nail polish, spreading the color perfectly in one, two, three strokes. She continues across my right hand with the same precision and I say, “You’re like a pro. Wow.”
“I am a pro,” she says. “I do this for a living back home. And on weekends at a salon down on Kentfield Street.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Why? Does that bother you?” The raspiness in her voice is its own question mark.
“No. Why would it bother me?” I ask, but I know why she’s asking. Because she has some sort of chip on her shoulder, some sort of defensiveness, like she did when I asked her about her hometown. She thinks it should bother me because it must bother other people, other students.
“Because I have a job, unlike the rest of the students here,” she adds.
“Then you should let me pay you,” I say.
She shakes her head. “No. I offered to do your nails.” She reaches for my left hand. “Blow on your right,” she instructs, and I do as I’m told. With her practiced hand she applies the color to my left hand, and I realize Delaney and I are similar. We both work with our hands. We both have chips on our shoulders. She thinks people will judge her for her past. I think people will disrespect me for not having earned the Mockingbirds job. And maybe that’s the reason the Mockingbirds pay it forward, because when you’ve been through something yourself, it’s much easier to connect to someone else. Maybe that’s why I don’t need a leadership pedigree or a lengthy résumé of captainships. I’m here because I had my training by fire.
“Delaney, is Theo involved in the cheating ring?” I ask as she finishes my pinkie.
She keeps her head bent over my hand, not meeting my eyes. “Why are you asking about Theo?”
“You’re dating him, right?”
She shrugs. She’s uncharacteristically quiet.
“Should I take that as a yes?”
A nod.
“So, is he the reason you reached out to me?”
She looks up now, her blue-gray eyes behind her glasses meeting mine hard. “You think I’d rat him out, don’t you?”
I stay calm. “I didn’t say that. I just asked if he’s involved.”
“I’m not a rat,” she says, her voice low but still full of smoke.
“Hey,” I say softly, and I have this impulse to reach out and touch her knee to reassure her. But I don’t do it. “I know you’re not a rat. I would never think you’re a rat. I think cheating sucks too, Delaney. And if someone I cared about was doing it, you damn well better believe I’d try to stop him.”
She looks up quickly, her eyes blazing at me through her silver-framed glasses. She points at herself. “You think I didn’t try to stop him? I tried, but he just totally denied it. Completely, one hundred percent denied it. And besides, I hardly know anything,” she fires off.
“Can you tell me what you do know, though?” I ask gently, thinking of what Martin said last night, of how when I lead from the heart, I know what I’m doing. This is what I zone in on—just talking to her, just connecting.
She breathes out hard, pushes her hands through her purple hair.
“Yesterday I saw some of his e-mails. But I didn’t read them,” she says defensively. She takes a beat, then continues, “Okay, I mean I looked at them. But not like looked through them. They were just up on his screen, and I saw bits and pieces about”—she stops to sketch air quotes—“ the plan .”
“The plan to…?”
“What I told you yesterday. I don’t have any more details. He was e-mailing other students; they were setting things in motion about competing again. That’s all I know. He said competing again .”
“Like dance competitions? I don’t think Anderin helps you dance again,” I add.
“No. It doesn’t. That’s why something else is going on and I don’t know what, because once I saw those e-mails I asked what was going on.”
“What did he say?”
She steels herself for the next thing. “To stop snooping.”
“What’d you say?”
“I
“I am a pro,” she says. “I do this for a living back home. And on weekends at a salon down on Kentfield Street.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Why? Does that bother you?” The raspiness in her voice is its own question mark.
“No. Why would it bother me?” I ask, but I know why she’s asking. Because she has some sort of chip on her shoulder, some sort of defensiveness, like she did when I asked her about her hometown. She thinks it should bother me because it must bother other people, other students.
“Because I have a job, unlike the rest of the students here,” she adds.
“Then you should let me pay you,” I say.
She shakes her head. “No. I offered to do your nails.” She reaches for my left hand. “Blow on your right,” she instructs, and I do as I’m told. With her practiced hand she applies the color to my left hand, and I realize Delaney and I are similar. We both work with our hands. We both have chips on our shoulders. She thinks people will judge her for her past. I think people will disrespect me for not having earned the Mockingbirds job. And maybe that’s the reason the Mockingbirds pay it forward, because when you’ve been through something yourself, it’s much easier to connect to someone else. Maybe that’s why I don’t need a leadership pedigree or a lengthy résumé of captainships. I’m here because I had my training by fire.
“Delaney, is Theo involved in the cheating ring?” I ask as she finishes my pinkie.
She keeps her head bent over my hand, not meeting my eyes. “Why are you asking about Theo?”
“You’re dating him, right?”
She shrugs. She’s uncharacteristically quiet.
“Should I take that as a yes?”
A nod.
“So, is he the reason you reached out to me?”
She looks up now, her blue-gray eyes behind her glasses meeting mine hard. “You think I’d rat him out, don’t you?”
I stay calm. “I didn’t say that. I just asked if he’s involved.”
“I’m not a rat,” she says, her voice low but still full of smoke.
“Hey,” I say softly, and I have this impulse to reach out and touch her knee to reassure her. But I don’t do it. “I know you’re not a rat. I would never think you’re a rat. I think cheating sucks too, Delaney. And if someone I cared about was doing it, you damn well better believe I’d try to stop him.”
She looks up quickly, her eyes blazing at me through her silver-framed glasses. She points at herself. “You think I didn’t try to stop him? I tried, but he just totally denied it. Completely, one hundred percent denied it. And besides, I hardly know anything,” she fires off.
“Can you tell me what you do know, though?” I ask gently, thinking of what Martin said last night, of how when I lead from the heart, I know what I’m doing. This is what I zone in on—just talking to her, just connecting.
She breathes out hard, pushes her hands through her purple hair.
“Yesterday I saw some of his e-mails. But I didn’t read them,” she says defensively. She takes a beat, then continues, “Okay, I mean I looked at them. But not like looked through them. They were just up on his screen, and I saw bits and pieces about”—she stops to sketch air quotes—“ the plan .”
“The plan to…?”
“What I told you yesterday. I don’t have any more details. He was e-mailing other students; they were setting things in motion about competing again. That’s all I know. He said competing again .”
“Like dance competitions? I don’t think Anderin helps you dance again,” I add.
“No. It doesn’t. That’s why something else is going on and I don’t know what, because once I saw those e-mails I asked what was going on.”
“What did he say?”
She steels herself for the next thing. “To stop snooping.”
“What’d you say?”
“I
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