The Mockingbirds (11 page)

“We’ll meet separately to prepare and then let you know when the vote is,” Amy says. Then she looks to me and almost drops her hand on my leg. I can sense it would be in a friendly way, a caring way, but she stops, guessing that physical contact isn’t my thing right now. This understanding, this awareness, flickers through her blue eyes in an instant and it’s as if she possesses a sort of heightened sensitivity. “But don’t worry about it, Alex. It’s a formality. It’ll pass. The administration might not get it, but most students know it’s not something we want happening here.”

“And if it passes?” I ask quietly.

“Then, assuming we accept your case, you have the option to have a hearing before the council, like a mock trial, only it’s real and has real consequences. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, Alex.”

I picture Carter here in this room in a mock witness stand, being grilled by prosecutors, forced to defend his defenseless behavior, all of it, the date rape and the ugly rumors. I picture having to listen, to recount what happened for him, for the council. I don’t want to do that, not at all. But then I picture a semester of vicious whispers and nasty lies in the cafeteria and the halls of the school—a semester of being “Easy Alex.”

“So does anyone want to finish this?” Martin asks, cupping the die in his right palm, his fingers wrapped over it. He tosses it onto the board and moves two spots when he
rolls a deuce. “Wild card,” he says. Then he looks to Amy and she to me.

“And now,” she says, “you’re going to need to tell us your account of what happened that night so we can decide if we want to take your case on—if it’s the type of case where we can be fair and be good.”

So I begin the story….

I have this dream sometimes, only it’s not really a dream. I’m awake and imagining. And in the waking dream, I’m in the cramped lavatory of an airplane. I wash my hands with the liquid soap, smelling faintly of lemongrass, or at least what the manufacturer thinks is lemongrass, but it’s really just some industrial substitute scent. The skin on my hands is dry and flaky afterward, but that happens on airplanes. They suck the moisture out of you.

Anyway, I turn to the door and push the lock to the side. I try to unlock the door, but I can’t. I keep pushing, jamming harder to slide the lock over, but the door never opens and I’m stuck there in the airplane bathroom, surrounded by stale air and industrial soap scents, and my face grows
hotter and my fear grows higher and all I want is out, out, out.

I always thought if I were raped I would feel that way. Or maybe that way magnified times ten, twenty, one hundred. I’ve thought about rape before. I pictured it happening to me. A dark alley, some rough guy I don’t know who’s five times my size grabs me and forces me to my knees, a knife to my throat. Sometimes I’d picture it happening in my house while everyone was asleep. He’d come in through my window and hover above me. I’d be startled awake, pinned down in my own bed, everything I know that’s right in the world ripped out of my chest.

That
is rape.

I know rape is something else too. It’s just I always thought of it in a very specific way—with a very specific kind of attacker—not in a way I’d have to defend, not in a way where I’d have to preface everything with “I was drunk, really drunk.”

And that’s what I’m saying as I tell the story of
that night
to Ilana, Amy, Martin, and really to T.S. and Maia in detail for the first time. I tell them I was really, really drunk, knowing they’ll decide if my story is good enough—or really, bad enough—for them to take me on.

I finish and Amy immediately says they’ll take the case. Somehow I passed the first test. In some weird way, it’s reassuring. Her speed in deciding to take me on is more evidence that what happened that night wasn’t right.

The three of them pack up Trivial Pursuit while the three of us grab our laundry.

“So the next step is we’re going to take a vote with the students to revise the code,” Amy tells me before we leave. “And then you can decide if you want to move forward.”

I nod and Amy says she’ll be in touch soon. We leave and when we hit the landing of the stairwell that leads both outdoors and upstairs, I say to Maia and T.S., “Guys, I need to go practice. Can you take my laundry back up?”

“Sure,” T.S. says, reaching for my bag. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you think you want to take it to a hearing?” T.S. asks gently.

I do, but I don’t. I don’t, but I do.

