The Academy (The Academy Saga Book 1)

by CJ Daly

  the black void of our futures . . . whether we were ready or not.

  “Aren’t you comin’ back tomorrow?” Desperate, even to my own ears.

  Now Pete’s face crumpled a little. “Only to pick up your father and

  Andrew at the crack of dawn.”

  “What?” I distinctly felt like I’d got my wires crossed. My concussion,

  sleep-starved body, and pill weren’t helping matters. “I thought they weren’t

  leavin’ till Monday mornin’!”

  “That’s what your father wanted to let you and Mikey think.”

  “So y’all tricked us!” I tried to break free, but he wouldn’t allow it.

  “I’m sorry, Kate.” Pete sighed again, shaking his head. “He thought you

  might . . . or Mikey might . . . I don’t know exactly—sabotage the trip or

  something. I have to tell you the truth: I went along with it because it sounded

  like something you would do.” Betrayal snapped from my eyes, so he said,

  “I’m just trying to keep you out of trouble.”

  “So you keep sayin’.” At least he told me now I consoled myself. Maybe

  • 407 •

  I could still think of something to do. I was still lost in my thoughts when Pete glanced at his watch.

  “It’s getting late,” he said. “I better get you in the house.”

  “So this is really goodbye?” My heart felt like it was a victim of our lemon

  squeezer.

  “I’m afraid so. I’ll maybe see you very briefly in the morning when I

  come for your father and Andrew. But we’ll be in a hurry. I’ve got to turn in

  the Humvee before heading to the Lubbock airport. Everything else is being

  shipped out.”

  My mind was reeling. It was hard to process everything; it felt like my

  in-box was jammed. And the happy pill I’d taken wasn’t really living up to

  its name. It had only succeeded in dulling my senses some, which I supposed

  was a good thing on one hand, but my brain was functioning in slow gear.

  I looked up at his face, horrified to think it would be for the last time. It

  just didn’t seem real. He’d become the center of our universe. Now he was

  going to leave a black hole right in the middle of our lives . . . and right in

  the middle of my chest. I stared at him, uncomprehending that this was the

  end of the road for us.

  “Pete!” I cried, begging for a different scenario.

  “I know, Kate—I’m sick about it! That’s the way these missions are. They

  never last more than a couple of months.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to mention it before because you got hurt. And then I just

  didn’t want it hanging over us like a dark cloud, ruining our time together.”

  Time . . . the last sands were slipping through the hourglass. My mind

  scrambled for ways to plug it.

  “Will you stay with me till I fall asleep?” I asked in a small voice, hatching

  a plan to stay awake all night.

  “Of course I will . . . until your father comes home.” My face fell, so Pete

  explained, “He won’t be passed out tonight since he knows he has to get up

  early tomorrow for our trip.”

  “But I have a lotta questions for you . . .”

  Before I could start on them, he seized my shoulders, staring intently at

  me. “Kate, listen . . . I want you to follow your mother’s rules for a while.”

  “Huh? What do you mean?” I was confused and tired and apparently

  crying now.

  “Look at me!” His hands gripped my face into obedience. “This is

  important!” I must’ve looked blank, because he explained, “I mean no more

  • 408 •

  Alex Morgan on the soccer field, no more bragging about your photographic memory, or talking about your strong feelings about things.”

  “Who? What?” When did I do that?

  “And promise me you’ll take care of yourself—no more sacrificing your

  safety for some cows! Leave that to your father.”

  “I didn’t—” I started to argue, but he shook me a little.

  “I don’t want to have to see another hospital bill because you’re out trying

  to do a man’s job!”

  “I’ll pay you back the money . . . just tell me where to send it.”

  Pete’s hands bit into my shoulders, so that I felt it this time. “Don’t

  mention that damned bill to me one more time!” he blasted at my face. “You’re

  concentrating on the wrong things!”

  I started bawling in earnest now. He was scaring me with his sudden

  intensity, the shifting into high-gear, last bits of advice. So final. I thought we had the morning, but it felt like this was it. I suddenly couldn’t take another

  word or thought about it—the departure of my brother in the morning with

  the one I was falling in love with faster than a cow can say moo. I couldn’t

  focus on anything but the overwhelming feelings of loss cutting me to the

  bone. I hadn’t felt this much pain since Mama died.

  “Y-you’re really l-l-leavin’ and t-t-takin’ Drewy with you, and I’m n-n-

  never g-gonna see you again!” The words hiccupped out of me. “And I

  m-might n-not even get m-my b-b-brother back?” It was too much to bear.

  I started sobbing.

  Pete looked alarmed. I was always putting on a big brave face, but clearly,

  I was just a scared little girl.

  “He’s coming back! He signs up for next semester by October first, but

  he won’t leave until January second . . . if he goes at all,” he threw in at the

  end to appease me, I’m sure. He was hugging me to him now, holding me

  together really.

