The Academy (The Academy Saga Book 1)

by CJ Daly

  With one final warning pat, Weston strode from the room and closed the

  door with a resounding thud.

  • x •

  A paranoid is someone who knows

  a lit le of what’s going on.

  1

  ALARM BELLS

  Ah. Home sweet home, I thought as I scraped off the remaining traces

  of mac-and-cheese into the plastic bucket under the sink. I was

  getting ready to wash the dishes, me being the only dishwasher our

  house had. And by “house,” I mean the trailer kind, without it even having

  the excuse of being a doublewide. It could be worse though—we didn’t live

  in an actual trailer park. Although living in a trailer park certainly had its

  advantages: they generally had community pools and were within a stone’s

  throw of civilization.

  Nope. We lived an official eleven point five miles out of town limits,

  on almost two hundred acres of dry pasture located on the wrong side of

  New Mexico—the one without enchantment . This barren land in the plains of Eastern New Mexico was what my father was bound and determined to

  cultivate (without the benefit of an irrigation system, I might add). I mentally

  rolled my eyes at the number of hair-brained schemes our father endeavored

  to make his living at since leaving the military, ranching being the latest and

  greatest, and the one that seemed to have stuck, unfortunately. I thought

  ruefully of all the chores involved and shuddered.

  Things didn’t used to be quite so awful. When Mama was alive. She

  would’ve given us breaks from the monotonous chores we set our clocks by,

  taken us to an afternoon movie in a cool theatre, put some clothes on layaway

  before school started.

  My throat started to feel tight. I will not cry, I will not cry, I repeated this mantra over and over, willing the tears away.

  “Katie-girl!” my father bellowed from the living room. “Time for bible

  readin’!”

  I pictured his sunburnt face in my mind, the exact way he would be

  • 1 •

  kicked back in his king’s recliner with a popcorn bowl balanced on his belly, and a sweating sody-pop, set carefully on a coaster next to him.

  “Aw, come on!” Andrew protested. “Let’s finish till the end tonight—it’s

  still summer-time.”

  He was the only Connelly kid who could get away with “back talking”

  Daddy. But just a little. Sprawled across the sunken-in couch, he was dividing

  his time between perusing the encyclopedia for more information on his

  growing bug collection and listening to sound bites of World War II.

  Last (and least) would be Mikey, lying on the linoleum floor. He was

  tossing puffs of sweet cereal into his mouth while inspecting their latest

  acquisition: a buzzing cicada. It was trapped in a jelly jar with punched-in

  holes in the lid—tonight’s honored guest.

  Daddy started to lecture about “yearnin’ for learnin’ more than pearls.”

  And nobody could conjure, nor butcher, a bible lesson like my father, so I

  intervened before he really got going.

  “Daddy,” I called from the sink, up to my elbows in dirty dishwater. “I

  ain’t done with the dishes yet.”

  “You can finish afterwards. The boys gotta get on to bed . . . Mornin’

  comes early.”

  “Yes, sir,” I auto-answered. “But there’s a little bit of that strawberry ice

  cream leftover . . .” I knew his sweet tooth would be our best bet at getting

  our way.

  During the pause that Daddy habitually used to make us sweat it out, I

  dried my hands, Mikey grumbled that strawberry was the worst flavor in the

  world, and Andrew began asserting his opinion that Rocky Road was the best.

  “It’ll give me time to finish dishes and take out the trash while y’all finish

  your program and eat your ice cream,” I said, plunking frozen chunks of pink

  into bowls.

  “Well, alrighty then, Katie-girl. Just this once . . . Bring it on out to us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I was on my best behavior since returning from summer camp. I wanted

  to reward Daddy for rewarding me with that unprecedented slice of freedom.

  A smile curled my lips at the thought of my first real kiss. Right in the piney woods. Right after campfire. It was a doozy. Wel , at least a doozy of a guy, I amended. Abercrombie and Fitch material all the way. If my old friends

  could’ve seen him, they would’ve swallowed their tongues.

