St Mary's Academy Series Box Set 1

by Seven Steps

  I jump in the car and slam the door in Eric’s face before he can say anything else. My lips curl in a curt smile, and Sophia and I ride off into the fading light.

  9

  There’s an odd vibe at dinner. Like a storm is brewing.

  Alana and Adella keep cutting their lettuce into tiny pieces and nibbling on them like scared rabbits.

  Daddy’s Portobello burger sits uneaten on his gigantic plate. He steeples his fingers and leans forward against them. His eyes are focused on the giant aquarium that wraps around the dining room.

  Adella’s fork slips from her fingers and clangs against a plate, breaking the silence.

  Alana elbows her sister, then peeks at Daddy.

  What’s going on here? Why is everyone acting so weird?

  Tension sits on my shoulders, making them sag. It pours down my throat, filling my lungs until I can barely breathe. My heart thuds dully against my chest and my stomach twists in knots.

  Something is up. Something bad.

  Dinners are usually filled with the twins’ adventures, my swim stories, and Duckie’s harrowing tales of being Partner in an accounting firm. Now, it seems like there’s an elephant in the room, and it’s sitting in the middle of the table, daring us to talk about it.

  I manage to choke down a shredded carrot.

  Where’s Duckie? She’s always so good at breaking the tension at the table. But she hasn’t come home from work yet. Odd. She’s usually home by five-thirty. What could’ve kept her?

  I clear my throat and attempt to lighten the mood.

  “So,” I say, keeping my voice cheery. “How was everyone’s day?”

  Alana’s and Adella’s eyes slide to Daddy, then to me.

  “Fine,” Alana says.

  “Fine,” Adella parrots.

  Their eyes drop back down to their plates and they continue barely eating. Did they get in trouble in school? Is that why they’re so nervous? Alana usually gets in trouble for excessive talking, but Adella doesn’t get in trouble for much of anything. Has something happened?

  Their evasive eyes tell me nothing, of course.

  What the heck is going on?

  “Great.” I look at my father, who watches a red crab scurry across a rock in the tank to my right. All of the tanks are filled with fish except for this one. This tank houses a dozen red crabs. It’s Daddy’s favorite. “How was your day, Daddy?”

  Daddy’s eyes snap to me, and my heartbeat picks up.

  Is that fury in his eyes directed toward me? What did I do?

  “My day was palatable, until I found out that my daughter deliberately disobeyed me.”

  “Disobeyed—”

  I gasp.

  He knows!

  “I called Mrs. Fleck to inquire about your first day in the Academy.”

  How could I be so stupid? So careless? Why didn’t I forge a sick note?

  “Do you know what Mrs. Fleck said?” Daddy asks.

  My throat is dry. My nerves are tight.

  “She said my daughter was not present in class today. Of course I told her that was impossible. After all, you went to school. The twins testified to that fact. So, I called the principal and he too assured me you were, indeed, present in school. So, tell me, what’s a father to think when he sends his child to school and she’s not where she’s supposed to be? What would you think, Ariel?”

  The color is rising in my father’s cheeks. I feel the same color draining from my face.

  I stay silent, not wanting to incriminate myself any further.

  He crosses his arms and leans onto the table.

  “You were at swim practice when you should have been in class, weren’t you?”

  No use lying now.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. One less lie.”

  My stomach drops.

  “I don’t lie. I’m not a liar.”

  “You told me you’d be present in the academy. You weren’t present. That, therefore, was a lie.”

  “No, you told me to go to the academy. I never agreed to it.”

  “You didn’t have to agree to it. I made a decision and I expected it to be followed.”

  “That’s not the same as lying.”

  “Disobedience and lying go hand in hand!” He slams his hand on the table, making the china rattle and my sisters jump. “But it doesn’t matter now. I called that swim teacher, that, that, Fish man. I personally told him you were not to be at any more swim practices for the duration of the year under pain of legal proceedings.”

  My anger goes into orbit.

  “You did what?”

  “That is my decision.”

  “You can’t do that. This is my life!”

  “You don’t have a life until you’re eighteen.”

  I stand up, planting my hands on the table as I glare at him. “That is not fair!”

  Daddy points a finger at me.

  “You are a child under this roof. You will obey my orders. No more of this swimming nonsense.”

  “All you think about is business. That is not what I want to do! I want to swim.”

  “You have a pool here. Swim in it.”

  “I want to swim competitively. I want to be an Olympic champion, not sit in some moldy cubicle for the rest of my life.”

  “I have indulged you in this dream for long enough. It’s time you grow up.”

  “But—”

  “Not another word.”

  My gaze and my father’s duel. I won’t back down this time. He can’t make me into a miniature Triton Swimworthy. That isn’t me.

  I hold onto my glare for as long as I can, before letting out a sound of pure frustration and storming off. I have to get out of here. I can’t be in this apartment for one more minute or I’ll scream. I grab my coat from the hook, stuff my feet into my boots, and march outside, slamming the door behind me.

  ∞∞∞

  I don’t know where I’m going, but I do know one thing. I have to get out of this apartment building before I explode. I step onto the elevator and press the button for the lobby.

