by CJ Daly
normal teenager.
“Yeah, I know! All the guys around here are, like, so beyond boring,” she
complained with a distinctly Ashley-Leigh twang in there.
“Right.” I was sure everyone’s perspective on the “hot” new guy was most
likely completely skewed because they were simply starved for new blood.
“So,” she leaned in conspiratorially, “can you find out?”
“Find out?”
“His schedule.” She said this like it was the most logical thing in the
world. “Don’t you, like, have access to all the students’ records?”
“Um . . . we’re not really supposed to do that,” I hedged, sounding like
my unlikely hero Saturday night, who ended up giving me a ride home from
the pharmacy after all.
“Oh come on, Katie! Please,” she wheedled. “Just this once?”
I switched tactics. “Well if you don’t even know his name, I’d have to sift
through all the students alphabetically, and it could take a while. Mrs. Greer
will kill me if I don’t get these books done.”
She seemed to notice the stack of books for the first time and gave me a
cartoon-worthy frown. “Okay. I just thought it would be fun if I—I mean
we, were the first ones to know his name and schedule and stuff.” An Ashley-Leigh disciple if I’d ever seen one . Maybe I could salvage what was left of my
time if I could just get her moving. I picked up another book.
“I heard he’s from Roswell—from that military institute there. What’s it
called? Somethin’ with lots of Ns and Ms?”
“New Mexico Military Institute,” I provided.
She snapped her fingers and pointed at me. “That’s the one.”
I started tapping in numbers again, only half listening.
“And that he’s living with a relative here now,” Steph mused aloud, not
budging from her perch. “Maybe he was kicked out of regular school, and
his parents sent him to military school to straighten him out, but he was
• 117 •
expelled there, too. So his parents sent him to live with his, ah . . . uncle because nobody can deal with him on account of him being such a badass!”
she finished, eyes shining.
Ugh. She was piercing my fortress of solitude with all this talk about
military schools and badasses. Brought back the queasy, sinking feeling in
my stomach I’d had since Saturday night.
“Uh, Steph, don’t you have to get back to class?” I snatched the forgotten
slip from her. “I’ll give this to Mrs. Greer. I didn’t see any boxes this morning,
so I’ll have to wait for her to get back from the office before I can ask.”
“Don’tja just love a bad boy?” Like I hadn’t even spoken.
“Yeah, badass . . .”—I rolled my eyes—“what every girl dreams of.”
“Katie!” She guffawed like a mother does the first time her toddler mimics
a naughty word. I stood up to shoo her away and her mouth flew open. “Katie
Connelly, are you, like, wearing actual jeans now?”
I looked down, as if having to check. “Yup.”
“Bad ass!” Steph nodded her approval. “You should get contacts next.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I replied, straightening my replacement
glasses.
She laughed. “I’ll catch you up on everything at lunch,” she said before
sallying away.
“Okay,” I agreed, already preoccupied. Actually, I was planning a library
lunch to email Reese and get more info on that school, since I didn’t have time
now. A few minutes later, I was mowing down the second stack of books still
ruminating about how to thwart Daddy.
So far, my biggest act of rebellion consisted of wearing jeans to school.
But I’d need to arm myself with something more than a new pair of pants. It
was information I needed; knowledge was power. Daddy had cut me off from
any information about the school, the mentor, what kind of testing Andrew
was going to be subjected to. Everything. Despite profusely apologizing and promising not to interfere (with fingers crossed behind my back) I was still
getting bupkis from Daddy.
All I knew was that I was picking Andrew up from school today, where he
was meeting his “mentor” for the first time. Other than that, I was clueless.
Arg! Frustrating. A sick feeling akin to swallowing too many bitter pills overcame me when I thought of a stranger probing around inside my brother’s
brain to assess his talents and abilities. It seemed downright invasive, especially knowing how Mama took such pains to hide us from the world. Mikey had
never even set foot in public, not even to go for an ice cream, before I enrolled
him in preschool.
• 118 •
But I didn’t have time to stress for long, because the bell rang. I had PreCal next. Ugh . . . Guess it’s better to get it over with early. I slipped into the sea of students swimming their way to second-hour, trying not to get eaten by
sharks. Pre-Cal was in the same building as the library, so I had time to hit
the restroom to wash my dusty hands before class. Pushing through the door,
I was instantly accosted by piercing squeals from a huddle of girls in front of
the mirrors. Ashley-Leigh stood, front and center, smoothing down her flat-
ironed hair and prattling around a sparkling wand of lip gloss.
“Katie!” she gushed, clicking shut the tube before turning around to face
me. “Tell me you were able to get his schedule!”
Of course she already knows al about it; it was probably her idea. I shrugged my shoulders . “No such luck.”
“Aw man!” She spun back around to her minions. “Okay, so what do
we know so far . . . other than the fact that he’s drool-worthy gorgeous, just
moved here, and is a senior?”
