by CJ Daly
I knew enough not to jump up and do the happy dance yet. Was that RPA
• 246 •
letter what had final y slowed him down? That’s probably why they sent a fat check alongside it. S o it would go down easier. A little sugar with the bitter pill parents had to swallow to give up their parental rights.
I nodded my head and said my father’s favorite words in the whole wide
world: “Whatever you think is best, Daddy.”
He took a fortifying sip from his tumbler. “Yep. A lot to think on,
Katie-girl.”
After a moment of letting him think on things he should be thinking on,
I added an extra layer of sugar on top. “I know that Drewy doesn’t voice it a
lot, but he’s sure gonna miss his Daddy up there at that fancy boardin’ school.”
I uncrossed my fingers and decided to end the conversation right there,
skip over the other two topics all together tonight. Nothing made Daddy
madder than coming home to problems . . . except for having his playoff
game interrupted by problems. So I did something I hadn’t done in forever—I
pressed my lips to his scruffy cheek.
He smiled and patted my shoulder. “Yer a good girl when you wanna be,
Katie-girl.”
Whoa! The fumes coming from his mouth coulda fueled our diesel tractor
for a week. My smile tried hard not to turn into a grimace. “Thanks Daddy.
And thanks for comin’ to rescue us this afternoon.”
“Oh sure, sure, honey.” He patted on my shoulder again. “I guess it’s
kind of a good thing Cadet Davenport called this mornin’ to have me pick
up Andrew today.”
I froze for a second while the wheels in my brain kept spinning. “What? ”
Daddy looked at my strangled face and frowned. “I said it’s a good thing
I was called in to pick up Andrew this afternoon, because I had the tools to
fix yer car and Cadet Davenport had the know-how. I sure am impressed they
teach those kinds of—”
“What!” My feet stamped prints into the floor.
Daddy quit talking; the lines in his forehead looked like a plowed field.
“Are you raisin’ your voice at me, young lady?”
I quickly simmered down. “I mean . . . did-did you say that Cadet
Davenport called you about pickin’ up Andrew this afternoon?”
Daddy folded his arms across his chest. “I am his father. O’ course he
would call to inform me that my son’s test scores were available.”
“Sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to take a tone with you. It’s just . . . I’m
confused. Did you ask P—Cadet Davenport and Mrs. Woodward not to
include me in any more of Andrew’s meetin’s?” I held my breath.
Daddy cleared his throat. “Now, Katie, it ain’t that simple see.” He took
• 247 •
another thoughtful sip from his tumbler. “I b’lieve Pete’s the one who started the discussion by sayin’ Andrew might be more excited about the prospect of
bein’ a future cadet if I was able to attend the meetin’s where all his hard work
was bein’ acknowledged. I informed him that you usually like to be the one
at Andrew’s conferences and what not, and he said he thought it best for you
to get used to the idear of lettin’ go a little of the parental responsibilities.”
My heart seized. That rat! “But Daddy, I promised Mama I would take
care of him!”
“We thought it would be better off for you and Andrew in the long
run—easier when the time comes to let go.” He looked, for him, apologetic.
“I’m sorry Katie-girl, but I agree with him.” He patted my hand. “Yer much
too involved in Andrew’s business. And since yer a very emotional young lady
and are . . .” he changed tactics, “or have been so biased against The Elite
Academy—I think cause your Mama put the fear o’ God in you ‘bout schools
for gifted children—I agreed to take over. Yunno, whenever there was any
major decisions to be made or paperwork to look over and what not.”
“Did you tell that to Mrs. Woodward?”
“Now honey,” Daddy placated me with another hand pat, “I don’t see
no problem with you still goin’ to those silly parent-teacher conferences in
my stead . . . since it’s so important to you. After all, we already know what she’s gonna say—the same things all his teachers been sayin’ since he started school.” His broad smile fell into a frown when he saw the furnace that was
my face.
“But Daddy! Cadet Davenport told Mrs. Woodward that you said not to
allow me in any of Andrew’s meetin’s anymore! And that you called him about pickin’ Andrew up today. Don’t you see? He’s lie- ing!”
Daddy’s face turned the same shade as mine. “That’s plumb ridic’lous!”
he immediately spat out like he’d just swallowed a fly. “Yer startin’ to talk
nonsense just like yer mama did when she got sick in her head. I ain’t gonna
stand for more o’ that crazy talk in my house!”
“But Daddy, it’s true! He came into the library this mornin’ to tell me
all this was your idea and he was just deliverin’ the news.” Daddy’s face was unmoved, so I moved to begging. “Please! You gotta believe me!”
He looked, for half a second, into my desperate eyes, and the muscles in
his face loosened. “Why would he do that?”
“To cut me off!” I screeched.
“And why would he do that? . . . Are you makin’ a nuisance of yerself?”
