The Academy (The Academy Saga Book 1)

by CJ Daly

  to ground me from. It’s not like I really missed the half hour of Disney

  Channel I was no longer allowed to watch, so Daddy moved to banning

  books. Well, I’m ordinarily pretty obedient, but I couldn’t abide that. So I’d

  been sneaking around to read behind bushes and in the bathroom all summer

  like a crack addict. Daddy must’ve caught on, because my romance novels kept

  disappearing on me. Eventually he caved on the TV saying “looking like poor

  man’s Barbie” was punishment enough. And I wasn’t allowed to dye it back

  to brown, hence the three inches of dark roots I was sporting.

  Recalling Daddy’s horrified expression, I smiled broadly in the mirror

  until my eyes lit upon my teeth and I automatically closed to the Mona Lisa

  smile I’d perfected. I made a face. Could’ve been worse. My teeth were actually pretty straight—not braces straight like most of the popular kids, but not

  crooked either. Just my front teeth protruded out slightly, forming an overbite

  I was acutely self-conscious of.

  Mama disagreed with me, of course, saying my natural pouty expression

  was actually an enhancement. Yeah right. I looked like a hick, and the way my lips stuck out only made me look hicker. She just always knew how to make

  lemonade out of lemons—one of her many talents.

  A lump formed in my throat, so I quickly patted lip balm onto my

  chapped lips and threw my pink and red trucker-hat and stupid glasses

  on before the golf ball threatened to choke me. I took a final glance in the

  mirror to see if I looked as hideous as I thought— yep. Growling out loud, I shouldered my way out the door and stomped up the stairs to go clock in. The

  • 15 •

  bright ponytail swinging cheerfully behind me felt completely incongruent with my dark mood.

  “Hey, Hon!” Beatrice greeted from the walk-in, where she was putting

  on her apron.

  “Hey, Bee,” I acknowledged her with a smile while reaching into my

  cubby for my own apron.

  “Ya think it’s gonna get busy tonight?” she asked.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I dunno, but I hope so . . . school’s about to

  start.”

  “I know, sweetie.” A sympathetic smile erased five years from her face.

  Beatrice was a single mom working nights to make extra money, which pretty

  much made us comrades-in-arms. “It’s just the two us tonight, Carlos in the

  kitchen, and Norma of course.” Bee rolled her eyes exaggeratedly.

  She and Ms. Norma went at it on several occasions, and I diligently

  played my role of peacemaker when either Bee threatened to quit, or Norma

  threatened to fire her. “Maybe we’ll get some of the truckers passin’ through

  from the dairies,” she added hopefully.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said noncommittally. Remembering some of the

  awkward encounters with truckers in the past, I was instantly grateful I’d

  decided to wear my dorky glasses tonight.

  As if telepathically, Ms. Norma came bustling in and frowned when she

  zeroed in on them perched on my nose. “Lose your contacts, Katie?”

  I ducked my head. “Um . . . yes ma’am.”

  Norma preferred me glasses free. She seemed to think it helped with

  repeat customers. As if. The only thing that would help this place would be a complete menu overhaul. “Greasy Spoon” was a very apt expression when

  describing Norma’s.

  “Okay, listen up.” Ms. Norma was all business now. “There’s an early bird

  two-top in your section, Beatrice.” Bee automatically got the first table since

  she had seniority. “Well, what are ya waitin’ for? Go on and get out there!”

  “I’ll finish settin’ up for you,” I volunteered, relieving Bee of the ketchup

  funnel.

  She gave me a grateful smile. “Thanks, hon!”

  “City slickers from the looks of ‘em. Probably be a good tip, so be on your

  best behavior.”

  Beatrice grabbed her tray and eagerly pushed through the double doors

  leading to the dining room.

  “And no flirtin’ neither!” Norma warned to doors still swinging on their

  hinges.

  • 16 •

  That left just the two of us standing there, a perfect time to make my request. I grabbed the two-gallon ketchup jugs, began refilling the table

  bottles. “Hmm-hmm,” I awkwardly cleared my throat.

