The Academy (The Academy Saga Book 1)

by CJ Daly

  their children. Some were known to give endowments in the millions to a

  school their child was not even admitted to, in the faintest hope they would

  be added to the waitlist.

  Huh. My body froze up like an ice cube while my brain whirred with

  the information I’d uncovered. So the world’s wealthiest and most illustrious

  families were throwing millions at the school just for the chance of going

  through the admissions process, and yet Andrew Richmond Connelly from

  Nowhere, New Mexico was having the red carpet rolled out for him. I

  pictured our humble abode, complete with balding tires holding down the

  roof. It would almost be comical if there weren’t something so sinister about

  it. Why not just go back to their elite pool of recruits? Why go after one particular candidate so hard?

  Mama’s “irrational” fear of outsiders and special schools was starting

  to make a whole lot of sense now. Her protectiveness seemed the opposite

  • 123 •

  of irrational in light of current events. Why didn’t we just listen to her? Oh right— because she was “crazy.”

  What made Daddy change his mind?

  I thought of the two handsome and obviously persuasive representatives,

  and my blood boiled. Who do they think they are messing with our lives this

  way? If they think we’re easy marks, just ripe for the picking, then they could just think again!

  I only had a few more minutes left, so I zipped off an email to Reese,

  logged-out, and sat back to digest what I’d learned, instead of the protein

  bar I didn’t get around to eating. I left the library with more questions than

  answers, determined to have a come-to-Jesus-meeting with Daddy.

  • 124 •

  13

  THE NEW GUY

  When I stepped outside, the afternoon sun glinted off my glasses,

  scattering prisms of light across the patchy grass and uneven

  sidewalks that made up our school’s terrain. First-day-back

  excitement united everyone in a blanket of holiday like revelry. My backpack

  wasn’t the only thing weighing me down. I longed to lay down my burdens,

  if only for a moment, and join the land of the normal.

  Usually, I hustled to class to avoid any social obligations I’d be uninterested

  in or unable to fulfill. Now I deliberately stalled so I could peruse the mingling

  students for a tall, hunky cadet posing as a senior. I was a black and white

  domino of dismay—equal parts afraid I would see him and that I wouldn’t.

  But there was nothing new to see, aside from a couple of unfortunate haircuts

  and some dubious couplings.

  I huffed out a sigh. Real y, what are the odds of lightening striking twice in

  Clovis? Guys like that generally stayed in their own world.

  As I ambled to the low basic brick building for my Spanish II class, I

  played different scenarios out in my mind about who the new boy could

  possibly be. Suddenly, I was as interested as everybody else. My heart did flip-

  flops just thinking about the possibility of it being Pete or Ranger (although

  for way different reasons).

  A Bienvenidos Estudiantes sign greeted us outside the open door, and

  from inside the room, our names written out on cards greeted us from our

  desks. We would be seated alphabetically. How very middle school of him.

  Everyone complained as they entered, walking around dejectedly looking for

  their assigned seats.

  Mine would be easy to find—I was always in the first row, four or five

  seats back behind Zoe Bucknore or Sean Castillos. It’d been the same since

  • 125 •

  kindergarten. No wonder everyone is so excited for a new face. I backtracked to my seat right next to the door, second from last.

  Steph Aguilar passed me on the way to her seat and grimaced. “Ugh. First

  row, first seat.” I gave a sympathetic smile. “Where were you? We spotted the

  hot, new guy as he was coming back from lunch. Ashley-Leigh parked as close

  as possible, but everyone was literally all over him. She decided to stay a little

  longer and wait it out.”

  The bell rang, ending our one-sided conversation. I sat down, doodling on

  the inside of my notebook and mulling over everything. I saw my unconscious

  doodles had morphed into two questions: Pete? Or Ranger?

  “Bienvenidos! ” Mr. Sanchez greeted us with an enthusiastic first-day-of-

  class voice and a neon-yellow tie. Both seemed especially jarring considering

  my frayed nerves.

  Just then, the door sucked opened behind me and closed with a Bang!

  that caused me and half the class to jump. This was followed by an “oopsie”

  and an unapologetic giggle.

  “Nice of you to join us, Señorita Montgomery,” Mr. Sanchez chastised

  Ashley while she made her way to the center of the room with a lot of

  fanfare. “Okay, today we’re going to go over the syllabus, hand out your new

  workbooks,”—he briefly held one up: Dos Mundos, Two Worlds—“and then

  go around the room, so you can introduce yourselves and show off what you

  did this summer by telling us . . . in Spanish.”

  Predictable groans followed this announcement. Not very original.

  Teachers must all take a class on how to bore students to death on the first

  day back. I didn’t care one way or the other, too preoccupied with speculation

  about the new guy and my list of questions for the mentor.

  “First, I’m going to take role while,” he paused, looking around for a

  suitable candidate, “Señor Lopez passes out the syllabus.”

