The Academy (7 page)

He heard the collision as the detective hit the revolving door hard, and the door advanced, colliding with the urn. Refusing to move.

It bought Taddler the time he needed. He ran to his left, then left again down an alley along the side of the hotel. Another block and he’d have his choice of a bus or the Red Line.

He had the radio out and in hand. “Bail! Bail!” he shouted. “Mayday! They’re after us!”

He hoped like mad that Johnny had heard.

Johnny slipped the manila envelope containing the copied documents along the small of his back and covered it by tucking in his shirt.

Taddler’s words,
“They’re after us!”
swirled in his head. To be caught would not only mean the police, but would also be an end to the Corinthians for him. It was unthinkable: the Corinthians was as close to a family as Johnny had—discounting those people in Minnesota.

He returned the originals to the briefcase just as he’d found them, and hurried to the door. Cracking the door just a fraction of an inch, he peered out.

A man holding a radio was coming down the hall toward him.

Johnny knew about hotel security. He knew he was outnumbered. For a moment he froze, unable to think what to do. It’s not as if there were lots of places to hide. He could make a run for it, but what chance did he have against such odds?

He heard a knock on the door of the next room over: the house detective had picked the wrong room. Then he heard the door open.

If he had any chance, it was now.

He peered out of the fish-eye peephole: an exit sign over an unmarked door to his left.
A stairway.
He gently pushed down on the room door lever and opened it as quietly as possible. He didn’t dare shut it for the loud click it would make, but he pulled it nearly closed. Then he sprinted for the exit.

As expected, he found himself in an echoey, concrete stairway.

They would expect him to go down.

He took off up the stairs. As he climbed, he looked for any sign of security cameras.
There!
He spotted a black plastic bubble in the far corner of the landing as he arrived.

He heard the door below blow open and the furiously fast footfalls of the house detective
descending
in pursuit of him.

Johnny lowered his head, keeping his face off the security cameras, and pulled open the door to floor Fifteen, realizing he might already have been spotted.

Elevators to his left. He couldn’t take the stairs.

By now the house detective would know that Johnny had headed up, not down. By now they probably knew he was on Fifteen.

He could barely breathe.

A maid’s cart to his right.

A black plastic bubble on the edge of the hallway, nearly directly overhead.

Maybe…

He hurried to the cart and peered into a room. The maid was cleaning in the bathroom, the bathroom door nearly closed.

He grabbed a can of window cleaner from the cart, raced back down the hall, and shot a spray of CleanVu up at the camera until it was speckled with a sudsy slime. The view from the camera would be like looking out a car windshield in a carwash. Placing the spray can back on the cart, he checked once again that the maid was in the bathroom. He heard her clanking around in there, gathered his courage, and slipped through the door and into the open closet. He sat down and carefully, quietly, shut the sliding door, leaving only a crack to peer through.

He switched off his radio, not wanting any sounds to give him away.

He held his breath when, a minute later, a beefy woman who reminded him of a shelter nurse mopped her way backward out of the bathroom. She put some stuff on her cart, removed the rubber wedge that held open the door—the top of her head coming within inches of Johnny’s eyes—and pulled the door shut behind her.

Johnny threw his head back and released a long but nearly silent sigh.

He would wait an hour and then make a mad dash down the stairwell. By then security would assume he was long gone.

A chilly mist hovered above the soccer field like a veil of gauze, masking any view of the gymnasium and natatorium beyond. A murder of crows flew in and out of the smoky layers, their
caws
piercing the still, mud-scented morning air and echoing off the dormitory’s ivy-covered brick walls. As Steel crossed the adjacent field, the mist swirled around him, looking sometimes like long fingers attempting to grab him, or animal faces, or, at last, like a gray stone archway leading directly to the ga-ga pit and the silhouetted figure that awaited him there.

Mr. Hinchman had a military demeanor: he carried his shoulders square, his back stiff and straight. His small mouth failed to reveal any emotion. Only his steely eyes gave hint of the man’s personality, which could scarcely be considered anything but severe and intense.

“Are you ready, Mr. Trapp?”

Steel nodded, though somewhat reluctantly.

“Ga-ga is a game of reaction, agility, split-second timing, and most of all, deception. On the surface it is the picture of simplicity: don’t get hit by the ball. But nothing is as simple as it appears.” The glare of his eyes seemed to penetrate Steel; he was trying to convey much more than his words afforded.

The pit itself was a space defined by ten-foot, waist-high, octagonal walls, the floor of which was hard-packed sand and dirt.

