The Mockingbirds (22 page)

I’m speechless for a moment. The only thing I’m aware of is my body, how my face is tingling, how all I want is to be close to him, to this boy who has liked me for the longest time. I manage two words. “You have?” I ask.

“Yes, but you had a boyfriend and I had a girlfriend and
then finally we both were single at the same time,” he says, then stops. “I’m not supposed to be doing this.”

“You mean being here just as you?”

He nods. “So I kind of want you to go first.”

I take the computer off my lap and put it next to me on the bed. “I want to kiss you right now,” I say, feeling something a bit like bliss about getting a say in the matter.

He just smiles and reaches for me, putting a hand in my hair and pulling me close to his face. His lips are soft and sweet and they linger on mine and he takes his time and I take mine too and I touch his hair and it’s soft just like it felt on my face that night. The kiss could last for ten minutes, ten hours. I lose track of time because with every touch, every taste of his warm lips, his cool breath, I’m reprogramming kissing, making it mine again, the way it should be.

“How do they do it, Casey?” I ask, clutching my phone tight to my ear, pacing back and forth in my room. “Do they just go right up to his room and knock on the door like some private detective?”

“Pretty much,” she says.

“Really?” I ask.

“Yes, really. It’s pretty basic. Knock on the door. Hand him a summons.”

My stomach twists in a gigantic knot. “Casey, this is the scariest and craziest thing I’ve ever done.”

“You performed in front of hundreds of people. You played a Chopin solo at Yale when you were thirteen, remember?”

“That was nothing. It was just a young musicians’ showcase. Everyone was thirteen.”

“Who cares? Point is you did it. You are stronger than you think. You’re a fighter. And you know me, Alex. I’m not a sentimental gusher. But I love you and I’m proud of you.”

“I love you too,” I say, and my other line rings. “It’s probably Amy or someone. I better go.”

We say goodbye and I click over.

“Alex?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Alex Patrick.” The voice drips with sarcasm as my entire body turns into ice.

“Alexandra Nicole Patrick,” he says again. “Now I know your whole name. Your whole entire name. And it’s Alexandra Nicole Patrick. The freak. Alex the freak who ran out that morning. Who ran away in the library.”

“Leave me alone,” I rasp. But I don’t hang up. I should, but I don’t, because I can’t move, I’m paralyzed. My feet are blocks of ice concrete. My legs won’t move, my arms won’t move, my brain is frozen. Everything is happening to someone else right now. This is not my world, this is not me, I am
not not not
on the phone with the guy who screwed me while I was sleeping. It’s not happening, because if it was I would slam the phone down.

But it is happening.

“I thought you were just a freak. Now I know you’re fucking delusional.”

“Not. I’m not.” It’s like I can’t speak, can’t form sentences. I’m just surrounded by thick sludge, quicksand, and it’s pulling me under.

“You were begging for it,” he says, oily and slick.

“Shut up!” I say, because I’m starting to thaw and the words are coming. “That’s a lie.”

He laughs harsh and cold into the phone. “Oh, it’s not a lie, freak girl. You were all over me.”

Hang up. Hang up. Hang up.

He keeps going, “And that’s why I can’t believe you would pull this shit and say I raped you and think you can get away with this.”

I hate him I hate him I hate him.

He continues, “You can sic all your little Mockingbird friends after me, but I know you’re wrong and there is no way I am settling this case. That’s why I have no fucking problem showing up for this trial, you freak.”

“You’re the liar,” I say. “You’re the liar.”

Then I hang up and just stare at the phone, bore holes in it with my eyes and I can feel my hands are hot and my cheeks are burning and my hair is on fire with rage and I have never hated anyone before but I hate him, I hate him so much for doing what he did that night and for doing this now. He deserves this, he deserves to be made an example of, he deserves to be punished. He was wrong then and he’s wrong now. He’s slippery, he’s slimy, he’s a water polo stereotype.

I want to throw the phone, I want to throw my
computer, I want to throw the chair, the desk, the bed. I want to smash the window. This is how it happens—this is how people go all postal. This is how you get so mad, so angry that you become not yourself.

I tell myself to breathe. One, two, three.

I take a deep, long, penetrating breath. I’m not going to be that person who loses it. No, I’m not and never will be. But I’m still angry, and when I turn to the mirror I see the vein in my forehead is throbbing. It’s my own metronome pulsing in time, just like Carter’s chest that morning.

I hear a ripping sound. It’s loud, ridiculously loud. I cover my ears it’s so loud. I open my eyes slowly, not wanting them to be open. Carter’s on me, he’s straddling me and he’s naked. Something’s wrong with this picture. He’s got a leg on each side of me and there’s this broad chest, a pale chest, a pale white chest, and I don’t want to look down because if I do I’ll see his penis and it’ll be hard and I don’t want to see his hard penis because he’s trying to put a condom on it. Because that’s what he just ripped open, the wrapper for the condom.

“What are you doing?” I mumble.

“Getting a dome out.”

“A dome?”

I think he nods but I can’t tell because he has two heads or something. Or his one head is blurry. I’m not sure, but it’s spinning. His head is spinning, or maybe it’s the bed, or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m spinning. I close my eyes. It hurts too much to leave them open. But I spin more with
them closed, so I open them again and Carter’s still on me, this looming figure over me. I think he got the condom on because he’s coming toward me now, his face is coming toward me, his body is coming toward me, and there’s a hand, a left hand, a right hand, I’m not sure, pressed on the mattress right next to my arm. And his other hand, his other arm is between his legs. I think I know what he’s doing. I think I know why his hand is between his legs. He’s going to try to enter me. He’s going to try to push himself into me. I look down at me, at my body, and I’m naked in this
bed, and I don’t know how I got naked in his bed. All I know is I don’t want him inside me. I don’t want it inside me. The spinning slows, then it halts, and the room’s no longer turning, it’s suddenly still and quiet and calm and I’m strong. I’m so strong I put my two hands on his big chest. I press my palms hard against him and push him. I shake my head; I say no. And I keep my hands on his chest like that, like a bodybuilder holding back a car, a strong man holding up a bridge.

