Assimilation (Concordia Series Book 1)

by Lydia Chelsea

  He laughs. “What? You gonna run off and blow the whistle on me?” He rolls his eyes and adopts a sneering falsetto voice. “Ooh, the team is teasing the new guy. Hazing! Hazing!”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, fine. Whatever. Just give me my paper, Jake, and you can go back to your porn. I won’t tell.” I feel about five years old saying that, and the heat in my face only rises.

  He doesn’t hand me my paper. Instead, he leans in closer. I take another step back.

  My father taught me combat breathing once when we were hiking on a trail that was a little too steep for my liking. You breathe in for a count of four, hold for a count of four, out for a count of four, and hold again for four more. I find myself unconsciously doing this now.

  Jake smirks as though he can tell I’m doing it, enjoying every second of this little dance he’s making me do. His eyes move over my shoulder, checking to see if anyone is nearby. A ball of ice starts to form in my stomach as I realize just how alone we are in this dark back corner of the unfinished library.

  If I continue to back up and he continues to advance, he’ll have me trapped. I abandon my essay and dart around him, but he catches the shoulder strap of my backpack and wheels me around, stepping into my body with his.

  “You ever do the nasty, Crunchy?”

  I sigh with a bravado I am sure he can see right through. “Why do you think that’s your business?”

  His face darkens. “How ‘bout I find out for myself?” And just like that he puts his hands on my breasts. Shock courses through me, along with a vague question about how he’ll know whether I’m still a virgin by fondling the girls.

  Despite the look on his face, I didn’t really expect him to just reach out like that. My fist, however, seems to have had different expectations. Before my brain can finish registering what is happening, my balled up hand is sinking into his stomach as if I could rip it out of him.

  I pluck my essay out of the air as he drops it, doubling over, and whirl around just in time to see Mr. Elgar, our English teacher, charging towards us from the stacks.

  We spend the rest of lunch in the dean’s office, where Jake pulls a wide-eyed innocent act worthy of an Oscar. He was reaching for his own paper on the printer and accidentally—

  “Accidentally what?” I cry, shooting daggers at him with my eyes. “Fondled both of my—”

  Dean Mansfield cuts me off with a raised hand. “Mr. Elgar, what exactly did you see?”

  Mr. Elgar looks at me with concern. “I’m afraid I may have missed some of the events. I heard a scuffle and looked up to see Ms. Keith strike Mr. Armadice. I will say, however, that Ms. Keith has never done anything like this before.”

  Jake gives him a dirty look but says nothing as the dean agrees with Mr. Elgar that Jake has a history of instigation.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to expect you tomorrow for Saturday workspace, Davinney,” Dean Mansfield frowns.

  Workspace is Touchtone Charter’s fancy word for detention. Instead of sitting around in a room doing nothing, those assigned to workspace are put on some work detail or another, whether it is picking up trash from the grounds; removing spitballs, boogers, and gum from under desks and chairs; or stuffing envelopes in the front office. As a disciplinary tool, it is surprisingly effective.

  “I’m keeping my eye on you, Mr. Armadice,” she adds, “Keep your hands to yourself.”

  Fury rockets through me as Jake rises from his chair with a choirboy’s, “Yes, ma’am,” and ambles out of the room. I can’t even speak, I’m so angry. Mr. Elgar thanks the dean and steers me out of her office by my shoulder. In the hall, he mutters,

  “I’m in charge of workspace this week. You’re excused.”

  By the time I’m reading my essay in Elgar’s class, people are fidgeting, bored out of their skulls by the dozen read before mine. A loud, exaggerated snoring comes from the back of the room. I glance from the podium over at Mr. Elgar, who tends to listen to papers with his eyes closed, feet up on his desk, and his hands folded over his chest, leading me to wonder if he really listens or just dozes. Without opening his eyes or moving, he calls out,

  “Mr. Armadice, unless you’d like to spend your Friday evening in workspace, I suggest you zip it!”

  After a moment’s hesitation, I continue, but I barely get three words out before the bell cuts me off.

