The Rivals (31 page)

“Now? You want me to go outside now? It’s practically freezing,” she protests.

“Here’s a coat,” I say, handing her my fleece as we walk down the steps and into the November night.

We reach the theater, and the doors have a new look. Like a string of lights at Christmastime, a line of black boxer briefs has been draped over the curved archway. Maia steps closer to get a better look. There are maybe twenty or so pairs of boys’ underwear hung up. She leans in, not wanting to touch the undergarments, but close enough to see that each one has a label sewn on the inside:
Property of Beat Bosworth
.

I wait for Maia to say something.

“His mom sews his name into his underwear? Like who’d take them? Who’d want them?” she says.

“I know, right? But thank God for Mrs. Bosworth.”

“And who wears black boxer briefs
only
?” she adds. “And where did you two loons come up with this idea?”

“Look,” I begin, “it’s not the Elite. I know it’s not even remotely close to a replacement for the Elite, but it was all we could do at this point. It was all I could think of to do.”

“No, it’s not the Elite. And, don’t get me wrong, I wanted to feel that bloody trophy in my hands like I’ve never wanted anything before in my life. But you know what? There was something I wanted more. Or less, really. Because when I heard what Theo did last night in the cafeteria—and incidentally I still think he’s a total wanker—I realized it was actually more important to me that the rest of this school know I’m not a cheater. And he let them know that. That was the worst part of all this, even worse than not debating, even worse than losing the Elite. That’s why I was so miserable, because I didn’t want people thinking that about me. I didn’t want the whole school thinking I’m someone I’m not.”

“We’re not done clearing your name, Maia. There’s more we will do,” I add, though I know it’ll take a lot of work to undo the damage I’ve done. I’m up for the task, though.

“But there’s something I have to do too,” Maia says to me. “And that’s to say I’m terribly sorry for not seeing what you were going through as head of the Mockingbirds and the risks.” She looks down at my hands.

T.S. jumps in quickly. “I’m sorry I gave you a hard time too. I know you were just trying to do the right thing.”

I wave my good hand in the air as if all of this is just no big deal, but mostly so I don’t choke up. Because it is a big deal, all of it. But whether I’m a public person or a private person or some cocktail of the two, the goal is the same: to do the right thing. I don’t always hit the mark, but I plan to keep it in the crosshairs.

“Let’s just enjoy the view for now,” I say, and we take a few steps back to get a better look at our handiwork. The three of us stand on the quad gazing upon a doorway decorated with black boxer briefs.

“I’ve always thought we’ve never had quite enough pranks at Themis Academy,” Maia says.

“And let us never forget that pranks should always be allowed. In fact, they should be encouraged,” I say.

We head to the cafeteria for dinner, where I take my usual spot. Jamie’s across the cafeteria with a group of girls I presume are her freshmen friends. She laughs at something funny someone must have said. Then she makes a goofy face at the person.

I turn back to my friends and take a bite of my salad. The lettuce falls off the fork, which is surprisingly tough to use with three immobile fingers.

Maia laughs at me. “Maybe next time you’ll get a sandwich.”

“Maybe next time you’ll get it for me.”

When Martin finishes eating, he stands up and taps his fork against his glass, quieting the room. “Just a brief update to the recent announcements. Wanted to let you know that Maia Tan has, if she wishes, been fully reinstated to the debate team.”

We didn’t plan this, but this is part of the restoration. This is part of how we can make good again. He turns to Maia. “I’m assuming you’d like to return.”

She nods, the epitome of class and grace.

“Good. Then let’s move forward and look ahead to Nationals next semester, where I’m sure you’ll lead the team as only you can.”

Then there’s clapping. Not everyone. Not even most students. But enough. And even though my fingers are too broken to hold a fork properly, I’m pretty sure I’m the loudest of all.

As the clapping subsides and Martin sits back down, I spot a mane of flaming red hair a few tables away. Carter’s former girlfriend. She’s looking at me, watching me, and when she knows I see her, she nods and mouths,
Thank you
.