“Drea heard he was an army brat,” a minion supplied, hoping to be of
service.
“Who moves to a new school their senior year?” a hidden voice wondered
behind a stall.
“I heard he got kicked out of his former school for fighting.”
“No way!” Ashley-Leigh argued. “I saw him in the front office this
morning—he’s definitely way more of a lover than a fighter type!”
This clever was followed by high-pitched laughter and high-fives. I just
backed out the door and headed to class feeling world-weary. It would be nice
to get caught up in the excitement of a new boy. I sighed . . . in another life.
I managed to be one of the first students in class and sat near the front.
Two seconds after the bell, Ashley-Leigh and her groupies came prancing in
after spit-shining themselves up for an appearance from Mr. Wonderful. I had
to roll my eyes. They clumped together in the back all jostling for position.
I remembered when I was right in the middle of all that; it seemed like a
lifetime ago.
First day classes rolled by in a predictable pattern of seat jockeying, new
procedures that felt very old, and directions for online resources, which I
would access via the library’s computers. Obviouly. I was in AP English, my favorite class, when I heard more tidbits about the famous (or infamous,
depending on whose tale you were listening to) new guy.
“So he like rolls up in this fat daddy, Humvee, man, and I was like, ‘Dude,
nice wheels, bro.’”
• 119 •
Oh great . . . now the guys a
re talking about him. Good Lord, make it stop!
Hands over my ears, I plunked my head on my desk. Soft laughter erupted
from the desk next to mine.
“Don’t tell me . . . it’s gettin’ to you, too?”
“Oh, hey, Miguel,” I greeted, cheek still plastered against scarred wood.
“You’re not goin’ all faint on me now like the rest of las chicas locas?” he teased.
I snapped my head upright. “As if!”
Miguel laughed, his eyes slitting up, crescent creases appearing in his
cheeks. “How ya been, Katie-kat? . . . Long time no see.”
“Yeah I know . . . family duty and all that.” I smiled to take the edge off.
“Word,” he replied with a smile. Miguel could sympathize with my lot
in life since he had to work at his family’s restaurant to help make ends meet.
“So . . . you into this new dude, too, or what?”
I snorted lightly. “Hardly. I don’t really see what all the fuss is about.”
“That’s because you haven’t seen him yet!” Ashley-Leigh slid imperiously
into the desk behind me. “Because when you do see him, you’ll totally, ‘get
what all the fuss is about,’” she mocked me. “God, Katie! Honestly . . . you
sound like my grandma sometimes.”
“I doubt it.” I shrugged my shoulders dismissively. “Oh, and by the
way . . .” The bell rang, so I leaned over to whisper, “I like your grandma,
usually a little better than you.”
Miguel laughed, but Ashley-Leigh was prevented her comeback because
Mrs. Jenkins began calling roll. She opted to poke her tongue out at me
instead, flipped her hair over her shoulder, and took out her shiny phone.
Miguel and I exchanged smirks.
English Lit always flew by too fast. The bell rang again, signaling the end
of class and the beginning of lunch for juniors and seniors. Everyone popped
up like prairie dogs from their holes, animatedly talking about lunch plans.
I was still sitting, idly perusing the reading list when Miguel tugged at the
end of my hair.
“You hear the bell or what, Connelly?”
“Um . . . yeah.” I rose to my feet to join my fellow juniors for the mass
exit out the door.
“So whatcha doin’ for lunch?” As if by joint agreement, Miguel and I
ignored the new-guy mania sweeping the school like the plague. I didn’t have
a chance to answer because loud screams erupted behind me. I turned around
to see Ashley-Leigh and her crew hovering over her phone.
“Black SUV, south-end of the parking lot! We’re hot on the trail now,
• 120 •
girls!” Ashley-Leigh grabbed a disciple by the arm, nearly stampeding over us on her way out.
“Excuse you,” Miguel said.
“Oh, Katie . . .” Ashley-Leigh called from the doorway. I looked up
automatically. “By the way—nice jeans! It’s good to see you out of your nun
habit every-once-in-a-while.” Tittering giggles and her gang followed her out
the door before I could gather my wits about me.
Miguel was faster. “It take you all class to think that one up? . . . Poor
bastard,” he murmured. “I almost feel sorry for him.”
But she was long gone. Figures. She would spend her entire lunch chasing
some hot, new guy in a— wait a second! I stopped walking mid-step while
students rolled around me like a rock in a river.
Holy crap! Thunder clapped over my head. Black SUV, Humvee, hot,
gorgeous, athletic, military—words I hadn’t really been paying attention to
all morning just clicked together. Realization hit me, like a bolt of lightening.