  Mr. Elgar responds to the bell with a lift of his eyebrow and a pointing finger. “Remember where you left off, Davinney, and we’ll pick it up again on Monday.” Raising his voice, he stops the entire room right on the threshold. “Homework for the weekend…”

  Senior English collectively holds its breath and rolls its eyes until Mr. Elgar cracks a grin and wipes the ugly suggestion away with a wave of his hand.

  “Have fun!” he laughs, and people rush out into the hall before he can change his mind.

  I stuff my notebook into my bag, joining the herd as it logjams at the door, ignoring the murmurs from Jake’s pack of idiots. I also pretend not to notice the shoulders that brush me none too gently, their owners muttering sarcastic pleasantries like, “Nice work, Crunchy Crunch,” or “Don’t forget your soapbox.” I ignore Mr. Elgar’s frown and fish for the cell phone I hear buzzing somewhere inside my bag.

  I stop trying to best my peers in the race for the parking lot and stand just outside the door, still groping in my messenger bag for my phone. It eludes me until I am halfway to the parking lot.

  Rae: Party! 7:30, Tempe. College guys!!

  I roll my eyes at her text, sighing, my thumbs already tapping out a reply.

  Me: NO WAY. Not after last time.

  Rae: 1 beer. 2, max. Promise.

  Me: NO. Study for finals. You need to pass.

  Rae: Party 2nite. Study 2morrow/Sunday. PROMISE.

  Me: NO. NO. NO.

  Barbie Rae Keller will be the death of me. Yes. Barbie. No, that’s not a nickname. It is her actual name on her birth certificate. Thankfully, she lets everyone call her Rae. Though she would argue I’m one to talk with a name like mine.

  Davinney is my parents’ clever idea of combining both of their names. Dad wanted a boy he could name David, after himself; Mom hoped for a girl she could call Linney, after her mother. After Mom nearly died giving birth to me, she and Dad jointly decided I would be their only child. Mom felt so bad that Dad wouldn’t get his boy that she suggested the compromise. Most people pronounce it wrong, thinking it should sound like Dave-Innie, but the first part is pronounced more like the beginning of “davenport”. In fact, many people think it is a clever way to spell “Daphne” since they sound so similar.

  Anyway, I think it’s my name and my causes that make people like Jack Armadice think I’m a Crunchy Crunch, but if he really thinks that, he should have seen my parents in their youth. The way they describe it, I’m surprised I wasn’t raised in a commune.

  Rae’s voice brings me out of my thoughts. “Please?”

  She leans against the passenger door to my Prius, a car I didn’t ask for and insisted I didn’t want until I actually drove it. As far as cars go, it is a little Crunchy Crunch. There are crunchier cars, if cars can really be considered crunchy at all compared to public transportation, bicycles, and feet. I love this car. I love the freedom this car gives me. And even though Dad assured me when he handed me the keys that it was not a bribe to make me feel better about our twelfth move in my sixteen years, I still love it. Though I love it a lot less right now, given that he’s a big, fat liar.

  “Dav,” she says pleadingly, “it’s almost summer. We’re about to graduate. Can’t you just call this my graduation present?” When I don’t answer her right away, she nearly whines, “You’re supposed to be my friend.” She’s always using our friendship to get me to do things.

  The thing about being a military kid, I’ve noticed, is that we fall into two camps: those who avoid making friends to avoid the inevitable pain of yet another separation and those who master the equivalent of speed dating for friendships. I stan
d proudly in the latter. Friendships, for me, are determined knockout tournament style. I start with a big group of contenders (an entire school) and by the end of my first day roughly half are eliminated. By the end of the first week, we’re down to a quarter. By month’s end, the final round is over and if I’m lucky, there’s at least one body still standing. I am The Fast and the Furious of friends making. And then, sadly, I’m Gone in 60 Seconds. Or, you know, maybe a year or eighteen months.

  I try to make friends who will stay in touch with me over long distances, via Facebook or Twitter or texts on the iPhone I also didn’t ask for (which my father also said was not a bribe). I can’t say I’m entirely successful in this regard. Friendships are hard to maintain in person, let alone three hundred, six hundred, or three thousand miles apart. Or it could be that while my supposed best friend is listing all the million reasons I should be eager to attend what is not a frat party (just a party with college guys), I am reflecting on the nature of friendship.

