The Academy (The Academy Saga Book 1)

by CJ Daly

  “It’s just . . . you’re so negative about everything Academy. All the time,”

  Andrew said, slamming the door. “You haven’t even given it a chance.”

  I unnecessarily lifted Mikey out of his car seat just for an excuse to extract

  some comfort from him. A kiss to his sweaty forehead and I set him down

  with his Spidey backpack, ignoring Andrew’s comment. “Okay boys . . . y’al

  go change clothes while I haul in the groceries.” I headed in with three giant

  plastic bracelets looped on one arm and my gym bag and backpack on the other.

  “Here, I’ll take one.” Andrew relieved me of one of the bags, evening

  me out.

  That was a first—him offering to help. Must be his idea of an apology.

  I decided to take it and even managed to lift my lips. Andrew grinned back

  at me. “Last one in is a rotten egg!” he hollered, before taking off with his

  shadow and me close at his heels. We arrived at the porch, laden with bags

  and leaning together laughing. I unlocked the double-bolted door. Then the

  trio of Connelly kids walked into our empty trailer together.

  I suddenly wondered : How many more times would we get to do that?

  We finished our chores in record time, and the boys were busy hammering

  out their homework while demolishing a bowl of popcorn. I’d come to the

  conclusion that Daddy would definitely punish us both for “meddling in his

  business.” Technically, he was right—the envelope was addressed solely to

  him. But Mama made him swear on heaven and earth to let me be involved

  in all major decisions regarding the boys.

  I’d taken it to heart so had been signing permission slips and going to

  parent-teacher conferences ever since Mama died. Daddy was only too happy

  to leave the heavy lifting to me, even deferring to my judgment in matters of

  health and discipline. It appeared Daddy had a recent change of heart. Since

  it was against his direct orders to retrieve the mail, and since it contained a

  loaded check in his name, some quick damage control was in order.

  • 219 •

  I picked up the two halves of the torn envelope—beyond repair. Switching envelopes with the one stashed in the cupboard was the way to go. So I boiled

  some water, hauled the step stool over, and fished around inside the flour jar.

  As soon as I pulled it out, an overpowering, ominous feeling closed my throat.

  I almost lost my balance and definitely lost my equilibrium. What the heck is going on? I’d gotten bad feelings about things before, but the only time it was ever this bad was when Mama first told us she was sick.

  I drew in a deep, shaky breath. I didn’t want to go through this alone. But

  who could I tel ? Not Daddy. Zero tolerance. And what would I say after al ?

  I have a bad feeling this elite organization is evil. I’d sound like I just escaped from Arkham Asylum. Where was my evidence?

  Sides, the only person I really wanted to unburden myself to just so

  happened to be the messenger of the nefarious object in hand. No choice—I

  had to go at it alone . Ugh! My stomach roiled. The contents of this envelope gave me a feeling most dreadful, like nails-on-a-coffin. Whatever it was . . .

  was something that needed to be seen about.

  Before I could change my mind, I held the envelope over the steamy vapor

  to loosen the gummy seal. After a couple of minutes of my poor-man’s-facial, I

  turned off the burner and retrieved our sharpest knife from the drawer. Sliding

  the blade under the seal, I slowly worked the edge of the envelope up, removed

  the neatly folded contents, and replaced it with the check and letter we received

  today. Then rifled through the junk drawer for an old glue stick to reseal it.

  After letting the boys know I was pulling the Old Switcheroo, I left,

  feeling slightly like the bad influence Daddy accused me of for modeling

  deceitful behavior. While heading back home through a foggy trail of my own

  dust, I debated about whether or not my gut was still a reliable source. Maybe

  Pete’s animal magnetism was running roughshod over my sixth sense? It’s just—he felt so good, and smelled so good, and looked so kill-me-good. When I was

  with him, I felt like a million bucks. I thought of the two-thousand dollar

  check, and the memory of his convo with Ranger pierced my brain. . . . Acted

  good—he was faking.

  After sputtering to a stop, I drew in a measured breath then unfolded the

  original, pilfered flour-pot paperwork to reveal an embossed seal bearing the

  omnipresent roaring lion’s head. Here goes nothing . . . With shaking hands, I read the standard formal greeting, skimmed over their bull-hockey mission

  statement, turned the page . . .

  Hmmmm. Evidently, this was the second attempt to get a signature from

  Daddy regarding a . . . I continued speed-reading, hyper-focused and hardly

  believing my eyes. This document required a guardian signature to “relinquish

  • 220 •

  parental responsibilities for the duration of your dependent’s enrollment at the International Elite Academy.” It was referred to as an RPA form— Relinquishing

  of Parental Authority. In exchange, that entitled said “dependent” to be the beneficiary of the enormous tuition being paid in full, free room and board,

  school uniforms, food, and “any and all expenditures for the duration of his

  or her time at The Academy.”

  What?!

