Acting Brave (Fenbrook Academy #3)

by Helena Newbury

  And me? I’d gone for a white and black polka dot bathing suit that looked like the sort of thing a 1940s glamorpuss would have worn as she graced the side of a WWII bomber, together with a cheeky grin and a Come home safely, boys!

  “I still don’t get it,” said Karen. She looked at the water slides and the people whooping and laughing and splashing around. She’d had to take her glasses off and she was blinking like a befuddled owl. “It’s all echoey. I’m getting goose bumps. And it smells of chemicals.”

  “Chlorine,” I told her. “In case any kids pee in the pool.”

  Clarissa looked horrified and pulled her feet up out of the water.

  “Joke,” I said quickly. “That never happens. Come on.”

  We all slid in. The water was only up to our chests...except for Karen, who was up to her chin. “It’s freezing!” she hissed.

  “Swim!” said Clarissa. “It’ll warm you up.” And she was gone, powering through the water like a Dolce & Gabbana torpedo.

  “So,” said Nat. “Blue & Red.” We started to walk further into the pool, too busy talking to start swimming but wanting to get our shoulders under the surface.

  I grinned. I’d been grinning a lot, since the impromptu audition with Dixon. “I know!” I looked down at myself. “I have to get in shape.”

  “Your shape is fine,” said Nat.

  But I shook my head. “I’m meant to be young and fit and fresh out of the academy—I should have abs of steel.” I poked my stomach. “I’m more...marshmallow.”

  “You’re curvy. Curvy is good.” Nat looked down at herself. “I wish I had your boobs.”

  “You’d overbalance if you had my boobs. You couldn’t pirouette on one toe with these things swinging around like pendulums.”

  “If we’re trading bodies,” said Karen, “could I borrow someone’s height?”

  We looked back at her. She was doing her best to follow us, but the water was already up to her lower lip.

  “Swim!” said Nat.

  Karen looked uncertain.

  “You’re sure you can swim?” I asked.

  “Yes!” said Karen. “I just—I can’t quite remember.” She pushed off from the bottom and launched herself forward, then flailed with her arms and promptly sank. I dragged her up by the shoulder and she took a huge gulp of air.

  “Karen, are you sure this is a good idea?” asked Nat, turning over onto her back and drifting alongside.

  “Yes! It’ll all come back to me!” And Karen launched herself forward again.

  This was getting to be a thing, with Karen. Ever since Connor, she had a new-found confidence that was both adorable and dangerous. She’d come out from beneath my wing, the fact that she was a year older than any of us making her push herself even harder to be independent. Now that she’d graduated, we saw a lot less of her. Between rehearsals with the orchestra and jamming with Connor—trying to come up with a follow-up to their hit track—it seemed as if she was barely there. It was as if she was growing up in fast forward and, after all those years spent living under the thumb of her father, I could totally understand it. But I couldn’t help feeling a little sad about it, as well. I’d liked having her under my wing. I missed her being there.

  Clarissa swam past us, did some sort of underwater one-eighty, and then cruised alongside. “What’s that?” she asked.

  Karen was now managing to stay on the surface by doing something that was a little like doggy paddle and a little like a paddle steamer. Her kicking was splashing people several feet away.

  “That’s Karen swimming,” I said levelly.

  “See?” said Karen, panting. “It’s fine. It’s all fine.” I could tell she was using every ounce of concentration and effort to stay afloat. We formed up alongside her and swum in a line: two lithe water nymphs, a paddle steamer, and a killer whale. That’s how I felt, at least, next to them. But it felt good just to be doing something as a group.

  There was another reason I’d organized the trip. We badly needed some Fenbrook Girl time. I was delighted that Nat had found Darrell the previous summer but, ever since she’d moved into the mansion, it felt like she’d withdrawn from the group a little. As if she wanted to keep us at arm’s length for some reason. She seemed happy...maybe that was it, maybe she was too happy with him. Maybe she didn’t need us anymore.

