The Academy (The Academy Saga Book 1)

by CJ Daly

  to greet his stranded children. Rejection stung the back of my throat. I’d had

  a hard day—it would be nice to think that someone cared.

  “Hi, Pete! Hey, Drewy!” Mikey charged his brother, who was jumping

  from the Hummer with a shite-eating grin on his face. “This is excitin’!”

  “Hey, shorty,” Andrew greeted shortly. “Hey Katie, look who we

  • 239 •

  brought . . .” He theatrically stepped aside, the unsaid “ta-da!” written in a cartoon bubble above his head.

  “Hey yourself . . . So I see,” I acknowledged Cadet Davenport, who took

  one look at me and my sorry situation and went to his truck to pull out two

  familiar dark water bottles. Wordlessly, he opened one and gave it to Mikey,

  who looked intrigued at the steam fizzing out.

  “Is this sody pop?” Mikey wondered.

  “’fraid not, pal . . . just good old-fashioned H2O.”

  “What’s that?”

  Andrew answered, “Water, you dope.”

  “Oh. Thanks, Pete!” Mikey beamed up at him, one eye squinting in the

  sun. “It sure is hot out here!”

  “You’re welcome.” His smile faded as he turned his impenetrable aviators

  my way.

  I declined the tempting bottle, wanting nothing to do with him or that

  institution. I would not be drinking the Kool-Aid today, thank-you-very-much.

  Had half a mind to snatch Mikey’s away from him . . . and smack Cadet

  Davenport upside the head with it.

  He sighed, shook his head, and left the bottle next to my feet to go over

  and speak with my father about mechanical things, I presumed. Meanwhile,

  I tried hard not to think about how hot and thirsty I was. Watching him

  expertly grab tools from my father’s toolbox really needled me. I snorted. Who

  does he think he is— freakin’ Jason Bourne? So galling. Especially in light of the fact that he was the one who had created this mechanical high-jinx. A crazy idea to sign up for shop next year popped into my mind. I made good use of

  my time, standing under the glaring sun, to do that very thing to him, every

  chance I got. If he noticed, he didn’t sweat it.

  After a few, Cadet Do-Gooder came over. “Kate, would you mind

  popping the hood?”

  Imagining it to be a trigger, I pulled the lever. He propped up the hood

  like a professional grease monkey, thereby blocking the nasty curl to my lip.

  Then the quartet of males peered under there like a team of surgeons about

  to perform a lobotomy on my poor abused car. That is until Mikey offered

  a suggestion, and Daddy batted his head away. Mikey ran back to my arms

  while Team IEA decided to try jump-starting the battery first.

  Cadet Davenport did the honors, hooking up the matching cables to the

  appropriate nodules on the battery while Daddy rearranged his Bronco in

  front of my car. I snorted and crossed my arms. Shoot— I could do that. Cadet Davenport gave him the thumbs up, and Daddy fired up the Bronco.

  • 240 •

  “Okay, Kate, try to start it up now,” he commanded.

  I rolled my eyes but complied. Sure enough . . . bupkis. Not the battery

  then. I knew it—he’d messed with my car! I vowed to lock my doors from

  now on then decided that would be a wasted effort . . . he could just as easily

  have slipped a nail under my tire. After a minute of conferring, he informed

  my father he knew a little bit about cars. Evidently, “The Academy” required

  two semesters of mechanics for all cadets.

  “Well now. How ‘bout that? Bet you won’t get that kinda schoolin’ at

  Harvard!” my father said to an equally enthusiastic Andrew.

  I rolled my eyes as he continued with his razzle-dazzle routine. I can tell

  you one thing: with each clever joke and every tinker and turn of the wrench

  he made, my father and brother were buying up whatever Cadet Davenport

  was selling like it was a hot stock tip from Bill Gates himself. As he worked, he

  threw in a lot of “yes sirs” and male banter disguised as shoptalk. They were

  eating out of his greased-stained palms by the time the engine turned over

  and sputtered to life a quick handful of minutes later. Apparently, Pete-the-

  Elite-Cadet had single-handedly resuscitated my car from the dead. Shocker.

  A chorus of “yeahs!” from the boys, and a back slap and reciprocal

  handshake from Cadet Davenport, and we were all good to go. He glanced my

  way, and I reciprocated with a car slam. Daddy began to talk shop again, so I

  started up the car and rolled up the window against the BS, but unfortunately,

  my wall of glass couldn’t muffle it.

  “No thanks necessary, sir. I’m glad I could put my skills to use. They get

  pretty rusty without practice. But you may not want to wait any longer on

  that transmission though. It’s about ready to go any day now. Since it’s an

  older model, you’ll most likely have to order parts. Could take a couple of

  weeks to get here . . . I’m surprised it’s lasted this long.” He met my father’s

  eyes directly seeing as how they were about the same height. “I know you

  don’t want your daughter, four-year-old, and future cadet to be out stranded

  on a highway somewhere.”

  Was that an edge I heard creep in? I saw my father’s face blister and found the silver lining of the day: Cadet Davenport might’ve just shamed my father

  into buying me a new transmission.

