The Last Academy (4 page)

I froze with terror, my eyes shut, and waited for a whiff of clean soap smell so I would know for sure it was Barnaby Charon. I tried to remember all those brilliant one-liners I’d come up with while I’d hid in the airplane bathroom.
Get away! You pig! Don’t touch me!
I would say all these things. Loudly. Just as soon as I was ready to open my eyes.

The thing was, nothing smelled like soap. The bed creaked. I opened my eyes.

A boy sat, his back to me, on the edge of the bed. Another boy sat on Tamara’s bed. Not psycho student stranglers, I realized after a second. Only boys. Probably from our freshman class, judging from their lack of muscles and the nervous sweat hanging about them. Maybe runt sophomores.

Tamara lay on her side, her brown eyes murky in the minimal light. She and the boy on her bed whispered together. I couldn’t hear too much, just the hushed breathing noises they made talking. I shut my eyes.

OK. So there were strange boys in my room. They could have been murderers, yes, but the bigger issue was that if Miss Andersen found out about them, we’d all be expelled. I’d read the rule book. Being in the room of someone of the opposite sex was a huge, steaming pile of violation. I didn’t think that kind of thing had a point rating, it was so serious.

I considered sitting up and telling those guys to get lost, but I figured all it would win me was my roommate hating me. Plus, it wasn’t even guaranteed to make the boys leave. What if they laughed at me and stayed? Short
of shoving them out the door, I couldn’t make them go without calling Miss Andersen, and there was no way I was going to get everyone, myself included, in that kind of trouble.

I made like I was rolling over in my sleep and glared at the wall for a long time, furious. It might seem like it would be hard to fall asleep with those guys there, but after a while, I did. When you don’t want to be somewhere and there is no way to get your body out of the situation, your brain sometimes packs a bag and thumbs a ride anywhere it can go.

I
woke up the next morning with a bunch of angry things to say to Tamara. So naturally, she was already gone. I wore my funk of irritation like a housecoat and skulked up to the dining hall. After grabbing an apple from the breakfast spread, I went over to the hallway and studied the student-and-faculty photo montage. Something else had solidified in my mind overnight: where I’d seen Brynn’s roommate before. She’d been on the plane, talking to Barnaby Charon.

At first I couldn’t find her picture anywhere. I looked and looked, but the pictures were in a hodgepodge.

It was probably the stress, I told myself. I glanced at my watch. It was already 7:20 in the morning. I still had to get back down to my room, make my bed for inspection, brush my teeth, yell at Tamara for having guys in our room last night, and arrive on time for my first class. It was going
to be a busy morning. I ate my apple and took my time, moving over to where Brynn had stood the night before. I closed my eyes and stuck my finger out, imagining I was poking a picture.

I opened my eyes. Not a photo under my fingertip. A name where a picture had been taken down and a thumbtack removed.
DREA SHAPIRO, FRESHMAN, NEW HAMPSHIRE
. I looked at that spot for a few minutes. You know. Considering.

When classes let out at three o’clock, every student had to sign up for an athletic activity. Brynn and Nora went to the real sports tryouts, competing for spots on the varsity or junior varsity teams. Then there were students like Jessie and me. I knew right away we were headed for intramural athletics: open gym, weight lifting, aerobics, free swim.

The nice thing about aerobics was that it let out at the end of the hour. That meant a little extra time for other things. For instance, Mr. Cooper, the drama teacher, had asked for volunteers to paint sets for the winter play. I’d signed up right away. Mr. Cooper was this big, tall, balding guy with a soft face and wire-rimmed glasses. He reminded me of a giant teddy bear. I like helping out, and the way Mr. Cooper
had lost his briefcase in our first drama class that morning, the guy seemed like he could use all the help he could get.

But since set painting hadn’t started up yet, I was free as a bird when aerobics ended that day. Jessie headed back to the dorms while I swung by the tennis courts to say hi to Brynn.

Well,
mostly
to say hi to Brynn. The girls’ tennis team played in the fall, boys in the spring. So it was girls hanging around the courts. Except for this incredibly perfect senior boy I might have mentioned: Mark Elliott.

He came in from the far field with a herd of lacrosse players. But as the other boys went on toward their dorms, Mark dumped his field gear outside the tennis courts, changed his shoes, and let himself into an empty court. As the girls’ team trickled away from the tennis area, he grabbed a racket and began practicing his serve. I sat down on a bench and pretended to watch Brynn finish up, but every now and then I’d sneak glances at the guy.

“Why does he practice so much?” I asked Brynn, when she came off the court. She was wearing a bridal veil of sweat. That girl was a warrior about tennis.

“Why? You like him?” she asked.

“No!” I felt myself get hot in the face. Brynn squirted
water in her mouth from a bottle, swished it around, and spit it out. I was a little grossed out. She usually seemed so … I dunno. Southern. It was like watching Scarlett O’Hara scratch her armpit.

