The Rivals (13 page)

I exhale and look away. “Fine. I will let Anjali know. Martin, you want to look into Beat?”

He nods.

“Parker. You want Theo?”

Parker nods.

I stuff my notebook into my backpack, zipping it up tightly. “I’ll look into other angles,” I say, and I’m hoping the other angles are the ones that pan out. I don’t want it to be my roommate, I don’t want it to be the guy who’s like me, and I don’t even want it to be the person I just gave immunity to. I want it to be someone else.

But the truth is, I don’t want it to be anyone. Because if what Beat is saying is true, if what Delaney is saying is true, then Maia is hurtling headfirst into something that cannot possibly end the way she wants.

This can end only one way.

Badly.

Now I know who I am fighting for, and it’s my roommate.

Hours later, I am fuming at Parker’s suggestion as I slip into my
Science Rules
T-shirt.

Maia, who’s already under the covers and sound asleep, would never be involved in something like this, I tell myself as I get into bed.

Maia, hard-edged Maia. Ambitious, tough-as-nails, do-the-right-thing Maia. She’s got a soft side too, a side she lets very few people see. Like how she has a thing for hats. And I don’t just mean her Manchester United cap. I mean wide-brimmed, ladies-who-lunch hats that you buy at a milliner’s. She’d never wear them here, but she and her mom put on their proper dresses and their proper shoes and their proper hats every Saturday afternoon in the summers in London and go out for high tea. Or how she has a pet bunny rabbit back home. He’s black-and-white, and they named him Silvio. “I don’t know why we picked that name, but it’s just funny to have a bunny named Silvio, don’t you think?” she told us one night last year.

“Dude, you are such an only child,” T.S. remarked. “Only only children have bunnies.”

“I suppose when you have brothers you have dogs?” Maia asked T.S., who is the youngest of four and the only girl.

“Yes, we have dogs. Mutts. They chase Frisbees and catch sticks in the Pacific Ocean. And we give them dog names like Fred and Susie,” T.S. said, then started laughing.

Maia tossed a pillow at her and cracked up too. “Your dogs aren’t named Fred and Susie.”

“Okay. Archibald and Fiona. We gave them British names,” T.S. teased again.

Maia hopped out of bed then and pretended to stare down T.S. “Wait till I get my own dog someday. I’m going to name him T.S.”

“I would love to be your dog’s namesake,” T.S. said. “Just not a bunny’s!”

“It could be worse, guys. You could have cats for pets,” I said. “My mom got these Maine coon cats, and they spend the entire day in the linen closet. They only come out at night, and when they do they meow while pacing back and forth on the kitchen counters. You wonder why I had to get away from home. And you want to know what they’re named? Raoul and Aurelia.”

“You so totally win,” T.S. declared.

Maia hopped back into her own bed and pulled up her covers. “Silvio sleeps on my bed sometimes. I don’t know when he shows up, but sometimes I wake up and he’s sleeping on my feet.”

Now I flip over to my other side and picture Maia’s pet rabbit, Silvio, curling up at her feet. Then I hear Maia flip over too.

Weird.

Maia doesn’t toss and turn.

Maia’s made an art form of conking out the second she hits the pillow. But right now she’s not operating at the only two speeds she knows: all-out or dead to the world. Instead she’s lying in bed wide awake, and she’s breathing like she’s pretending to be asleep.

I fall asleep, then wake up later to the sound of a door creaking. It’s probably T.S., tiptoeing in after another late night with Sandeep. I open my eyes, but T.S. must have slipped in earlier because she’s zonked out on top of her covers. It’s Maia making the noise, sliding the closet door closed, then slinking back over to her bed, holding something in her hands. I can’t entirely make out what it is, but I see a small brown paper bag and near the top a fat white cap.

Like a pill bottle.

For a moment the blood stops pumping inside me, the air ceases to fill my lungs. I’ve seen something I don’t want to see; I know something I don’t want to know.

Only, it’s not about her.

It’s about me.

It’s about me being duped, being played, being stupid again.