  The letter went on in some detail that included a bunch of legal jargon

  and instructions for beginning the process. I didn’t need to go on. Relinquish

  parental authority? Who would do such a thing? Could not believe Daddy was even entertaining the idea. Is he? . . . At least he hadn’t signed anything yet.

  That offered some small measure of relief. Not enough. I had to talk to him

  about this—talk him out of it! But how could I without revealing I’d been

  meddling? He’d hit the roof and shut me down even further. Turning your

  child over to strangers? That was just plain crazy! Mama would be rolling around her grave in agony.

  Maybe that feeling is her scraping at her coffin? I shivered.

  And to think, I’d been cavorting around with one of them. Willingly.

  God help me! I clutched the gold cross hanging from my throat—a gift from

  Mama before she died. My talisman. I needed help to defend us against the

  relentless invaders that sought to destroy our family.

  Things were slowly clicking into place in my mind. I was concentrated,

  my mind condensing facts and squeezing out inconsequentials—like how

  incredibly appealing I found Cadet Davenport.

  Fact 1: They were after my gifted brother and wanted to do with him what

  they wanted, without interference from his family.

  Fact 2: They were bribing Daddy with enticements—everything from free

  tuition and expensive scotch to cleverly worded bribery checks

  Fact 3: They sent Pete Davenport here not just to “mentor” my brother, but

  also to razzle-dazzle us into signing his life away.

  Fact 4: Their plan was no longer working on me.

  • 221 •

  21

  WOLF IN CASHMERE CLOTHING

  The next morning I woke up exhausted, with a pounding headache,

  and in desperate need of some proof this elite academy was up to no

  good. My first instinct was to throw caution to the wind and inform

  Daddy about what I knew.
But I’d seen the pleased look on his face when

  he opened the envelope to discover a fat check inside. He’d looked around

  furtively before slipping it into his wallet. Obviously intended to cash the

  dang thing. I was shocked, but I knew that confronting him with the fact that

  I knew what was warming in his back pocket would only backfire, leaving

  me with even less power points than I already had. Could never thwart his

  authority without payback.

  One time, Daddy got really serious by threatening to send Mikey away

  to “juvy hall” when he came of age. Then, just to prove his point, he had

  proceeded to buzz Mikey’s hair bald. Now every single time Daddy put

  clippers to his scalp, was a reminder of what was in store for him “if he got

  out of line.”

  If Daddy was seriously considering sel ing out his favorite son, then who knew

  what more he was capable of for the children he cared for less.

  I reevaluated the risks of everything I was doing now that was against

  his rules: wearing jeans to school and hanging out with the mentor I wasn’t

  supposed to be speaking to. Since I was better off keeping my enemies close

  (and my father never seemed to be around to check up on me), I decided that

  was worth the risk. So as much as I wanted to punch Cadet Davenport right

  in his perfect face, I had no choice but to pretend everything was still peachy

  between us, like the besotted girl still falling for his charms.

  Trying to keep a hard heart toward someone whose presence warmed

  you to the core, and whose smile took your breath away, was a lot easier said

  • 222 •

  than done. For as soon as Pete’s radiant presence showed up in the library this morning, I already started to doubt my theory that he was a wolf in sheep’s

  clothing.

  He sauntered in, with his tousled hair and come-hither smile, and I

  wanted nothing more than to run—not walk—to him and bask in his golden

  presence. Then wile away the day in conversation to discover every little detail

  about him—from where he was born to what kind of shampoo he used—

  instead of finding out whether or not he knew about the RPA letter, and if he

  was here to pull the cashmere wool over my eyes.

  He gave me the once over and a wicked grin, like we were about to run

  off and play hooky together. I returned with a coy little finger wave. I’d be

  darned if I was gonna slobber all over him like the other girls. But Gah! It was like fighting off a mad urge to scratch: nearly impossible unless you knew

  scratching would do more harm than good, like spreading poison ivy all over

  your body.

  It made it worse that he was completely oblivious that I was onto him,

  so he thought we were taking up right where we left off in the parking lot.

  “Well, well, well . . . if it isn’t little Miss Librarian,” he drawled, leaning one shoulder against the lacquered bookshelves. His flirting should have seemed

  like a misstep to me—not the case.

  I was standing on another stepstool, in another pair of generic jeans, re-

  shelving books, and feeling exactly opposite from yesterday in my kitchen

  with the IEA paperwork in my hands. Like a ray of sunshine, warmth seemed

  to radiate from him towards me. I actually had to fight the urge to lean over

  and inhale him. Maddening!

  Pete’s eyes held their devilish gleam. “You know . . . you might single-

  handedly be responsible for reversing the stodgy reputation of librarians

  everywhere.” He spoke out one side of his mouth in that charming way he

  had that drove me crazy. “Seeing you in your element might even make me

  start missing your glasses a smidge.”

  “Well I hate to disappoint you,” I replied tartly, “but they might not make

  a return appearance.”

  “My offer to replace them still stands. After all . . .”—he peered up at me,

  one eye closed—“it was my fault.”

  A couple of different kinds of heat flooded through me at the reminder.