“Because he knows I’m onto him!” Flapping my arms, I started squawking
• 248 •
about my bad feelings on the matter, when he cut me off by actually clamping a hand across my mouth.
“Now see here, missy. This is exactly what I was talkin’ ‘bout!” Daddy
dang near thumped me in the chest with his finger. “Yer startin’ to worry me
with all this paranoid talk. I’ll not live through that again with my daughter!
I tol’ you yer not to in’erfere in any way. Have you been meddlin’?”
Ignored that last one. “But Daddy! He’s lie-ing! Don’t you see? I can prove it, if you’ll—”
“Enough! ” Daddy blasted with enough hot air to singe my eyebrows.
“That young man has been more’n nice and awfully helpful. Today is case-
in-point. Not to mention the fact that he holds your brother’s future in his
hands.”
I was well aware of that fact.
“If you talk like that again, yer gonna be in hot water with me. Do you
understand?” He hit me with the Manson lamps.
I hung my head in defeat. Trying to reason with Daddy was like trying
to climb Mount Everest with nothing but your fingernails for tools. “Yes sir.”
“You best head off to bed, young lady. Mornin’ comes early.”
• 249 •
24
THERE SHE BLOWS!
I was up long before my alarm went off, long before the rooster roused
himself to crow in the new day, and long before I’d found a solution to
any of my problems. With a feral growl, I yanked back the covers. May
as well get up. Stewing over everything wasn’t helping anything. I needed to
do something.
The only things I knew for sure—without the aid of my intuition—was
that Pete was here on a mission to sign my brother and then get out, and that
he had lied twice: It was he who initiated the phone call to my father, and he lied about quizzing my brother about me duri
ng the first mentoring meeting.
Why I hadn’t already realized this was beyond me. He’d covered his tracks
by questioning my brother the next day at The Learning Center, knowing I’d never ask which day he’d actually asked the questions. He took a gamble that
I’d be so relieved it was true that I would just drop it so I could bask in his
golden presence. He’d been right, and right now I was creeped out.
How did he know those things about me?
I drew back the faded pink curtains, half expecting something to jump
out at me. A chill tingled my spine. It was more than halfway through
September and frost was now covering the ground in the mornings. His
“mission” should’ve been over by now. I percolated a while as I watched
the first rays of dawn finger across the wasteland that was our backyard. I
hurriedly dressed, yanking on an old sweater the color of fresh cream. Feeling
head heavy, I headed out to tend the animals all by myself. This would allow
the boys to sleep in another half-hour and me to burn off the anxious energy
tormenting my insides.
Upon my return, I woke them up without my usual rendition of Good
Morning to You sung to the Happy Birthday tune. After pouring them each a
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bowl of granola, I sliced bananas over the top and ran to get ready for school.
Ten minutes later, I was dressed in a long denim skirt and a boring white
Oxford. I shoved my cowboy boots back on, and yanked the same wool
sweater over my head.
There was a chill in my bones this morning that had nothing to do with
the outside temperature. And nerves were eating my stomach lining alive. But
I forced down some cereal and did a second shot of forbidden coffee, then
speedily washed the breakfast dishes before heading back to the bathroom
with my brothers to brush my teeth.
We kind of stared at our own reflections in silence as we brushed—a
departure from our usual morning high-jinx. This was usually a comical time
of making faces and jostling for position in front of the mirror while trying to
stifle our laughter so we wouldn’t wake up Daddy. This morning we were all
unusually subdued. Andrew and Mikey were obviously feeding off my mood,
glancing at each other and then at me warily.
I finally cracked a smile as we waited for Andrew to fix his hair. He always
liked to brush it just so and end his morning ritual with a dab of unnecessary
gel, added with a flourish. After which, he would smile back at his own
reflection, admiring the effect, before heading out. Mikey didn’t have enough
hair to bother fixing, and I didn’t care enough to bother. Today I would leave
it a tangled mass of waves—kind of seemed befitting my mood.
I met Andrew’s eyes in the mirror. His were apologetic; mine had a fire in
them I couldn’t quite extinguish. I gave him a tight-lipped smile, and placed
an arm around each brother as if framing us for a picture. A lot was at stake
here.Today, I would confront Cadet Davenport with the lies I knew he’d told.
Today, I would get to school early to wait for him. Today, he would be unable to hide behind his glowing good looks and easy charm—he was busted, and
we both knew it.
After whisking the boys away to school, I pulled into the near empty
parking lot like I was on a stake out. Eventually the lot began to slowly fill,
bringing in a cacophony of lively chatter intermingled with opposing music
genres: rap, country, pop, all blurring and blaring from open windows of
second-hand cars. Clumps of social groups posed for each other—those who
knew they were being looked at, and those who were doing the looking. I felt
so far removed from it all I may as well have been parked in the faculty lot.
A couple of chattering cheerleaders, who used to be my friends, caught my
eye. What do they real y have to worry about? What color bloomers to wear under their skirts Friday night? Who they’re going to homecoming with? Child’s play.
