The Rivals

by Daisy Whitney

  “You can’t let Natalie get to you.”

  “But what about the others? Those students I don’t even know?”

  “Same thing. Same advice.”

  I stop before we reach the steps to Morgan-Young Hall. “Actually I’m not looking for advice.”

  “Okay.”

  “I was telling you, and then you started offering advice, and I didn’t ask for advice.”

  “Okay. Gotcha,” he says. “Why don’t we go to class now and I’ll catch you later?”

  “What does that mean? Are you blowing me off?”

  He laughs, and I feel small. “Alex, I’m just following your lead.”

  “Fine. Go, then.”

  “Okay, I will,” he says, and gives me some sort of tip-of-the-hat gesture. It irks me, the way he’s so casual, so been there, done that.

  I grab his arm before he can leave and pull him to the side of the building.

  “If you want to skip class with me, all you have to do is ask,” he says, and runs his hand down my arm and to my waist. He tries to pull me close to him as he says, “I’m always up for skipping for the right reasons.”

  But I resist. “Martin, listen to me. I’m not going to try Maia. I don’t care about the evidence. I don’t care what people are saying. I don’t care what Beat and his friends said last night. I’m not going to do it.”

  “Alex, there’s a lot of evidence.”

  “You think she did it?”

  “I think there are a lot of students who say she did.”

  “They’re setting us up. I know they’re setting us up, Martin. They’re liars,” I say, even though I started the lies.

  He sighs heavily. “Be that as it may, there are three of them.”

  “But you know she didn’t do it, right? Please tell me you know she didn’t do it.”

  “What I think doesn’t matter, Alex. Don’t you get it? The Mockingbirds aren’t about you or me. They’re about something much bigger. They’re about all of us. And they’re about us—you and me and Parker—not inserting our own opinions or feelings onto a case.”

  “So now you’re accusing me of favoritism too, just like those students in line.”

  “Right. Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m just like everyone else. Just like the guys down the hall who say it to me. Or the people in bio who whisper behind my back. Or the people who come up to me face-to-face and say it too. You’re not the only one people say crap to. They say it to Parker. They say it to me.”

  “And now you’re letting them get to you, aren’t you?”

  “No,” he says emphatically. “I’m not. I’m used to it. Every year it’s been something. This is what they’re saying now. I saw the sign on the bulletin board. I know what it means. I hear people say stuff too. That’s why I said you can’t let it get to you.”

  “You keep saying that, Martin! Like you’re the expert and I’m just the new kid on the block,” I say, even though I am the new kid and Martin would never have backed a student into a lie.

  “You know that’s not how I feel or how I think, so don’t try to put that on me.”

  “So stop saying it, then. Stop telling me not to let them get to me.”

  “Fine. I won’t say it,” he says. “May I go to class now?”

  I’m not ready to let this end. “I’m not going to try Maia,” I say again. “And it’s not because of what people are saying.”

  “And this is where I disagree with you, Alex. And it’s not because of what people are saying either. But I think we need to try her. The evidence against her is no less compelling than against Jamie.”

  “There’s physical evidence against Jamie!” I point out.

  “And there are three students who are saying Maia’s involved.”

  “And one of those students is someone you don’t trust—Beat. You said not to trust him from the start.”

  “You’re missing the point. The point is, this is when you have to be objective. This is when you have to move beyond you and your world and your friends and your feelings. It’s about the group having integrity and doing the right thing. It’s about the whole student body, not our favorites. It’s not a personal decision. We don’t get to pick and choose who’s potentially guilty or innocent based on who we’re friends with. If we do that, we might as well be the little clubhouse they all think we are,” he says, and pauses to look straight at me, his gaze sharp and fierce, his eyes full of steady quiet. “And now I am going to class.”

  He turns around and walks away. Before he can go, though, I blurt out, “I’m leaving for Juilliard tomorrow.”

  He looks back, slightly puzzled. “I know. You’ve told me before. I remember it’s this weekend.”