“There are a few basic rules, as you may or may not know. The idea is to hit the other person with the ball, below the knees. This strike puts him out of the game. You must only slap the ball. If you catch it after it hits the ground or a wall, you’re out. If you scoop or ‘carry’ it”—he demonstrated palming the ball—“you are disqualified and ejected. You may not leave the pit or use the walls to jump. You may not touch the ball twice in a row, though you can use the walls to pass it to yourself—called dribbling.

“As I explained, we typically play with two five-person teams. Players are eliminated in the ways I’ve just explained. Teammates may pass the ball. However, if the ball should strike a teammate at or below the knees, he too is out, regardless of who hit it.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Steel said.

Hinchman raised an eyebrow and scowled. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” He waved Steel over the wall and into the pit to join him. “We play the game with a slightly undersized volleyball that we call the ‘spud.’ It is a very fast ball, the strikes often sting, and it can be dribbled and passed quickly due to its small size and firm inflation. It bounces out of control easily and therefore requires the striker to demonstrate the utmost precision.”

The way Hinchman spoke, he made ga-ga sound like it was a religious experience instead of a game. Briefly, Steel considered opting out, telling Hinchman he wasn’t up for this. But the man’s fiery look told him that to do so would condemn him in this man’s opinion and, if word got out, the opinions of many others. He’d been offered what would be considered an honor, and he knew he would be stupid to turn it down.

Practice began. Steel stooped over and protected his legs with open palms to deflect the “spud.” Hinchman hit him with the ball time and time again, first with direct shots, and then, as Steel became more practiced, from ricochets angled off the walls.

“You’re good at this,” Steel said, while they continued to play. In thirty minutes of practice, Steel had managed to hit Hinchman only once. He was learning that there was as much skill involved in dodging or avoiding a hit as there was in striking or deflecting the ball. It was part dodgeball, part billiards.

“I was on the runner-up team my Fifth and Sixth Form years. I want you to focus on—”

“The angles,” Steel interrupted.

“Yes. Exactly. And patterns. Use your memory skills. Study my play. Learn to anticipate my next move.”

Hinchman struck Steel three times in a row. He stopped the play and gave instruction.

“
Angle of incidence equals the angle of reflection.
Whatever critical angle the ball strikes the wall will be the same angle it will leave the wall, meaning its course is entirely predictable. You must learn to never take your eye off the ball, to mentally measure how it comes off a striker’s hand or wall. This gives you a split-second advantage over its trajectory, the chance to anticipate its destination, and therefore the opportunity to avoid being hit.”

He hit a ball slowly off the wall at Steel.

Steel suddenly saw things as if a transparency sheet had been overlaid with the mathematics drawn out in colored dashes and arrows. He jumped, and the ball passed beneath him. Hinchman found it in him to grin, though only slightly. He hit the spud again, and again Steel avoided a shot that earlier would have hit him.

“Excellent!” Hinchman called out proudly. “You can
see
it now, can’t you?”

“I
can
!”

“Any patterns?” Hinchman asked.

“When your right foot goes back, you’re about to strike. If you lift your head, it’s a wall shot. Chin down, it’s straight at me.”

“Impressive!”

The play continued. Steel nimbly avoided any hits, while quickly developing a shot that involved deflecting a ball on the move rather than stopping the ball and striking it fresh.

He hit Hinchman twice with the deflected strike. It was all a matter of measuring angles, something he found incredibly easy to do.

“You have a unique shot, Mr. Trapp,” Hinchman said after the second strike landed. He had stopped the ball. He stood tall, breathing rapidly. “These are the skills we will build upon. With time and practice and patience, we will see how far your abilities will carry you.”

“What’s this?” It was Kaileigh.

Steel had no idea how long she’d been standing there, watching. He looked around: students were heading to breakfast in their uniforms. He checked the clock tower on the administration building. He was absurdly late; he’d be lucky to eat this morning.

“Ga-ga,” Steel answered.

“Isn’t that a sound a baby makes?”

“It is anything but a child’s game, Miss Augustine,” Hinchman said. “You will be introduced to it in gym class. Perhaps you’ll find it interests you. We can always use skilled players.”

Hinchman knew Kaileigh’s last name. Steel wondered if he knew all the students in such detail. And if not, why her?

“Mr. Hinchman is the
Spartans’
coach,” Steel said.

This had the effect he’d hoped for: Kaileigh’s jaw dropped.

“But you’re Third Form.”

“It’s only a tryout, Miss Augustine,” Hinchman said. “Some coaching. We don’t want this getting around school just yet.”

Steel wiggled his eyebrows at her.

“A little late for that,” came a deep-throated voice. “Third Formers should know their place.”

“Ah!” said Hinchman. “Mr. DesConte.”

“Mr. Trapp, meet the reigning school champion, Victor DesConte.”