  “Fine,” I sigh, to cover that I haven’t paid any attention to her reasons. “We’ll go. But if some random Goth wannabe barfs on me or you spend the night getting drunk and almost date raped, I’m going to—to—”

  “To what?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit, turning out of the school parking lot, “but you won’t like it.”

  Rae ignores my empty threat and turns up the stereo.

  2

  THE PARTY IS everything I expect, dread, and fear it will be: loud and dark and hazy with smoke, people behaving badly in every direction. Not quite as badly as the rowdy college parties they show in movies, but not really far off, either. The smell of cheap beer and marijuana will probably taint my outfit for life.

  There are people everywhere. Bodies writhe to a techno beat in the middle of a large room with two couches, a television, and little else in it. Couples make out on the couches. The haze of sharply scented smoke burns my eyes and the back of my throat.

  I know I sound like someone’s disapproving parent. To set the record straight, it isn’t that I’m a prude goody-two-shoes. It’s just that all these moves and the speed-dating-for-friendships thing has led me to make a lot of bad decisions already. And while my mom yells louder than my dad, he definitely has a way of making me feel more ashamed of myself than she does.

  I agreed to come to try to keep Rae out of trouble. She doesn’t handle liquor well, no matter what kind it is.

  Anyway, the party stopped being fun about an hour ago when Rae leaned close to me on that television room dance floor and shouted,

  “I’m going to find a bathroom! I’ll be right back!”

  Only she isn’t right back. I continue dancing without her for a while, but I start to feel awkward when some dude in an Abercrombie & Fitch shirt joins me. At first it’s cool, but then he gets a little too friendly, grabbing my hips and trying to draw me closer. I slip away from him and make my way through the stream of gyrating hips and rolling shoulders.

  I figure maybe it’s taking so long because these parties always have too many people and too few bathrooms. Or maybe Rae found someone more fun to talk to. Or maybe, I discover while trying to find the bathroom line, myself, she’s kissing some guy, grinding on his lap in the dark dining room, oblivious to the tawdry creaking of the dining chair. That’s the unfortunate thing about Rae and parties. She has a little too much to drink and suddenly she’s giving lap dances to total strangers.

  I love Rae, but sometimes her behavior makes me blush. Or maybe I am ridiculously prude. I’m not sure which. Oddly, it doesn’t really bother me to see strangers doing the same thing. I mean, it’s more than I want to witness, but when it’s someone I know, I get a little more grossed out. Is that weird?

  I continue on, searching for anything that looks like a toilet line, and hope the bathroom isn’t too gross when I get my turn.

  The hallway is dark and crowded. The doors are closed, with suggestive noises issuing from behind each one. Those of us in the hallway slip past each other, jostling beer and other fragrant liquids out of our red plastic cups. We don’t apologize to each other. It’s just what happens at parties this size. Elbows poke out into ribs, feet crash down on other feet, hands pop out against walls to keep their owners from face planting…you know the drill.

  Further down, the L-shaped hallway is even darker. The single light fixture sports a sexy red bulb. The bathroom line is surprisingly short, snaking past only one closed bedroom door. Unfortunately, I’m forced to stand against it and all of its hollow core glory can’t stop me from hearing the impassioned, “Yeah…oh, yeah…” that issues from beyond. Heat creeps up into my face, but I don’t stick my fingers in my ears like I want to because I don’t want my prude flag flying for all to see. And anyway, it isn’t that I’m prude so much as private.

  The very drunk girl ahead of me in line stage giggles, putting her finger in front of her mouth, and blurts, “Ooh! Someone’s getting down in there!”

  Meanwhile, I try not to notice the “Oh, yeahs” increasing in volume and frequency. Drunk girl lets out a laugh that sounds like a donkey braying and suddenly and very forcefully vomits. The bodies cluttering up the hallway scatter like roaches, girls squealing loudly and the guys whooping with drunken laughter.

  I abandon the bathroom line, knowing I probably have vomit on me, and aim for the back door off the kitchen. More bodies litter dark corners of the fenced yard, on blankets and on white plastic lawn chairs. The music is just as loud out here courtesy of a kicking outdoor sound system that must really piss off the neighbors.