On my way back to my dorm after dinner I see Delaney and Theo across the quad. They’re walking and holding hands on their last night together before he leaves for good. As I watch them I remember holding hands with Martin the night after I played
Boléro
for him. I feel a pang, knowing I won’t be able to play again for a while. But then the emptiness subsides, because that night wasn’t just about music. It was about something more. I still have that something more, and that’s another thing they can’t take away from me.

As they walk past the music hall and the dance studio, I flash on my conversation with Theo earlier this year when he mentioned Ms. Merritt e-mailing him.

She was
saddened
—that was her word—to learn that my dreams might not materialize
.
And she had some
suggestions
for what I might be able to do with my
creative energy.

Suggestions.
I bet she had suggestions. I bet she
suggested
the debate team. She was needling him, poking him, pushing him. She was stirring up all our competitive spirits, stoking the flames so we could do her bidding—perform, perform, perform and help bring the J. Sullivan James trophy home.

So she could win. So she could beat her biggest rival. So she could bolster her record in every way.

Then I laugh. Because I doubt there’s any trophy coming for her this year. I bet Matthew Winters will claim it after all. God, I hope they beat us. I hope they take the trophy home and gloat over it, lord it over Ms. Merritt’s head.

I rush over to Delaney and Theo, needing to confirm my suspicions.

“Hey,” I say, knowing I am interrupting but knowing this is vital. “Ms. Merritt suggested you go out for debate, didn’t she? That’s what was in the e-mail she sent you over the summer, wasn’t it?”

Theo nods. “Yeah. She said she knew I was good with politics and thought debate would be a good outlet for me.”

I look at my hand again, and my resolve to do something about it deepens.

“Hey, guys,” Delaney says, and points to the time on her phone. “I have to go. It’s time for me to meet Jamie for our
assignment
.”

Then she winks at me. “I guess I’m an honorary Mockingbird,” she adds.

“You absolutely are, Delaney,” I say.

“I guess that’s all out in the open now too,” Theo says to her, then leans in to plant a kiss on her cheek.

“It is,” Delaney says. Then to him, “I’ll meet you in your room when I’m done.”

She dashes off, and I’m standing under the night sky with Theo McBride.

“I’m sorry about your hand,” he says softly.

I look at my hand again; my eyes keep drawing me back there, like it’s a new tattoo.

“Can you play again?” he asks.

“That’s what they say. But who knows if it’ll be the same, right?”

“Yeah. Who knows,” he says, and he doesn’t need to say anything more, because we will always be speaking the same language; we will always understand each other. “I’ll listen to you play anytime.”

“I’ll watch you dance anytime,” I say, and this is a promise I will keep for my whole life, because it’s not about this school; it’s not about the here and now. When I am twenty, thirty, forty, when Themis is in my distant past, when I look back on high school through the gauzy haze of memory, I know that
this
promise will matter, that this promise will not be forgotten.

Then I walk to the nearest drugstore, buy some facial-hair remover, and return to my dorm. When all the lights are dimmed, when quiet descends on the building, I head down to Anjali’s room and quietly, carefully, and ever so quickly apply the cream to her eyebrows while she sleeps.

I do the same to McKenna.

Their naked eyebrows will go great with their new hair color.

When Monday morning rolls around, the Watchdogs have made their mark on campus. Every tree on the quad has been tacked with a flyer that says
Join the Watchdogs
next to that nefariously grinning dog holding its gavel. Its mouth is kind of smiling and snarling at the same time. A
smarl
. Then there’s a time and a place for a meeting—three nights from now. A recruitment meeting. The bulletin board has an extra-special sign on it. A picture of the dog gobbling up one of our birds. The bird’s head is in the dog’s jaw; the wings and body and feet dangle from its teeth. Then the headline—as if it needed one—
Dogs Eat Birds
.

If I had a Sharpie, I’d scrawl some graffiti on their drawing. I’d march right up to the tree and even with my bad hand I’d uncap the marker and scratch in the words
But Birds Can Fly
.

Instead I go to the cafeteria and I search for the Watchdogs. They’re not going to miss their moment in the spotlight even
without
eyebrows, even
with
their new hairstyles. My eyes scan the cafeteria and land on the most brightly colored crowns there. Sure, McKenna has that stupid hat on again and Anjali’s wearing a scarf on her head. But the scarf can’t hide Anjali’s new red hair. Bright strands the color of a fire engine poke out. As for McKenna, her wild mane is a bitter orange, like a burned Popsicle.

