The Mockingbirds (18 page)

We scan the shelves quickly, looking for the ninth-grade list because that’s when Themis teaches
To Kill a Mockingbird.
Maia spies it first, grabs it, and hands it to me. I open the first page, where someone’s handwritten an inscription—
For Jen
. I wonder who Jen is, but now’s not the time to figure it out. I flip through the book as if it were one of those cartoon flip books where each page contains a slightly different image. But there’s nothing so far, just the actual chapters. I reach the back of the book, where there are ten or so blank pages. Only not all are blank. Some are filled in with writing and names and lists. The first one says
Bully Pulpit
and the names of several students listed in pen. I’m guessing they’re the Honor Society bullies, the true Dishonorables. The next page says
If You’re Queer Don’t Buy Him a Beer
and Paul Oko’s name is on it, also in pen. There are more pages, more names like one that says
Watch Your Back
and a name I don’t recognize,
Ellery Robinson
, in pen as well.

Maia clasps her hand on her mouth. “Ellery Robinson,” she says heavily.

“What? Who’s she?”

“She graduated last year. Gorgeous girl. Lacrosse player, all-American beauty type. I heard rumors she did something horrible, though.”

“What?” I ask, feeling a sudden chill.

“She wrote something on another student’s back. With a blade.”

“Oh my God, that’s awful.”

“It was right at the end of the year so details were very sketchy.”

“Okay, let’s move on,” I say.

There’s another page that says
Curtains Closed
and the names of two students, presumably the freshmen theater crew.

Then there’s a new page and it simply says
No Sleepovers Allowed.

It’s underlined and beneath it there is one name.

Carter Hutchinson.

I touch his penciled-in name with my index finger to make sure I’m not seeing things. But it’s there, in this book of lists, a book of names. I pull my finger back as if touching his name singed my skin. Now I know why the Mockingbirds are so confident Carter will show up at his hearing. Points, cake, pools, and now this. I’m reminded of that old movie line “We have ways of making you talk.”

I turn to Maia, who’s a little bit awestruck too. “Time to check out the notice” is all I can manage before I dash off down the stairs and across the quad to the big bulletin board outside McGregor Hall, just a few feet away from the music hall. There’s a familiar red flyer pinned to it and flapping in the February breeze.

It’s a notice, just like my note promised. The mocking
bird is singing this time, the lyrics written in a bubble by its beak.

Hush, little students, we’ll say the word,

Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

And if that mockingbird won’t sing,

Mama’s gonna write down everything.

And so that book won’t look the same,

Mama’s gonna add a brand-new name.

Look, it’s not as if the Mockingbirds graffitied his name on the bathroom walls, slashing
Carter=date rapist
in black Sharpie or something. It’s a code, just a code. Most students probably won’t even give it a second glance. You don’t really think about the Mockingbirds unless they’re for you or against you.

Has Carter figured out they’re against him? Does he know the lack of points, the lack of cake, the nasty pool, the Juicy Fruit trees means he’s on their hit list? Has he seen this flyer? Has he found his name in the book? Will he know what it means? Will he know it was me? Because the book is just one more of the
preliminary things
, and this notice on the bulletin board isn’t the official notice. They haven’t even “served papers” yet.

I manage to pull myself away from the bulletin board and run into the music hall. I’m late, but Miss Damata’s cool and we don’t have attendance runners for our solo lessons. It’s just her and me, like a private lesson a few times a week. Not because I need the extra help, but because I’m that good. I’m not trying to be cocky. It’s just true. I hang up my coat by the door and take my seat at the piano next to her. “Sorry for being late,” I say, and push my hair away from my face, swooping it into a quick ponytail.

“You’re a busy junior,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say, because what am I supposed to say? Especially since I can’t get the book and the flyer and the code and the list and Carter’s name out of my head. I hit all the notes as we practice the Ninth Symphony for my performance, but there’s no feeling behind my playing right now. I’m not connected to the keys, I’m merely pressing them. Miss Damata senses the difference.

“Are you okay today?” she asks. She’s wearing her blond hair up again in a bun.

“Sure.”

“You don’t seem like yourself.”

“I’m just distracted. I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

“It’s okay to be distracted. You don’t have to be perfect.” She lays a hand on mine. I don’t pull my hand away. From her the gesture is genuine. “I can tell when your heart is in the music. And when it’s not, it usually means your heart, or maybe your head, is elsewhere.”

“Maybe it is,” I say softly, and when I do I feel a little
better. I’ve told her nothing concrete, but just voicing the possibility that something is wrong is a relief.

“Do you want to talk about it? You know, off the record.”

A teacher who says “off the record.” A teacher who acknowledges there is even a need for off the record. She’s not like the others, who’re book smart but not street smart. Miss Damata’s real; she sees through us. She sees through me. I look at her green eyes and consider confiding in her. Telling her about that night, about the cafeteria, about the comments Carter made, about the Mockingbirds, about the book.

“Just stuff going on,” I say.

“Any kind of stuff in particular?”

I don’t say anything for a few seconds. I don’t know what to say or how to say it. I’m groping in the dark for a light switch, stumbling to find it, when I manage to say, “It’s just… this semester is harder.”

“I take it you don’t mean academically,” she says softly.

“Right, not academically,” I say, “but more—”

Then I stop myself because it’d be like a dog chasing his tail—pointless. Teachers have no power. I know where the real power resides. I turn the conversation to Juilliard. “How hard is it to get into Juilliard?” I ask.