  “P-Pete!” I sobbed. “I-I’m g-gonna m-miss you so m-much!” I was shaking,

  blubbering like a baby. It was like snatching the sun away—I instantly felt

  cold.He kissed my temple, wiped some tears away. “You’re strong, Kate. You’ll

  get over this. This . . . this is just your first crush.”

  I started wailing at that one. Did he not understand the way I felt about him

  at all? I always knew he wasn’t from my world. That he was going to leave and go back to his privileged one. I was crying not only for the loss of him, but for

  all that he’d brought back to my life: hope, laughter . . . love. He’d brought

  • 409 •

  me back to life only to wish I were still half dead. Now it would be so much worse for me—the knowing what I was missing.

  I already knew Pete didn’t feel the same way about me, but calling me out

  for having a crush on him was just brutal. How many ways could I be hurt? I felt stupid and minimized. And inconsolable. He tried shushing me, rocking

  me, murmuring in my ear, but I couldn’t stop weeping. I could barely breathe.

  Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I processed the fact that the mascara I

  had carefully applied tonight (for his benefit) was most likely smeared across

  my face.

  “Kate, get a hold of yourself!” he ordered, a bit too sternly I thought under

  the circumstances. “Your father will be back any time now. I can’t take you

  into the house like this—you’ll frighten your brothers to death. You have to

  pull yourself together . . . if not for yourself, then for Mikey.”

  I couldn’t catch a breath to answer him. I was heaving and sobbing,

  blubbering and soaking the front of his jacket, ruining the glossy sheen,

  I’m sure. I couldn’t trust him, but there wa
s no one I wanted to trust more.

  Nothing made sense. My world was turned upside down.

  Pete cursed under his breath then pulled out the thing he had squirreled

  away in the back pocket of his jeans. My jacket was lifted up, the fabric

  clinging to my backside pulled down. I felt a shaft of cold air hit me a split

  second before he plunged something into my upper right hip. I gasped at the

  unexpected pain. My head fell back. I stared up at him in shocked surprise.

  “I’m sorry, Kate.”

  Pete’s determined face was the last thing I saw before my eyes rolled back

  into my head.

  • 410 •

  36

  INTERIM

  I awoke to more crying. But it wasn’t coming from me this time. Mikey.

  Was crying like . . . well, like his big brother and best friend in the world

  was instantly gone from his life and unlikely to return for the duration

  of his childhood. My head still ached a little, but I realized my body felt

  better—as though it’d been hooked up to an electrical charge all night,

  zapping back all my energy. My body felt renewed, but my heart felt tired as

  Grandma Moses.

  Last night was hazy. I struggled to recollect the wisps of real memories

  that got tangled up with my dreams. I knew Pete had left. For good. A wave of despair knocked me over. Literally. I could not get back up even to comfort

  my little brother in his time of need, my own need being greater than the

  power of my will to get up.

  What I almost hated more than not seeing his eyes spark up with humor

  or his mouth turn down in a lop-sided smile, was the fact that absolutely

  nothing had been resolved. I still didn’t know why I had such a terrible, visceral feeling about them. I still didn’t know anything about Pete Davenport, other

  than the fact he was a Scorpio and had mad life skills. Not even if he was

  one of the good guys or not. And my little brother was still going through the admissions process, even as I was sitting here crying for the one that put

  him there.

  What had I really accomplished these past couple of months besides

  getting my heart broken?

  I finally roused myself enough to trudge into the boys’ room to check

  on Mikey. Pete was right—I had to stay strong for my brother. From what I

  could gather from the words slipping through the hiccupping sobs (I cringed,

  • 411 •

  remembering that’s exactly how I sounded last night), Mikey was so upset because nobody had bothered to wake him up to say goodbye.

  I knew just how he felt. Nobody had bothered to wake me up either, and

  I’m guessing that was no accident. I glanced at the nightstand shoved between

  their twin beds; Spiderman’s eyes glowed 10:02. I calculated they were mid-

  air, in route somewhere between Arizona and California. I pictured them,

  kicked back in first class, drinking celebratory mimosas. Pete, I was sure, very

  relieved to finally be leaving the Ponderosa for good.

  Holy cow! —the calves needed their breakfast . . . and so did we for that

  matter. I hug-walked Mikey to the living room and plopped him down in

  front of the TV, then went to the kitchen to get breakfast going. Life’s needs

  must be met. Mama’s death taught me that grumbling hunger could worm its

  way into a young boy’s stomach, even during the darkest hour of mourning.

  While I was getting some fortification for our systems, the blinking light

  of the answering machine caught my eye. Despite the fact it was probably

  just Mrs. Hildebrand wondering why we hadn’t come by for fresh milk the

  last couple of days, I felt compelled to listen to it—right away. I pushed play,

  slipped some bread into the toaster, then froze when the message came on. It

  was Pete’s voice, crystal clear even through the scratchy recording and staticky

  background of what I surmised to be the Lubbock airport.