  How can my father be so callous? So unfeeling? Why is he hell-bent on ruining my life? Does he want me to become him? A miserable old man who hides away in his office all day?

  God, I hate him so much! I hope he leaves on one of his business trips and never comes back.

  The elevator dings and the door slides open. I’m so blinded by my miserable existence that I nearly miss the tightening in my stomach and the goose bumps in my shoulders. When I look up, Eric’s eyes are already on me.

  “Red,” he calls out.

  He isn’t alone.

  Purity, Bella, and Cole are standing around Mr. Seba’s desk. The laughter on their lips dies the moment they see me.

  I swallow and poise my feet to make a quick escape.

  I don’t want to talk to them. I’m in a pissy mood and don’t want to be reminded of another thing I’ve lost.

  Bella steps forward. Her hands are clasped in front of her, her thumbs making nervous circles around each other.

  “Hey, Ariel.”

  My stomach drops a little. Her nervousness infects me.

  “Hey.”

  It’s amazing that this is what we’ve been reduced to. Pleasantries. I know all of Bella’s secrets and she knows mine. We’ve spent the better part of our high school lives together. I doubt anyone on this planet knows me as well as Bella. And now, here we are. Unsure. Nervous. Sad. Afraid.

  Life sure knows how to throw a curveball.

  She takes another step forward and my heart pounds a little harder.

  “I know I’ve said this before, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what happened between us.” She drops her hands to her sides and lets out a frustrated sigh. “I miss you, Ariel. We all miss you.”

  I feel the weight of four sets of eyes on me and my gut twists into knots.

  A huge part of me wants to run back into Bella’s arms, forgive her for everything she’s done and rejoin the fold
of my friends.

  But another part of me is still so angry at them for lying to me. How can I ever trust them again? How do I know they won’t hurt me a second time?

  I take a step back.

  “I didn’t throw away our friendship.” My voice sounds bitter and hoarse. Like someone else is speaking it. “You did that when you lied to me.”

  Bella takes another step forward, a tear falling down her cheek.

  My throat constricts, and I turn away before they can see my eyes well up too.

  “We’re done.”

  I power walk out of the building. Away from the people who’ve hurt me the most.

  Eric. Bella. Cole. My father.

  I huff in a lungful of cool air and walk out into the New York City night.

  10

  “Do you remember turd shell?” Duckie asks.

  When I return from my walk, Duckie, Alana, Adella pull me into the living room.

  When did Duckie get home? Why wasn’t she here when Daddy was destroying my dreams?

  The stereo plays a modern love song playlist—probably Alana’s—and they pull me down onto the floor where they’re sitting in a circle hand stitching skirts for the twins’ first high school party next Sunday. The tops are fitted and black, while the bottoms are made of tulle. Of course, Adella’s skirt is green while Alana chose pink. The dresses give off an eighties vibe and are super cute.

  “Please don’t,” Adella whines. “I hate this story.”

  They shove fabric into my hands and instruct me to get to work on sewing. I’m still angry but don’t feel like being shut up in my room either, so I comply.

  “Well, I love the story,” Alana says with a smirk. “Let her tell it.”

  Alana is just trying to bait Dell, but I like the story too, so I don’t say anything about it.

  Duckie smiles at Adella. She’s been doing that more lately. Smiling.

  “When Dell was three, she couldn’t say turtle.”

  Adella lets out an irritated breath. “How could anyone forget? You remind us weekly.”

  “We went to this beach filled with turtle shells. It was mating season or something, and there were literally thousands of them. And she’d go from shell to shell saying, ‘turd shell, turd shell.’ ‘Mommy, I want a turd shell.’ ‘Duckie, see the turd shell.’ ‘Turd shell smells so good.’ Oh my God, we laughed about that for weeks.”

  “That’s a form of bullying,” Adella says, sticking out her lower lip in a pout.

  I can tell she isn’t really mad, though.

  Alana narrows her eyes at Adella. “Stop it. You love that story.”

  Adella puts down the needle she’s been using to sew yellow star patches into a pair of black leggings. “Shall we tell the supermarket story?”

  Alana’s face drops. “I was two and unsupervised.”

  Adella’s voice turns nasally in a poor impression of her sister. “Stop it. You love that story.”

  “Shut up!”

  Duckie clicks her tongue, and the twins’ eyes immediately go to her. Duckie’s duck calls, as I called them. A click of her tongue and everyone is instantly silent. It’s a byproduct of being our surrogate mother for the last six years.

  She puts down the skirt she’s been attaching to the black top and pins the twins with a stern look.

  When she sets her face like that, she looks almost exactly like Mom. Everything except the eyes and hair. Those features she shares with Daddy. The thought of my mother makes my heart ache. If she were still alive, my life would be so different.

  Better.

  I clear my throat to keep away the lump.

  “Why can’t you two get along for one evening?” Duckie demands. “Is that so hard to ask?”

  Alana crosses her arms over her chest. “She started it.”

  “No, I started it, and now I’m going to finish it. Each one of you will get a story.”

  Alana groans.

  “This is dumb. I don’t want to talk about things that happened a hundred years ago.”

