The Academy (The Academy Saga Book 1)

by CJ Daly

  later.After a quiet lunch of hiding out and finishing my Pre Cal homework,

  I left the confines of the library and stepped outside for the first time since

  morning. The sky was a wide expanse of periwinkle blue, with a few wispy

  clouds dispersing into thin streaks with the blinding sun. As if on a whim,

  the wind picked up, vigorously blowing the new season up my tied shirt. I

  shivered and threw my arms around my waist. I decided I’d tried about a day

  and a half too late for this look and wished fervently for one of my shapeless

  sweaters as I leaned into the wind. A group of senior guys lounging over

  the hood of their truck began cat calling. I waved back shyly but continued

  forward with wolf-whistles following my trail. I smug-smiled to myself—

  looked like my jeans were doing their job.

  Predictably, I was the first one in class so I marched right up to Mr.

  Sanchez to plead my case. And I only felt a twinge of guilt telling him I got

  contacts . After al , hadn’t I been lying about needing glasses all along? He easily agreed to move me back to my original seat. I beamed and headed for the

  door with a cheerful, “Thanks, Mr. Sanchez!”

  “Don’t you mean, muchas gracias, Señor Sanchez?” he corrected.

  “Lo siento. Muchas gracias, Señor Sanchez. ”

  “De nada.” His smile was a little too enthusiastic.

  Oh Gah! I scurried out the door, cringing at the thought of my teacher

  checking out my assets. I still wasn’t accustomed to wearing pants to school,

  much less butt-hugging jeans that clung to my legs like second skin. Apparently,

  more than just Pete liked the “country Kate look.” This morning one of the

  most popular senior boys said something that made me roll my eyes and blush

  at the same time: I hate seeing you go . . . but I love watching you leave. Really, so cheesy. Still, it brought a smile to my face, because it had been as easy as

  walking by. Who knew catching boys’ attention could be so easy? But I wasn’t

  • 333 •

  fishing for just any ole big fish in our small pond. I was hoping to attract an angelfish . . . from somewhere beyond the sea.

  Firmly holed up in the bathroom till class, I made use of my time

  smoothing down my hair with my slick palms. I took another minute to self-

  evaluate and decided to add some lip gloss and mascara to my shopping list

  this afternoon to add more oomph to my look. I still eschewed makeup as a

  whole; couldn’t stand the clogging feel of it on my skin. When Ashley-Leigh

  used to use me as her life-sized Barbie, I would run to wash off all her efforts

  the second she let me go. Mama always referred to these sessions as “gilding

  the lily.” I sighed, thinking: como cambio el mundo—how times change. I

  wished we could still be friends because I really missed her mom and female

  camaraderie.

  But I was on a whole different wavelength now.

  The warning bell rang. So with a final swipe of vanilla lip balm, I headed

  out, not wanting to be tardy, just late enough that Molly Donaldson already

  had a chance to move seats. I saw her sitting up front and center in my

  newly vacated seat. It was hard to tell who was scowling more: her, Miguel,

  or Ashley. Definitely Ashley-Leigh. I stifled a smirk because Miguel turned around to give me a disapproving grimace. A helpless shrug was my only stab

  at commiseration before slipping into my seat in front of Pete. I gave him my

  Mona Lisa, not exactly sure where we stood with each other. He instantly

  shot back with the kind of primal smile that should be tamed before it turned

  indecent. Blood swarmed to my face, shot down my neckline . . . and headed

  south.

  Gah! Try to at least act cool, Kate.

  I forced my body into stillness, but it took roll call and the bell-ringer just

  to get my heartbeat regulated. The expectation was killing me. Heaving a sigh,

  I flipped back some hair, that had fallen along my neckline, and attempted to

  focus on the Spanish film we were watching today. A beat later, soft movement

  rippled down the length of my hair—Pete’s finger parting the curtain and

  trailing along the back of my neck. A pleasurable, almost unbearable chill

  swept down my spine. I whipped around, my eyes flashing to his dark ones.

  Slowly, one cheek lifted in that way it did when he was aroused to humor.

  “Sorry,” he whispered, “I was just removing a hay seed from your hair.”

  I narrowed my eyes, trying but epically failing, to keep a smile off my

  face. “Ha-ha, very funny. Aren’t you supposed to not be speakin’ to me?” I followed that bit of maturity up by turning around and grinning like an idiot.

  “Fine. I won’t talk then,” he mouthed into my ear, then proceeded to

  • 334 •

  flick my hair with his pencil every few seconds, presumably just to annoy me (although it was having the opposite effect).

  Playing hard to get, I refused to turn around. A minute later something

  crackly poked my back. I sighed exaggeratedly, waited a beat, then opened

  the note with Ashley-Leigh shooting sidelong daggers at me.

  Does this mean you’re talking to me now?