  Miguel popped up with an affable smile while Mr. Sanchez began moving

  through the “B” names. I was mentally preparing for him to call mine next,

  when the door behind me sucked back open. Someone stepped into the room

  and closed the door with a soft click. Twenty-plus heads flew to the back of

  the room simultaneously. I found myself blushing under all the scrutiny until

  I realized—they weren’t staring at me. Tingles ran up my spine.

  It was him. Another beat and something else clicked. Of course! Andrew’s new mentor, and the cadet standing behind me, were one and the same. I

  closed my eyes and paid close attention to that sixth sense. Even though I was

  deathly curious to see if I was right, I was way too chicken to turn around.

  A current of excitement zapped each female student’s face as if they were

  • 126 •

  all connected to the same wire. Eyes were met. Shoulders nudged. Boys glowered while girls glowed. One pink-faced girl even took out a tube of

  lipstick. Most of the hoo-hah was happening in the middle of the room, where

  Ashley-Leigh sat bolt upright, smiling seductively and tossing her hair as if an

  invisible director told her it was time to hit her mark. I had to hand it to her:

  she was ready and set to go.

  A low buzzing, which included the bass and tenor whispers of boys,

  erupted simultaneously. Even Mr. Sanchez stopped to adjust his tie in

  preparation for our newcomer.

  Oh please— get it together, people. I rolled my eyes until I remembered I’d pretty much acted the same way the first time I saw him, too.

  Mr. Sanchez cleared his throat to announce the obvious: “It looks like

  we have a new student.” He backtracked to the podium to check his roster.

  “Bienvenidos .
. . Señor Davenport.”

  Mr. Sanchez beckoned him forward with a toothy smile, and my heart

  began thumping dramatically in my chest. He lingered in the doorway a

  moment longer, I guess allowing everyone a moment to drink him in. But I

  still refused to acknowledge his presence. However, I was the only one in the

  room not staring at him.

  My body felt like a high voltage magnet was drawing me to him. Still,

  I resisted the urge to turn my head. When he ambled forward, he casually

  brushed his hand along the side of my desk. I automatically looked up just in

  time to see Pete shamelessly wink at me as he sauntered by. I flushed beet red

  like an insipid schoolgirl before quickly averting my eyes back to my desk.

  Only to find my favorite clicky-pen missing.

  Palpable excitement roused the bored juniors and seniors from their

  afternoon slump. It became apparent that everyone was showing off in some

  minor way for our preternaturally famous guest. Jocks puffed themselves up,

  acting so cool they were anything but. One guy turned around in his seat

  to fist-bump a buddy over a girl’s desk as she surreptitiously powder-puffed

  away her shine. Even Mr. Sanchez amped up his already exuberant Mexican-

  accented voice for the benefit of our new arrival.

  I noticed how everyone instantly came to the same conclusion I did: Here

  was someone special, someone to be reckoned with, someone who had the

  world by the balls . . . and knew it.

  Unable to resist any longer, my eyes lifted to where he was standing, in

  front of a roomful of gawkers, the picture of ease. Brown leather backpack

  slung casually over his shoulder, gray clingy T-shirt half-tucked into artfully

  • 127 •

  faded jeans, Pete was a walking advertisement for some upscale catalog nobody here could afford.

  His eye was still pretty messed-up, and I felt sick with guilt about it,

  despite myself. It’s funny how that black eye only added to his rampant sex appeal. It was the only flaw on an otherwise perfect male specimen, adding

  a delicious element of danger that had all the girls drooling. I could actually

  see what Steph was talking about now. Our eyes met again, and I felt my face

  burn with more than just embarrassment.

  Gah! Get it together Kate! He’s the enemy.

  I just realized the enemy’s last name was Davenport. And there was

  only one other D-name, and she was sitting in the seat behind me. That

  meant if Mr. Sanchez stuck to his alphabet plan, Señor Davenport would

  soon be occupying Molly Donaldson’s chair. My stomach did a funny little

  summersault, and my hand itched to take out my hairbrush and have a go

  at my hair.

  I vaguely heard a chorus of bienvinedos ( some more enthusiastic than

  others). It was hard to keep track of the particulars when blood was roaring

  through my ears. I thought how the cool wood of the desk would feel pretty

  good against my cheek right about now. The reality of him being here—in

  the flesh—was too much, my body already warring with opposing emotions.

  I wiped my palms on my jeans then rummaged in my backpack for my

  metal canteen. I felt rather like choking at the moment, that I’m-gonna-

  cough-in-church feeling. Miguel shot me a look. I gave him a sheepish smile before returning my hungry eyes back to the main attraction.

  Pete was currently being put on the spot by Mr. Sanchez, who asked him

  to introduce himself to the class. “Hola,” he gamely greeted us, his melodious voice instantly quieting the buzzing classroom. “Me llamo Pete Davenport.

  Soy un estudiante de intercambio De La Academia Internacional de Elite en

  California. Me encanta surfing y echare de menos ir a la playa los fines de semana, aunque tengo muchas ganas de aprender nuevos deportes como la monta de toros.”

  Of course he spoke perfect Spanish!