  Clarissa had followed, getting into first torrid sex and then something much deeper with her muscled hunk of a biker, Neil, but I knew things weren’t all rosy. Neil would disappear on “business trips” for a few days to a week and, when any of us asked where he’d gone, she’d go very quiet. I was pretty sure she didn’t know herself, and that worried me. They’d been together over a year, now. How could she bear to still not know what he did for money? She hadn’t withdrawn from our little group like Nat had...it was more as if she wasn’t really there in spirit, so preoccupied with Neil’s secrets that she was only going through the motions with us.

  Karen, Nat, and Clarissa. All of them just slowly drifting away, too gradually and too subtly to make a big noise about it. I’d look paranoid and childish if I said something. And that was just the way of things, right? As you grew up, things changed and you went your separate ways. So...why did it feel so wrong?

  I suddenly coughed and spluttered—I’d been so preoccupied with moping that Karen had paddle-steamed past me and I was in her wake. I powered forward and rejoined the formation.

  “We need to celebrate,” said Clarissa, looking across at me.

  “Not unless I pass the screen test,” I told them. “I don’t want to jinx it.”

  “Fine,” said Nat. “Flicker if you get in. Clarissa’s place and orange Skittle vodka if you don’t.”

  Clarissa’s place. Nat moving out had been the end of an era. Next, I guessed, Neil would move in with Clarissa and then they really would all be in couples. There was a part of me that actually hoped it wouldn’t happen, that Neil would cling on to his biker lifestyle and stay in his own place in Boston. I immediately felt my stomach twist in guilt.

  There was a huge splash just in front of us as a guy flew out of the end of a water chute and plunged into the water.

  “Why do people do that?!” asked Karen, spluttering.

  We all looked blankly at her. “What...go down a water slide?”

  We stopped swimming and treaded water. Karen did the same—sort of—by windmilling her arms.

  “It’s...fun,” I said.

  “Why?” She looked genuinely confused. “Why is sliding down a big plastic tube into some water fun?”

  “It’s, you know...like a slide, only better because it twists and turns and—” Clarissa broke off at Karen’s expression. “You know, a slide. Karen, you must have gone to a playground at least once!”

  Karen looked at her and then looked away, embarrassed.

  “What did you do, your entire childhood?” asked Nat, horrified.

  “Brahms,” mumbled Karen, not meeting her eyes.

  The rest of us all looked at each other.

  “I’ll try it,” Karen said abruptly. She paddle-steamed over to the edge of the pool and climbed out.

  “You don’t have to—” I said quickly.

  “No. It’s fine. Obviously I’ve been missing out.” She walked toward the spiral staircase that led to the water slide.

  “It’s quite a big one,” I said. “Are you sure—”

  But she was already marching up the stairs, all five foot four of her. I felt my chest tighten. She was so determined to prove herself, to catch up on the life she’d missed before Connor. Maybe too determined.

  I turned back to the others. “Okay,” I said. “Well, this is probably a good thing. It’s a good thing, right?”

  They all nodded. But as Karen climbed higher, she slowed down. It really was quite a big water slide.

  “Maybe we should be ready at the bottom,” said Nat. “Just in case.”

  We all swam over to the exit of the slide. Karen was at the top of the steps now,
but she was barely moving. She looked very small, all the way up there. I mean, even smaller than normal.

  “You don’t think she’ll….” I looked at Nat and Clarissa in turn. I didn’t have to say “freak out”—they knew what I meant. They’d been there when Karen had had one of her full-on meltdowns after nearly flunking, a meltdown that had started with catatonia and ended with her fainting on the front steps of Fenbrook. It hadn’t been the first time, either. Breaking down under pressure had been why she’d left her first music college in Boston and come to Fenbrook in the first place.

  Of course, she was a lot more relaxed now. Connor’s mix of bad boy Irish charm and—from what she’d told me—seriously hot lovin’ seemed to work like a safety valve for her. On the other hand, this new attitude she had, this need to grow up too fast and prove herself at every turn, seemed like an accident waiting to happen.