  “Got somethin’ on your mind, Katie?” Ms. Norma took the hint.

  “Yeah, um, I wanted to see . . . if maybe it’s okay . . .” I fumbled before

  setting the funnel down, determined now. “I wanted to ask for next Saturday

  off.” Ms. Norma was unblinking and silent as a horned toad, so I continued on

  in a rush. “I know I said I could work every weekend, no exceptions, but . . .

  it’s my birthday and—”

  “Stop!” She threw an extravagantly jeweled hand up in my face. “Course

  you can, Katie Connelly.” Relief was just beginning to flood me when she

  said, “If anyone ever deserved a night off, hon, it’s you.” And then my face flooded with color.

  Oh. “Thank you.” So hated getting unnecessary sympathy for my pathetic life.“Don’t mention it,” she said, “cause I need you to work next Thursday to

  cover for Doreen. Now get your cute behind out there and make some money

  for both of us!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I snorted to myself. The uniforms came in two sizes here:

  large and extra-large—a potato sack would’ve been more flattering.

  Just then Bee came barreling back through the swinging doors like

  someone had lit her fuse. “What the hell?” Ms. Norma exclaimed as Bee

  smacked into her bosom, causing a Jell-O-mold-like quiver.

  “You took the words right outta my mouth!” Beatrice said hotly. “What

  the hell is an Arnold Palmuh?”

  I shrugged. No clue.

  “Did ya list the specials for ‘em?” Ms. Norma always said this as if it were

  the solution to all our problems here.

  “Not yet. I was just takin’ their drink order to start with, like I always

  do,” Bee said defensively.

  “Then go on back out there and list all the drink options we offer.”

  “Yeah. Maybe it’s some fancy sports drink or somethin’ . . . Them boys

  sure do look real athletic-like,” Bee mused, a droopy smile softening her face.

  Uh- oh. Not that Bee did anything more than flirt, but Ms. Norma

  frowned upon a mother “carrying on like that.” She preferred it if I would do

  that particular task. Unfortunately, my flirting skills were nonexistent.

  “Get on back out there and offer ‘em some cola. We ain’t got no Gatorade,

  but I never met a youngster who turned down a cold Co’ Cola on a hot day,”

  Ms. Norma offered sagely.

  • 17 •

  “Okay.” Bee smoothed down her hair. “I’m headed out.” Strange. She was usually so unflappable even during our busiest of times.

  “And don’t forget to push the meatloaf tonight,” Ms. Norma hissed

  after her.

  I rolled my eyes. So it’s gonna be one of those nights. I was busy pairing squeezy ketchup and squat hotsauce bottles together on my tray when the

  office phone interrupted my concentration. I looked up to see that Ms. Norma

  appeared to be too busy adding another layer of frosty lipstick to bother

  picking up. It continued to ring, and I continued to consider answering it

  when
it finally stopped. Me and my condiment couples were just heading out

  when the ringing started up again. Sighing, I clattered the tray back down

  and ran to the office to grab it.

  “Good evenin’, Norma’s Diner. How may I help you?” I mechanically

  answered then listened while a panicked pre-teen voice asked to speak with

  Beatrice Howard right away. One of her kids was apparently throwing up.

  Ew. “Hang on a minute,” I said calmly. I’ll just go get her.”

  On my way out the swinging doors, they swung back open to reveal Bee

  muttering something about “This ain’t no cloth napkin joint.”

  “Hey, Bee,” I intercepted her before she could rush on. “I’m real sorry, but

  I think one of your kiddos is sick. Your cousin’s on the phone.”

  She instantly came down from her tizzy, chagrin and concern fighting

  it out for control over her face. “Oh, Good Lord! I tol’ Shawntel she had no

  business eatin’ two hot dogs on top of all that ice cream!” Concern won out.