  Mr. Sanchez laughed appreciatively at something Pete said that no one

  else seemed to catch. A couple of girls began fanning themselves, the starting

  tailback made the retching sign with his finger, and the majority of the guys

  smirked or rolled their eyes. But all the juvenile behavior didn’t put a chip in Pete’s rock-solid confidence; he held court, in front of a classroom of strangers,

  without a flicker of self-consciousness.

  After finishing his smooth spiel, enthusiastic applause erupted from a

  trio of girls near the back. They furiously blushed and giggled as he inclined

  • 128 •

  his golden head toward them. One errant lock of hair fell forward, and he casually brushed it back, revealing a little more of the faint bruising around

  his eye. I swear I heard audible gasps, and the force of Molly Donaldson’s

  sigh stirred my hair.

  “Muy bien, Señor Davenport,” Mr. Sanchez approved before searching his

  desk for some paperwork.

  In the interim our eyes met again. Pete waggled his eyebrows at me,

  grinning. Several pairs of eyes followed his while I shifted around in my seat.

  My blushing returned with a vengeance, but I managed to crack a weak smile

  to acknowledge him because he was still boldly smiling into my eyes.

  Mr. Sanchez called the class back to order. While everyone else faced

  forward again, two sets of eyes remained on mine, puzzled and looking for

  answers. I refused to look either Miguel or Ashley-Leigh in the eye. Instead,

  I cleared my throat and reached for my canteen again—my throat suddenly

  felt like a dusty haystack.

  “Okay. Looks like you’ll be sitting . . .” Mr. Sanchez paused to access,

  and the girls leaned forward, scanning the room for empty desks, “behind

  Señorita Connelly.”

  While I did more seat squirming, the bulk of the female population stared

  at me with various shades of green. I heard Molly huff and puff and get out

  of her seat.

  “Not so fast, Señorita Donaldson. Everyone seems to be all settled today,

  so mañana, ” Mr. Sanchez enunciated dramatically, “everyone from Molly on

  will move back a seat.” Collective groans. “Ahora, Señor Davenport can sit in any unoccupied desk.”

  Girls in every row proffered several enticing invitations. Ashley-Leigh

  practically yanked Corinne Mahal’s arm from its socket to get her to surrender

  her desk. No such luck, I noted with satisfaction as Corinne clung to her desk.

  Pete ambled to the last row, where he sat across from a girl with a skater-boy

  haircut and one too many piercings. She immediately scooted her desk closer

  to his.

  Gah! Could nobody play it cool? I wondered if I would be able to keep it

  together in his presence. I closed my eyes, my lips parting involuntarily as I remembered him leaning over to whisper in my ear. My eyes popped back

  open. Apparently, the answer was no, no I could not. My only option then

  was avoidance. He was obviously up to no good. How could I avoid him when

  I’d see him every day at school? The more pressing concern was the amount to which I didn’t want to avoid him.

  Class went by in a blur of mangled Spanish introductions and furtive

  • 129 •

  glances at our newest CHS member, who was twirling my pen between his fingers looking bored. When he became aware of his audience, he stopped,

  clicked it once, and looked over at me. But I was too quick, whipping my head

  back into forward positi
on.

  When it was my turn to introduce myself, I stammered my way through

  what was usually easy conversational Spanish. Afterward, Mr. Sanchez called

  me out for it.

  “Katie, Katie.” He shook his head at me. “Looks like you forgot some of

  your basic Spanish over the summer.”

  My neck was immediately gripped by an urge stronger than every ounce

  of my will not to peek. Pete was waiting with an arched brow as if to say:

  That’s the best you’ve got? A burning started in my chest like I’d swallowed a serrano pepper at lunch, and it just came back up. Why am I letting him rattle

  me like this? Mama would be so disappointed in me. The burning turned into determination not to let him get the best of me.

  So when the bell rang, I bolted out the door before he could so much

  as blink in my direction. Ha! It’ ll take him till the next bell just to pry Ashley-Leigh’s claws off. My laugh fell flat as our streets as a jolt more jarring than running over one of our potholes hit me:

  What if Ashley-Leigh real y does sink her claws into him?

  I made it back to the main building and up to the second floor for my

  chemistry class in record time. Dizzy with anticipation, I slumped onto

  an empty stool at a lab table near the front. The bell rang and Mr. Benson

  closed the door. About a minute after roll call, the door opened again, and

  all eyes flew to the door. I kept mine trained on Mr. Benson as he droned on

  about the importance of safety precautions. Footsteps maneuvered around

  dumped backpacks, heading my way. Someone sat down on the vacant stool

  next to mine—closer than was strictly necessary unless two people were well

  acquainted. I didn’t turn to acknowledge him, and after a few more seconds

  of staring ahead so hard my eyes were beginning to water, I heard a familiar,

  muffled whisper.

  “What the hell was with you back there?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.”

  “Do you know that guy?”

  “Um . . . not really,” I hedged, not meeting Miguel’s eyes.

  Thankfully, it was impossible to continue the conversation because Mr.

  Benson was handing out his version of the three P’s: procedures, policies, and

  permission slips. Chemistry ticked by slowly with me not paying attention to