“Nothing,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed straight in front of me as I lie. It’s not like I took an oath to put the Mockingbirds before my friends. Right? The board doesn’t need to know everything, especially if I was breaking Mockingbirds rules when I found the pills because snooping in someone’s bag is definitely verboten. But if I’m going to be protecting people, I’ve got to protect my people too, my friends, even if Maia’s mad at me, even if she won’t talk to me. I have to maintain some lines, because the slope is slick and oily under my feet, like the muddy hillside after a rain.
But like I snooped on my roommate, now I’m lying to my boyfriend—not to Martin the Mockingbird but to Martin my Martin. Because this is the kind of thing I’d tell him. And this is what Amy warned me about. The secrets you have to keep, the people you have to protect. You don’t get to be this great stand-taker without being yanked in every direction, without having your loyalties tested in every which way.
“I’m surprised, that’s all,” Martin says.
“Surprised? Like you thought it was her?” I say, snapping at him.
“No. Surprised at you. I just thought you were into playing by the rules.”
“You must have me confused with Parker. Because there’s another set of rules, and those are the ones that say you don’t let other people investigate your friends,” I say. But even as the words come out, I know I’m already doing the limbo under both sets of rules.
Do the ends justify the means, though? Does protecting Maia’s secrets make it okay?
“But what if your friends are doing something wrong?” Martin asks.
I stop on the landing and look at him, my eyes blazing. “My friend isn’t doing anything wrong.”
We walk down the steps in silence. I realize I’m shaking, like I’ve had way too much caffeine. There’s only one thing I need right now, and it’s not Martin.
Chapter Fifteen
ADMISSIONS SWOON
The piano waits for me in the music hall. It’s like a well-worn blanket and I want to nuzzle it, cuddle it, bury my face in it.
I close the door behind me and walk to the beautiful thing I love, dropping my backpack on the floor. I run my hands along the black lacquer, smooth as glass underneath my skin. I close my eyes, spread my arms as far as they can go, palms pressed on the instrument as I take a deep breath. Nothing is complicated here. Nothing is confusing here. There are no friends against friends, no boyfriends you lie to, no dean who just smiles and waves.
The piano asks no questions. The piano tells no lies.
I sink down onto the bench and at once I feel calm, quiet. This is my haven and the only one I share it with tonight is the French composer Maurice Ravel. I could play his most famous piece, Boléro, for my Juilliard audition CD. But everyone else will play Boléro. It’s famous for a reason. It’s sex in music form. The whole thing is foreplay. It’s one long build. That’s why everyone picks it. They think they can send Juilliard admissions officers into a swoon by playing Boléro.
Sure, there’s no question it is quite possibly the most visceral, most sensual piece of music ever written. But it has to be played by the whole orchestra to work. The turn-on comes from every instrument having its say as the melody rides from flute to clarinet to bassoon and on and on and on. Then there’s that snare drum, that delicious, tingly snare drum a constant throughout, keeping score of the desire that can’t stop itself, that lasts and lasts until… a burst of sound, then it’s over.
Let all the others try to seduce Juilliard with Boléro.
I will seduce them with prowess, because I have chosen a piece you play with only one hand—a concerto Ravel wrote for the left hand only. He composed it for a classical pianist who’d lost his right arm in the first world war. Ravel’s goal? To create a piece to play one-handed that was as challenging, as complex, as virtuosic as something you need all ten fingers for. It’s a crazy-hard piece, since you have to cruise through several speeds and several keys without a pause. I’ve mastered it technically. Note for note, I can breeze through it and wring all the gorgeousness out of it with four fingers and a thumb. But sometimes it feels as if something is missing, and I don’t just mean another hand. Something deeper, like a secret in the piece that needs to be mined.
I begin the excavation.
I play and I play and I play. Without stopping, without breaking, without thinking. This is the blissful emptiness of a world that makes no more demands of me than I make of it.
When I finally stop hours later, I don’t know that I find what I’m looking for, but I do find a temporary peace. I stretch out my neck, shifting to the left, then the right. I feel a buzzing in my pocket and I take out my cell phone, noticing that it’s almost nine and I’ve been playing since the middle of the afternoon.
Would you like a visitor?
I remember how I disappointed Martin. I remember how he pissed me off. But for all intents and purposes, I’ve just been to the spa, getting a massage for the last few hours.
Sure. Leaving soon, though…
Three minutes later he’s here and I let him in.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say.
Then there’s silence, the awkward silence of a fight still lingering between us.
“Just because I don’t always agree with you doesn’t mean I don’t respect your point of view,” he says, going first with the apology. As he says he’s sorry I am struck by how it’s not what most guys would say. Most guys would say, Just because I don’t agree with you doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you. But Martin, he knows this isn’t about whether we like each other after a disagreement. Martin knows I would never be that girl who thought he didn’t like me because we didn’t see eye to eye. Martin would never be that guy either.
And because he puts himself out there like that, because he opens himself up to me, I’m disarmed. And I like it.
“I guess I feel the same,” I admit.
“I just want us, the group, to do things the right way, even if the right way sometimes really sucks.”