  A crisp whack from a rolled-up Farmers’ Almanac, followed by an outraged

  protest from Daddy’s usual scapegoat, Mikey, interrupted my thoughts.

  “You can’t sit on the couch and eat at the same time.” My father had a

  • 2 •

  strict no-drip policy where it came to food and furniture. Even though our couch cost less than most girls’ handbags.

  “Yes, I can!” Mikey insisted.

  “Whatdi’jasay?” My father released the lever that dropped his boots to

  the floor.

  “You have the ability, but not the permission.” Andrew cleared up the

  confusion.

  “All I wanna hear from you boys is yessir.” This was my father’s standard

  reply in a situation like this, being of the “Children Should Be Seen And Not

  Heard” school of thought when it came to parenting. Andrew was the only

  exception seeing as how he was exceptional.

  “Yes, sir” was immediately forthcoming from the exception-to-the-rule,

  a boy who knew which side his bread was buttered on.

  Daddy threw Mikey a dark look when he didn’t respond as prompted—a

  dark look reserved for his dark boy. Mikey retaliated by folding his arms into

  an X, his lips pulling in to form a tight seam.

  Uh- oh. I knew the end to both these beginnings.

  Daddy pushed pause on the remote (never a good sign). Andrew and I

  exchanged glances. He immediately went to peel Mikey off the floor, moving

  him to the other side of the couch . . . and farther away from Daddy’s boots.

  “Three bowls of scrumptious ice cream comin’ up!” I barreled in,

  practically throwing a bowl into Daddy’s lap and another into Mikey’s.

  Andrew said, “Hey Daddy, didja know radar was first developed to use

  as a death ray weapon to destroy enemy airplanes?”

  Keeping Daddy’s mouth and hands occupied was essential to Mikey’s

  health and wellbeing.

  “Huh? Yup. Think I might’ve heard somethin’ along those lines.” Daddy

  pushed play, popped his footrest back into position, and commenced to eating.

  I handed the last bowl over to Andrew, and now we exchanged smiles of

  relief. I was struck again by his intelligence and little-boy beauty. His skin

  shone lustrous with good health, his blue eyes marbleized with green and

  framed by lashes a shade darker than his cornhusk hair.

  Daddy always liked to claim Andrew like a winning lotto ticket, using

  him like a badge you flash to cut in line. “This here’s my boy!” was almost

  always the first thing out of his mouth. Good manners allowed me next:

  “Katie’s my girl. Don’t let the purty face fool you . . .”— wait for it—“she’s meaner’na Rottweiler!” This, his go-to public joke.

  If Mikey was introduced at all, he was last, as an afterthought, like a

  • 3 •

  shadow of a real child. Shadow: the nickname Daddy
stuck on him since he could walk and follow his brother around.

  I brushed my hand over the Shadow’s bristled buzz cut, a “daddy special”

  shorn with rusty clippers in our kitchen the first Sunday morning of each

  month. He lived up to his name in a few key ways: wherever Andrew went,

  Mikey was sure to follow (not sure Andrew was always deserving of this

  devotion), and he was dark, at least compared to his daddy, whose eyes, hair,

  and brows were an unfortunate bleaching of color that lent him a washed-out

  look. Like the denim overalls he wore for no good reason I could think of but

  to embarrass me.

  Mikey had inherited Mama’s bronze skin tone as well as her wise hazel

  eyes. And, like a shadow, he was easy to miss against the golden light cast by

  his big brother.

  I looked at my two brothers sitting side by side and had to admit: they

  looked nothing alike. Peas and carrots. Milkman comments were routine

  from the good citizens of Clovis—said with a smile but with an undercurrent

  of something I didn’t understand until a year after Mama’s passing. I didn’t

  believe it. Not of her. It was the “disappearance” coupled with the yin and

  yang looks of the back-to-back boys that set tongues wagging.