  Surprisingly, no one is in the pool. Then I notice the patch of vomit floating on the surface near the deep end, creating a shadow where the rest of the water is lit by phosphorescent light.

  I can feel it now, a dampness near the bottom of my shirt, seeping into the fibers, alerting me to the disgusting fact that I’ve been slimed. I round the pool to the far side, away from the vomit patch where I hope the shadows are sufficient to hide what I’m about to do. I pull off my shirt, hoping no one notices me, and crouch on my knees to wash it in the pool. I scrub it between my hands a few times until the suspicious warm wetness fades into the chilly water.

  I’ve just stood up again and am about to duck into my sopping wet shirt when I collide with someone.

  Oh, no. No. This isn’t happening. It’s not happening.

  Jake Armadice. What are the odds? Seriously, what are they?

  Why is he here? Why is he here at the same exact college party out of all the possible parties going on in Tempe, which couldn’t be farther from Surprise if it tried?

  I duck into my shirt before he can produce a cell phone and capture the moment for Instagram or, even worse, You Tube.

  “You want to swim, Crunchy?” he asks, releasing an unholy cloud of booze breath on me. Already grossed out by my barfed on shirt, I nearly make a new patch on the water, myself. And I haven’t even been drinking.

  “Nope,” I say, brushing past him.

  He catches my wrist. I don’t struggle. Yet. He’s drunk and stupid and if I wait for the right moment, I can free myself and leave him in the dust. “You’re built better than you look under those baggy shirts you wear. I could tell when I got you in the library,” he grins lecherously, and my skin erupts in goosebumps.

  “Gee, thanks,” I say sweetly, and tug at my wrist. For a drunk guy, he’s stronger and better coordinated than I would have hoped. He isn’t thrown off balance in the slightest. I start to feel just a little uneasy here, on the dark side of the pool.

  I tug again, and when that doesn’t work, I try to use my other hand to pry his fingers off of me. This is my big mistake. He seizes that hand, too, and shoves me backward, further into the shadows until I am pressed against the wall of a tool shed.

  I can’t escape the fumes on his breath, though I twist my head to the side. The night becomes a Lifetime channel movie about why high school kids shouldn’t go to college parties. Or maybe it is about why drunk girls shouldn�
�t ditch their friends to make out with random guys at college parties, leaving the friends to fall victim to unwanted attention.

  This is how I try to distance myself from the weight of Jake’s body pressing into mine, pinning me to the wall of the shed so that I can’t twist out from under him. I try to see it as a movie, something that’s happening to someone else when really it is his hands groping at my breasts while his full crotch bumps against mine. That poor girl is screaming as his hands move on to her waistband, but the other partygoers can’t hear her over the music, can’t see her in the shadowy back corner of the yard because of the stupid, weak red lightbulbs. She’s begging, pleading, scratching, clawing, and no one notices. Or maybe no one cares. They don’t know her, after all, have never met her before. She’s just some kid at a college party.

  “Get off of me!” I hear her say, silently cheering for her as she manages to shove him backward. Finally he acts like the drunk idiot that he is and stumbles.

  And then, when it is no longer quite as desperate, I’m me again. I bolt for the side of the house where I hope there’s a gate leading to the front yard. I don’t look back, but I’m certain Jake must be in pursuit.

  With a triumphant cry, I find the gate I’m looking for and my fingers fumble with the latch. I thrust it upward, the gate pops open, and then I’m wading at a dead run through seriously overgrown weeds at the side of the house.

  I don’t notice whether there are people out front. I barrel straight for my car, which is around the corner, parked halfway down the other side of the street. As I sprint away from the light and noise of the party, I check behind myself several times to see if anyone is in pursuit. When I look forward again, I stop so quickly I almost fall backward.

  You have got to be freaking kidding me!

  Shadow Man.

  He’s barely more than one yard away, bathed in a cone of light from one of the only working streetlights on the block. He makes no move toward me and doesn’t speak. It’s almost as if he, like me, is rooted to the spot.