“Dez,” said the deep voice, introducing himself.

Steel turned, already extending his hand to greet the boy behind him.

He stood face-to-face with the square-jawed boy he’d seen in the chapel the night before. The boy he’d overheard meeting secretly with a British-accented teacher.

“Nice to meet you,” Steel said. He heard Kaileigh gasp from behind him. She mumbled something about breakfast, and headed off in the direction of the dining hall.

Victor DesConte shook Steel’s hand, sparing him no strength.

“Mr. Trapp is a legacy,” Hinchman said.

“Interesting,” DesConte said.

“Mr. DesConte is a legacy as well, Mr. Trapp. Your fathers may have very well known each other. Victor is a second-year Argive. Academy champions last year.”

“And this year too, with any luck,” DesConte said. This seemed a direct challenge to Hinchman.

“I’m offering Mr. Trapp a chance to try out for Sparta,” Hinchman explained.

DesConte took a step back, anything but pleased. “But he’s—”

“Trying out, is all,” Hinchman said. “Some practice work. Nothing more for now. We’ll see how far we get.”

“Indeed we will,” said DesConte, his voice raspy and displeased. He towered over Steel. “Good luck.” He didn’t mean it.

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned luck,” Steel said. “I thought it was more a game of skill.”

His comment caused Hinchman to bite back a smirk of satisfaction.

“I kinda hope you make the team,” DesConte said, walking away.

“Don’t mind him,” Hinchman said, once DesConte was well out of hearing range.

“Hard not to,” Steel said, deciding right then and there to devote himself to the game.

A week of early morning ga-ga training and loads of homework left Steel as tired as he’d ever been. With the fatigue came a change in mood: he felt determined to make the team, and even more determined to find out what he’d become a part of.

Despite Steel’s appeal for a cell phone, his dad had given him a telephone calling card instead. He put it to use on a Friday evening after study hall. Finding his way to the converted basement of the administration building, he waited for one of the six pay phone booths to free up, and called home.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, as she picked up.

“Sweetheart! How wonderful!” Her voice was bright and cheery as always.

He felt his pulse rise at just the sound of her voice.

“Honey?” She called out loudly away from the receiver, “It’s Steel!” When she next spoke, her voice was measured. “How are you, sweetie? Is everything going okay?”

“Terrific.” Offered with plenty of sarcasm.

“Do you like it there?”

“I love it.”

“Miss home?”

“I suppose. But I’m not calling ’cause I’m homesick. I want to talk to Dad about something.”

There was a click on the line: his father had joined the call.

“Steven?” His father. Mr. Wynncliff himself, apparently.

“Hi, Dad.”

“I understand you’ve met Walt Hinchman.”

“Yeah.” He wondered both how and why his father knew this. “That’s kind of why I called.”

“What do you think of ga-ga? I hear you’re a natural.”

“It’s great. I try out on Monday.”

“I wish I could be there,” his father said. “Being invited to try out for a club team, son,” his father said, “and in the Third Form, no less, is quite the honor. And the Spartans, of all teams.”

“What’s going on, Dad?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “What do you mean?”

It was as if his mother had left the call. She was like that around Steel’s dad. When he was home, or driving the car, or on a phone call, she kind of disappeared, as she had now.

“Wynncliff,” Steel said. “Why Wynncliff?”

“It’s a good school,” his father said, clearly intending to say more, but Steel cut him off.

“And why Kaileigh?”

“What about Kaileigh?” his mother asked, when the silence built to where no one was sure if the line was still open.

“Kaileigh’s here, Mom. Dad arranged it.”

“Sweetheart?” This was directed to her husband.

“She’s a smart girl,” his father said defensively. “Very smart. Why not Wynncliff?”

“Her father could
buy
Wynncliff,” Steel said. “He could get her into any private school she wanted. But she ends up here at Wynncliff. How did you manage that, Dad? How did you convince her parents it should be here instead of Andover or Choate or Exeter?”

Steel heard his mother breathing heavily into the phone. He knew she was upset, and assumed this was news to her.

“I thought you liked Kaileigh,” his father said.

“That’s not the issue.”

“Don’t talk to me with that tone of voice, son.”

“Don’t try to avoid the question.”

“This conversation is over if you continue with that tone.”

“So far this isn’t a conversation,” Steel said, “because you won’t answer the question.”

“You have to give it time,” his father said.

“Give
what
time?”

“The school.”

“It’s a pretty simple question, Dad. Why Kaileigh? You hardly know her. She’s a runaway, a stowaway who I meet on a train, and you decide she’s Wynncliff material?”

There was a long vacant moment, only the sound of his mother’s desperate breathing filling the line.