  “Oh sure,” Daddy spluttered. “I was just waitin’ to see whether to keep

  her or trade her in. You know . . . this was Katie’s mama’s car, so she ain’t in

  no hurry for a new one.”

  If there were any justice in the world, my father’s nose would be a couple

  of inches longer right about now. Turned to check—nope, no justice.

  Daddy quickly threw the heat of the spotlight back on me. “Katie girl!”

  • 241 •

  he yelled so aggressively you’d think I was encased in a bomb shelter. “You gonna thank Cadet Davenport for fixin’ yer car for ya?”

  I fiercely rolled down the window. “Of course, Daddy!” I chirped, giving

  them a smile so saccharine you’d have to be a fool not to know it was fake. I

  removed my sunglasses and turned to the poser in navy. “Thank you so much,

  Cadet Davenport for all the mechanical things you did to my car today! The

  many hidden talents you’ve acquired up at that fancy boardin’ school sure are impressive! I just feel so blessed”—my eyes blazed—“to have someone lookin’

  out for our best interests.”

  The upward tilt to his lips straightened. “I was looking out for your best

  interest.” He also removed his own sunglasses, presumably so I could see the

  sincerity in his eyes. But I wasn’t so easily sold. Boy, he was good though, he

  really was. He should head straight out for Hollywood right after his little

  “mission” here was over.

  Daddy looked from the plastered smile on my face to the cadet’s intense

  focus on me and rearranged some phlegm. “Well that was mighty nice of you,

  Cadet Davenport.”

  He tore his eyes away from mine to shake my father’s hand again. “Pete,

  please. I’d better get going so I can finish filling out the reports from our

  meeting. And since you agreed to the terms we discussed today, I’ll go ahead

  and submit them.”

  I could tell Cadet
Davenport was trying hard to duck the particularly

  lethal glare I was shooting him because he slipped his shades back on. “Don’t

  forget Andy still needs a physical. You can use a local doctor if you prefer for

  the preliminary screening. However, The Academy will need a more thorough

  examination done on premises. You may, of course, be present for that. That

  is one of the items still missing from your checklist. The final date for that is

  September 29. It’s highlighted in the paperwork.”

  “Sure-sure, Pete. I’ll get right on it.” My father was being Mister Congenial

  now. I was worried—my father was never Mr. Congenial.

  After another round of farewells from my backseat, I was finally headed

  home for my afternoon of chores. I tried prying some insider info out of

  Andrew, but he was especially tight-lipped today being on the inside of the

  circle. “Good” was about the only adjective I was getting. Not very creative

  coming from a genius. I could almost see our cemented bond forming a crack right before my very eyes, and felt an equal one in my heart for it. I let it go

  for now. Any more arguments against that academy and its ambassador would

  only alienate Andrew further from me. I still needed proof they were up to no

  • 242 •

  good. It would be next to impossible to prove that an organization so little was known about, and what was known was so impressive, was sinister.

  So I would have to refocus on exposing their ambassador for the fraud

  that he was. If I had a chance of convincing a scientific person like Andrew, I

  would need to focus on the facts. And the fact was: Pete was a liar. I did receive

  one golden nugget today from the unwittingly helpful Mrs. Woodward. She’d

  confirmed my suspicion about the first meeting between Andrew and his

  mentor being all business. If she’d been present the whole time, then no way

  he would’ve pumped my brother for his big sister’s culinary favorites. How

  very unprofessional. Lie numero uno, Cadet Davenport— busted!

  I had to bide my time for the right moment to confront Andrew with the

  news. Right now he was still riding high from the afternoon’s secret meeting

  and rescue mission. But when the timing was right, I’d drop my newfound

  currency in the vault that was my brother’s mind.

  • 243 •

  23

  AN IDIOT’S IDIOMS

  While I was out in the pasture waiting on the pump to fill the

  cow tank, I had a long time to cool down and really think

  things through. A big part of the reason I was going nowhere

  but backwards was on account of my temper. Like Cadet Davenport—it

  was still getting the best of me. I’d been using vinegar when I shoulda been

  using honey, or what Mama referred to as “my feminine charms.” I just hated

  to stoop to that level; it reminded me of Ashley-Leigh and made me feel

  phony as those chicken cutlets she insisted we stuff into our training-bars in

  sixth-grade.

  Mama used to say people were born with a strong sense of right and

  wrong. That you could teach ethical behavior but mostly it was an innate

  thing people either had or didn’t have. She’d usually pull this little pearl of

  wisdom out when explaining why I either shouldn’t be upset with Daddy or

  Ashley-Leigh.

  I think in retrospect, she was also describing me—I really couldn’t abide

  by any wrongdoing. It just went against the grain for me. Like when I was

  twelve and turned those high school boys in for playing baseball with a hapless

  frog they found on the field, or when Ronnie and his buddies put gum in

  that mentally handicapped boy’s hair. I’d spent my whole lunch working it

  out with some ice.

  And the plain truth was: I’d taken enough crap from Daddy in my short

  lifetime to fertilize every field within a twenty-mile radius. Being the constant

  recipient of wrongdoing had taken a toll on my affections for my father, and

  seeing it dished out to my undeserving little brother made it even worse.