  “Well, I can take over for you—” I stuttered to a halt when I saw her face

  fall. “I’ll split the tip with ya,” I said, easily reading her.

  After a beat, she heaved a resigned sigh and shoved her tray and order pad

  into my hands. “Alrighty, Miss Katie. They’s all yours, and hoity-toity as all

  get out, but I ‘spect you’ll get a fine tip if you’re willin’ to put up with their

  strange demands and sneerin’ attitude.” After that bit of advice, Bee scurried

  to the office already in mom-mode, shouting their drink order over her

  shoulder, “Them Arnold Palm-things is really just half-tea, half-lemonade!”

  Huh? That’s a new one. I pondered what kind of people ordered such an exotic drink, and if it was any good, while I pushed through the double doors.

  My feet stopped dead in their tracks two paces in.

  Whoa!

  A set of ice-chip eyes, belonging to a very large male, looked up at me

  expectantly for a hard beat then just as quickly looked away before blithely

  continuing his conversation. Well, obviously I wasn’t their waitress returning with their drinks. But somehow, I felt stung by his frosty stare. I was still

  • 18 •

  frozen, mid-step, like an ice sculpture when he looked up again. His mouth curled into a sneer to say something to his friend, who very briefly glanced in

  my direction and then away as though annoyed .

  Double whoa! I felt color begin its creepy appearance up my neckline.

  They were sitting nonchalantly in the booth that sat up to six well-fed

  customers, and were doing a nice job of taking up the ample space. The

  one wearing a tattered baseball cap was facing the opposing side, which was

  standard seating practice. The one with dark hair, pronounced muscles, and

  cold, staring eyes was sprawled out across from him with his back against the

  wall. He was facing outward, with one long arm draped across the backrest,

  his feet crossed at the ankles on top of the seat I was gonna have to wipe down

  as soon as they left.

  Make yourself at home, why don’t you? I thought before realizing that

  Beatrice had been holding out on me. She had failed to mention the two

  “hoity-toity” guys sitting in her booth could easily pass for movie stars. Not

  sure why, but I would’ve liked to have been prepared for that. Hoity-toity I

  could deal with. But when you added looks that could slay Aphrodite . . .

  well, I wasn’t sure I could even speak to them without stuttering. They simply

  exuded self-confidence, money, and class. Two seconds. That’s all it took for me to see exactly who they were. Which meant they’d used the exact same two

  seconds to see exactly who I was—a waitress in a dumpy uniform, working

  in a dive, at a dead-end job.

  Feelings of inadequacy instantly flooded me.

  Furiously, I yanked down the back of my skirt, where it rode up in the

  back, then whirled around to get their drinks going. If I waited any longer,

  they would think I was dumb on top of dumpy. So I hustled to the prep area

  where the drink dispenser was hiding, and after expertly filling red plastic cups

  halfway with lemonade from the fountain, I hesitated over the tea

  options. Should I go for the sweet or unsweet tea? Probably sweet. Like Ms.

  Norma said, most teenagers preferred their drinks on the sugary side. Not

  that those guys looked remotely like teenagers . . . more like college-age

  superheroes.

  After topping off each drink smartly with a lemon wedge, I retied my

  drooping apron and pulled back my shoulders. Go time. I could do this.

  I mean . . . just because those guys more resembled male models than frat

  guys didn’t mean they were better than me. Besides, I reasoned, they were probably perfectly nice. Winding my way around tables towards their booth, I

  plastered a smile in their general direction trying to convey how efficient I

  was. The one facing me didn’t acknowledge my entrance in any way. Just

  talked right along, staring right through me with flinty eyes like I was made

  out of glass.

  • 19 •

  Self-consciousness flew my eyes from his haughty face to the window behind his talking head, where I saw what clearly must be their vehicle.

  Parked, up front and center, was a shiny-black, ultra-flashy SUV. The kind

  with thick, knobby tires that could flatten entire buildings. The kind that

  made girls in short skirts cringe and teenage boys drool with envy.

  Figures— rich boys. Total y had them pegged.