  “I’m taking a tour,” I say.

  He nods. “Right.”

  “And then there’s that jam fest thing.”

  Then he gives me a curious look. “And I hope it goes great.”

  I haven’t mentioned I will have company. Every time I’ve tried, something came up, made me stop. My stomach curls, and I feel like I might throw up.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Jones is going. Miss Damata invited him too.”

  Martin doesn’t say anything for a second, then a minute, then what feels like an hour, a day, a week. I watch his eyes as they cycle through a myriad of reactions. Why I didn’t mention it before, why I’m mentioning it now, but most of all he wants to know if something is going on with us.

  “Why are you telling me now?” he asks slowly.

  I shrug. “I just remembered.”

  “Really? You just remembered?”

  I gulp, then nod.

  “You just remembered? Like just now? Like just this second? You remembered you’re going away for the weekend with the guy I told you two nights ago that I am insanely jealous of and you said there was no reason to be insanely jealous?”

  “There’s not a reason,” I say, and the bell rings for class. But neither one of us makes a move to go.

  “There’s not?” he asks, giving me a sharp look.

  “There’s not.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me?”

  I toss my hands up. “I don’t know. I forgot. I’ve been busy. This case is all freaking consuming. My roommate’s mad at me. The dean cares more about my college apps than a cheating ring. And I’m busy chasing down suspects because Parker’s not doing his job. Maybe that’s why,” I say, feeling like everything is falling onto me, everything that shouldn’t be my responsibility, so then I really start going. “Oh, and I forgot. I also have classes too. I have an English paper due. And a history paper. And I still have to finish my Juilliard audition CD. That enough for you?”

  He holds up a hand. “You can just spare me the details, okay? Because the same applies here. I go to the same school. I’m in the same group. I have the same crap to deal with, and I would have remembered to tell you if I was going away with some girl for the weekend to visit MIT.”

  I close my eyes at the words some girl, picturing Martin with some girl. Walking around MIT, touring the campus, working on science experiments together. Hey, come watch this cell mutate. He nudges the microscope closer to her and leans in as she peers through the lens. I walk into the scene and yank her hair back. Get away from my boyfriend.

  “I’m sorry, Martin. I should have told you,” I say softly.

  “How long have you known?” he asks, his voice bursting with an uneven mix of hurt, anger, confusion.

  “A few weeks,” I admit.

  “Alex,” he says in a low voice as he shakes his head. He turns away for a minute, and I watch how his broad shoulders curve into his back. My hands have touched that back, touched his naked skin. I know that back. I know the freckle under his left shoulder blade. I’ve traced it with my index finger. I’ve run my hands along the length of his smooth skin and pulled him closer to me.

  He looks at me and pushes a hand through his hair. “Don’t make me say this.”

  “Say what?
”

  “Don’t make me be this guy.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, and for a second I’m scared. I’m scared of what he’s going to say.

  “I don’t want you to go,” he says, and I can tell the words taste bitter, like vinegar to him.

  I have done this to him. I have made him do something he hates doing. I have made him be that guy.

  “I don’t want you to go away with him,” he says again, and holds up his hands in a terribly defeated gesture. “There. I said it. And now I am the guy who tells his girlfriend what to do.”

  “Martin, I can’t tell him not to go. That’s not fair,” I say.

  He says nothing.

  “And I can’t not go. I mean, I’ve been dying to go.”

  He still doesn’t speak.

  “Please don’t make me choose,” I say.

  “I’m not making you choose.”

  “Yes, you are,” I protest, and I clench my own hands into fists, and suddenly I build up my defenses, I assemble bricks around me, stacking them higher, walling myself in as I say, “I just feel like you want to come between my friends and me. You want to try Maia because it’s the supposedly noble, unbiased thing to do. And then when I am going away to New York for the weekend and not even staying with Jones, just going to a performance with him, you’re like a different person and you say no.”