  When all I heard was rhythmic scraping of spoon against plastic, I decided

  it was safe to head out with the garbage. I was spent and wanted to finish

  “my responsibilities” so I could read. I wouldn’t be able to message my new

  camp friend, Reese Caruthers, until school started—no Wi-Fi access on the

  Connelly compound. Sigh. And no Internet allowed. Double sigh.

  Trash bags and ten-gallon slop-bucket in hand, I backed out the door then

  watched it bang shut, automatically lock, and snuff out the light. Dang it! I forgot to grab the flashlight. Not wanting to pound on the door and disturb

  the peace, I whistled for Blue. A few seconds later, the wet muzzle of our blue

  heeler nudged my leg. I was happy to have company on my nightly trek.

  I faced the lonely mounds of shape that formed our pasture. A gusty

  breeze picked up in a sudden-like fashion, rolling a skeletal tumbleweed

  across our dirt backyard. Branches waved around, animating the old elm tree

  into a night creature. I eyed the sphere of light glowing neon in the darkness.

  Something creep-crawled up my spine. That feeling—the same kind Mama

  suffered from.

  Shaking off the icy sensation (something I’d been doing a lot lately), my

  thoughts turned to the “Andrew problem.” Skipping up another grade wasn’t

  an option on account of his age . But he didn’t belong here and everybody and their brother knew it. “Like a gold coin in a bucket full of pennies,” Daddy

  • 4 •

  always liked to say. Now there was talk of an afterschool tutor. Felt like an invasion. And more homework for him meant more outdoor work for me. My

  shoulders sagged at the very thought.

  “Come on, boy.” We trudged down the dirt trail, feeling our way along in

  the dark. We lived too far out for garbage trucks to come, so we burned most

  of our trash. The bigger pieces my father periodically hauled out to the city

  dump in a trailer dragged behind his old Bronco. Until then, it was all piled

  up in a volcano-trash-heap out in the middle of our pasture.

  Sometimes, I was glad we lived so far out in the country.

  Just then a sharp rustle cut through the tranquil white-noise of our

  pasture. The cattle quit lowing. Crickets ceased chirping. It startled me so bad

  I nearly dropped the slop bucket. My heart always beat just a little faster on

  these nightly treks, but tonight I had the heebie-jeebies crawling all over me.

  Gah Katie! Get a grip! Nobody’s out here, in the middle of nowhere at night, but you and your pathetic life . . . and w e’ve got nothing worth taking anyway. A pit formed in my stomach nonetheless.

  Needing to pinpoint my fear, I set down my load and rubbed at my

  shoulder while I scanned the brushy horizon for something out of place.

  Maybe the coyotes are out foraging in our trash? Doubtful — they usually liked to keep a respectful distance on account of Daddy’s shotgun. A sharp crackle

  froze my body. Snap. My head jerked up.

  A foot on a dead tree branch?

  I dismissed it—just hungry pigs grunting in anticipation of their dinner.

  May as well get this over with before I lose my nerve. Yanking off the lid, I turned my nose away from the sickly-sweet stench of our rotting leftovers, and poured

  it over the fence into their trough. The greedy slurping noises of the pigs

  masticating their meal made it impossible to hear anything else.

  We were stumbling determinedly onward to the trash heap, when Blue

  stiffened by my side like he was suddenly struck by rigor mortis. He let out

  a low growl. “Shhhh, Blue! There’s no one out here but some cows.” Right?

  Another twig snapped. Followed by . . . ominous silence.

  “W-who’s out there?” I decided not to wait for an answer. My fear of

  coyotes, or whatever was out there, had me backing up in double time. Blue barked sharply and lunged forward. I made to grab his collar, but he was

  already furiously charging into the pasture. Goosebumps raised on my arms

  like poor man’s armor.

  “Bluesy, come on boy!” I tried adding a coaxing whistle, but my mouth

  couldn’t hold the proper form.