All I want right now is to be as far away from this as I possibly can. So I shrug, pull on a sweatshirt from my now clean and dry laundry, and then leave for the music hall. It’s cold out so I wrap my arms around myself and put my head down. I look at the stone pathway, the patches of dead grass next to it, the light from the quad’s old-fashioned streetlamps bouncing off the trees, and I don’t notice I’m about to walk into someone. “Oh,” I say, my heart beating faster, my mind praying it’s not Carter. But when I look up I see Martin.

“Hey,” he says.

“How’d you get here so fast?” I ask, taking a step back.

“I had a feeling you’d be going to the music hall.”

“How’d you know?”

“Because everyone knows you’re the star piano player.”

“But how did you know I was going there tonight?” I cross my arms. Because now he seems like Mockingbird Martin, not Martin Martin.

“I saw you leave. I was walking back to my dorm and I saw you walking across the quad and I didn’t want you to walk by yourself.”

“I’m okay,” I insist.

“I know you’re okay. I know you’re tough.”

“Tough? How do you know I’m tough?”

“You have to be tough to stand up for what’s right,” he says.

“Is that what I’m doing?”

He nods firmly and the look in his eyes is clear, resolute. “Yes, God, yes.”

I look at the ground.

“Hey,” he says softly. “I’m sorry you went through it. I’m sorry it happened. And I know it wasn’t easy to tell your friends or to tell us or to tell me, the only guy there tonight, even though I was at the concert.”

“Wait. Does that mean they can’t take my case on? Is it a conflict of interest you being there earlier that night?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No. It won’t have any impact. I told Amy before the meeting.”

“Oh,” I say, figuring his telling Amy must be another part of the Mockingbirds be-on-the-up-and-up protocol.

“Anyway, I hope you don’t feel weird or anything around me. Because you shouldn’t.”

What, is he reading my mind? “How did you know I felt that way?” I ask.

He gives a half-smile. His eyes, they light up again, even in the darkness. I think it’s the green flecks. I wish I had green flecks in my eyes. Mine are just brown.

“I sensed it so I wanted to say it. And because we’re friends already. That’s why I want to walk you to the music hall. May I?”

It occurs to me he’s asking to be nice, to do the right thing, because he’s the type of guy who sees a girl alone at night and doesn’t hit on her, doesn’t leer, doesn’t try anything but simply asks if he can walk her to where she’s going. He’s the opposite of Carter. He’s above the fray.

“So how are those birdbrains?” I ask as we start walking.

He smiles, holds up his index finger, then lowers his voice. “Mark my words, Alex. Someday jays will take over the world. They will be our masters, our leaders, and we will bow down before them.”

I imagine a blue jay in the Oval Office wearing a tiny gray suit, a red-and-blue-striped tie around his neck. His feathery head is tucked down; he pores over a policy position his defense secretary—a cardinal—slipped onto his desk earlier this morning. The jay reaches for a fountain pen, his wing stretching out to grab the heavy silver pen, and a servant pops in, a person, a human, carrying a tray of tea and cookies—wait, make that worms—and hands it to the presidential bird. I laugh, both at the scene in my mind and Martin, for planting the seed. I like how he can go from
serious and real to silly and fun in a heartbeat, and to know what’s needed in that same heartbeat too.

“I will consider myself forewarned, then, of the inevitable blue jay coup.”

“Actually, they’re scrub-jays. Anyway, just don’t tell anyone about my conspiracy theories, okay? They might think I’m crazy,” he says, then circles his index finger near his ear, the universal gesture for loony.

“Your scrub-jay secret is safe with me,” I say playfully, but then I don’t feel so playful anymore because I think about
my
secret, only it’s not a secret anymore. He knows, T.S. knows, Maia knows, the Mockingbirds know. If I go through with a mock trial, more people will know.
Everyone
will know.

“Thank you, Martin,” I say when I reach the door to the music hall. It’ll be unlocked. It’s always unlocked. That’s the Themis way. But I don’t invite him in, nor does he ask to go in.