“Juilliard again?” she asks with a laugh.

“I’m dying to go there.”

“It’s not easy,” she tells me.

“What are the other students like?”

“Driven, dedicated, competitive.”

“Do you miss it?”

She shakes her head. It makes me wonder if I’d miss the school if I didn’t go. But I push those thoughts out of my mind because I don’t plan on not getting in.

“Alex,” she starts.

“Yes?”

“You can always come to me if you want to talk. It’ll stay between you and me. You can find me here or in the blue house with the purple door just a block off campus.”

“Thanks,” I say, knowing I should take her up on it, but I won’t. “A purple door sounds cool.”

When music is over I scan the quad. There’s no sign of Carter so I race back to the bulletin board to see if anyone’s there. I’m half-expecting a throng of students, like in those movie scenes when they post a cast list or something and everyone crowds around, peering over heads to see who’s on it. But no one’s looking, no one’s stopping. So I go to my next class, then check again after that. A few students walk by, one or two glance, but that’s all. I keep on like that the rest of the day, sneaking a peek at the bulletin board whenever I can.

I even slip back into the library, and like a shadow I flit up to the second floor to steal a look at the book. I notice a girl flipping through it, and just the presence of a person throws me off so much I scamper back down the steps, as if I just crank-called someone and hung up when they answered.

During my last class I even try to peer out the window,
eager for a view of the bulletin board from the second floor in McGregor Hall. But no one’s there. No one’s even in the quad—just bare trees and a few patches of hard, crunched-up snow from the week before. When class ends, I walk straight across the quad to make sure the notice is still there.

There’s a tap on my shoulder as I read what I’ve already memorized. It’s Ilana. “You like the note?” she asks.

“Very clever.”

“I wrote it. I’m the writer in the group,” she says proudly.

“Does everyone have a talent in the group?”

“Kind of,” she says, but doesn’t elaborate, just smoothes out a nonexistent wrinkle in her skirt, dark blue denim and calf-length. She wears brown slouchy boots with the skirt and a cowl-neck white sweater under her coat.

“But no one’s been looking at it,” I point out. “Hardly anyone’s even seen it. Do they even know what it means?”

“Not everyone will know. Not everyone will care. But enough students pay attention when a Mockingbirds notice shows up. Any kind of notice. Could be a revision to the code, seeking the New Nine, or a notice of a trial. We had a sixty-five percent voter turnout for the revisions to the code. We always get more students than we need for the runners, the Nine, and so on. So students will look. And students will figure it out. Some have already.”

“Really?”

She leans in close to whisper, “About a dozen students so far have seen the book.”

“A dozen? How do you know?”

“We have people watching.”

Of course. I should have known.

“Is a dozen good?”

“So far, yeah. And some will spread the word.”

“Has Carter seen it?”

Ilana shakes her head. “Not yet. But he will soon. And he’ll know Monday. That’s when we serve the official papers. Amy wanted me to tell you.”

“Monday morning,” I repeat. “Five days from now.”

She nods, her long dark braids moving up and down too. “Gives this time to sink in.”

“Does he know you’re responsible for the points and the cake and all?”

“He might have an inkling,” Ilana says with a shrug. “We’ve done it before, with others. Well—points and cake. Everything else is tailored to the individual. So as soon as he gets wind of the book, he’ll probably know he’s due for a summons. But he’ll definitely know it’s all connected when he gets served. It’s included in the notice. Our prior work, so to speak.”

I nod, then ask quietly, “What do I do when I see him again? I mean, he’s going to know it’s me. That I’m the reason he’s in the book.”

Ilana shakes her head. “No, he’s going to know he has to answer to a higher authority.”

No matter what Ilana says, there is no way I want to feel Carter’s seamy eyes on me again. So the next day I’m doubly careful to avoid him. I put on sunglasses, tuck my hair into a Manchester United cap of Maia’s, and pull on a short army camouflage jacket that’s cool but I hardly ever wear, so no one knows it as “my coat.”

I leave early for every class. I skirt around buildings to stay out of sight. When it’s time for lunch, I head for my dorm, remembering there’s a fresh bag of pretzels on my desk. Casey dropped it off the other night, along with apples, Diet Coke, M&M’s, popcorn, and homemade blondie brownies. Oh, the choices—how will I ever pick?

But just as I’m about to pull open the heavy oak door to Taft-Hay Hall and escape the wintry air, I’m intercepted.
Amy hooks an arm around my right arm, Ilana around my left. They spin me around and walk me back down the steps.

“Lunchtime!” Ilana says cheerily. Her braids are gone today and her hair’s been flattened into one long sheet of dark brown hair, practically draped over a caramel-colored wool coat.

“Are you taking me out to lunch?” I say.

Amy shakes her head, her cropped haircut a stark contrast to Ilana’s. “Nope.”

“More mac and cheese?” I ask, figuring maybe we’re going to her room to dine.

“Not in the plans either.”

I stop on the stone path. “I’m not going to the caf.”

“Yes, you are,” Amy says.

I shake my head and hold my ground, pressing my weight onto the heels of my boots.

“Alex, you can do this, and remember, you’re safe with us,” Amy says.

“How?” I ask.

“He knows who we are now. He knows we’re the Mockingbirds.”

“How does he know?”

“He just does,” Amy says, looking at me.