“I can’t answer that, Steven. Not now. Not yet.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Won’t.”

“Because?”

“You’re at that school for a reason, Steven. So is Kaileigh. It’s a special school.”

“It’s a weird school,” Steel said. “There are things going on here—”

“You see how perceptive you are? That’s a big part of the reason you’re there. Why you were invited.”

“Invited?” Kaileigh had mentioned the same thing.

“Well…yes. Invited. They don’t ask just anyone.”

“And was Kaileigh invited?”

“Obviously,” his father said.

“I don’t get it.”

“Not yet, no. But you will. I think you will,” he added, somewhat as an afterthought. “This isn’t easy for me.”

“For
you
?”

“For any of us. All I ask is that you give it more time. By Thanksgiving it will sort itself out or not. I promise you that if we can speak in confidence, I’ll explain as much of it as possible at that time.”

“Do you ever tell the truth, Dad?” he blurted, regretting it immediately. But the fact was that his father had claimed to be a salesman all of Steel’s life, until it turned out he was a special agent for the FBI. Steel no longer trusted him.

“Was I invited because I’m your son?” Steel asked. “That’s why I was asked to try out for ga-ga, wasn’t it? They call it a legacy—the son or daughter of someone who went here. So I’m a legacy. And I didn’t even know that. How come you never told me about Wynncliff, or ga-ga, or that you were school champion, or whatever you were?”

“It was long time ago.”

“Yeah, but coming here…that wasn’t my idea. Not really. It was yours.”

“It was your decision, not mine,” his father protested.

“You know the answer to that,” his mother said, speaking up for the first time in several minutes. “The public schools here, Steel. A child of your aptitude…”

He’d been hearing nothing but “potential” and “aptitude” from his parents and teachers forever.

“I admit I have a weird memory,” he said, “but that doesn’t make me a boy genius or something. I just happen to remember stuff.”

“But that’s how they often measure genius, son,” his father said. “We’ve discussed this often enough.”

“Yeah? Well, they should find another way.”

“You’re a good fit at the school, Steven. You’ll find that out soon enough.”

“Because I’m good at ga-ga? What about Kaileigh? What’s she so good at?”

“We’re doing this for you, Steel,” his mother added.

“If it’s for me, then why won’t Dad answer my questions?”

“All will become apparent as you get farther into the semester. Certainly by Christmas.”

“I thought you said Thanksgiving,” Steel said, objecting.

“I think we should make it Christmas break.”

“Then there is stuff to explain,” Steel said. “So why not just explain now?

It had only been after getting himself into the trouble at the National Science Challenge that Steel had learned the truth about his father. He didn’t know now if his father was just saying stuff to string him along, or if, in fact, there was really some other reason for his being at Wynncliff.

“What’s going to become so apparent?” Steel asked.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. You’ve got to promise me you won’t say anything to anyone about what I’ve just said. That’s all I’m going to say.”

Steel knew that tone of voice. His father wasn’t going to answer anything.

A knock on the door startled Steel.

He turned: Victor DesConte filled the narrow window of the phone booth.

He tapped his wristwatch.

Steel pointed to the empty phone booth next to him.

DesConte shook his head. He wanted this phone booth.

“I guess I gotta go,” Steel said to his parents. He hung up after a few hasty good-byes.

He swung open the door. “There are other phones,” he said.

“So use ’em. This is my phone booth,” DesConte said. His low voice was forced, like he wanted to sound older than he was.

“There you are!” It was Kaileigh.

Victor DesConte pivoted around and looked back and forth between Kaileigh and Steel.

“Get out of here,” he said. “Curfew’s in like twenty minutes.”

Steel felt reluctant to obey this guy. On the other hand, Dez was about twice as big as Steel, and an upperclassman. He also sounded like he actually cared that Steel met curfew. So Steel did as he was told.

Kaileigh led him out of the admin building and across the back field.

“What’s up?” Steel asked.

“We’re not going to miss curfew, I promise, but if we’re not over there in the next ten minutes, we’re going to miss it.”

“Miss what?” Steel asked, lowering his voice, as Kaileigh just had. “Over where?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” she said. “Are you coming or not?”

“Wait a second,” he protested. “How’d you find me? How’d you know I was here?”

“That’s the point, stupid.” She glanced around furtively, obviously concerned that someone might be listening. “Are you coming or not?” she whispered. “If you don’t want to, that’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. She sounded disappointed and her shoulders slumped.

“I’m coming,” he said.

Her face brightened. Her entire demeanor changed. It had all been an act.

Drama queen
, he felt like saying. He knew he was in trouble—knew it had nothing whatsoever to do with the chapel, and everything to do with this girl.