The Mockingbirds (13 page)

She simply smiles and says “thank you,” then continues. “Her work was very romantic. But she stopped composing after she turned thirty-six,” Miss Damata says. Her voice is like powder, falling snow. “She even said, ‘I once believed that I possessed creative talent, but I have given up this idea; a woman must not desire to compose—there has never yet been one able to do it. Should I expect to be the one?’ ”

“I’ve always thought it was terrible she felt that way. It was completely an
injustice
that she stopped composing,” I add, dropping in my new favorite word as we bond more over Clara. “It’s like we’re the poorer for it.”

“Especially because she was so genuinely talented. She wasn’t just talented for a woman. She was talented period. She could hold a candle and then some to the men, and our field is dominated by men. The teachers, the students, the composers, the stars.”

A twinge of guilt rushes through me because I have never given Clara a spot in my assembly of greats. I have never asked for her guidance when I needed musical help. I have turned only to men, and those men let me down after
that night
. I bet Clara wouldn’t have let me down. I bet Clara would have had something to say. I glance down at the piano, at the key I abused. It looks fine—it’s been playing fine for the last week—but I should say something.

“Miss Damata,” I begin, “do you think the E sounds off, like maybe someone…” I trail off, leaving my unspoken question hanging there.

She plays a few bars from Liszt’s Consolation no. 3; the notes are like a morning bird singing. “It sounds just the same as always to me.”

I close my eyes and listen to her play, and the piece soothes me. I picture it smoothing out the keys, restoring them under her gentle touch to the way they were before.

“Do you know Schumann’s March in E-flat Major?” Miss Damata asks.

I open my eyes. “Yes.”

“Would you like to play it with me?” she says.

We play Clara Schumann’s piano duet together and I feel the first ounce of unblemished joy I’ve felt since
that night
. When we’re done Miss Damata tells me she’s
delighted
to be teaching me this year. “You’re everything Mr. Graser said you would be. We’re going to have a great year,” she says.

If I were a blusher, I would blush. Instead I ask, “Why would you come to Themis when you were at Juilliard,
when you’ve performed on world stages? That’s so much bigger than us.”

“Juilliard is a wonderful place, Alex,” she says. A strand of hair falls down out of her bun. She reaches for the blond pieces, tucks them behind her ear, and continues. “But I guess I’m not that different from Clara Schumann. I didn’t think Manhattan was a good place to raise a family. I wanted a quieter life.”

Maybe she has kids, but even so I swear I will never understand adults, even the cool ones like Miss Damata.

After we finish I take the long way to physics class, my boots crunching against the frozen ground as I go. Even though I’ll have to see Carter
in
class, I refuse to run into him on the way
to
class. I can’t give him a chance to try to talk to me, to try to touch me. So I have meticulously plotted out circuitous routes to all my classes. Maia did some detective work for me—I have a hunch Amy, Ilana, and Martin helped her out too over the last week—and we were able to reverse engineer Carter’s entire schedule. She placed it on my desk the other night with a flourish.

“Ta-da,” she said. “This is for when we can’t be there to walk with you.”

We mapped out how
not
to see him, down to the very second so I could still make it to classes on time. Now I take the long way everywhere, even though it’s winter, even though it’s freezing or snowing or sleeting or basically spitting up something wet and cold nearly every day in Providence.

Today, the ice is a minefield behind the music hall. I dodge one patch, but my left boot catches the next one the wrong way and before I know it, my feet are sliding out from under me and my ass collides with the cold, hard ground.

“Crap,” I mutter as I push myself up, grabbing my backpack. I stand and my right cheek already hurts and I can tell I will have a gigantic bruise by the end of the day. I make it to physics, wishing I were the kind of student who could just ditch a class, but I’m not a ditcher. I’ve never missed a class. And I’m not going to miss one now, even with an ass bruise the size of Alaska, even though Carter will walk into class any second.

I slide into my seat and Martin gives me a quick look. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little awkward around him now, but he’s also the only reason I can survive physics.

“I still have to show you those levitation pics,” he says, and I don’t feel awkward anymore.

“I was worried you were holding out on me,” I tease.

“Never,” he says.

But before I can say something else, I freeze. Carter saunters in, unzips his jacket, stops for a second, gives me a look, then winks. I can see the tip of his tongue almost sticking out the side of his month, in what he must think is some vaguely seductive, sexy invitation. I feel my stomach coil like a spring, hard and tight. He turns back and keeps walking, sliding into his seat at the front.

Then Mr. Waldman enters the room, briskly, not even looking at us. When he reaches the podium, he peers out at
the class, his bald head bobbing quickly, his eyes moving up and down each aisle, taking attendance. He writes something down on a piece of paper. Two seconds later a runner walks in and rushes up the aisle to Mr. Waldman, who holds the attendance slip in his outstretched hand. The student grabs it and heads out, but before he leaves I see him glance at Martin. Martin gives the student a nod, firm, precise. The runner gives him a quick one in return, then darts out.

I look to Martin, my curiosity piqued. Does he know all the runners back from when he was a runner? But he’s reaching for a pencil, looking the other way. When class ends, Martin puts a hand gently on my back and guides me out of class. He’s protecting me, getting me out of Carter’s line of sight. We walk across the quad and pass the bulletin board in front of McGregor Hall, where flyers flap in the wind. Martin tips his chin toward the board, where there’s a red notice with the bird staring at us.

The big bold letters are the words of Atticus Finch to his daughter, Scout.