“Rumor has it, Mark’s brother is nationally ranked,” Brynn said.

“Who’s his brother?” I asked, kind of overwhelmed that there might be twice as much Elliott hotness walking around campus. Lately, I’d found myself thinking of him as “MarkElliott,” like it was all one word. Like he was a brand name.

“Doesn’t go here,” Brynn said. I didn’t understand. But I did know Brynn’s sly smile meant she was onto me. I shut my trap. There is nothing worse than someone knowing you like somebody.

Brynn wiped her face with a towel. “His brother lives in Nueva Vista with their parents. Mark’s the one who got sent away.”

I felt all at once supergrateful that Brynn had told me a tidbit to add to my meager MarkElliott fact collection, and stabby with jealousy that she knew so much about him. I mean, she called him “Mark” like it was nothing.

I had a sudden, perfect vision of Mark Elliott pouring his heart out to Brynn late at night on the tennis court.
What guy could not be in love with Brynn? She always stood gracefully and smiled with the right amount of teeth showing. Her hair was always so … bouncy. Also, she had a restless look about her, like she would get into trouble just to amuse herself. I squirmed with embarrassment for even thinking I was cool enough to like Mark Elliott when people like Brynn roamed the earth.

“I’m bored,” Brynn groaned into her water bottle, before taking a long swig.

“Umm … Sorry?” I said.

“I know. Let’s go swimming.” She waved toward the pool and added in a conspirator’s whisper, “Bet Mark would join if we asked.”

As soon as she said it, my lungs burned and my nose stung. I shook my head, trying to breathe normally when my body wanted to gasp for air.

“Borrrrred,” Brynn argued, like it was my fault.

“I don’t like the water,” I managed.

She snorted her disinterest. “Whatevs. Come with me.” She spun her racket in her hand, walking off.
She’s so much like Lia
, I thought. Which meant Brynn would probably always be doing something exciting. I could tell by the sassy flip of her tennis racket she knew we’d be good
friends. I mean, leaders need followers just as much as the other way around. But after what had happened back home, there was this splinter of anger in me. People like Lia and Brynn had a streak of selfishness in them, I understood now.

I almost didn’t go. But when I glanced around, the courts were deserted. Mark Elliott pummeled a tennis ball across the way. Off in the distance, the pool glimmered like a gem. And I have to admit, I was curious to see what Brynn was up to. I followed her.

Walking in the almost-sunset light, I was struck by how beautiful campus was. Jasmine hedges grew around the buildings, so everything smelled like flowers and fresh-cut grass. Upperclassmen turned their stereo speakers out the windows on the second floor and blared music. Except it wasn’t pop music like from back home. As we walked, we heard Bob Marley and Led Zeppelin. Some kid in Pilgrim Dorm played thirties-style jazz.

We walked clear across campus, past the theater and the science building. Up twenty steps and across the main lawn toward one of the boys’ dorms, called Hadley House. That place was noisy, roiling with guys back from sports. Their voices echoed out the open windows. The smell of
steam and sweat and shampoo floated by on the breeze. Jimi Hendrix asked if we were experienced.

I followed Brynn to the Hadley House entrance — an open-air alcove with a stairway up to the second floor. When she slowly made her way up the steps, I hesitated. Only boys were allowed up there. I craned my neck and saw guys running around, oblivious to Brynn coming up. After a moment, I took a deep breath and went up, too.

We passed a little balcony halfway up the steps. I poked my head out of it and took a deep whiff of clean air. Boys were stinky. When I looked back in, Brynn was limping.

“You OK?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah.” She smiled at me, but she also wore a pained expression.

Next to the entrance of the boys’ dorms was a small wooden door similar to Miss Andersen’s. This one said
HENRY GRAHAM
on a brass plate. Brynn knocked, turned the knob, and went in.

Inside smelled like pasta cooking, and I could hear a drift of classical music. Brynn got one foot into the entrance before Mr. Graham came to the door. He looked bewildered at our intrusion. I could not believe Brynn had just walked into our teacher’s private home, attached to a dorm or not.

“Sorry, Mr. Graham! I didn’t think you’d hear us knock. The noise outside,” Brynn said. I glanced over. She was crying a little. I don’t know who was more shocked, me or Mr. Graham.

“What is it?” Mr. Graham threw a dish towel over his shoulder and reached out to help her. Brynn hobbled a tiny bit farther into the apartment. I stood at the threshold, watching. “I fell on my knee in practice. I thought it was OK, but then I twisted it funny walking up here. Do you have ice or something?”

Already Mr. Graham was doing these pantomime hand gymnastics to get us to come in and sit on his couch while he went to the kitchen and filled his dish towel with ice. Brynn leaned on me. She didn’t weigh anything. I helped the big faker to the couch.

“I hear you’re a big tennis star. Can’t have you getting injured.” Mr. Graham reemerged and handed the ice to Brynn, fretting over her like a mother hen. I tried to hide my smile.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “Did we mess up your dinner?”