It couldn’t be, could it? I’d thought that once before . . . and was proven wrong. And then I knew: It could be and probably was. What were the odds
of anybody else fitting that description? Everyone was well past the point
of being excited about this “new, hot guy.” It was practically mass hysteria
in here. And I’d only ever met one person (okay two) who could incite such
idolatry.
Miguel was a few feet ahead still talking right along, oblivious to the
fact I was somewhere else. “Katie?” He backtracked a few paces to take my
elbow. “Don’t let her get to you like that. You’re way above that crap, and she
knows it.”
I looked at Miguel, bewildered for a second because I was on a different
page. Heck, I was in an entirely different book! “Oh. It’s not that Miguel . . .
I’m hardly ever bothered by her.”
“Then what is it?”
I just shook my head. Way too weird and involved to go into.
“Wanna grab some lunch and talk about it?”
I peered into Miguel’s hopeful eyes and shook my head again. It would’ve
been nice to confide in someone, but it sounded cray-cray even to me. “No
thanks. I’m just gonna head to the library. There’s somethin’ important I
need to look up.”
“Now?”
“Right now.” After throwing a wave at his puzzled face, I raced back into
the building everyone else was leaving (which seemed a little symbolic to my
life). There were a few straggling students and some wired teachers clustered
• 121 •
by the vending machines. I quickly bypassed them, and rounding the corner to the library, I nearly smacked into the vice principal. I forced myself into a
brisk walk, but it was hard to slow down because my body was trying to keep
tempo with my racing thoughts.
Maybe I’m wrong? I mean girls get worked up by any new guy. But not
like this. Everyone was acting like the latest cover hottie was gonna pop up in class any moment. This was probably just a weird coincidence, like all the
bizarre occurrences that had been happening lately. My gut was telling me it
was something more. I almost sprinted to the computers until the sour look
on Mrs. Greer’s puckered face paused me.
“Katie, you know better than that,” she scolded.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. I just wanted to use the computers, if I may?” My
voice sounded trembly and far away.
She eyed me suspiciously from behind her jeweled spectacles then let it
pass. “Just be sure to log out before you leave.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I darted to the last computer facing the back wall and a
poster that read: When You’re At The End Of Your Rope, Tie A Knot And Hang
On. Someone had already drawn a mustache and devil horns on the hapless
monkey hanging upside down.
Hands shaking, I typed in my student ID and clicked the search engine,
holding my breath. I really had to get a hold of myself or I’d go into early
cardiac arrest. After retyping it twice, I finally found what I was looking for. On the computer screen, right in front of me, making it as real as the
hard-backed chair I was sitting on: The International Elite Academy in Marin
County, just over the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco. I read on. The International Elite Academy repeatedly received the highest rankings among
private boarding schools. No surprise there.
I reflected on the two egotistical IEA cadets I’d met and couldn’t picture
them at Clovis High. Besides, they’re too old for high school. Right? An
image of Ranger came to mind, and my heartbeat picked up. He had to be
somewhere in his mid-twenties. I allowed myself to exhale. The other one . . .
my heart fluttered in my chest. I could definitely deal with the thought of seeing him again.
I chastised myself for my momentary lapse and concentrated instead
on the aggravatingly little amount of information I could find about them.
According to the website that rates these schools, not much was known about
what goes on behind the walls of “the world’s most exclusive boarding school.”
I continued reading until I found their mission statement: “The International
Elite Academy exists to advance the physical, social, and environmental
• 122 •
wellbeing of mankind.” Blah, blah, blah . . . “Turning elite and responsible young men and women from around the globe into future world leaders since
1939.”
Oh please. I wanted to puke. I scrolled down, looking for the admissions process. There wasn’t one. Apparently, you couldn’t simply apply to the school.
They had to pursue you. A chill ran up my spine at this revelation. It was rumored that you had to score in the top one percent on several standardized
tests before you could even be considered for their testing process, which
reportedly included a thorough physical exam and biological history.
Hmmmm . . . that’s a new one. I read on, intrigued. Apparently, candidates were put through a rigorous testing regime, the contents of which weren’t
specified, but was speculated to include intensive mental and physical
conditioning designed to weed out anyone except for the very brightest and
most physically-abled. Less than one percent of recruits—who were already
considered the top one percent—made it beyond the testing portion. And
those who did were added to a remarkably exclusive waitlist that allegedly
included four-star generals’ children, one of the King of Saudi Arabia’s
daughters, and the Chief Executive of Hong Kong’s only son. There was,
however, no published documentation to support these claims. Surprise,
surprise . . . everything about this school seemed to be classified information.
I extrapolated information in a zombie-like trance, learning very little
about the school except that it was considered to be the most renowned
military academy in the world, and was ultra-exclusive to the point of “almost
anonymity.” Consequently, rumors swirled about the great lengths to which
billionaires, diplomats, and even royalty went to acquire an invitation for