  Upon arrival, I paused courteously, waiting for the dark-haired one to

  finish his monologue. Drinks balanced on my tray, I stood there dumbly until

  the one in the baseball cap finger-halted him to acknowledge me with a brief

  smile. But the talking only stopped long enough to switch to some kind of

  cheap insult like “What took so long? Was I in the back squeezing the lemons

  myself?” But I couldn’t pay much attention because it felt like I’d just been

  flipped upside down on a rollercoaster.

  Baseball Cap was far and away the best-looking guy I’d ever laid eyes on.

  My heart skipped a couple of beats and everything. Oddly enough though,

  his eyes looked flat, and he had a defeated look upon his face. He was also

  slumped over, almost as though he’d been getting a lecture from a parent

  instead of having a conversation with a buddy. Could that be right? It was hard for me to reconcile how someone who obviously had so much could look so

  miserable.

  While I was musing, the dark-haired one—with the bluest eyes I’d ever

  seen—hurled another flimsy insult at me. Another unoriginal. Apparently,

  good looks and a highly developed wit didn’t necessarily go hand-in-hand.

  “Cut it out, Ranger!” Baseball Cap glanced up at me apologetically. “You’ll

  have to excuse my buddy here. See, we’ve been on the road for the past eight

  hours, and he gets a little cranky when he’s hungry. He’ll straighten out his

  attitude when he gets some grub down him,” he explained in a smooth voice.

  “And something to drink might help prevent dehydration.” The big

  one, with the bigger attitude (whose name I now knew was Ranger), looked

  pointedly at the drinks still perched on my tray. He seemed to have a lot of

  heat coming off him, but his eyes remained chips of blue ice. His g
aze held

  me captive.

  I blinked a couple of times, feeling slightly like a bunny cornered by

  a ravenous wolf. “Here’s your, um . . .” I hesitated, feeling silly, “Arnold

  Palmades?”

  Laughter erupted from the massive chest of Ranger. I was miffed to see

  the one on my left in the baseball cap, aka the-man-of-my-dreams, was also

  chortling quietly, too. What exactly is so dang funny? Stiffly, I plunked drinks in front of each one.

  • 20 •

  “I told you.” Baseball Cap held out his palm to Ranger. “Pay up.” After some crisp bills were reluctantly slapped into his hand, Baseball Cap shot

  me a killer, crooked smile that nearly knocked me out . “Arnold Palmers,” he corrected as embarrassment crawled all over me like sand fleas.

  “Good to know.” I took out my order pad, fuming.

  Baseball Cap had the good grace to look contrite, but it was too late. He’d

  shown his true colors and they were as spotty as his friend, Ranger’s. “Sorry,”

  he began, “it’s just . . . we had a bet that no one here”—he gestured around,

  indicating anything from me, to the diner, to the whole town—“would know

  what that was.” He finished by shrugging his shoulders in a gesture I took to

  be more arrogant than apologetic.

  He probably thought I’d fall all over myself to forgive him. Hmmmph.

  He’d made me the butt of their joke, something I couldn’t abide. How could

  I have been so easily fooled by the pretty face? Birds of a feather . . .

  “I’ll be back in a minute to take your order. I hope you enjoy your Arnold

  Palmers,” I enunciated through clenched teeth before stalking away.

  “Nice outfit!” was called after me, in the voice I recognized as Ranger’s.

  The immediate effect of this compliment was a self-conscious tug on the

  back of my skirt midway to the kitchen followed my deep laughter. Upon

  my return, I was bound and determined to keep my cool. But my good

  intentions were beginning to drip from me like condensation from an iced

  tea left sweating in the sun—drip, drip, drip—because when I approached

  the table , Baseball Cap’s lips began twitching, and Ranger shook his big block head at me. Still, I managed to take out my pad and pencil while remaining

  aloof and professional.

  “May I take your order?”

  A rude finger snap whipped my eyes back to glacier ice. “I don’t know. Can