  “I didn’t say no, Alex. I said I don’t want you to. There’s a difference.”

  “But is there?”

  “You tell me. Is there a difference? Do you like Jones?”

  “Of course. He’s my friend.”

  Martin points a finger at me. “That’s not what I mean at all, and you know it. Do you like him, Alex?”

  I fumble for a second before I answer, asking myself if maybe I do, if somehow all along this is why I haven’t said anything to Martin, because of the zing I felt that night, because of the way Jones’s hand felt on my shoulder that afternoon before music class. “Not like that,” I answer, and I’m not lying, I’m telling the truth, I know I’m telling the truth, but I feel like I’m lying.

  “It took you long enough to say it.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not all levelheaded and reasonable like you and sure of all my convictions and beliefs every single second of the day.”

  He closes his eyes, exhaling heavily. “But I’m not like that, okay? I wish you could see that. I wish you could see that this—you—is the one area that I am not Mr. Calm-and-Cool and whatever it is you think I am.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He softens for a second and takes a step toward me, reaching his hand out to my shoulder, holding me there tight. “You,” he whispers. “You are the thing in my life that I am not levelheaded and reasonable about. And I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry. Because I am fucking in love with you, okay? And that makes me not want to see you get on a train with another guy and go to New York. The thought of you on that train with him, with Mr. Guitar Hero, Rock Star, whatever, makes me absolutely crazy.”

  I am torn between wanting to fold myself into his arms and let his intensity, his desire, his strangely sexy jealousy envelop me, and needing to take a stand for myself, for my friends, for my own convictions.

  “I can’t just ditch Jones, Martin. You have to understand,” I say quietly.

  “I’m sure I would understand if you would tell me. But you won’t tell me. You won’t tell me why you’re always racing off to see him. And you didn’t tell me you were going away with him when you’ve known for a while. And you tell me now. You tell me now like it’s a confession. Like you know you should have told me. Like you know you should have said something. And you should have, Alex.”

  “Well, I didn’t. And I can’t go back and change it. So I’m sorry, okay?”

  “Okay,” he says, but what he really means is whatever.

  “So, what now?” I ask.

  “What now?” he repeats.

  “Where does this leave us?” I ask, and I am terrified of the answer.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “But I am late for class and I need to go.”

  I watch him the whole way, till the door swings shut behind him. Then I go to my room and I get into bed and I pull the covers up over my head and I cry. This year is turning out to be nearly as crappy as last year, and that’s saying something.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  STOLEN KISS

  “More than two hundred and fifty pianos. The school has more than two hundred and fifty Steinway grand pianos. It’s like I’ve died and gone to heaven, only better, because I’m alive and playing music,” I tell Jones.

  I’ve just finished an official tour of the Juilliard campus, which didn’t take long because the school is actually quite small, just a few buildings and only one residence hall. But size doesn’t matter in this case. Location does. The school is next to the Metropolitan Opera House, the New York City Ballet, the Lincoln Center Theater, and the New York Philharmonic.

  Jones strokes his chin. “Hmm…where have I heard this before? Let me think. Could it be from you? The seventy-five or so times you’ve told me this before.”

  “I know, but here it all is in person! And I just walked through it,” I say as I sit down next to him at the fountain in Lincoln Center. It’s not the first time I’ve toured the campus. But being here doesn’t grow old. Being here is also the only thing that can distract me from thinking about Martin, from thinking about whether we’re even together still. He didn’t call me after class yesterday. He didn’t text me. He didn’t come to see me. But I didn’t do those things either.