“No, no. Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Do you think you can walk?”

A timer beeped. Mr. Graham went into the kitchen and poured a pot of water into a colander in the sink. Noodles. “Or do you want me to call down and have the nurse come pick you up?” he called over his shoulder.

A couple of Hadley House guys peered into Mr. Graham’s apartment. “Hey, Brynn, is that you?” one of them called. They wandered into the apartment, breezing past me like I wasn’t even there. “What’s up, girl? You dining with the Graham-meister tonight? Is he a righteous cook, or what?”

“How’s your knee?” I asked Brynn.

“You know, I think the ice is really helping.” She smiled and stretched her pretty, muscular leg out in front of her. One of the boys pulled the coffee table closer so she could rest her foot on it.

Another boy handed her a throw pillow. “Here you go. Leg OK? I hear you’re a pretty good tennis player. I’m Jake, by the way.” Brynn was a one-woman show, with three guys and a teacher fawning over her. Suddenly, it made me uneasy to watch Brynn bask in the attention. When I’d stumbled into Lia’s spotlight, I’d paid a price. I hesitated for a moment. Then, without a word, I slipped out the door.

“Any of you want noodles?” Mr. Graham called. By that time I was at the bottom of the stairs. Brynn’s tinkling
laughter floated out of his apartment. I was embarrassed to bolt without saying good-bye, but I had to get out of there.

I felt better once I got outside. It had become one of those completely great evenings, when everything was purplish dark with long shadows and pink clouds out to the west. The faint smell of the sea let you know that the sky went on forever that way.

Mark Elliott was walking across the lawn toward Hadley House, his sports gear slung over his shoulder. He saw me and smiled. He was like the Cheshire Cat in the twilight with that mouth full of white, even teeth.

I tripped. I guess the good news is, I didn’t eat it right there in front of the cutest guy in school. I just took a huge, swooping, pinwheeling-arm stumble before I caught myself. The not-so-great news was that I heard him laugh.

“You a tennis fan?” he asked, as he got closer. I didn’t know what to say to that. Did I like tennis? Yeah, right. I liked tennis
shorts
. I liked
Mark Elliott
in tennis shorts.

“I’m friends with Brynn.” I kind of said it to see what he thought about Brynn, like if he got all goofy in his face when I mentioned her. He kept walking toward me. It was hard to think with the guy getting so close. Less than three feet now. He slowed down. A foot and a half. Then he was right there.

He smelled good. Salty. I know that probably sounds gross, but the way the guy smelled was like heaven. And he was so close. I didn’t feel like my right self. I had an insane urge to lean over and … I dunno. Lick the sweat off Mark Elliott’s neck, right by his collarbone. It was shocking to think that. Shocking and super-uber fantastically unbelievably gross. It wasn’t even a kiss, was the thing. It was madness to think of something like that. Insane licking madness. I bit down on my tongue.

I’d heard that the juniors who took biology had to dissect things. If you chose a frog, you had to pith the frog first. That meant you jammed a stick in its head and swirled its brain until it stopped twitching. I felt like I was getting pithed by Mark Elliott.

He was still right there. Just smiling and smelling good and waiting for me to say something. Hysteria bubbled. I had a crazy idea that I might run away screaming. That’s the cool way to impress guys, I hear.

Instead, I thought about what my friends would do. Nora would be totally calm and self-assured. Brynn would say something flirty, maybe reach over and touch him. And Jessie … Well, I’d do the opposite of what I thought Jessie would do.

I took a deep breath. I moved closer. I flashed a smile. Mark Elliott smiled a little wider and said, “Hey, you want to …”

Then I said the first coherent thought that came into my brain. “I’ve got to go.”

Mark Elliott’s grin evaporated. He stepped back, adjusting the weight of all the equipment on his shoulder. He had been about to say something. To me. What? I didn’t know. My face was on fire. I was pithed, all right.

So I did the only thing I could think of. I waved at him and walked off. And that’s not even the whole embarrassing truth. The worst was I actually kind of ran away. Like this shoulders-clenched-trying-to-walk-in-overdrive-jog run. I couldn’t bear having all these crazy thoughts with my heart beating way too fast. When I glanced back, he was gone.

The rest of the walk was the best sort of torture. I played everything back in my head. After about twenty repetitions, it morphed into something like an off-Broadway song, with all the lyrics dedicated to what a loser I was. It had a ripping chorus about how “omigod-omigod, Mark Elliott actually spoke to me!” I hummed it under my breath the whole way back.

I headed around the outside of Kelser, toward Nora
and Jessie’s patio door. It was in my mind to tell them both what an idiot I’d just made of myself in front of Mark Elliott. I figured Jessie might like hearing a story where I was embarrassed over a guy.

The twilight had deepened by then, and as I walked through the near dark, I spotted Jessie and Nora sitting on their porch, bathed in the light from their room. They were deep in conversation.