Free The Rivals by Daisy Whitney Page A

Juilliard,” I say.
    “There are three criteria to judging the winner of the J. Sullivan James Award. Academic excellence, athletic excellence, and artistic excellence. So debate, theater, music, dance—they are all part of the artistic portion of judging for the award. I looked it up,” Maia says.
    “You research everything.”
    “You have to know the enemy,” Maia says.
     
    *
    When I arrive at orchestra later in the morning, my friend Jones is waiting outside for me, lounging against the railing, sunglasses on. But the strange part is he’s actually holding his violin in public. Even stranger is when he lifts the instrument to his chin, then gently, like a painter, an artist, Monet himself laying a brush to canvas, massages the strings with the bow.
    I recognize the first notes immediately, Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, and I’m about to shout it victoriously, but then he shifts into something else, something more Jones’s speed, opting for a little Vampire Weekend.
    “For a second I thought you might actually play Tchaikovsky. More than a few notes, that is,” I say, and give Jones a reunion hug, then a quick once-over. With his brown hair now reaching his shoulders, he’s totally got the whole rock-star look going on. He’s the most amazing classical violinist, but he’d rather be jamming on his electric guitar. I have no doubt he’ll make his way back to New York City for college when we graduate, and start some awesome band. I can picture him in cool little indie clubs, the kind where beer has sloshed onto the wood floor so many times, the place smells permanently of hops. The lights’ll dim, he’ll come onstage with his bandmates, and then he’ll jam out an epic opening chord sequence on a sleek silver Fender Stratocaster.
    The crowd will go wild. The girls will swoon.
    “I heard Delaney Zirinski is in need of your services,” Jones says, then gives me a wink.
    I’m shocked, but then I’m not shocked. Nothing gets by Jones. He notices things, sees things, then sees what lies beneath. Like he found out some shady stuff his dad’s company was up to this summer and now they’re engaged in some kind of standoff. It’s a shame Jones isn’t a Mockingbird. He’d make a terrific investigator, an unbeatable secret weapon.
    Still, it’s my job to protect Delaney. God knows, I wouldn’t have wanted Amy giving up my name, rank, and serial number before I was ready last year. So I will myself to keep all the muscles in my face still, to not grin, to not frown, to not give a thing away.
    “Not sure what you mean,” I say.
    A full-blown grin fills his face, like a kid whose dad just handed him the keys to the car. “That is really adorable. How you do that whole stony-faced denial thing.”
    I press my lips together, fighting harder to remain a blank. “How was your summer?”
    Now he laughs and points a finger at me. “This is good. It’s like a show. I want to see more.”
    I look away but can feel a smirk starting to bloom on my face.
    “Ah, there. I knew I could break you down.”
    “I’m saying nothing,” I say, but I can hear the laughter breaking through my voice.
    “It’s okay, Alex. Don’t feel bad,” he says, and wiggles an eyebrow. “My ability to put two and two together knows no bounds.”
    “You are the worst,” I say, teasing him.
    “But don’t you want to know how I knew she was in need of your services?”
    I hold up my hands as if to say yes.
    He taps his forehead. “You leave D-Day. Two seconds later, she leaves D-Day. Ergo.” Then he adds, “Besides, I hear the same things she hears. It’s so Themis, isn’t it? Anderin is like the drug of choice for overachievers.”
    Which is pretty much an apt description for anyone who goes to this school. I can only imagine what’ll happen at Themis if this gets out of hand. A whole student body amped up on speed. It’s like giving a cheetah a triple espresso when it’s chasing down a gazelle. The cheetah doesn’t need