’s going to maintain her grand illusion.
I fix my eyes on her, because if I look at Miss Damata, if I look at someone I respect, I might break, I might laugh, I might run. Instead, I lock Ms. Merritt into my crosshairs. Then I speak.
“Let me begin by thanking you, Ms. Merritt, for bestowing the honor of the very first Faculty Club performance of the new school year on the Mockingbirds. Thank you, Ms. Vartan, for being here as well. I speak for all of us when I say we are deeply flattered and humbled,” I say, then gesture to my merry band of Mockingbirds. They bow before the faculty. “And because this is Themis and because we believe in excellence in all endeavors—we wrote you a song. Actually it’s kind of like a mash-up of some tunes we all know from childhood. Early childhood. Because who doesn’t want to reconnect with their inner child while here in high school?”
Miss Damata shoots me a curious look, but I go on. “I’m presuming you’ve all heard ‘Pussycat, Pussycat, Where Have You Been?’”
Many of the teachers nod, and I gesture for them to join in my recitation. They do. “I’ve been to London to visit the queen. Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you there? I frightened a little mouse under the chair.”
I pause as they finish. “It’s short and sweet, but so is our version, and I’m going to let Delaney take the lead.”
I retreat to the rest of the line while Delaney steps forward. She’s in full regalia today—her purple hair is sleek and blown out straight, bangs landing crisply across her forehead, cutting a line just above her navy-blue eye makeup and heavily mascaraed lashes. She wears red vinyl boots, dark jeans that might as well be painted on, and a black T-shirt. I have to say, she looks smoking hot.
The rest of us begin a little doo-woppy sway, snapping our fingers and shaking our hips in time, as we croon out—badly off-key, most of us—a mix of “ooh” and “ahh,” like the backup singers we are right now.
The girl with the purple hair begins, her smoky, sexy voice hitting all kinds of notes as she sings a new tune: “Dirty clothes, dirty clothes, where have you been? We’ve been down to the laundry room to get ourselves clean. Dirty clothes, dirty clothes, what did you there? We told the dryers all about the affair.”
“And now a mash-up,” I say, and nod to Jones, who joins Delaney in front of the line for a duet. We continue to back them up as they sing modified versions of “Hey, Diddle, Diddle” (the teachers jumped over the quad; the little students laughed to see such sport); a reimagined “Mary Had a Little Lamb” (then the students called her names, and the lamb was very sad); and my personal favorite, “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” (we’ve been working on our college apps all the live-long day).
Then we’re done, and Ms. Merritt begins the clapping. Because she has to set the agenda for the teachers. She has to let them know she is pleased, and they should be pleased too; they should follow suit with their cheers. They do. And I know on some level she must get it—who we really are, what we really do, that our musical choices are not just a roast, not just normal teenage teasing of authority.
As she beams, a smile so wide it nearly reaches her braid, it’s the reminder that even if she knows, she just doesn’t care. Because what matters to her is that we have excelled, like her Weimaraners, like her twins.
“Would you like an encore?” Jones offers.
We don’t have any more songs, so I don’t know what he has up his sleeve.
But the approval is unanimous, so he plugs in his guitar to the portable amp he brought and then whispers to Delaney. She nods and smiles at him, then turns to me with a wink. Jones looks at me and says out loud, “You guys can kick back for this one. We’ll take care of it.”
Then the two of them launch into a hot, loud, and electrified version of Bob Marley’s “I Shot the Sheriff.”
I can’t think of a more apropos song.
*
“They were amazing, weren’t they?” I say to Martin for the fiftieth time as we leave the cafeteria after lunch and head to my room.
“Yep,” Martin says.
“And Jones. God, he was great. He really can sing,” I say as I bound up the stairs, Martin a step or two behind me. “And he can play. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a better guitarist.”
“Yep, like Jimi Hendrix himself descended to the Faculty Club,” Martin says, but I ignore the sarcasm in his voice, because in my world Jones is as good as any of the Guitar Gods.
“Exactly,” I say. “He is totally going to be a rock star someday.” Then I realize now would be the perfect time to tell Martin about the jam fest in New York with Jones. Especially since Martin can’t go. He’s going away with one of his brothers for the weekend—some last mountain-bike ride before
the Summers family turns to their snowboards. “Hey, so I wanted to tell you something about Jones—”
“Let me guess. He seduced you with his musical fingers and silver guitar and now you’re leaving me to run away with him and form some piano-guitar-playing hipster duo in Brooklyn.”
Maybe now’s not the time to mention that weekend after all.
“I’m not leaving you for anyone,” I say.
“Good. Let’s keep it that way,” he says, and drapes an arm over my shoulders. I like it. It feels protective, safe.
When we reach my room, Maia’s there, headphones on, Duran Duran blasting through them. Her affection for British bands from way back when runs strong. She looks up, shoots me a cold stare, then pulls off her headphones.
“This must be an official inspection,” she says, cutting and cold. “Martin, would you like to root through my things too? Maybe check and see if I have a list of all the alleged users or anonymous sources or spineless bastards you guys want to protect?”
Martin holds his hands up. “Whoa. Chill, Maia.”
Maia continues. “What? You didn’t know Alex has been spying on me and going through my things?”
My face turns red, and Martin turns to me. Martin’s not supposed to know I was investigating Maia. Like Parker, he thinks Anjali’s been doing it. I’ve led them both to believe Anjali’s been doing it.
Then Maia laughs and points at me. “Oh, that’s cute! He doesn’t know you’ve been looking through my stuff.”
“I think we’re going to go hang out someplace else,” I say, and grab Martin’s hand, pulling him out of my room.
As we walk down the hall, Martin asks me what’s going on. “I thought Anjali was investigating her, Alex.”
“No. I am,” I admit.
“Why?”
“Because she’s my roommate and she’s my friend and she’s not guilty, okay?”
“But what did you find when you were looking through her stuff?” he asks carefully.
The Rivals Page 12