You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view.

It’s about playing fair.

That’s why the Mockingbirds consider all views—all votes—in the revised time for our first concert.

Then there’s a time and a date—one week from now. But the Mockingbirds won’t be performing then. Instead, they’ll be counting votes, adding up how many Themis students think date rape is a crime worthy of being deemed a violation of the only code of conduct that matters here.

Martin leans in to whisper. “Students have a full week to get their votes in. We think it’s more than enough time. You’ll find the ballot under your door tomorrow morning after first period.”

The next day, I’m dying for English class to end. I look at the clock, willing it to tick closer to ten so I can sprint out of here and grab the piece of paper that’s sure to be under my door.

Five more minutes.

Four more minutes.

Three more, two more, one more…

“And don’t forget, I want to see your first scenes in your Shakespeare adaptations by the end of the week,” Ms. Peck says.

The bell rings and I turn to Jones, my wingman. I want to tell him to run, sprint, fly with me. But I haven’t told him the other stuff yet, the reason I’m dying to see what’s under my door.

“How’s our Mozart sonata coming along?” I ask as we leave the classroom.

“I need to practice more. I’m sure you know it cold.”

“Of course.”

“I’m sure you’re going to kick my ass in it,” he says.

“Maybe I should.”

“Why can’t they just let me play Clapton?” he half-moans.

“Why don’t you do your spring project on Clapton and then you can?” I suggest as we walk across the quad. It’s snowing lightly, but the flakes coming down are wet, watery snow. Still, a pair of brave jock boys play Frisbee in only jeans and T-shirts, as if they’re proving how tough they are. I do a quick scan, eyes darting back and forth, checking for signs of Carter, Kevin, water polo players. They’re nowhere to be seen. Still, I’m glad to have Jones next to me.

“Hey,” he says. “Today’s the day, right?”

My cheeks burn and I suddenly feel exposed. “How did you know?” I ask quietly.

“Know?” he replies casually. “Everyone knows. I mean, you vote, right?”

“Oh, you mean the vote?” I breathe again.

“What else would I mean?”

“To revise the code of conduct?” I ask eagerly, just to make sure he’s talking about the vote in general, not me in particular.

“Obviously.”

“So how are you going to vote?” I ask.

Jones stops and gives me a look. His hair falls onto his face and he brushes it back with his long fingers. “How am I going to vote? What do you think? Do you think I’m some kind of troglodyte?”

“Points for using an SAT word!”

“I rock in the SAT points department, and they’re only two months away,” he says triumphantly as we reach Taft-Hay Hall. “Still…,” he says, his voice trailing off.

“Still what?”

“I still think it’s strange that students try other students.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, it’s weird. It should be the school or students working with the school.”

I give him a look. “Jones. You know what they’re like.”

“I know. I’m just saying it
should
be that way.”

“But it’s not,” I say, willing myself not to get emotional, “and we don’t have another choice.”

“I just wish there was a better way.”

“This
is
the better way,” I insist.

Jones gives me a crooked smile. “You’re drinking the Kool-Aid, aren’t you?”

I should tell him. I should tell him what happened.

“Why are you so worked up about this, Alex?” he asks. “I thought you were all music all the time.”

He’s my friend and I should tell him. But there will be time enough for that later.

“I better go vote,” I say, and then dash up the three
flights of stairs and into my room. I close the door tightly behind me, and there it is.

A white sheet of paper, but with the familiar bird trademark. I pick it up, take it to my desk, and sit down.

Sexual assault is against the standards to which Themis students hold themselves. Sexual assault is sexual contact (not just intercourse) where one of the parties has not given or cannot give active verbal consent, i.e., uttered a clear “yes” to the action. If a person does not say “no” that does not mean he or she said “yes.” Silence does not equal consent. Silence could mean fear, confusion, inebriation. The only thing that means yes is yes. A lack of yes is a no.

Somewhere in this school, somewhere in another dorm room, Carter could be reading this too. And if he is, is his mind churning, sick with the knowledge he did
this
? That he did what he’s reading? Is he afraid I know that he did this? Is he afraid because this vote could give me the power to do something about it, the power to be someone other than that girl who’s not eating dinner, not eating lunch?

My eyes narrow; they burn the white paper in front of me. A hole burns in it, I swear, all black and charred in the middle of the words
not say “no”
as I remember his tongue pushing into my mouth, his crusty lips the next morning, and above all, his unforgivable laziness in not recycling his Diet Coke.

Who doesn’t recycle? I mean, really. Who doesn’t recycle a soda can?

Someone who’d do
this.

I pick up my pencil and make my mark on the paper hard, a coarse check mark next to YES.

As I write I push the pencil down so hard on the paper it splinters; the point of the pencil actually shears off. But then I look down and I see the pencil tip is still intact, so I must have just imagined it breaking or wanted it to break. I put the pencil down, fold up the paper, and look out the window. The snow’s getting wetter, mushier.

I fold the paper in quarters, then eighths, then sixteenths, and bring it to the mailbox for the Mockingbirds in the student activities office, where they’re listed as “The Mockingbirds/a cappella singing group.” Then, since it’s my free period, I head to the library to start my research on the injustice of the Ninth Symphony. The snow’s wetter, almost rain now, and I’ve forgotten my umbrella, so I walk faster. When I get there I push my wet hair away from my face and head toward the computer catalog, eyeing a free computer at the end of the row. A student who has been sitting at another computer stands up, practically bumping into me.