  Duckie frowns, and Alana’s arms uncross and go to her sides. Duckie picks her stitching back up. There’s something different about her. Something I can’t place. My mind struggles to figure out what it is.

  “I’ll start with Ariel,” Duckie says. “I remember the day you were born. Mom was sitting on the beach, near our summer house in St. Thomas. It was a beautiful day. Blue skies, easy breezes, no clouds, not too hot. Me, Atty, Arista, and Andy were all around her. Arista held one of Mama’s hands, Atty held the other. Mama pushed once, and you came sliding out, right into my arms.”

  Alana fakes a gag. “Gross. Why did Mom insist on home births?”

  “Beach births,” Dell says.

  “Whatever. When I have a baby, I’m going straight to the hospital.”

  “Not me,” Dell says. “I’m going to have my babies at home. Just like Mama did.”

  Adella and Alana barely remember Mama. They’ll never know what she smelled like or how her face lit up when she smiled. To them, she’s only a photograph or a painting in the living room. More fairy tale than reality. I cherish Mama’s memories, and it makes me sad that Dell and Alana don’t have any of their own.

  “Ariel was a pretty baby,” Duckie says, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Even when she was all covered in blood and gunk.”

  Adella scrunches her nose, drawing a laugh from Duckie.

  “Mama took you from me, and the four of us walked into the water, about hip deep. She dipped you in and you started kicking your little feet. Even then, you were a swimmer.”

  Warmth fills my heart.

  “Of course, when Daddy came out of the house and saw Mom with you in the water with the umbilical cord still attached, he freaked out. He carried the two of you back into the house, laid you on the bed, and cut the cord. The doctor came and checked you, and then the two of you fell asleep all snuggly and cozy.”

  Duckie reaches out a hand to me, brushing it across my cheek.

  “I slept at the foot of the bed, watching you with your mop of red hair. It was such a magical day.”

  Her face takes on a faraway expression, as if she’s back there with me right now. Then, she clears her throat.

  “Then the colic took over and you screamed your head off for six weeks.”

  We all laugh then, lifting the heavy weight of our mother’s memory from us.

  As I look at my three sisters, I realize, in that moment, how much I love them. Sure, we get on each other’s nerves, but we have a bond that nothing can break. A sisterly bond. A bond I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.

  If only Mama could see us now.

  My phone buzzes, and I pull it from my pocket.

  Purity: I got a gift card to that new boutique everyone is talking about. Sing Song, I think. In the mood for a shopping trip?

  I roll my eyes and jam my phone back in my pocket.

  Someone should really teach this country bumpkin about how to be the new girlfriend without annoying the old one.

  What’s with this girl?

  11

  The black clouds and the soft, freezing rain on the window sill are fitting companions to my mood as I take my seat in Triton-Stonewall Business Academy.

  Mrs. Fleck is older and overweight, with a bun so tight it pulls at the skin of her forehead. Her navy-blue business suit and black pumps look more political than business. Almost like she left a congressional committee meeting to come here.

  The fact that she grimaces whenever she looks my way tells me this is going to be a hard couple of months. Real hard.

  Class begins, and she drones on and on about microeconomics. Words like market demand, labor, production, and a whole host of other stuff I have no idea about fly from her lips. What is she talking about? It all sounds so foreign, like she’s talking about astrophysics or something. I rub my fingers over my eyes and stifle a yawn.

  This sucks. Business is boring, and my classmates are even more boring. Eighteen boys whose one
goal is to become richer than their rich parents.

  And I’m the only girl among them.

  Fantastic. I stand out like a red shirt at a white sale.

  I miss my teammates. I miss swimming. I miss the way my life was before my father ruined it all.

  I inwardly groan.

  How could this get any worse?

  The classroom door swings open, interrupting Mrs. Fleck’s discussion of micro-whatis and plunging my day into an entirely new level of suck.

  Eric Shipman’s face looks red and furious when he walks in, holding a note.

  “Ah, you must be Mr. Shipman, lucky student number twenty.” Mrs. Fleck’s stockings make a rushing sound as she walks, like sandpaper against a rough wooden wall. She takes the note from an annoyed looking Eric and directs him to an empty seat right next to mine.

  Our eyes meet briefly before he plops down in his seat and glares at his desk.

  Since Jake’s deportation to God-knew-where in Russia, Eric has been the quarterback of the football team. He should be at football practice, not here in a boring business class.

  Mrs. Fleck continues her lesson, while I try to solve the mystery of Eric’s appearance.

  Why is he here? Not because his parents forced him. Both of his parents are dead, leaving Eric in the care of his guardian, Alfred. Alfred and Eric are close, but, as far as I can tell, Eric doesn’t live by too many rules.

  So, why is he here?

  Mrs. Fleck asks us to pull out our tablets and directs us to a website. I open a pouch attached to the side of the desk, pull a white iPad from a felt case, and navigate to the website on the board. Once the page loads, she goes back to talking and I go back to thinking about Eric’s mysterious appearance. About swim team. About how much I hate this class. About what I can do to get out of the mess I’m in.

  Before I know it, the bell rings, signaling the end of my misery.

  Thank God.