  I scribbled back a brief sí, and tossed it back over my shoulder. Warm

  air stirred the back of my hair as he chuckled quietly. I noticed we were on

  the receiving end of several curious glances—guess it was pretty hard not to

  attract attention with a mile-wide smile on your face. I was pretending to take

  notes when I felt paper brush the forbidden half-inch of exposed waist. My

  eyes cut to Mr. Sanchez, who had paused the TV to point out the vosotros

  form was used in Spain but not in Mexico. Apparently, we were visiting

  Barcelona today, but I had no idea because I was over the moon. Feigning

  impatience, I unfolded the note.

  You’re wearing my favorite outfit . . . and look particularly ravishing today.

  Another grin threatened to split my face. So, he’d taken the bait. I

  scribbled back: F lat ery will get you nowhere in my fanciest scrawl, then tossed it back over my shoulder with nobody noticing but Ashley-Leigh, who looked

  like she’d just popped a Sour Patch candy in her mouth. Pete coughed out a

  laugh before quickly stifling it with a cleared throat. Once again, I marveled

  at how much difference a day makes.

  The bell rang, and we stood up, grinning at each other like a couple of

  goons . . . until I felt the pressure of Miguel’s eyes on my back. I turned to

  see him savagely stuffing books into his backpack. My easy smile faded, and

  when I turned back around, it was to find Pete zipping his backpack around

  his notebook while waiting for me. Miguel almost tripped over my backpack

  in his rush out the door. Pete continued to quietly observe me as I finished

  packing up. I had a sudden, sure feeling that he’d missed me almost as much

  as I’d missed him. My stomach took a plunge at that heady thought.

  About that time Ashley-Leigh decided to make her exit, flouncing past us

  with a look-what-you’re-missing smile aimed at Pete. He returned a semblance

  of a smile before maneuvering me—hand to the small of my back—through

  the jam-packed hallway. Together, we exited out the door and into a blast of

  crisp autumnal air. As if in mutual appreciation of the moment, we paused

  to watch the flags snap and bi
llow in the breeze. Then my backpack was

  confiscated from me, and we began ambling our way up the sidewalk behind

  the stragglers stringing behind the pack.

  • 335 •

  “You know . . . those jeans ought to be outlawed.” Pete’s icebreaker was followed by a lazy, lop-sided grin.

  “It’s funny you say that. They’re on my father’s,” I paused to air quote,

  “‘forbidden list.’”

  He barked out a laugh. “In this particular case, I can’t say that I blame him.”

  “Well, maybe you two outta get together and go bowlin’—you do seem

  to have a lot in common,” I said way sharper than I intended.

  “No offense, but I sincerely hope not.”

  “Military background, dead-set on sendin’ my little brother away for

  strangers to raise, antiquated notions about what constitutes suitable attire for

  females,” I listed out for him, and then immediately regretted my momentary

  lapse; I hadn’t planned on busting up the good vibe so soon.

  Pete pursed his lips. “Nah,” he disagreed lightly, “just antiquated notions

  about what constitutes suitable attire for one particular female.” He nudged my shoulder. “Sides . . . I’d rather go bowling with his daughter.”

  Happiness surged through me. God, how I missed him! His gorgeous,

  heart-stopping smile, the flirty banter, the just plain ole basking in his golden

  presence.

  “Well I hate to break it to you, but as far as I can tell from the conversation

  I had with my father last night, I’m already spoken for by another”—I cleared

  my throat—“and I used the term loosely here—man.”

  Pete snort-laughed. “What’s one more hurdle?” I didn’t have time to

  decipher the edge in there because he said, “So . . . who’s the lucky guy?” He

  leaned over and put his mouth to my ear. “You’ll have to point him out, so I

  can kick his ass.”

  “I think you can already check that off your to-do list,” I said with a grin.

  He threw his head back and laughed. “Good to know—you’re way too

  good for any of these guys anyway.”

  Almost to gym now, we paused before going our separate ways. A portion

  of his entourage was waiting for him inside, fiending for their allotted time

  with their hero. The dismal little P.E. class had been basking in Pete’s refracted

  popularity; their self-esteem suddenly bolstered by the esteem in which Pete

  was held. Most likely their whole day revolved around the glory of sharing a

  gym class with him. I hated to tell them their days with him were numbered . . .

  as were mine.

  Pete acknowledged his fans with a chin lift, and we shared a conspiratorial

  smile over his instant, overwhelming popularity. I laughed out loud. I loved

  him being a good sport.

  “Think I’m ready for my fifteen minutes to be up,” he said with a grimace.

  • 336 •

  An immediate jolt shook my system, my smile kind of imploding on

  me. I shifted my eyes to the flow of multi-colored hoodies ahead of us,

  bottlenecking to get in. Pete would soon need to go left while I went right—

  seemed like a metaphor for our life.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothin’.” I shook my head. The truthfulness of his statement stung like

  an insult. He was ready for his time here to be over. He wanted to get back to his real life—the privileged one he belonged to. Who could blame him? There

  was nothing remotely interesting in this small town to keep a guy like him

  interested. A heaviness seeped into my chest, dragging me back down to earth.

  “Kate, did I say something to upset you?”

  Oh Gah. I was doing it again—bringing him down, the mood down.

  “I-I was just thinkin’ about that awful fight you got into on account of

  me,” I said, making something up on the spur of the moment.