  We watched as she sat down at the slide’s entrance, looked down at us just once, her face pale...and then pushed off. We all held our breath.

  The noise started as a worried moan, but rose quickly to an uncertain wail, echoing around the walls of the tube and changing in tone as its owner shot around the turns. By the time Karen reached the exit, it was a full-on scream.

  She flew out of the slide, her body stiff and straight as an arrow, and traveled a surprising distance across the pool before plunging into the water. A few bubbles rose to the surface.

  “Karen?” I said, panicked. “Karen?!” I prepared to dive down to get her.

  Karen broke the surface and heaved in a lungful of air, a huge grin on her face. “Again!”

  Chapter 9

  Ryan

  They’d partnered me with Hollister. A good guy. Insisted on eating Cheetos in the patrol car, but he had my back, and he was calm and cool in a way that I wasn’t.

  I got the feeling that was kind of the point.

  We were at a domestic dispute—which was code for “she called the cops on him.” I rapped on the door and told them it was the NYPD, and immediately the argument inside changed from shouts to bitter mutterings.

  The door opened. It was a woman and her lip was bleeding, one cheek swollen and reddened. She was a frail little thing, not much bigger than Jasmine’s friend Karen, and she had the same dark, frizzy hair. She was in a white tank top and sweat pants, her feet bare, as if she’d been happily watching TV on the couch before it all went wrong. Her arms were sort of half-folded, one across her stomach and the other hanging down by her side.

  I notice stuff like that. People think I’m dumb because I’m big and I don’t talk much, but not talking gives me time to see.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes on the floor. “It was a mistake. We had a fight, and I…I shouldn’t have called you.”

  She glanced up at me for a split second and saw me looking at her lip. She tried to lick the blood away with her tongue.

  “Is your husband there, ma’am?” asked Hollister. His voice was carefully neutral. I used to be able to do that tone, too.

  The door opened a little wider. He was still in his suit pants, shirt and tie, and from the look of them he had a nice, stable job with a Fortune 500 company. A nice, respectable guy with his respectable wife in their respectable apartment. The sort no one suspects. You say spousal abuse and they think of a trailer park.

  “You mind if we come in and take a look around?” asked Hollister.

  “That’s not necessary,” said the guy. He glanced at me and then decided to focus on Hollister, since he was the one doing all the talking. He opened his arms wide to show how innocent he was; I wondered if he was in sales. “Look. I know this looks bad. But really, it’s silly. We had a fight—about what to eat for dinner, of all things—and then Jackie turned around and her foot caught the rug and she went headfirst into the coffee table. I mean, God, it’s lucky it wasn’t glass or anything. Right?”

  Hollister looked at Jackie. I could tell from the way she was twitching that she wanted to look over her shoulder at her husband for help, but she was willing herself not to. She nodded. “I tripped over the rug,” she said.

  I could feel it start inside me, then. Leaking out, hot and red, just like the blood had stained Hux’s shirt. Polluting everything inside me, turning it red, too, everything becoming bright and hot and simple. No. Control it.

  “It’s a long way from the rug,” I said, staring at the room behind them. The first time I’d spoken since I’d knocked on the door.

  Everyone turned to look at me. The husband wasn’t a small guy, but even he had to tilt his head up to look me in the eye. He took a microscopic step backward. “What?” he croaked.

  “The coffee table’s a long way from the rug,” I said. It wasn’t, but I wanted to see how he’d react.

  He started to say something, then thought better of it. The blood was draining from his face.

  “Ma’am, I need to speak to you alone,” said Hollister, following procedure. “Sir, can I ask you to go to another room, please?”

  The husband’s knuckles weren’t reddened, but there was a book on the floor, a heavy, hardback dictionary. “You hit her with that?” I asked.

  Hollister turned and glared at me. “Sir,” he said, talking to the guy but keeping his eyes locked on me. “Can I ask you to go to another room? Please?”

