When the van exited the freeway, rows of orange trees blurred by on both sides, making me wonder how isolated from town my new school would be. As the orange groves gave way to foothills, the van slowed and turned into an obscure little drive, mostly hidden under the shade of scrub oaks. There was an unobtrusive sign, with THE LETHE ACADEMY in gold lettering.
Slowly, we drove under the canopy of oaks, through the dappled light. Up and up we went, the engine whining and giving a little shudder now and then. I craned my neck to get my first glimpse of the school, but all I could see were oaks.
Then the van pulled above the tree line. Blue sky broke above us and there was a bright flash of ocean to the west. The end of the earth, I thought. My ride coasted to a stop.
We’d come to a small meadow cut into the hillside. The road skirted around it, as if even asphalt could be wary of a place. A rusted iron gate stood, almost hidden in the tall grass. Beyond it were half a dozen scattered old stone blocks. They looked like grave markers. A breeze blew, and the grass bent as if an invisible creature walked through it. I shivered, about to ask why we’d stopped. But the driver was only waiting for the huge wrought-iron gates at the main road to open. When they did, the van picked up speed again, and we zoomed up the last part of the hill. The creeptacular little meadow slipped behind us.
If you’ve ever driven by a country club your parents can’t afford, then you know what the Lethe Academy looked like. Green lawns sprawled, so perfectly manicured you’d expect dudes in golf carts to drive by and tee off. Instead, high school students had taken over. A group of them played Frisbee, while others lounged in the shade of olive trees that dotted the campus. Every single kid was wearing shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops. In California, September still felt like summer. I was way overdressed in my jeans and sneakers.
Beyond the teeming front lawn, all the buildings were stucco with red-tiled roofs, their huge windows flung open. East of campus, I spotted three emerald-green sports fields, chalked dazzling white. To the north, tennis courts, and then a pool, complete with a guy jumping off the diving board. I frowned at it and looked away.
I hopped out of the van and made my way to a white table set up on the lawn. It was marked REGISTRATION. The woman manning the table glanced up at me. Next to her sat a stack of cream-colored manila envelopes.
“Hi,” I said, supercool as always. “I’m Camden Fisher.”
“Ah.” The woman smiled and ran her finger down a row of packets, her perfect nails tapping as she went. I peeked under the table at her feet. Flip-flops. She pulled an envelope from the pile, opened it, and handed me a map.
“You are in Kelser House, third room on the south wing.” She drew a finger across the printed map of the school, down some paths, around a few buildings, to a box labeled KELSER. When I nodded that I understood, she gestured toward a large building behind her. “That’s the dining hall, in case you’re hungry. Lunch is on now, until two o’clock.” Flowering vines crept up the stucco, making it seem like some lost civilization’s cafeteria. Faintly, I smelled baking bread.
“Any questions?” she asked.
“Yeah. What’s that little graveyard outside the gates?”
The woman kept smiling, but her eyebrows drew up in that minimalist, Botoxed way that’s supposed to suggest concern. “Right outside the big gate? Honey, that’s not a cemetery.” She laughed, like I was delightful as a kitten with a ball of yarn. “That’s only what’s left of the original schoolhouse. Before they moved everything up here.” I smiled, trying not to let on how dumb I felt. “Let me know if you need anything.”
She handed me the packet and I peeked inside. Handbook of Rules, integrity pledge, class schedule, daily commitments, a list of books to pick up at the bookstore. I’d already read everything on their website before I’d left home, including the 129-page rule book. But I guess it didn’t hurt to have a copy of my own.
Another school van parked behind me, bright-orange and neon-yellow surfboards on the roof rack. Six tan, shirtless guys tumbled out, grabbed their boards, and ran off across the lawn, barefoot and sun-bleached. I probably stared after them too long, but they don’t make surfers in the Midwest. Yowza. Suddenly, I was feeling the slightest bit better about boarding school.
I thought briefly of Kevin Meyers, then shook my head and glanced at the map. Time to go. I walked until I saw glimpses of the green-blue ocean shimmering between the buildings. My stomach tightened. To my right, there was a dorm with twelve identical sets of French doors along one side. The sign said KELSER.