  So I focus on what’s in front of me, what I can see and touch and hear. It’s Saturday afternoon and the October sky is painted a perfect powder blue. The air’s crisp but not chilly. Lincoln Center is filled with people heading to their Saturday matinees. Here in the epicenter of the arts, where I want to be next year, surrounded by all those glorious Steinways. I watch a stream of theatergoers pour into the Vivian Beaumont Theater for the two o’clock curtain. The crowd is filled with pretty women in autumn coats and crisp heels, handsome men in pressed suits and sharp ties, tourists in sneakers and JCPenney jackets, and everything in between. New York is truly for everyone. It’s also the furthest thing from Themis Academy that I can imagine. I might as well be moons away, galaxies even. There are no Mockingbirds here, no underground student-justice league at Juilliard. Why would this school need one? Juilliard does not labor under the same delusions that Themis does.

  Coming here, going anywhere, will be a relief.

  Jones places a hand on my thigh. “We’d better get going. Our jam fest starts in an hour.”

  “Which means we can soak in this ambiance for another few minutes and still be early,” I say as I twist around to watch the fountains spurting water behind me. “This is really perfect, isn’t it?”

  “If you like this sort of thing. Culture, that is,” he teases. As I turn back, I notice his hand is still on my thigh. I don’t move his hand. I look at it, drawn again to his fingers.

  “Jones, do you think we should try Maia?” I ask quietly, and it feels so good to unburden myself. It feels so good to share all these things I’ve kept from him. “These three debaters came to us and said it was her. And they went into all this detail, and the other board members say we can’t just ignore it. They say we can’t ignore three people.”

  “You can’t try her, Alex,” he says, his hand gripping my leg more firmly as he speaks. “Friendship is more important than your code. Besides, there are other codes that matter, and that includes the one that says you don’t do dickhead stuff like try a friend in your mock court. It all comes down to the kind of person you want to be, right?”

  I nod. “I’m glad you agree with me.”

  “Why are you glad I agree?”

  “Because you have your own moral compass or something that has nothing to do with what other people think.”

  “Funny. I’ll often imagine a hot girl telli
ng me I rocked the guitar, or she likes my blue eyes, or she dreams about what I can do with my hands. But liking my moral compass? First time for everything.”

  I blush for many reasons. For hot girl. For blue eyes. For hands. For all the times I’ve noticed parts of Jones. When I shouldn’t notice parts of him. Especially not here in New York City, far away from Themis, so far away it isn’t just in another galaxy, it’s in another universe, maybe even an alternate one. Not here on the steel edge of the fountain, the water shooting up behind us, making its own sort of aquatic music. Not here where I want to escape to and escape from everything I left behind for the weekend.

  But I want to know if Martin was right to ask if I liked Jones. I want to know if maybe there is something more. If I do have feelings for my friend, feelings I haven’t acknowledged.

  So I look up, but not at him. I don’t ask if he’s calling me a hot girl. Because I don’t care about that. I don’t tell him his eyes are beautiful, because that doesn’t matter now either. What I do is this: I lean my head back. I let the sun warm my face. I imagine. Turning to face him. Looking into his indigo eyes. Closing mine as I let him kiss me. It’s like a rock song, a guitar riff, fingers spreading across strings, stretching to reach faraway notes, strumming them in ways they’ve never been strummed. He kisses like he should kiss—hot and electric and alive and solo.

  How utterly easy it would be for me to kiss him. No one would know. No one would have to know. It could be our secret stolen kiss by the fountain in Lincoln Center.

  Fountains don’t talk.

  But if I’m going to be the kind of person I want to be, that person doesn’t cheat. That person doesn’t give in to a fleeting thought, however momentarily tempting. I’m sure it would be a delicious kiss. I’m sure there are many boys all around the world who kiss deliciously. But that doesn’t mean I am going to test the theory, especially when I already know a boy who kisses deliciously and I am so in love with him.

  “Hey, Moral Compass. Let’s get the hell out of here,” I say.

  We catch the nearest subway down to the Village, where the Juilliard alums welcome us into their inner circle as if we’re just like them, as if we’re equals. As we play I have this fleeting image of how it could be, how it should be. Adults and teens in concert, as equals, striving for the same goal—for now it’s musical harmony. And it could be so much more.