  The guy was breathing hard, now, his eyes going from the book to me to his wife. He nodded and retreated into the apartment. I knew Hollister was doing everything right—talk to the wife alone, to convince her to tell the truth. Defuse the situation. But for me, it wasn’t defusing anything. For me, seeing the guy disappear was like watching a predator slither back into its nest. He was going to get away with it. He was going to get away with it. The heat rippled and blossomed inside, turning yellow and white. I could feel blood flowing into my muscles, my hands clenching and unclenching unconsciously.

  “You want to wait in the car? Kowalski?” It must have been written all over my face, because Hollister’s voice had gone from angry to seriously worried.

  I shook my head and folded my arms. My eyes were locked on the door through which the husband had disappeared.

  Hollister took a deep breath. “Okay. Ma’am.” He did the reassuring cop voice, the one that’s a little like talking to a scared animal. “Now can you tell us what happened?”

  “I tripped on the rug,” she said. Her eyes flicked to me, just for a second.

  “We can take you somewhere safe,” said Hollister. “Right now. We can take you somewhere safe.”

  “I tripped on the rug,” she said again. Her voice was like a fraying rubber band that’s about to snap. That hand was still on her stomach, cradling it all the way from her fingertips to her elbow.

  The heat from my anger was palpable, now. I actually had my mouth open a little to try to let it out. Their voices seemed to come from a long way away.

  Hollister tipped his head forward, looking the woman right in the eye. “Ma’am—” he started

  “I tripped on the goddamn rug!” she almost screamed and stepped back into her apartment, her hand already reaching for the door.

  I leaned forward and snatched up the hem of her tank top, wrenching it up until she was bare up to the bottom of her ribcage. Red and black bruises covered her from her navel round to her kidney. The biggest one had a distinct shape. A footprint.

  He’d stamped on her.

  The sound seemed to switch off. I could see her shouting at me in shock and humiliation but I couldn’t hear her. I pushed her out of the way with one hand and marched inside the apartment. Something was grabbing and pulling at my shoulder from behind and I was vaguely aware that it must be Hollister, but I ignored it. I’m strong, and I’m even stronger when I’m angry.

  I found the guy sitting in his study, fingers steepled, staring at his MacBook screen without seeing it, waiting for us to go. He looked up with disbelief when I marched in, and was halfway up out of his chair when my fist caught him under the chin.

  He we
nt back against the desk and the laptop fell to the floor with an ugly cracking sound. I hit him again, in the belly this time, and then in the face, the full power of my rage behind each punch. It all boiled out of me, the wrongness of it, the fact that people like him were free and people like Hux were dead, and the scariest thing was that it wasn’t like a release of pressure; it didn’t lower the level of anger at all, because there was an inexhaustible supply of it.

  ***

  The station was in uproar, everybody chattering about some pack of visitors. Reporters, I assumed, because suddenly everyone was fixing their hair and trying to get to the front as they approached.

  In Captain Barnes’s office, though, it was very quiet.

  “What happened?” Barnes asked Hollister.

  I kept my eyes straight ahead, but heard Hollister clear his throat. He was a good guy. “Sir. We heard a noise coming from the study, and we had no choice but to enter to ensure the safety of the female involved. Officer Kowalski was immediately assaulted by the suspect and had no choice but to defend himself—”

  “Stop talking,” said Barnes. “Stop talking now. Kowalski, you’re already screwed. Are you going to let your partner go down as well?”

  “No sir,” I said. “That’s not what happened. I lost my temper and hit the suspect. Several times.”

  Barnes glanced at Hollister. “Get out.”

  Hollister left, throwing me one last, mournful glance. I gave him a nod of thanks, for trying.

  “The only reason you’re not in cuffs,” said Barnes, “is that the guy doesn’t want to press charges. Unsurprisingly, he’d rather forget the whole thing.”

  I said nothing.

  “I gotta let you go,” said Barnes. “I need your badge and your gun.”

  And that was it. I was fired. I expected to at least feel the guilt ease, because now I’d been punished. But it didn’t feel any better. It actually felt worse. Being a cop was the only thing I’d ever been good at. Without Hux, life had been unbearable; without my job, I didn’t have a life at all.