Inside was dark and cool, like a cave. I blinked. The place was deserted but I could hear thumping music from behind closed doors. I trailed down one hallway, found the communal bathrooms and the laundry room. There was also a glass-windowed box with an old-fashioned phone inside it, since students weren’t allowed cell phones on campus.
On impulse, I darted into the phone booth and dialed home. It rang once on the other end, like a shot of adrenaline right in my heart. Home. My palms got sweaty.
A girl banged on the glass door. Startled, I jumped and dropped the phone.
“C-c-c-come on, you’ll be late!” she said, laughing.
“What?” I asked, then felt bad for asking, since it had taken her so long to say the first thing. The phone was still ringing. I hung it up. Apparently, I was supposed to be somewhere.
The girl had perfect skin the color of creamed coffee, and moss-green eyes. She swung open the phone booth door. Carefully, she said, “Th-the welcome orientation’s mandatory, and it s-s-starts in two minutes.”
“But — my bags,” I protested, gesturing to the heap at my feet.
“Leave them in the c-common room,” she told me. “It’s s-safe. I’m Jessie,” she added, and grabbed my arm. “Let’s g-go.”
The orientation was held in the chapel. We filed in, past rows and rows of wooden bench pews. The whole western-facing wall of the building was stained glass. The designs were abstract, with nothing that might look like a cross or a crescent or a star anywhere. The glass was rigged on casters so the entire wall could slide open and let the breeze in. Right then it was cracked two feet open. I got the idea that right around sunset, with the light coming in, the inside of the chapel would look like a disco ball.
Jessie and I sat together. Well, technically, Jessie was sitting, but she twisted and turned, like a hyperactive puppy on a car ride.
“Nora!” she called, after a minute. She waved to a tall, frizzy-haired girl in neon-blue running shorts who was standing by the chapel doors. The girl’s face lit up and she loped down the aisle toward us. Girl had legs like a gazelle and she walked like a runway model. “My roommate,” Jessie said to me. Nora plopped down in the row behind us. All that grace dissipated, and she became supergawky, all kneecaps and elbows. She smiled hugely.
“I’m Nora,” Nora announced.
“Camden,” I answered. My palms were clammy. It had been so long since I’d needed to make new friends. I thought of Lia, then pushed the thought away. Around us, the rest of Lethe’s three hundred students streamed in the doors and filled the benches. A few adults found spots, but even more stood lined against the back wall.
“Greetings, everyone,” a man dressed in standard-issue teacher wear said from the chapel’s stage. “Welcome, freshmen, to the Lethe Academy. I am Dr. Falzone, dean of students. To our returning upperclassmen, welcome back! I have a few announcements to make. The first formal dinner of the year is tonight. Make sure you attend.” He wagged a knowing finger at a group of older boys, who laughed. Dr. Falzone gave them a wink and said to the rest of us, “If you have not done so already, your assignment for this afternoon is to read your official rule book and sign your integrity pledge. They are due at dinner. It’s a point a day if they’re late. If you don’t know what a point is, better read your official rule book.”
I’d already read, online, how points were part of the school’s penalty system. You got five points for cutting a class, two points for being
tardy. Each point equaled an hour of hard labor on the weekend work crew. If you got twenty points in a year, the school had grounds to expel you.
Dr. Falzone went on. “And lest anyone forget, curfew for underclassmen is ten P.M., ten thirty for seniors. That means you check in. At your curfew time. With your dorm head. In the dorms. If you do not know who your dorm head is, his or her name is listed in your information packet. Everybody got that?” He smiled, eyebrows lifted. Nobody said anything. Down came the eyebrows, and Dr. Falzone added, “The floor is now open for general announcements. Anyone?”
Some students raised their hands. Dr. Falzone called on them one at a time, and they stood to make their announcement. Lost wallet, one kid said. Student council meeting, another mentioned.
I glanced around, and spied a stone marker set into the floor at the head of the chapel. I made out the name “Kirk,” along with two dates, etched into it. According to the school’s website, Mr. Kirk had founded Lethe, so I guessed it was a dedication stone. While I was pondering, Jessie nudged me, her body tensing like she’d recently been electrified.