• 251 •
As the morning sun slowly warmed the car, I realized I’d arrived too early and with too many layers on. The waiting began to wear on my nerves
and my confidence, so I mentally listed their transgressions. The slow burn
of injustice started to boil my blood when I thought about how outmatched
I was, the enticements they were using: money, alcohol . . . Pete. I thought
back to all the encounters where he’d been a phony. Felt like I might need to
unstick my jaw just to talk.
Miguel was right: What a little fool I’d been.
Feeling like The Hulk, I ripped off my sweater and looked up just in time
to see a trio of curvy girls with straight hair elbow each other expectantly. He
was here. I rammed out of the car and rushed over to where he was parking
before anyone else could accost him. I had him in my sights—Pete was the
bulls-eye, I the arrow. When I was within target range, he looked up at me
briefly before dropping his head. He let out a mighty sigh and grabbed his
backpack but remained in the protected confines of the Hummer, I guess
debating the merits of whether to hide or face the music.
Coward, I thought as I stood, obviously waiting him out.
I watched as he rubbed the heel of his hand in one eye as though the mere
sight of me gave him a headache. And with a great shake of his golden head,
he pushed the door open and stepped out slowly, as if putting off a particularly
unpleasant chore. Backpack slung over his shoulder, he slammed the door
behind him, walked a few steps forward, stopped to click the button that
locked his precious Hummer. (I was really beginning to hate that obnoxious
chirping sound.) Finally, he lifted his chin to face me squarely.
We stood about thirty paces apart, as if we were about to engage in a
western-style shootout. I was armed, cocked, and ready to go. But what he
didn’t know was: I was also loaded.
Pete must’ve found our little standoff humorous, because his mouth
quirked up at the corner. Another time I would’ve found it funny, too. Today,
I just found it to be very apropos—I’d been fighting off the villains for what seemed like a very long time. At last the battle had come to a head, in the
middle of the town square as it were.
Unsure how to begin I chewed on my lip a little. Pete made the first move
by ambling forward. He was wearing his aviators, and I now thought they
made him look more like an automaton than a movie star—robotic-like in his
perfection without the warming presence of his eyes sparking up in humor.
“Good morning, Kate,” he greeted in a neutral tone. “To what do I owe the
honor?”
• 252 •
“I-I’d like to speak with you about a few things.” Dang it!—my voice quivered.
“Now?” he said like I was a crazy person for suggesting a deep conversation
first thing in the morning, with a crowd of bystanders as witnesses.
“Right now . ”
Pete exhaled deeply, looked heavenward as if for guidance. I snorted, and
he snapped his head back down, staring at me long and hard. So I’m gettin’
on his elite nerves am I? Well that’s just fine cause Elite Pete is gettin’ on mine!
“What is it, Kate?” he said briskly.
I drew in a de
ep breath and just went for it: “I wanna know why you took
it upon yourself to call my father yesterday, then lie about it bein’ my father’s idea to ban me from the meetings, when he informed me last night . . . it
was yours!”
Not a single muscle twitch.
“Then I wanna know why you’re trying to cut me out of my own
brother’s life!” I hissed, the rage monster in me making this a must-see scene
immediately. Our curious audience crept closer.
Pete was sea breeze cool under the heat of my vicious glare and the open
ogling of the crowd. “That’s easy enough to explain,” he said in a reasonable
voice. “I did it because you’ve been sabotaging your own brother’s academic achievements, putting his full-ride scholarship to the best military academy
in the world in jeopardy in the process.”
A jeer from the crowd, followed by a couple of “oohs.”
“I—” faltered, unaware he was onto us. “That’s ridiculous.” I wasn’t
expecting to be put on the defensive.
“Is it?” He arched a brow, a move I used to find so charming but now
just seemed arrogant. “Then explain to me, why is it, that your brother just
happens to miss exactly five percent of the questions on every single test—
usually right in a row, either vertically or horizontally on the page. A couple
of times he got more creative by going diagonally. Sometimes, he appears
to get bored so skips every other question until he hits the target number of
questions missed. But any which way he slices it—it’s always the exact same
pattern of missing five percent on the dot. Do you have an explanation for
that?”
Oh crap. Of course Drews would do that; he was both creative and a
perfectionist. And obviously wanted to create a not-so-secret code to let
Pete know what was going on, without outright defying his sister’s wishes.
Ingenious.
While I stewed in guilty silence, he went on: “I guessed, of course, that
• 253 •
you’d put him up to it. You haven’t exactly hidden your negative feelings about The Academy—the one your little brother desperately wants to be accepted
to. It’s the right place for him, Kate. And everyone knows it, but you.”
Murmuring from the bystanders was going on as they weighed in with
their opinions. I was up . . .
“Like you know anything about my family or what’s best for my brother . . .