  The broken pump finally trickled enough water into the tank to sustain

  the cattle for the next couple of days. I set my chemistry notes aside (that I

  • 244 •

  wasn’t studying anyway). It’s like my brain only had room for a finite amount of problems, and my quota was already filled. Falling out of the truck on heavy

  legs, I climbed up the railroad cross-tie—that doubled as a latter—to shut

  off the switch. The only illumination on this dark night was from the sorry

  beam of light shining from the one working headlight. So I was standing on

  a precarious pole, with stakes driven into the side, in virtual darkness, while

  Daddy was kicked back at home “minding the boys.”

  Where was the justice?

  A bubble of curse words reserved for boys’ locker rooms erupted from my

  mouth because the last stake in the pole had just fallen out of the worn divot,

  causing me to lose both my footing and my temper. I fell the last few feet,

  landing roughly in cow-trampled muck. Then took an indulgent moment to

  holler and kick it around until Blue came trotting over warily to make sure I

  was still in one piece. I accepted his slobbery kisses, feeling plain grateful to

  him on this lonely night.

  “Come on, boy”—I chauffeured the door open for him—“let’s get home.”

  I got back filthy, exhausted, and with that feeling of dread that always

  accompanied having to confront my father. I had to remind him about the

  broken pump (for the fifth or sixth time), confront him about not being

  part of Andrew’s meetings anymore, and try to strike while the iron was hot

  regarding my car’s transmission. My righteous indignation would have to be

  put away for now, or else I would end up spewing a lifetime of pent-up vitriol

  all over him. And likely get nothing in return except for being shoved even

  further into the background . . . until I would be no more visible than our

  outdated floral wallpaper.

  When I trudged in, the first thing I saw was socked feet. Propped up.

  In front of the TV. And a popcorn bowl balanced on a full belly. My hands

  started to shake at this cozy repose, but I held myself in check. Taking in a

  yoga-worthy breath, I said, “Daddy? Can we discuss a few things before I go

  to bed?”

  After a few moments of noisy crunching, he sighed dramatically, set his

  popcorn aside, and actually clicked pause to face me. “First off Katie-girl, I

  wanted to talk to you about yer manners this afternoon.”

  Doh! When would I ever learn not to let my temper get the best of me?

  “. . . I wanted to commend you on yer nice thank-you to Cadet Davenport.”

  Say what?

  “He really did us a favor. And he has alotta influence over yer brother’s

  future. So I was glad to see you were extry nice. I was afraid at first you was

  gonna act like an ungrateful brat seein’ as how you’re again’ his Academy.

  • 245 •

  But you didn’t.” Daddy gave me a sharp, approving nod. “I wanted to let you know I made note of that.”

  That was . . . weird. Like I said only a fool. I took this as a good sign and a good place to start so went to sit on the couch next to his recliner. I tried an

  honest-to-God smile. “I wanted to start off apolog
izin’ to you for my behavior

  these past couple of weeks. I’ve been pretty depressed at the thought of losin’

  Andrew. But I know you’d never sign your own flesh and blood away to some

  fancy boardin’ school—even if it is military, so I decided not to worry so much

  about it anymore.”

  I gave Daddy the puppy-dog eyes that had served me well as a child and

  excused me from more than a few spankings, then followed up with sweet

  words: “I also realize now that you’re right about my job at the diner.” The one-

  two punch had his face going slack at once. A smile was still spreading across

  his lips when I said, “I’ll quit come January so we can start visitin’ Andrew on

  the weekends.” And then Daddy’s jaw went from slack to un-hinged.

  “I really look forward to spendin’ a lot more time with you from now

  on . . . Especially on all those road trips—you, me, Mikey—all singin’ our

  way to California together. It’ll be a real bondin’ experience for us!” My final move was reaching across the divide to embrace his rigid frame.

  And that’s about the time the recliner went down and Daddy stood up.

  Pretty spry for a crippled guy.

  “Now hold up there a minute! That’s kinda puttin’ the cart before the

  horse ain’t it? I mean nothin’s set in stone yet. Quit countin’ yer chickens

  before they’re hatched!” Daddy’s face had extra splotches, and three idioms in a row was a new record . . . totally had him on the ropes. I only wished Mikey

  were here, so we could tag team him with unwanted hugs.

  “Why do you say that, Daddy?” Angelic smile. “Are you concerned about

  Andrew bein’ accepted now? Is there somethin’ botherin’ you about that . . .

  institution? ”

  “No, no, nothin’ like that . . . I think we both know our Andrew’s a

  shoo-in.” Daddy paused so I could share a conspirator’s smile with him. “I

  just haven’t quite determined that he has to go right this year. Been thinkin’

  back and forth about maybe . . .”—a spring of hope rose in my chest—“askin’

  them about waitin’. You know—not long. Oh, what’s it called when you wait

  a year or two?”

  “Deferrin’,” I put in.

  “That’s it.” He finger-gunned me. “Deferrin’. Maybe an extry year or two

  at the most. Think ‘round a decade old seems ‘bout right.”