“Look at that guy. No, not now. Don’t l-let him s-s-s-see you. Look! He’s staring right at me.” She scrunched her eyebrows at someone behind us. Jessie had super-expressive eyebrows. I turned to take a gander.
There was … I don’t know … only about three-quarters of the entire school population sitting behind us. I whispered, “Who?”
She repeated the eyebrow thing, but with more energetic twitching. No one caught my eye. I shrugged. Jessie groaned at my incompetence.
Directly behind us, a wizened old teacher in a plaid button-up shirt and red bow tie leaned forward. “Shut … it,” he whispered. Jessie glared at me. Like it was my fault.
“Mark Elliott!” Dr. Falzone called on a student with his hand up.
The guy stood and said, “Yeah. Men’s lacrosse tryouts will be on the far field Friday, three thirty. Varsity and JV.”
No exaggeration: The guy making the announcement was the biggest heartbreaker I had ever seen. I guessed he was an upperclassman, definitely an athlete, with thick, sandy-blond hair and an angular face. A couple of girls giggled, and he smiled quizzically at them. It was like he didn’t know he was gorgeous. “Uh, hi,” he said to the gigglers, which only made them giggle more. “Bring your gear,” he added, and sat down. My heart was beating faster.
When no more hands were raised, Dr. Falzone dismissed us, saying we could return to our dorms to unpack and get ready for dinner.
Everybody got up. Jessie elbowed me. Hard. “What?” I nearly yelled at her. Mr. Bow Tie gave us a displeased smirk, picked up his briefcase, and got in line to exit the chapel.
Nora stuck her tongue out at the teacher’s back and then leaned toward us. “What’s up, Jessie?”
“I’m not going to p-point at him!” Jessie said. Her tone implied I had asked her to stick her finger in a pot of honey and go slap a bear.
“Point at who?” Nora asked.
“Him! Right. There,” Jessie practically whimpered behind her hand, eyes huge.
I searched again for her mystery guy. All I saw was a bunch of huddled adolescent butts, crammed together, moving toward the exit.
“Yeah, cute,” I said, my mind still mostly on the lacrosse team hunk. “Either of you going back to the dorm?”
“Gotta go meet my advisor,” Nora answered. Jessie didn’t reply. She was scowling at the butts.
Back at Kelser, I managed to find the door marked with a brass “3” and the nameplates TAMARA STRATFORD and CAMDEN FISHER. Inside, my new roommate, Tamara, was curled up in her fluffy, pale pink bed. She poked her head out of her duvet burrow and gave me the once-over. I wondered if she’d missed orientation.
“’Sup,” she said. She kicked her legs out from her comforter and sat up. One thin arm adjusted her pillow. She looked like a toothpick in a nest of cotton candy.
“Hi,” I said back. “I’m Camden.”
“Yeah, I know,” she answered. Her hair belonged on the cover of a trashy romance novel — dark auburn, rolling curls past her shoulder blades. But her face was sharp and mousy, her brown eyes dull, and she was built like a coat hanger.
As for our room, the far end had a French door. The inside was like a weird mirror image: two twin beds, two standing wardrobes, and two small desks. My side of the reflection was completely barren. Bald mattress on a metal frame, abandoned closet. Tamara’s side was cluttered, her closet so packed it didn’t close, her desk covered with pencil caddies and laptop cords. It looked like she’d lived here for years already.
“Well …” I said into the silence. “Guess I’ll get my stuff and start unpacking.” I turned to the door, kind of desperate to end the awkwardness.
“Are you going to be noisy in here?” she demanded.
“Very,” I shot back, and went to find my luggage in the common room. I couldn’t tell if we were being funny or mean. When I came back with my bags, Tamara was gone.
Since I’d read ye olde rule book, I knew formal dinner was all about dressing up, guys pulling the seats out for the girls, and everybody remembering to put a cloth napkin in their laps.
And on a rotating schedule, each student was assigned to waiter duty. It was supposed to keep everybody from thinking they were too privileged or something. Basically, it meant eating early with the kitchen crew, getting a quick review on which table we’d tend, and receiving an old white coat from the kitchen’s closet. Lia’s mom was a caterer, so I knew the basics: Serve with your left hand, clear with your right. Anyway, that’s what I was doing at the very first formal dinner of school. Doling food out to my fellow classmates. Because I am awesome lucky is why.