My body is hollow, my insides a dark empty cave. Everything turns black for a moment as the filthy memory moves through me. There was no begging for it, only pleading to stop; I pushed him away and he pushed into me anyway.

I remember I’m nearly late for French class, so I grab my backpack and bolt. Martin’s waiting right outside my dorm for me.

“Sorry, I’m going to make you late,” I say.

“Us. Make
us
late. It’s the same class for both of us.
French,” he says, reminding me of the class we share. “But don’t worry. It’s no biggie.”

“Right,” I say, still distracted by the call and the memory.

“You okay?” he asks as we walk to Morgan-Young Hall, the regular way. I don’t have to go the long way anymore.

“You okay?” he asks again.

Oh, I still haven’t answered him.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I manage. Then, “Shit!”

“What?”

“We need to run,” I say, grabbing the arm of his shirt. “Subjunctive, remember?”

If you’re late for French you have to speak in the subjunctive mood for the entire class.
“Avis aux retardataires de mon cours, je vous
imposerai l’utilisation
exclusif du subjonctif,”
Ms. Dumas warned us the first day. It’s a brutal but effective punishment because everyone who has ever studied French knows the subjunctive tense is the trickiest tense of all. Hence, no one is EVER late to Ms. Dumas’s French class.

“We’re not going to get in trouble,” he says, running alongside me.

“What, are you omniscient?”

“No, I just took care of this already.”

“Took care of it?”

“When I knew you were going to be late, I took care of it.”

Before I can ask how, we push open the heavy door to
the building just as the bell rings. We’re late. But right outside the French class there’s Amy, immersed in an animated conversation with Ms. Dumas. Our teacher’s back is to us, her brown curly hair pinned up on her head as she chatters away
en français
with Amy. Martin places a hand on my arm, slowing me down so we can tiptoe soundlessly down the hall. I mirror his stealth as Amy exclaims,
“Certainement! Il me fera un grand plaisir de rédiger un essai pour vous.”

“Formidable,”
Ms. Dumas says to Amy as Martin and I slip into class, undetected by our teacher. I take my seat; he takes his a few desks away. Literally two seconds later, Ms. Dumas marches into the class and issues an upbeat,
“Bonjour, mes amis!”

She walks straight to the front of the class, to her lectern, and begins her lesson, without having noticed we were late. I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. I hate the subjunctive mood. But I feel strangely unsettled too. Where would I be without Amy and Martin and Ilana fighting all my battles, swooping in and saving me from teachers, from bad boys, from myself? I was Alex the music girl, the piano player, the Juilliard aspirant. Now I’m an untouchable.

When class ends, the girl who sits in front of me turns around to face me. I know her vaguely. Her name’s Mel, short for Melissa, I’m sure. She’s a tiny little thing; she must be under five feet tall. She has light brown hair she wears in a French braid every day (I know—I sit behind her in this class).

“Hi,” she says quietly to me.

“Hi, Mel,” I say.

Her eyes dart from one side of the room to the other, then she turns back around and says nothing more. Okay, whatever. I grab my bag and head out, Martin materializing by my side.

“So,” he begins, then leans closer so only I can hear, “do you want to hang out again tonight?”

“Yes,” I say. “But I don’t know if Maia or T.S. will be there.”

“We could sneak out somewhere,” he says mischievously.

My eyes go wide. “You’re a Mockingbird. You can’t break the rules. We can’t go out at night except for Fridays.”

“You’re such a good girl,” he teases.

After calculus ends that day, Amy finds me.

“We’ve decided to hold the trial in about a month. Sometime in mid-March. We’ll pick the exact date soon,” she tells Maia and me, then adds with her calming smile, “I wanted to let you know myself so you’ll have plenty of time to
prep
.” She emphasizes the last word to Maia, who nods crisply, understanding the directive she just received.

“Of course. We’ll be absolutely prepared,” Maia chimes in.

“Does Carter know it’s going to be in March?” I ask.

“He’ll know shortly,” Amy says, and heads off, maybe to deliver the message herself. I picture her tracking him down after his last class and telling him in person too, but
the image doesn’t compute. Maybe she has some other way—a safer way—of delivering messages to the accused.

“Let’s start by reviewing your testimony first,” Maia says as we return to Taft-Hay Hall.

I relive
that night
again for Maia as she writes notes in her black-and-white composition book. I tell her what I remembered this morning, how I tried to fight him off. “He is revolting,” she says scathingly, then reaches to hug me. “I’m so sorry he did that to you.” She continues like that—alternating between criticizing him and comforting me. I feel dirty just talking about it, so when she leaves for Debate I take a shower, washing off the latest coat of memories.

I get dressed, dry my hair, and pull on jeans, then a sweater I know Casey would give her Fashion Police thumbs up to.

Martin knocks at eight. I let him in.

“Hey,” he says as the door closes behind him.

“Hey.”

I sit down at my desk chair, he grabs T.S.’s. “So how was today? Was it hard?”

I shrug. The truth is I don’t feel like talking about it much, even with him. Or maybe especially with him. I don’t want this—
us,
if there is an us, or whatever we are—to be all about
him
.

“It was fine,” I say, not telling him about the phone call earlier today.

He furrows his brow, giving me kind of a penetrating stare. “You sure?”