  “It wasn’t your fault—I was being an ass.”

  I pulled a face. “No disagreement there, but you still didn’t deserve to be

  ganged up on like that.”

  “It worked out okay. But I gotta say: two shiners in two weeks is a record

  for me . . . one I definitely don’t want to break anytime soon!”

  “Right.” I forced a laugh. “I never apologized . . . sorry about that.”

  “Sorry for not apologizing or sorry for the shiner?”

  I laughed more naturally. “Both. . . . That reminds me of something

  Ashley said about you the first day of school.”

  “Ashley Squared?” he confirmed. When I nodded, he rolled his eyes.

  “This outta be good.”

  “Actually, it was good.”

  He arched a brow. “Do tell.”

  “She, uh, said—” I broke off, blushing. “You know what? Never mind.

  It’s not important.” I was heading off to the locker room, when a tug on my

  backpack snapped me back.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” Pete scolded. “You don’t get to just laugh and say I

  remember what someone said about you and then just sally away like that . . .

  It’s just plain rude.”

  “Is it?”

  “It is,” he insisted.

  I looked up at his face all lit up with humor, noticing how it softened the

  chiseled perfection. I must’ve been staring too long, because he cleared his

  throat.

  “I’m waiting . . .”

  • 337 •

  “Right. Um, she said that you looked like you’d be more of a, uh . . .”—I did my own hmmm-hmmm, mentally kicking myself for bringing it up—

  “lover than a fighter.”

  His lips twitched. “And do you agree with her assessment?”

  A sly smile spread my lips. “I would tell you . . . but then I’d have to

  kill you.”

  My borrowed funny was followed by a burst of his pleasant laughter. “For

  once, I agree with Ashley-Squared . . .”—he brushed his thumb across my

  lips—“I’m definitely more of a lover.”

  I swallowed and failed at speech.

  The tardy bell did its thing, and I didn’t linger further, running to go change

  into my shortest shorts and tightest shirt. This I did in record time while

  Shelby relayed her hopes that Jake would ask her to homecoming. I smiled

  warmly and told her they’d look cute together. She beamed then hesitantly

  asked me about Pete. I gave her an abbreviated update. Couldn’t deny we were

  something; the intensity of our relationship was fairly obvious.

  Thankfully the whistle blew, and we filed outside to our half of the

  practice field. Coach Sams counted us off again, only this time, Pete and I

  ended up on the same team. I hoped this was the symbolism our future held.

  We worked together really well, passing the ball back and forth with little

  (on my part) to no (his part) interception. The coaches had put Jake, Diego,

  Shelby, and anybody with any athletic ability at all on the opposing team, yet

  we were still up four to zip at halftime. Coach Sams must’ve taken pity on the

  other team, because she benched Pete and me for the duration of the game,

  reorganizing the teams to allow other players a chance to play.

  In companionable silence we sat together on the bench, dispassionately

  watching the disaster unfolding on the soccer field. I noticed he was drinking

  from the same dark bottle he always seemed to have on hand. He twisted off

  th
e cap, and a wisp of steam evaporated into the air.

  “What kind of water is that exactly?” I asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen

  it before . . . not that I’m a bottled water expert.” I took a sip from my metal

  canteen. “All I drink is good old-fashioned Clovis well water.”

  “You drink well water?” He said this like I’d just said I went out back to

  use the outhouse.

  “Yup.” I took another defiant sip.

  Pete looked funny for a second then swung the bottle between his legs,

  staring intently at our kicker as he attempted a long-range field goal. Awkward.

  “Forget I asked.” I leaned my elbows on my knees, and my chin in my

  • 338 •

  hands, and watched as the ball just grazed through the posts. I hated how evasive he got about everything. I still knew next to nothing about him or

  his organization.

  “It’s purified, oxygenated water provided by the Academy,” he finally

  answered, as though the field goal had earned me three little facts.

  “Oh.” Weird. Did they ship it to him because Clovis water was polluted?

  Was the plethora of regular bottled water you could purchase at any

  convenience store still not good enough?

  I was trying to lure in an elusive, exotic creature, so didn’t want to make

  any big, sudden movements. So I just let it go for now—he obviously didn’t

  want to discuss his life at The Academy in any kind of personal way.

  The wind whipped up again, rushing stinging bumps down my arms.

  I shivered. Weather this time of year could be volatile, dropping twenty to

  thirty degrees in the blink of an eye.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  I shrugged the same time he shrugged out of his long-sleeved, navy tee

  and handed it to me. Underneath, he had on another shirt, only this one was

  worn and tighter so that it clung to his chest. I took a moment to admire his

  physique. Pete had the kind of musculature that manifested itself in a natural

  way—say from playing lacrosse all day rather than pumping iron.

  “Thanks.” My smile faded when I noticed the gold motif covering his

  heart. It was hard to make out at first because the letters were peeling off like

  chipped paint, but the roaring lion head was unmistakable.

  After a moment of me holding on to his warm shirt, he slid a smile my

  way. “You gonna put that on or continue to wound my chivalrous pride?”