Each table had about ten students and one or two teachers. Nora’s was the table I was serving. Seated with her was a friendly young teacher named Mr. Graham. I spotted Jessie at a table next to the kitchen, and she waved as I walked by. She wore a purple, teal, and black pouf of a dress that instantly made me feel not so ridiculous in my waiter garb, so I gave her a big smile back. After I’d done my duty of doling out roast chicken breasts and rice to a bunch of hungry, overdressed schoolmates, I stood near the wall next to another waiter — a junior named Sasha. Sasha smelled like incense and was busy inspecting her nails. She looked like she thought individuals who had achieved the title of junior shouldn’t be subjected to things like being on the waitstaff, and if I brought attention to the fact that she was with a lowly freshman like me, I’d regret it. So instead, I took in the scenery.
The dining hall had a wall of large windows. The view was amazing — foothills gave way to orange groves that ended in the little town of Nueva Vista below. Beyond that, the sea. Mrs. Sibley, the headmistress, was seated at a table that was dead center in front of the windows, probably to give her the best view. A bunch of senior boys sat with her. They were joking with one another, laughing. Mrs. Sibley gave them a reluctant smile.
Mark Elliott, the guy who’d announced lacrosse tryouts, was there. He raked his sandy blond hair back with his fingers and laughed. He was supereasy to look at. Taking advantage of my waiter’s coat of invisibility, I helped myself to a big, moony eyeful.
And then I saw, at the other end of the headmistress’s table, the man from the airplane.
I took a step back, bumped against the wall, and pressed flat up against it. Like part of me believed if I pushed hard enough, my body could dissolve right into the wood and plaster. Stupid. But escape to the other side was so close, you know? I mean, if not for the laws of physics and everything.
Airplane guy seemed to study the ocean view, hands folded in front of his plate.
I elbowed the girl next to me.
“Who’s that at the headmistress’s table?” I asked, out of the corner of my mouth.
“Umm … Mrs. Sibley, the headmistress?” Sasha didn’t even look up from her nails, letting the dripping sarcasm do the work for her. I felt like Jessie all of the sudden. I had a crazy urge to wiggle my eyebrows. I
nudged Sasha again.
“Quit it, Frosh!” Sasha threw some elbow back my way. It wasn’t gentle.
“Just look and tell me!”
I knew when she saw who I was talking about, though, because she got still. In a wary tone, she said, “That’s Barnaby Charon.”
“What’s he doing here?”
She heaved a labored sigh. “He’s on the school’s board of trustees, lifetime membership. All the land the school is built on belongs to him. Ditto for everything you see out those windows, all the way down to the beach. That means he pretty much owns a piece of all the teachers and students here. Even Mrs. Sibley and Dr. Falzone have to listen to what Barnaby Charon says. You do not want to draw the attention of a guy like that.” She groaned. “My table’s out of water.”
Sasha pushed herself off the wall and shuffled away. In that same instant, Barnaby Charon turned in his chair and stared right at me.
All around, three hundred other students chatted in some parallel universe I was no longer in. I held my breath. It was like having the Great Sphinx in Egypt turn and give you the old sand eyeball.
Mrs. Sibley stood up, clinked her fork against her glass, and thanked the waitstaff and kitchen crew. She reminded the students that classes started bright and early tomorrow, and dismissed us for the night. A thousand chair legs scraped over the wood floor, like waves crashing. The exodus swelled and rose and swallowed what I could see of Barnaby Charon.
I ducked down, like I had dropped something on the floor, and crept behind a table. It seemed like a good idea when I did it. But as the sounds in the dining hall diminished and everything got quiet, I realized that hiding wasn’t a good idea at all.
The last footsteps echoed and the dining hall was silent. I could hear my own breathing, the place was so quiet. When I stood up, Barnaby Charon would be there, in the emptied dining hall, waiting for me. I knew it. I could feel his hand around my neck like a brand.
The Last Academy Page 2