The Mockingbirds by Daisy Whitney Read Free Book Online Page A

to remember what happened.”
    “You weigh about one hundred and ten pounds,” Sandeep instructs. “So three and a half drinks in three hours would make your blood alcohol content point zero eight. Which is considered legally drunk. At your size, on an empty stomach, you’re dealing with slowed reaction times, emotional swings, impaired judgment.”
    Impaired judgment
.
    There it is again, a word, a phrase, hanging in the middle of the room, having legs, arms, and a life form of its own. Just like when Casey said, “That’s the only thing that matters,” back in the Captains’ Room an hour or so ago.
    “And he kissed you, in front of everyone,” Sandeep adds.
    Because I would never kiss a water polo boy, I would never make the first move, I would never get it on with a soon-to-be frat boy. He started it, he started it all.
    “And you guys were kind of going at it on the couch, making out, but the game kept going on and then Carter just pulls you up and leads you out of there.”
    Out of there
. To the place where I can’t rely on anyoneelse’s account, anyone else’s unassailable recollection. Just my own splotchy one.
    “Thank you.” I stand up.
    “Where are you going?” T.S. asks.
    “Back,” I say.
    “I’ll come with you.”
    “No, you don’t have to.”
    “I want to. We want to.” She speaks for him as if she’s his representative or something. Maybe she is, because he rises and the three of us head out together, down the hall, down the stairs, and out into the cold and far-too-sunny January day. They walk me all the way back to Taft-Hay Hall.
    “You going to be okay?” T.S. asks.
    “I want to take a nap.”
    “Call me if you need anything. We’ll talk more later, okay? Promise?”
    I nod, head inside, up the stairs, and back into my room. Maia’s here, listening to The Clash, drinking afternoon tea and reading a book.
    “Good afternoon. And in case you’re wondering, I’ve decided to forgive you for dashing off this morning without giving me the goods,” Maia says, half chiding, but she never really sounds annoyed. I suspect that’s because of the British accent. Maia’s parents are from Singapore, but they have lived in London her whole life, so she’s this amazing mix of Asian and British. She’s wearing her sleek black hair in a high ponytail, as she does most days. She has that kind of gorgeous long hair that would probably stop traffic if shewore it down. Maybe she wears it up as a courtesy, as traffic accident prevention. The hair, the accent—she was given the gifts that only make her better at what she was born to do: debate.
    “Thanks, but there aren’t any goods,” I say, then kick off my Vans into the closet.
    She waves a hand in the air dismissively, her other hand holding a mug of Earl Grey, which she drinks pretty much every afternoon. You can take the girl out of Britain….
    “I bet you told T.S. what you did last night,” she says quietly.
    Any other day the words would be a sharp knife. Because they’re true. We might look like a threesome, but we’re really a pair plus one. Maia and I were matched up last year in English lit to give a presentation we called Great Sidekicks in Literary History. We chose Falstaff from
Henry V,
Jim from
Huck Finn,
and Watson from
Sherlock Holmes
. Then Maia tossed in the Nurse from
Romeo and Juliet
and launched into her very own soliloquy on how English literature scholars should expand the definition of a sidekick to include the very impressive
curriculum vitae
of several female supporting characters. She was brilliant and the whole class gave her a standing ovation.
    “You are a goddess of words,” I told her afterward. “Like Zeus or something.”
    “Athena,” Maia corrected. She stopped, reconsidered. “Scratch that. I’m Wonder Woman. She doesn’t even need a sidekick.”
    “Want to go to lunch with me, Wonder Woman?” I asked.
    She said yes and we became fast friends. Then Maia’s roommate got kicked out at