“Yeah, the right way totally sucks.”
“So do we agree to disagree, then?”
I smile. “What choice do we have?”
“We could arm wrestle.”
“I think you’d win.”
“I hear you have pretty strong hands, though,” he says.
“They are powerful,” I say, holding up my hands like they’re claws.
“Show me how powerful,” he says, reaching for my hands, linking his fingers through mine. But rather than pull me close, he spins me around so I’m facing the piano. “Will you play something for me, Alex?” he asks.
With his hands on my shoulders, he sits me down at the piano bench. “What do you want to hear?”
“Ravel,” he says. “You’ve only been telling me about his left-handed piece for the last three months.”
“Oh, ha-ha.”
“But I want to hear the one you’re not going to play. I want to hear the one you think is too sexy for them.”
“I didn’t say it was too sexy! I said it doesn’t sound right just on the piano. You need a whole orchestra for the piece to be sexy.”
“Hmm…,” he says. “That is a dilemma. But I’m willing to let my ears be a guinea pig and tell you if it’s a turn-on without all those other instruments.” Then he moves in behind me, crowding me forward a bit, a leg on each side of me, his chest against my back. His hands slide down my arms as he rests them just above my wrists.
“That’s a bit distracting,” I say softly.
“Maybe like this you can get the piece just right,” he whispers.
“Close your eyes.”
“Oh, they’re closed, all right,” he says, his warm breath next to my ear.
So I begin. I glide through each of the repeating sections, naming the instruments that we’re supposed to be hearing as I go. “This would be the flute,” I say.
“Flute,” he repeats, brushing his lips against my n
eck.
“Clarinet,” I tell him.
“Clarinet,” he echoes, finding this spot just beneath my ear.
“Now the bassoon.”
“Mmm…bassoon.”
“Oboe.”
“Oboe,” he says, low and soft.
“Clarinet again.”
“Clarinet.”
“Now trumpet.”
“Trumpet,” he says, and traces his fingers up my right arm.
I shiver, then say, “Saxophone.”
“Saxophone,” he repeats.
Then there’s another saxophone, then piccolos, then his hands. Then more oboe, more clarinets, then his lips. Then more instruments, they all play together, those same eighteen bars, building, onward, further, over and over, hands on my arms, lips on my neck, breath in my ear, music all around.
Then it all just ends in a loud, very loud, finale.
And now silence.
The fabric of my T-shirt is burning, almost wet, with the pressure of his chest on me. I feel his heart beating against my back, his breathing, slow and steady, in the space between my neck and shoulder blade.
“You’re right,” he says quietly.
“About what?”
“You can’t play that for them.”
“Why?”
“Because then they’d want you as much as I do right now.”
Heat floods me as his arms fold around me. I have never wanted him more. I have never wanted to be closer to him, to anyone, than I do right now. Here with the boy I love wrapped around me, all I can think about is him. And me. And him and me together.
In every way.
“Martin,” I say.
“Yes?”
“Are your roommates in your room right now?”
“Yes. But I can kick them out in a heartbeat.”
“I would like that.”
Chapter Sixteen
SECRET KEEPER
I always thought I’d tell T.S. right away.
Or T.S. and Maia at the same time.
But now that it’s happened, I don’t actually want to tell anyone. I want to keep it to myself. I like nobody knowing what I did last night.
Because even though I wasn’t a virgin, it felt like the first time. The real first time. The way I always wanted my first time to be. Soft, and slow, and under the covers, with just a sliver of moonlight shining through the windows. Looking into his eyes, seeing my own nervousness reflected back, knowing he was the one worth waiting for.
And he was.
Because it was just us. There were no harsh memories slamming between us, no images crashing into me. And maybe, just maybe, that means I’ve managed to banish them for good. My heart soars at the thought, at the possibility that somehow, at some point, I crossed this hurdle, and this part of last year is behind me, where it should be.
That’s why all day Sunday I find myself keeping my mouth shut, just smiling goofy smiles at Martin when we sit together in the caf for breakfast, then again for lunch, then again when he comes to visit me in the afternoon and we go outside and walk around the quad holding hands, squeezing back and forth like we’re sending secret signals to each other.
Which we are, I suppose. Every time I look at Martin, he gives me an I-have-a-secret look back.
“Stop it!” I say playfully as we stand under a tree.
“I can’t help myself,” he says, and puts his arms around my waist. “You just seduced me there at the piano last night. You seduced me with your piano playing.”
“I’m a seductress,” I say, trailing my fingers across the front of his shirt as I laugh, because I couldn’t be happier that he finds my music sexy.
“And I’m just smiling because I’m so in love with you,” he adds.
It’s not the first time he’s said it. I’ve said it too. Nor is it the first time he’s said he’s so in love with me. Because, really, if you’re going to be in love, so is the kind of in love you want. But hearing him say it now, again and again, after the fact, makes me feel like all is right with the world, or at least my own little corner of the universe, perfect as it is in this moment.
