The Academy (25 page)

On a crisp autumn day in the first week of November, the air was so pure it tasted like snow. It smelled of fallen leaves and pine. Winter hid around the corner like an unwelcome guest. The school—the entire school, it seemed—was gathered around the ga-ga pit for the final outdoor competition of the term. The contest pitted the Spartans against the Argives, and there was a definite buzz in the air.

Currently, the play had gone for nearly an hour—an impossibly long and equal game where, due mainly to exhaustion, attrition had finally begun to claim players. First one, then another, and now, impossible as it seemed, it was down to just DesConte and Steel, face-to-face, sweat dripping off their faces.

Chants carried out through the stands and beyond, some for the champion Argives, some for the upstart Spartans. The ball rebounded off the octagon. Steel jumped, landed, and deflected it. DesConte was too fast to be caught. He slid out of the way and made a miraculous one-handed strike in the process.

The crowd cheered.

Steel sensed a person’s presence. It wasn’t Kaileigh, as he’d expected; he knew where she was sitting—next to Nell Campbell—and he heard her voice carry through all others. Penny sat to her left, their cheers for him rising together.

But this other sensation felt both foreign and familiar.

He caught an image out of the corner of his eye, and his curiosity was satisfied.

His father stood alongside the bleachers, Mr. Morgan at his side.

They had talked by phone the past week in a roundabout way, where Steel never violated his vow of secrecy, nor had his father asked him to. But his father knew, in the way a father knows. They shared something now that they’d never shared before.

He wasn’t there to push for details, he was there to watch the ga-ga tournament. After years of Steel not knowing much about his father, of not seeing him much, he suddenly felt as if he knew him a whole lot better.

DesConte’s next shot almost struck the thoughtful Steel, nearly ending the game, but Steel leaped at the last possible second, spun, and slapped the ball for the near wall. It was a brilliant use of angles, and might have hit DesConte, but the boy slipped and fell, and the ball passed within a fraction of an inch of him, but missed.

The crowd released a collective sigh.

Steel got out of the way of his own rebound. DesConte sent the ball flying, and Steel dodged it yet again. He slapped it back, and DesConte artfully moved out of the way.

It was a chess match. A stalemate. No simple move was going to win the game; neither would be caught by a standard attack.

DesConte bent down and struck the ball backward between his legs—the same shot that had ended their previous one-on-one. But Steel had seen it before, and wasn’t going to be caught.

He jumped high, landed hard, and lay flat on his back, so the rebounding ball flew directly over him—feet to head. The crowd oohed and groaned. Some thought he had been hit, but the referee’s flag remained at his side.

As the ball flew past his head, Steel diverted it, slapping it with a hard spin so that as it struck the near wall, it bounced off in a reverse angle.

DesConte saw it coming—and was well prepared to strike, but he never predicted that Steel would do a back somersault, spin, and hit the ball with both hands, directly at him.

The spud didn’t merely graze DesConte. It struck him so hard in the legs he went over backward.

The crowd exploded into cheers.

It took Steel a second to comprehend that he’d won. He stepped forward and offered DesConte a hand, and the boy took it and allowed Steel to pull him up, and the crowd cheered even louder. The boys threw an arm around one another and made a slight bow.

DesConte spoke into Steel’s ear above another roar.

“Welcome to Wynncliff, Trapp. Next time, you lose.”

DesConte trundled off, greeted by Reddie Long and others.

Steel, left alone in the pit, caught sight of Hinchman, who gave Steel an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

He rose on his toes, searching for his father, but he was nowhere to be seen. Checking left and right, into the bleachers and in the crowds around them, he searched, his confidence in his memory skills challenged—had he imagined him there? Invented him out of thin air?

A hand landed firmly on his shoulder, and Steel knew. He pivoted to see his father wearing a broad smile.

That evening Mr. Trapp took Steel and Kaileigh out to dinner at a roadside tavern, The Ale House, which had been in operation since 1796. It was dark and smelled sweetly of smoke.

They ate a fine meal—Steel consumed two entrees. They talked about ordinary things, and his father replayed the ga-ga game nearly shot for shot.

Then dessert came around, and in the middle of apple pie, his father lowered his voice and addressed them both. “I’ve been caught up by Ben…Mr. Morgan…on your Boston trip.”

“DesConte and Reddie Long?”

“Will be…
fraternity
brothers of yours…by Christmas break. Yes,” his father said. He meant the Program.

“Mr. Randolph?”

“Some things you can’t be told.”

Steel nodded, accepting his new role.

“There will be overseas travel involved,” his father said.

“No way!” Steel said.

“Your particular skill sets—
both
of you,” he added for Kaileigh’s benefit, “are of particular use in these interesting times. There are places you can help, and though you are incredibly young, I sense not so young as I might think.”

“Help how?” Steel said.

“That kind of detail is better left to Ben.”

“And you’d let me do this?” Steel asked. “I mean, I’m not complaining…”

“With certain safeguards and covers. There’s much to be discussed at many levels.”

“Overseas, where?” Kaileigh asked. “When?”

“There’s talk of something before Fifth Form—your junior year—which is unusual.”

“That’s
next
year,” Steel said.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Any place in particular?” Kaileigh pressed.

“China was mentioned.”

For a moment, all Steel heard was the pounding of blood in his ears.

“Awe…some,” Kaileigh said, drawing it out.

“Nothing’s definite.”

Steel beamed.

“And there’s something else.” Steel’s dad eyed them both thoughtfully. “The woman you followed?”

“Yes?”

“You were told about her.”

“Yes.”

“Well, following Thanksgiving break there will be two new students attending Wynncliff. I want you to be civil to them, to welcome them, and show them the way. Treat them right. It’s not easy coming into a school midsemester. With any luck, by Easter they may be part of the Program.”

He removed two photographs from his pocket and laid them on the table.

Kaileigh gasped.

Steel reeled. “No way!” he said.

“These are the boys. Yes. Do you know them?”

Kaileigh laughed so hard she nearly tipped over her chair.

Steel joined in.

The pictures were of Jason Voorhees and Malfoy from the fund-raiser.

Not understanding, Mr. Trapp continued being Mr. Trapp. “Well, if you know them, I suppose it’s all the better. Easier to make them both feel at home. You must understand the undue hardship such boys have suffered. They have lived on the street. They are without families. It hasn’t been easy—far, far from it. The transition will be difficult. Such attempts have failed as often as succeeded. They will need support. Friends. People to treat them decently and help them along. Wynncliff will be their home.”

“Home,” whispered Kaileigh, regaining her composure. She seemed to be savoring the word as if carefully sucking on a sweet.

Steel reached under the table and touched hands with her, the warmth of her like touching a live wire.

That sensation remained for the duration of the drive back to school, like some kind of burn; it lingered there like memories boiling inside him.

Like the kiss, impossible to forget.