  Kate . . . I asked your father to leave a note for you but wanted to follow

  up, just in case. The animals are already taken care of and will be until

  Friday, with the exception of Blue. A hired-hand of the Hildebrand’s is

  coming, so don’t do any outside chores or heavy lifting—not even a

  laundry basket for the duration of the week.

  If you don’t have any further complications, like blackouts or severe

  headaches, then you can gradually resume physical activities next

  Monday. Make sure you read the information pamphlet Dr. Shaw sent

  home regarding concussions. Fol ow the instructions exactly. Do not

  blow it off! Returning to your normal physical activities too soon could

  result in permanent damage. So don’t do it!

  Hopeful y, you’re feeling better this morning. I gave you a Vitamin B

  cocktail last night to help jumpstart your system. I . . . A few seconds

  of static ensued where I could hear a boarding call in the background .

  I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye this morning. We left

  while it was still dark outside so decided not to wake you. Please

  • 412 •

  tell Mikey I said goodbye and give him a high-five from me. Kate . . .

  Another long pause. Take care of yourself.

  Tears sprouted from my eyes like a faucet turning on. I instantly replayed

  the message just to hear his crisp, commanding voice again . God! —w hy

  did I have to feel this way? A burning desire for someone I couldn’t have was torturous not to mention impractical . . . and I was nothing if not pragmatic.

  Wasn’t fair. He’d come and stirred up all these dormant feelings I had, like

  desire and the possibility for something more than my own life had to offer.

  Then disappeared, leaving me reeling and unable to cope with the whirlpool

  of feelings left churning around inside of me.

  Mikey and I spent the whole day crying it out together in front of the TV.

  After binge-watching mind-numbing cartoons and replaying Pete’s message

  eighty-eight times, I finally deleted it and snapped off the TV to fix us

  some supper. I found, upon closer inspection, that someone had thoughtfully

  restocked the fridge and pantry. My throat felt full again.

  Monday and Tuesday came and went in much the same fashion. I made

  phone calls to the schools and Norma to inform them of my situation;

  everyone was real understanding. The calls I made to Daddy’s cell phone,

  however, went unanswered. The fourth consecutive time it went to voice mail,

  I started chewing on my thumbnail. Normally this wouldn’t faze me, because

  Daddy often neglected to pick up the phone when I called, or even call me

  back. But since they were presently in the confines of that academy, being

  strong-armed into signing their souls to the devil, I was fraught with worry.

  Tuesday evening, after putting Mikey to bed, I tried again and got the

  recording again. Drumming my fingers on the kitchen counter, I recal ed there

  was a number in the brochure. But it was after hours so the office would be

  closed. I huffed out some pent-up air and began pacing up and down with Blue

  at my heels, looking woeful y up at me for answers. I could call Pete’s number. An instant giddiness bubbled up inside me at the thought of hearing his voice live.

  Something told me he didn’t want me to call. For one, he didn’t once

  say “call me.” But he never said not to either. Before
I could change my

  mind, I grabbed the phone and dialed the number he’d rattled off to me that

  afternoon. My palms were the sweaty of a girl calling a boy for the first time,

  only multiplied by a thousand on account of what kind of boy I was calling,

  and the reason I was calling. On the third ring someone picked up, and my

  chest swelled with expectation.

  “Hello?”

  My lungs deflated. I sank to the floor like a grounded kite. “Um, Can

  • 413 •

  I . . .”—throat clear—“Is this Pete Davenport’s phone number?” That feeling I tried to ignore was mocking me.

  “I’m sorry,” the man on the line said. “You must have the wrong number.”

  “Oh.” I was already near tears again when I heard click. “Sorry,” I

  whispered to the dial tone.

  I just held on to the phone, staring into space, until that obnoxious noise

  that lets you know the phone is off the hook molested my ears. Another lie—I knew I didn’t get the number wrong . I wondered, yet again, if the cadet I’d given my heart to was one of the good guys . . . or a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  Daddy finally called Wednesday morning to let us know they were

  coming home Wednesday night . That’s all he would say though. So in our

  boredom and hiatus from school, we made a huge Welcome Home! banner.

  While Mikey colored it, I fried some chicken for supper. We welcomed them

  back home with much fanfare. I gleaned the visit went well by the way they

  rushed-talked over each another in their haste to tell us everything. The

  campus, the state-of-the-art facilities, the cadets, even the “amazing” drive

  over the Golden Gate Bridge was relived in vivid detail.

  What I really wanted to know about was the meeting. I had to be patient

  for that bit of news. At last, I got my answer. Not the one I was looking for,

  although it was the one I was expecting. Yes, as a matter-of-fact, Daddy did

  go ahead and sign the paperwork. Andrew was officially in the International

  Elite Academy admissions process. Now we were all just waiting for their

  official acceptance in the form of a letter, or phone call, or trumpeting foot

  soldiers . . . somehow they weren’t exactly sure.

  Job well done, Cadet Davenport, I thought acidly as my stomach boiled.

  Did he put me to sleep so I wouldn’t intervene? I considered what I could