“So, I’m just going to hang out over there,” he says, pointing to a thick oak tree twenty, thirty feet away, its branches bare for the winter. “I’m going to sit down on the grass and finish conjugating French verbs in the pluperfect tense or something, and when you’re done, you’ll pretend you just ran into me for the first time tonight, that I wasn’t waiting for you, and then I’ll walk you back.”

“But it’s freezing out,” I say.

“And I have a coat,” he says, pointing to his fleece pullover.

“You don’t have to wait for me,” I say.

“I know,” he adds.

“You don’t have to,” I say again.

“But I’d like to. I’ll just be over there, okay?”

I nod and walk into the music hall. It’s dark and quiet and all mine and I don’t turn on the light because I don’t want to draw anyone’s attention to my being here except Martin. Besides, I can play without lights. I push everything else out of my mind. Amy, Ilana, Paul Oko, the receiver, the dishonored seniors, the theater backstabbers, my sister the crusader, my apple for dinner,
that night,
even Martin sitting under the tree on the cold, hard ground. They all are vapor to me now. I settle in at the piano, my sanctuary, thinking this is home; this is me. This is what I do. This is the me before, during, and after
that night
.

I have a Mozart performance with Jones coming up soon, Sonata for Violin and Piano no. 35. I close my eyes and practice my part. The first movement I know well. The second I know expertly. The third I know, but it can be better. I make mental Post-its to review with my music teacher. When I’m done, I feel centered, relaxed, connected. I feel as if I could play all night and not grow tired. So I go back to my standby, to “Ode to Joy.”

As my middle finger presses down on E, I hear it playing
that night
and I’m back in time.

“Mmm…,” a voice whispers near my ear. Or in my mouth. I’m not really sure. It’s probably in my mouth, I
reason. Because his tongue is there too. His tongue is pressed into my mouth, touching my tongue. I’ve never liked deep kissing. I like lip kissing, sweet kisses, soft lips like Daniel’s, not tongues with minds of their own. “Let’s go back to my room,” he says.

Something sounds very reasonable about that idea. It sounds like a plan, a well thought-out plan. He stands up and reaches for my hand. I stumble a bit when I stand, so he holds my hand tighter, then leads me out of the room, down the hall, and to the back stairs.

“It’s late, so we have to be careful,” he says.

“Right. Careful,” I agree, holding tight to the railing as I walk down the stairs.

Then we’re outside behind Richardson Hall. At least I think it’s Richardson Hall. Anyway, it’s dark, and it’s night, and the air is clear, and for a second my head is clear. I breathe deeply, breathing in the clear air. And when I do, I know I don’t want to go to his room. I don’t want to go at all. I want to go to my bed and crash forever.

“Um, I’m going to go back to my room,” I manage. The words are sticky in my throat. It doesn’t seem like he hears them.

“Carter, I want to go back,” I say louder.

But he still doesn’t respond. Instead, he holds my hand tighter, gripping it hard, and my knuckles feel like putty under his big hands. I feel like a dog on a leash, pulling her head back, resisting, but the owner pulls forward, insisting.

The dog doesn’t win. The dog never wins. The owner drags him along. I wish I could bark. Or bite.

“You’ll like my room,” he says, ignoring my request. “I have ‘Ode to Joy.’ ”

I play faster, harder, like “Ode to Joy” is a phone I want to throw against the wall. I play it like my mom just told me I’m grounded for a month and I’m so mad at her I take the phone and throw it against the wall in my bedroom. And the battery pops out and the phone goes dead. And my mom says she’ll take it out of my allowance, the money for a new phone, because this one can’t be fixed. But I don’t care because it felt good to throw it, felt good to break it.

It feels so good to play hard and calloused and fierce because now I’m angry, angry at things that happened while I was sleeping. And I’m angry at Beethoven. Because now my music is infected. Because my last great escape is tainted. It’s one thing for a memory to rear its head when T.S. just happens to mention Beethoven’s name, like she did on the way to the Captains’ Room. But it’s another thing entirely for Carter to invade my piano, my music, my home.