I don’t move, don’t let on that I heard her, that I’m now the one pretending to be asleep as I watch her with my eyes like slits. She slides open the side zipper on her black messenger bag, then places the thing she doesn’t want me to see inside gingerly, like when you try to open a bag of chips without it making a sound. Something crinkles for a second, and the sound of it splits open the dark silence so completely that I shut my eyes tight and I hear Maia hold in her breath. I peer out again as she completes her mission, zipping the side pocket back up and stuffing the bag at the foot of her bed, where Silvio would be sleeping if she were back in England.

Her behavior is a bit dodgy, if you ask me.

A hard coldness fills me overnight, like I’ve slept in an igloo, like I’ve cuddled blocks of ice. I’m not shivering, though. I’m one with the ice because now I’m determined to unearth the truth, especially as that messenger bag becomes a part of her, it seems. She’s like a toddler clutching a worn little doll everywhere she goes. It goes to class with her, to the caf with her, to bed with her.

As Mr. Baumann launches into his discussion of
Jane Eyre
in our next English class, I shift my eyes down to Maia’s black messenger bag, the strap looped around her ankle. I zero in on it, that side pocket, my eyes like lasers, and everything else in the room becomes fuzzy. It’s as if I’m the only one in the class. Other students fade away; Mr. Baumann’s voice mutes. It’s just the bag and me, and I have to find a way to separate her from it.

I have to know what she’s protecting. I have to know if I’ve been played by my very own roommate.

When class ends, Maia darts out, telling me she’ll catch up with me later. I leave the classroom and bend down at the white marble water fountain for a sip. When I straighten up, Anjali is waiting for me, her blue eyes lit up with excitement.

“I have news for you on
other angles
,” she says.

I glance up and down the long, carpeted hallway of Morgan-Young Hall. We’re surrounded by other students. I shake my head and gesture with my eyes to the others. We walk outside, where we can talk about
other angles
, because that’s what I actually asked her to investigate instead. I decided not to assign her Maia, because whatever Maia is hiding is mine to figure out. I’m not going to farm out that assignment, no matter what Parker thinks. If Maia’s playing me, I’ll be the one who’ll figure out the truth. If she’s not, I’ll be the one to clear her name with the board.

“Freshmen are involved,” Anjali proclaims in a low whisper.

“Freshmen?” I repeat.

Anjali nods firmly. “That’s what I hear. I’m going to do some more digging, though. See if they’ll name names.”

“Who’s
they
?”

“Some other freshmen who saw it going down.”

“Are they in the Debate Club?” I ask, wondering if these freshmen are Theo’s suppliers.

Anjali shakes her head. “I think they’re just opportunists. Besides, they heard Ms. Merritt going on and on about the Elite at D-Day, so I think they jumped at the opportunity to become the team’s suppliers.”

“Figures it’d be her
tip-off
in some way,” I say, shaking my head.

Then we both spot Parker walking toward us. Anjali gives him a broad wave and turns up the wattage on her smile. Before he reaches us, I whisper, “Let’s keep this between us until we know more, okay?”

She nods and winks. “Of course.”

“Hi, Anjali,” Parker says, a little breathy, and I can tell from the way he says her name that he has a crush on her.

“Hi, Parker,” she says, and then leans in to air kiss him on each cheek.

Parker’s eyes turn into saucers, moons even, as his face lights up. Next he’ll probably press his palm against his cheek and try to capture the almost-touch of her lips.

Then he realizes his tail is wagging and his tongue is hanging out and he might as well be a dog greeting his master after a week’s absence, so he hastily tries to unscrew the happiness from his face.

“How’s it going?” he asks her, assuming his best all-business tone. “Find out anything good on Maia?”

Great. Now Anjali knows Maia is under investigation, and I don’t want anyone to know that. I’d like to kick Parker under the table and shoot him a hard stare. But I can’t, because then he’d know I’m lying to him about who’s tracking who.

“Not yet, but I’ll be sure to let Alex know what I find out,” Anjali says, without skipping a beat. She’s got a great poker face.

The bell rings for my next class: French. “We’ll talk
plus tard, d’accord
?” I say to Anjali.

“
Bien sûr
,” she says, and gives me that salute again. “You know where to find me,” she says to me, then blows a kiss to Parker before she swivels around and heads off to her class, her flower-patterned scarf trailing down her back.