  The mechanical roar of a motorcycle growled to life—so close it

  • 5 •

  reverberated throughout my whole body. My heart plunged to my stomach, overflowing trash bags fell from my hands. I started running back to the house

  like starving zombies were after my brain. Daring a glance over my shoulder, I

  tripped over an exposed root and flew forward. Shoot! I threw my hands out to break my fall, and a particularly unforgiving cactus stabbed my palm. That’s

  when I saw a figure toss something like a computer—with antennae sticking

  out of it—into a bag before peeling off into the night, spewing chewed-up

  pasture behind them. It wasn’t a motorcycle, but some kind of souped-up four-

  wheeler I’d never seen before. But I didn’t linger long enough to take mental

  notes. Scrabbling back to my feet, I took off again.

  My heart thudded wildly, gushing blood into muscles. Scraggly bushes

  and cobbled-together animal pens flew by in my crazed, adrenaline-rush back

  to the house. I made it back, panting and shaking, but in one piece. Sagging

  against our trailer, I listened as the last echoes of the buzzing mechanized

  vehicle disappeared into the distance.

  “Ouch!” I swore under my breath as I yanked the needle from my palm.

  That’s gonna leave a sore and bother me relentlessly tomorrow. About that

  time Blue came bounding back from his guard dog prowess, shaking with

  excitement and pride.

  “You could’ve been killed, boy!” I scolded, then exhaled and bent down

  to stroke his neck, trying to sort out what the heck just happened.

  What was that thing doing out here in the middle of nowhere? I looked up

  at the face of the moon as if it had the answer. Got nothing but more chills

  so decided to head in. But the industrial strength locks—Mama insisted on

  installing—kept me in the dark.

  Some kind of intuition flickered around in my brain, grabbing hold of

  flashes of memories from when she was alive.
I remembered how, after her

  disappearance, she became so suspicious of outsiders. She refused to leave

  home, even for church or the grocery store, claiming she was a homebody

  and preferred growing our own produce anyway. But instead of alleviating

  our fears, we steadily grew more worried for her. After Mikey was born, she

  became even worse, refusing to let us leave the ranch. Then her neurosis began to include things like government conspiracies and body snatchers—things

  that never happened in real life. Especially not out here in Nowhere, New

  Mexico.

  By the time she died, Daddy and I had become armchair psychologists.

  We’d diagnosed her with everything from paranoid personality disorder to

  agoraphobia. Seemed like reasonable explanations for her bizarre behavior. But

  • 6 •

  since she flatly refused to see doctors (and we didn’t have health insurance to pay for them anyway), we never really knew what was wrong with her.

  Now I wasn’t so sure there wasn’t something more to her behavior than

  just run-of-the-mill paranoia. Maybe there real y is something sinister out there, just waiting to snatch one of us up? Andrew instantly came to mind. Who wouldn’t want my beautiful, gifted brother?

  A pang of remorse hit me as I thought of a dozen ways I’d stopped doing

  what I thought were the silly precautions Mama took to protect us from the

  external world. Things like going back to public school and allowing us to

  be photographed for the yearbook. I also enrolled Mikey in preschool, even

  though she made me swear not to. What could I do? Drop out of high school

  to raise my brothers? Pathetic.

  The tinny voices of the boys calling my name echoed from inside the

  metal box. So I pushed all thoughts of body snatchers and four-wheelers out of

  my mind for now, retrieved the key from under a cactus pot, and headed in. I

  wouldn’t inform Daddy about the trespassers just yet . . . in case he decided we

  needed extra precautions that would involve a shotgun. I was afraid he would

  shoot first and ask questions next! And I didn’t need the blood of innocent

  joy riders on expensive recreational vehicles on my head. I had quite enough

  bad luck in my life as it was.

  Besides . . . keeping secrets was in my DNA.

  But I couldn’t quite stop the weird feeling in my stomach when I went