So I keep my own secrets, keeping last night all to myself. This is my new history, the history I get to record. This is the way it should be between a boy and a girl. Then I say good-bye to him because I have a new dinner companion tonight, and it’s Jamie. We practiced together the other day and then made plans for dinner too, because that’s part of the whole mentor-mentee thing. I can’t say protégé. It’s too pretentious.
“I’m going to do my first duet soon!” Jamie tells me when we sit down to eat. “The captain of the VoiceOvers said he was super impressed with my singing, so he’s going to assign me a duet. I can’t wait.”
“That’s awesome,” I say. Jamie’s a true musical prodigy—not only is she a rising star in orchestra, she is also a singer, and she nabbed a spot in the VoiceOvers, Themis’s real a cappella singing group.
“So, if you had to pick flute or singing, which is your favorite?” I ask as I take a bite of my pasta.
“Am I going to get in trouble if I say singing?” Jamie asks, a touch of nerves in her question.
“Of course not.”
“I mean, I’m so glad you’re my mentor, and I totally want to get better at the orchestra and performing, but singing is my first love, know what I mean?”
I nod as I chew my food. Then I say, “Totally. I get it. And I wish I could sing too. But sadly, I can’t sing to save my life.”
Jamie laughs. “I highly doubt you could do anything wrong musically.”
“Ha,” I say. “Trust me on this one.”
Then I feel a finger tapping my shoulder. It’s the girl sitting next to me. I turn to face her. She has honey-blond hair, pulled back in a loose ponytail. “What’s up?” I ask.
Her eyes dart back and forth, then she asks, “Is it too late to still try out for the council? For the Mockingbirds? Because you’re the leader, right?”
I nod. “I am.”
“I saw the posters earlier and wanted to try out for the New Nine,” she says, using our secret code.
“That’s great. But we actually picked the New Nine already. Were you a runner last year?” I ask, because while I know the names of the runners, I don’t know all their faces.
Her face falls and she shakes her head. “No,” she says.
“But that’s okay! You can be a runner next semester. That’s how you start,” I explain. “Mockingbirds start as runners, then move to the council, and then some to the board.”
“And you’re on the board, right?”
I nod proudly. I want her to feel proud too to be a Mockingbird if she decides to try out.
“So you must have been a runner, then? And a council member too?”
I flash back to Amy’s room, to the decision I made there to own my past. I straighten my shoulders and answer her. “It was different for me. The leader is always someone who’s been helped. The Mockingbirds helped me last year when I was date-raped by another student,” I say, and it’s like I’ve stripped down and I’m standing naked before this girl. But I’m not ashamed of my body or my past. I stand here without any clothes on and I don’t hide and I don’t cover up and I am vulnerable, exceedingly vulnerable, but I am also choosing to be okay with this moment, all of it.
“Holy crap,” the girl says, covering her mouth with her hand. “Are you okay?”
“I am,” I say, nodding. “Thank you for asking.”
She shakes her head like she’s trying to shake away the shock. “I had no idea,” she answers. “But that’s pretty courageous.”
“Thank you. I hope you’ll try out to be a runner next semester.”
“I will.”
I turn back to Jamie, and she’s frozen in place, holding her fork in midair, her mouth hanging open. When my eyes meet hers, she speaks. “That was, like, the bravest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.”
Then McKenna drops by, sliding in next to us. “Yay!” she says, cl
apping. “I am so glad that it all worked out and you are Jamie’s mentor.”
“Me too,” I tell McKenna.
“Soooo,” McKenna says, raising her eyebrows and looking at her sister. “Everything fabulous?”
Jamie nods and says yes, but her voice sounds barren, empty. I watch as they lock eyes and something passes between them. Maybe a secret between sisters. God knows I have my fair share of secrets now.
*
I spend the next day entirely distracted in all my classes. It’s not just that I’m replaying Saturday night with Martin—my stomach flips every time I think back on it and every time I think about how much I want to do it again—but I am also wracking my brain to figure out how to prove Maia innocent.
I want to prove it to the board. I need Parker and Martin to know that she’s not the dealer. And I need to do it in a way that doesn’t reveal her secret—that she has the prescription, only she needs it for the right reasons. Most of all, I want this case behind me. I want my friendships back. I want to return to when T.S., Maia, and I could talk about silly names for pets, and mock our teachers, and, yes, talk about boys and kisses and sex. I want to tell them about my real first time and how I now have new memories, good memories, toe-curling memories to replace the bad ones.
But I can’t right now.
During my history class I study the Debate Club roster. I recognize some of the names, and one in particular stands out to me: Vanessa Waterman. She’s kind of scatterbrained and always dropping her books and leaving a trail of papers behind her, but from what I’ve heard from Maia, she’s one of the top performers on the team. She’s also sitting two desks in front of me right now. Vanessa and I have been in the same history class every year since we started here, and we were also paired up on special projects each of our first three years.
Here’s hoping that shared history will count for something.
When class ends, I stop at her desk. “Hey, Vanessa,” I say. Her desk is like a smorgasbord. Stuff is spread everywhere—notebooks, papers, textbooks, even some barrettes. She’s jamming it all into her backpack, her frizzy brown hair piled up high on her head.
The Rivals Page 13