  “No thank you.” I met his eyes. And stared a beat too long. “I don’t really

  need them to see clearly now.”

  The flirtatious smile remained, but levity was no longer at the forefront

  of his tone. “All of a sudden you don’t need glasses anymore?”—finger

  • 223 •

  snap—“Just like that.” He said this in the way that prosecutors do when they know their witness is lying on the witness stand . . . and are about to go in

  for the kill.

  I was already exhausted and stressed, not to mention ticked at myself for

  having fallen into his pretty trap. So I did my own kind of snap: “Not that

  it’s any of your business, but my eyesight doesn’t happen to be that bad . . .

  ‘sides, I was thinkin’ of gettin’ contacts anyway.”

  Pete tilted his head, gave me a cock-eyed grin. “I see someone woke up

  on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Didn’t get enough sleep again last

  night?” He reached over to touch my face, but I batted his hand away knowing

  I’d be lost if he started touching me.

  “Do you mind? I’m tryin’ to work here.”

  “Don’t mind at all,” he drawled, brazenly staring at my butt, which was

  all up in his face.

  I stumbled down the stepstool, foregoing the hand offer. I saw a flicker of

  hurt? irritation? in Pete’s eyes before he quickly manufactured more humor.

  “Did you know that your accent gets more pronounced the madder you get?”

  “Did you know your accent gets more pronounced the more arrogant

  you get?”

  “But my accent isn’t as cute as yours,” he said. I glared at him, and he

  began chuckling. “You’re doing your little teapot impression again.” He was

  referring to the hand I just set on my hip.

  Who am I kidding? I would never make it as an actress. The smart play

  was to continue playing dumb . But I’d grown weary of it . . . and everything else . “Pete, what are you doin’ here?”

  Something flickered in his eyes again but didn’t stay long enough to

  register. “Can’t a pal come visit his buddy without needing a reason?” He tried

  again with the banter, but it splatted against my stone face.

  I narrowed my eyes at him, waiting. I swear I saw the same levers and

  pulleys turning over in his mind as in Andrew’s. The thought did nothing to

  improve my mood.

  He let out a sigh. “Okay, fine. Since the pleasure part of our interlude is

  clearly over, I guess it’s down to business—I came to let you know your father’s

  going to pick up Andy today.”

  How did he know this, and I did not?

  “Hey!” Pete threw a hand up to block my death rays. “Don’t shoot the

  messenger. I figured this was bad news for everyone all around.”

  “No,” I corrected. “What are you doin’ standin’ here in this library? In

  Clovis, New Mexico? And don’t say the words mentorin’ program because

  • 224 •

  I don’t buy it. Andrew was accepted to many boardin’ schools, and nary a one came with a mentorin’ program attached. You and I both know that a

  rich school like yours could’ve easily just flown Andrew out to administer all

  these tests in California. Or y’all could’ve used an independent testin’ firm

  like all the rest.”

  “We�
��re not like all the rest,” he countered.

  “Maybe that’s what scares me so bad.”

  Irritation pursed his lips. After a deep breath in, he tried again. “Kate,

  there is an Academy Mentoring Program. It even has an acronym—AMP.” I

  snorted at that one. “That is why I’m here. As cadets we can be pretty isolated at The Academy, so during senior year, the organization annually sends

  graduating cadets out to live amongst civilians and mentor a prospective cadet.

  It’s been part of our tradition for many years.”

  I feigned a yawn to let him know I was bored. And to piss him off. The

  deepening hue across his cheekbones let me know it was working.

  “. . . The reason you haven’t heard about us is because we’re a very private, very exclusive organization,” Pete droned on as though nothing were amiss

  while I continued to give him the glaze eyes. “Therefore, only share info on

  a need-to-know basis. Since your brother is being considered, you are one of

  the few in the know. Most of America—and the world—will never even hear

  the words International Elite Academy.”

  He was telling the truth, but I knew buried beneath that were stinky

  factoid nuggets about them he didn’t want me to nose out. “Why do I always

  get the feelin’ you’re hidin’ somethin’?”

  “Because you’re paranoid.”

  I shot him a look darker than the navy of his tee.

  “Look,” he sighed, “you’ve been through a lot lately, and I’m not just

  talking about this past week. I really only have the best intentions.” As if on

  command, his face softened. Then his voice. “I know you’re having a hard

  time coming to terms with your brother leaving.”

  “I’m not having a hard time comin’ to terms with it . . . because he’s not

  leavin’!” My voice rose in direct proportion to his decrease. “And I know there’s more to it—I can just feel it!”

  “Well I’m sorry to disappoint you, Kate, but you’re wrong.”

  “You’re wrong!” I threw back at him.

  Pete puffed out some aggravation, swiped a hand over his mouth. “Look,

  I did actually come here for a purpose, and it wasn’t to argue with you.”

  “You’ve already lobbed your little grenade, so you can march along now,

  Cadet Davenport.”

  • 225 •

  “There’s more bad news I’m afraid . . .”