The Rivals Read Free

it wanted, the memories turning on and off with a vengeance, like flashing neon lights. My sister, Casey, who’s four years older, took me to a counselor, someone she found back home in New Haven. The counselor helped, told me it wasn’t unusual for survivors —she always called me a survivor—to go through a period of time when the assault feels closer, fresher. It’s like right before the wound can close, it has to be reopened one last time and flushed out.
    With salt water, it seemed.
    That’s how it still feels at times, because randomly, out of nowhere, I’ll see flashes of Carter’s white-blond hair, his lips I didn’t want on me, his naked chest I never wanted to be near. The worst part is when those awful images collide with Martin. Because here in Martin’s room, where we’ve returned to kissing, I flinch as Carter’s hands flicker in front of me, as I recall how they pressed down into the mattress on either side of my naked body.
    I squeeze my eyes shut and try to push the unwelcome visitor away with more of Martin, like I can expel the memories through more contact with the boy I want to be with. But as my lips on his achieve a new urgency, he sees through me. He knows what I’m doing, so he extricates himself from my kiss to ask, “You okay?”
    “Of course,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
    “Hey,” he says softly. “We can slow down.”
    I shake my head and lean in to press my lips against his again. He responds but then pulls back once more. “Alex,” he whispers, “are you thinking of that night?”
    “No,” I say, closing my eyes and shaking my head, but soon, very soon, I’m nodding, managing a yes. Then more words. “I don’t want to picture him when I’m with you. I hate it.”
    Martin props himself on one elbow. “I don’t want you to either, but it takes time, right?” he says, reminding me of what the therapist said this summer. Time, time, time. Be patient with yourself. Be gentle with yourself.
    Enough patience.
    I want to be healed , not healing . Especially here with Martin. I hate that I cannot completely erase Carter from my mind. I want to own this space with Martin. I want it to be mine; I want it to be pure.
    But I am not always in charge.
    “But I want to…,” I start, then trail off. I try again, saying the words out loud this time. “I want to be with you. All the way.”
    His eyes sparkle. I look into them, deep brown, with these crazy green flecks twinkling, flashing. He pulls me closer, pressing his body against me to let me know he wants what I want. But he’s more than just a guy . He’s a good guy. “I’ll wait for you. However long it takes. You’re worth waiting for,” he says, twirling a strand of my brown hair around his finger.
    And with those words it’s like one more of the dark shadows peels off the wall and leaves the room.
    Another kiss, and there’s only Martin and me here for this one. Then I whisper, “We’d better go.”

A LINK TO THE PAST
    We leave together for D-Day, and the quad is bustling. We pass the bulletin board in front of McGregor Hall. It’s stuffed with flyers for groups, clubs, and teams, including ones I posted this morning before the sun even rose. I posted them early because we’re not supposed to be in-your-face, all swagger and bravado. The Mockingbirds are here to help, but the less we’re seen doing our work, the better off we all are.
    Obviously.
    Running just as fast as you can, you’ll find your way to the New Nine. Can you hit the right notes for the Mockingbirds? Let’s hear your best song.…
    It’s a recruitment poster; we’re looking for new runners for the Mockingbirds. They’re our on-the-ground members, and they’re also the only ones who can move up to form our council, the New Nine. We pick the jury for student trials from the council, so we like to remind potential runners of the path up in the Mockingbirds.
    Of course, the question really should be this: can we hit the right notes for