I turn to Parker, who’s floating again. “I don’t think we should be talking about the case so freely out in public, okay?”

“Well, weren’t you talking to her about it?”

“No,” I say, lying again. “We were talking about”—I pause for the briefest of seconds, cycling through innocuous cover-ups—“shoes.”

Parker glances at my Vans. “I didn’t know you were a shoe person.”

“Yeah, it’s the one thing I don’t wear on my sleeve. Anyway, did you learn anything related to
your
assignment?” I ask pointedly.

“Not yet,” he says.

“Let’s focus on that, then,” I say, without breathing Theo’s name, in a feeble attempt to set some sort of example on how to lead. But really, I’m not so sure I’m setting an example anymore.

I arrive early for music class. Miss Damata greets me with a smile. “Good to see you, Alex.”

Her blond hair is piled up on her head in a bun. Loose strands fall around her face. Like Ms. Merritt, she’s pretty—but she doesn’t try to disguise it. Miss Damata is the
only
teacher here who’s a verifiable human being. At least as far as I know. She was instrumental in me having the guts to stand up to Carter last year in our secret underground court. Not that she knows about the student courtroom. But she knows what happened to me. And she also knows I wasn’t
culpable
in any way, shape, or form. I think I love her.

“Miss Damata, I was wondering if you had assigned mentors yet for the freshmen, because if you haven’t, I would like to request Jamie Foster,” I say, making good on the promise I made McKenna in the student-activities office.

“Any particular reason why you want to work with her?” Miss Damata asks.

I’m guessing
because her sister wants me to
isn’t going to cut it. “Because she rocked the Vivaldi,” I say, referring to the flute concerto she played last week in orchestra practice. “And because I think she could benefit from learning to work in concert more with other musicians. I think I can help her with that.”

Miss Damata nods approvingly. It’s a far better answer than the one I don’t say about her sister, and it also happens to be true. When Jamie enters the music hall, Miss Damata shares the news. I watch Jamie’s eyes light up, and then she actually claps her hands together. She grabs my arm and tells me how excited she is to be my
protégé.
I laugh at the word because it’s so silly-sounding, but even so I tell her I’m happy to be her
senior mentor
.

“Maybe we can practice later today,” she suggests, a hopeful sound to her request. I think back to the first time I met her, before D-Day, and how confident and poised she seemed. Now she’s more like a normal fourteen-year-old freshman, awkward and youngish. I wonder if she’s different around McKenna, always trying to impress her or something.

“Sure,” I say. “That’d be fun. And do you want to have dinner together sometime?”

“Yes!”

After music class, Miss Damata calls Jones and me aside.

“As you probably know, I have a few friends at Juilliard still,” Miss Damata begins, and the mere mention of the word
Juilliard
causes an involuntary reaction in me—I stand straighter, taller. She went there, and she taught there. I’ll be there too for my weekend visit in just a few weeks. “And a group of us has this tradition every October, where we have a kind of mash-up performance slash jam fest at a local coffee shop,” she continues, and I wonder if she means local as in New York or local as in Providence. “It’s in the Village. We’ll often invite some of our top students to play with us. The only catch is it’s in New York.”

“Catch? That doesn’t sound like a catch. It sounds cool!” I say, then I stop myself because she hasn’t technically invited us.

“And since our get-together happens to be the weekend of your Juilliard visit, Alex, I thought you might want to play with us,” she says, and all I can think is
yes yes yes
, and that’s all I can say too.

Then she turns to Jones. “Our best guitarist is eight months pregnant, so she is going to be out of commission. Would you like to take her place? I know you’d rather be on the guitar than the violin, anyway.”

“So it’s basically like a gig in New York City?” Jones asks.

“I suppose you could call it that,” Miss Damata says.

He nods approvingly. “I just booked my first gig in New York,” he says to me, and holds up a hand in the air. I high-five him.

“Your parents are in the city, right? Will you stay with them, or do you want me to make arrangements for you to stay in one of the dorm rooms at Juilliard for the night, like Alex is doing?” she asks Jones. I notice him tense for just the tiniest sliver of a second when she asks about staying with his parents. Jones and his dad aren’t exactly having warm family reunions these days.
Standoffs
is more like it.