They look like clowns.

I walk straight over to them and grab a seat.

“Nice scarf,” I say to Anjali. Then I turn to McKenna and give her a shrug. “Don’t feel bad. Not everyone can rock a rainbow-colored shade,” I say as I twirl my own blue streak.

Look, I’m not saying pranking their hair and their eyebrows is the same as breaking fingers. But you can’t stoop to that level. You have to fight fair, and just because your opponent uses deadly weapons doesn’t mean you have to. You use the weapons you can live with yourself for using.

Like hair dye and bleach from an honorary Mockingbird. Like a double agent who added those extra ingredients to two girls’ shampoo bottles—red dye for the blond Anjali, bleach for the black-haired McKenna. Like facial-hair remover for the pièce de résistance.

Before either of them can speak, before either of the clown twins can sneer or spit, I continue. “It could be worse. Your bones could be broken. Hair grows back.”

Then I turn to Natalie, the third musketeer and the only one whose hair is still its natural shade, whose eyebrows are still intact.

“You, Natalie, are a bully,” I say. “And you won’t get away with it.”

She laughs at me. “I already got away with it.”

“That’s what you think,” I say. “But I know something you don’t know.”

Natalie tenses and narrows her eyes for a second. Now I am the one going rogue. Now I am the one she has to beware of. But I don’t play by her rules. I play by mine, by the Mockingbirds’. Our rules may be changing, but they are still good.

In English class that morning, Mr. Baumann chuckles when he sees Anjali. Then he covers his mouth with his hand and turns around. But his shoulders are shaking and he’s still laughing. That makes me happy. I glance at Maia, and she’s grinning too.

When English class ends, Mr. Baumann calls me aside. “How’s your hand?” he says.

“Fine,” I say.

“Do you need any extra accommodations for assignments?” he asks.

“No, thank you,” I say, because I don’t, and if I did I wouldn’t take them anyway. I’d grin and bear it, even if both hands were broken, even if my hands were covered in casts. I shudder at the image of me clunking around, my prized possessions encased in plaster, knocking glasses off tables, frames off mantels. But even as they crashed and shattered, I’d still be stubborn enough to insist I could do it all myself.

Then again, maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe I would accept help. Maybe I would accept Mr. Baumann’s help, like Theo did.

“I’m glad to hear you’re well, then,” he says. He takes a beat and in his pause I decide to ask
him
a question.

“Are you upset that the Debate Club didn’t win?”

He shakes his head. “No. Not in the least.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not teaching them to win. I’m teaching them how to compete with grace.”

I let those words sink in.
Compete with grace.
If only everyone here was teaching that. But maybe it’s enough that some are. Maybe it’s a start.

Then it’s his turn to ask me more questions. “What did you think of the books this semester?”

He knows what I thought. I’ve written papers. I’ve analyzed scenes. I’ve contributed to classroom discussions, maybe not as much as Anjali, definitely not as much as Maia, but enough. But I have this feeling he’s not asking the question in a teacherly way.

“I think some boarding schools are scary places to send your kids,” I say. “Midnight trials, groups like the Vigils.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Baumann says. “Indeed. But maybe that can change.”

Maybe. Maybe it can.

I think about one of the last lines in
A Separate Peace
, when Gene says, “I was on active duty all my time at school.” Indeed, we all are on active duty here at Themis. We are all fighting. Sometimes we know the enemy. Sometimes we don’t. Sometimes the enemy is us. And sometimes the enemy hides in her office.

But I know where her office is, so I drop by to see Ms. Merritt, showing her secretary my splint, like it’s a first-class ticket to let me in the dean’s office. It does the trick, and I sit down across from Ms. Merritt.

“I’m so sorry to hear about your hand,” she says. Her hair is tight against her scalp, pulled into her trademark braid, and her hands are clasped in front of her, resting on her massive oak desk. “How are you managing? Is there anything at all I can do for you?”