Mockingbirds be-on-the-up-and-up protocol.
“Anyway, I hope you don’t feel weird or anything around me. Because you shouldn’t.”
What, is he reading my mind? “How did you know I felt that way?” I ask.
He gives a half-smile. His eyes, they light up again, even in the darkness. I think it’s the green flecks. I wish I had green flecks in my eyes. Mine are just brown.
“I sensed it so I wanted to say it. And because we’re friends already. That’s why I want to walk you to the music hall. May I?”
It occurs to me he’s asking to be nice, to do the right thing, because he’s the type of guy who sees a girl alone at night and doesn’t hit on her, doesn’t leer, doesn’t try anything but simply asks if he can walk her to where she’s going. He’s the opposite of Carter. He’s above the fray.
“So how are those birdbrains?” I ask as we start walking.
He smiles, holds up his index finger, then lowers his voice. “Mark my words, Alex. Someday jays will take over the world. They will be our masters, our leaders, and we will bow down before them.”
I imagine a blue jay in the Oval Office wearing a tiny gray suit, a red-and-blue-striped tie around his neck. His feathery head is tucked down; he pores over a policy position his defense secretary—a cardinal—slipped onto his desk earlier this morning. The jay reaches for a fountain pen, his wing stretching out to grab the heavy silver pen, and a servant pops in, a person, a human, carrying a tray of tea and cookies—wait, make that worms—and hands it to the presidential bird. I laugh, both at the scene in my mind and Martin, for planting the seed. I like how he can go fromserious and real to silly and fun in a heartbeat, and to know what’s needed in that same heartbeat too.
“I will consider myself forewarned, then, of the inevitable blue jay coup.”
“Actually, they’re scrub-jays. Anyway, just don’t tell anyone about my conspiracy theories, okay? They might think I’m crazy,” he says, then circles his index finger near his ear, the universal gesture for loony.
“Your scrub-jay secret is safe with me,” I say playfully, but then I don’t feel so playful anymore because I think about
my
secret, only it’s not a secret anymore. He knows, T.S. knows, Maia knows, the Mockingbirds know. If I go through with a mock trial, more people will know.
Everyone
will know.
“Thank you, Martin,” I say when I reach the door to the music hall. It’ll be unlocked. It’s always unlocked. That’s the Themis way. But I don’t invite him in, nor does he ask to go in.
“So, I’m just going to hang out over there,” he says, pointing to a thick oak tree twenty, thirty feet away, its branches bare for the winter. “I’m going to sit down on the grass and finish conjugating French verbs in the pluperfect tense or something, and when you’re done, you’ll pretend you just ran into me for the first time tonight, that I wasn’t waiting for you, and then I’ll walk you back.”
“But it’s freezing out,” I say.
“And I have a coat,” he says, pointing to his fleece pullover.
“You don’t have to wait for me,” I say.
“I know,” he adds.
“You don’t have to,” I say again.
“But I’d like to. I’ll just be over there, okay?”
I nod and walk into the music hall. It’s dark and quiet and all mine and I don’t turn on the light because I don’t want to draw anyone’s attention to my being here except Martin. Besides, I can play without lights. I push everything else out of my mind. Amy, Ilana, Paul Oko, the receiver, the dishonored seniors, the theater backstabbers, my sister the crusader, my apple for dinner,
that night,
even Martin sitting under the tree on the cold, hard ground. They all are vapor to me now. I settle in at the piano, my sanctuary, thinking this is home; this is me. This is what I do. This is the me before, during, and after
that night
.
I have a Mozart performance with Jones coming up soon, Sonata
“Anyway, I hope you don’t feel weird or anything around me. Because you shouldn’t.”
What, is he reading my mind? “How did you know I felt that way?” I ask.
He gives a half-smile. His eyes, they light up again, even in the darkness. I think it’s the green flecks. I wish I had green flecks in my eyes. Mine are just brown.
“I sensed it so I wanted to say it. And because we’re friends already. That’s why I want to walk you to the music hall. May I?”
It occurs to me he’s asking to be nice, to do the right thing, because he’s the type of guy who sees a girl alone at night and doesn’t hit on her, doesn’t leer, doesn’t try anything but simply asks if he can walk her to where she’s going. He’s the opposite of Carter. He’s above the fray.
“So how are those birdbrains?” I ask as we start walking.
He smiles, holds up his index finger, then lowers his voice. “Mark my words, Alex. Someday jays will take over the world. They will be our masters, our leaders, and we will bow down before them.”
I imagine a blue jay in the Oval Office wearing a tiny gray suit, a red-and-blue-striped tie around his neck. His feathery head is tucked down; he pores over a policy position his defense secretary—a cardinal—slipped onto his desk earlier this morning. The jay reaches for a fountain pen, his wing stretching out to grab the heavy silver pen, and a servant pops in, a person, a human, carrying a tray of tea and cookies—wait, make that worms—and hands it to the presidential bird. I laugh, both at the scene in my mind and Martin, for planting the seed. I like how he can go fromserious and real to silly and fun in a heartbeat, and to know what’s needed in that same heartbeat too.
“I will consider myself forewarned, then, of the inevitable blue jay coup.”
“Actually, they’re scrub-jays. Anyway, just don’t tell anyone about my conspiracy theories, okay? They might think I’m crazy,” he says, then circles his index finger near his ear, the universal gesture for loony.
“Your scrub-jay secret is safe with me,” I say playfully, but then I don’t feel so playful anymore because I think about
my
secret, only it’s not a secret anymore. He knows, T.S. knows, Maia knows, the Mockingbirds know. If I go through with a mock trial, more people will know.
Everyone
will know.
“Thank you, Martin,” I say when I reach the door to the music hall. It’ll be unlocked. It’s always unlocked. That’s the Themis way. But I don’t invite him in, nor does he ask to go in.
“So, I’m just going to hang out over there,” he says, pointing to a thick oak tree twenty, thirty feet away, its branches bare for the winter. “I’m going to sit down on the grass and finish conjugating French verbs in the pluperfect tense or something, and when you’re done, you’ll pretend you just ran into me for the first time tonight, that I wasn’t waiting for you, and then I’ll walk you back.”
“But it’s freezing out,” I say.
“And I have a coat,” he says, pointing to his fleece pullover.
“You don’t have to wait for me,” I say.
“I know,” he adds.
“You don’t have to,” I say again.
“But I’d like to. I’ll just be over there, okay?”
I nod and walk into the music hall. It’s dark and quiet and all mine and I don’t turn on the light because I don’t want to draw anyone’s attention to my being here except Martin. Besides, I can play without lights. I push everything else out of my mind. Amy, Ilana, Paul Oko, the receiver, the dishonored seniors, the theater backstabbers, my sister the crusader, my apple for dinner,
that night,
even Martin sitting under the tree on the cold, hard ground. They all are vapor to me now. I settle in at the piano, my sanctuary, thinking this is home; this is me. This is what I do. This is the me before, during, and after
that night
.
I have a Mozart performance with Jones coming up soon, Sonata
Similar Books
