Miss Ashley to get . . . Kate is it?” I nodded curtly, hating the sound of
her name in his mouth. “Kate’s attention again. Stoke the fires of jealousy,
m’boy . . . gets the young ladies’ loins heated in a hurry. . . . That and a
testosterone-shot,” he said, grinning broadly.
“Yes, sir.” I felt sick to my core with revulsion for this man—this
organization. It had already gone too far, my first mission. If this was what it
would be like—plucking innocents from their families, destroying lives—I
knew I wouldn’t last a year. But the threat to my parents, Reese, and now Kate
wasn’t an idle one. I just didn’t see a way out . . . yet.
“Oh, Davenport . . . one more small thing.”
I about-faced reluctantly; it felt like I couldn’t breathe until I got out of
that room. “Sir?”
“How about the youngest Connelly child? We haven’t really given him
much thought. Do you think there’s anything there?”
“There’s not much to think on, unfortunately,” I said dispassionately.
“He’s just a typical four-year-old attending a subpar, church-based preschool.
The family and teachers caught onto Andrew’s giftedness early on. Not
the case here, I’m afraid. There is no indication that he’s even above
• 280 •
average academically. He is slow and clumsy, and his speech even seems underdeveloped . . . no gold to mine there.”
Weston stared me down again before clapping a heavy hand on my
shoulder, lightly massaging it. “I know it goes without saying . . . everything
that goes on in a Mission Meeting is strictly confidential. Even with the
clearance your parents have acquired, sometimes missions are strictly off-
limits to anyone not directly involved. This is one of those times.”
I worked to mask my surprise. “Yes, sir.” That was weird. My mother used
to be the lead scientist in the Gifted Program, and my father was one of the
on-staff doctors who performed the physicals on all PGCs. They were privy to
everything Academy, as far as I knew. It had always been them keeping secrets from me. It was discombobulating to be the other way around.
“Alrighty then. I’ll let you go say hi to your parents, maybe spend a little
R&R with Cadet Caruthers, hey?” Weston lightly jabbed at me like we were
old buddies.
I tried infusing my voice with enthusiasm. “That sounds great, sir.”
“And don’t feel too bad about the Connelly girl. Those civilian girls never
make it to the altar intact . . . better you then some hick with a can of chewing
tobacco in his back pocket. Am I right?”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, actually meaning it.
Weston clapped me on the shoulder again. “You’re a good man, Davenport.
You’re doing the right thing. The Connelly boy deserves better in life than the
neglectful home environment he has now. You can feel good about helping
him find his rightful place—living with us, among the elite.”
I was quiet. Not the response he was hoping for. “Am I right?” he prompted
with another hardier than necessary clap on the back.
“I couldn’t agree more” got coughed up, and Weston at last seemed
satisfied enough to let me leave.
What I’d really wanted to say was: I couldn’t disagree more. Because the
way I saw it, Andrew Connelly was already living among the elite—especially
when you accounted for the fact that his father was almost never home.
• 281 •
26
GRUDGE MATCH
It had been more than a week since we’d so much as acknowledged each
other’s presence. Oh, he’d tried a couple of times to get back into my
good graces. His overtures had been in vain. Since my last rebuff, he was
sub-zero cold whenever he so much as glanced in my direction.
People had taken sides. We were like two boxing opponents set to
participate in a grudge match—with the sudden uncanny ability to polarize
most of the student body. The divide was an almost even split between the
sexes. Every line on my dance card was suddenly filled with knights-in-
shining-armor, offering to carry my backpack or take me to lunch.
The girls flocked around Pete like a pack of hungry dogs chasing down
a modicum of interest. He was nothing short of a phenom in our small
town, creating pandemonium wherever he went. Several near breakdowns
had occurred in classrooms, parking lots, and bathrooms around campus all
week. A couple of girls were even sent home due to hysteria.
I rolled my eyes at their total lack of self-respect. But a part of me could
totally identify with falling apart from the littlest thing going awry in his
presence—a hardening of his eyes, a dismissive turn of the head, for instance.
It was a cold, cold world after living in his bright spotlight.
As it was, I felt like I was barely holding it together using bailing wire,
steely pride, and a prayer. If it weren’t for my total conviction that their
organization was evil and the indisputable proof that Pete had lied to me,
then I would have had a hard time not throwing myself at his mercy, along
with the rest of the pack.
It had been a narcotic-like pleasure being in his company. I was still
suffering from withdrawals. Too bad I had neither the time nor the money for
• 282 •
rehab. Weaning myself from him was almost killing me. Going cold turkey was the only way I’d make it, so I’d been having Daddy pick up Andrew in
my stead. And I’d been walking a different route to class lately, hoping to
avoid him. And Ron Tillman. I grimaced. He’d been dropping hints about
homecoming all week. I figured avoid, avoid, avoid was the best way to deal
with him and everybody else these days.
I was walking back from lunch from the unpopular west side of the
gym when a compact, but loud, gathering caught my eye—unusual activity
over here. It was his Hummer, practically straddling the sidewalk. Hip-hop
thumped from open doors, and a gaggle of scantily clad females were vying
for his attention. It looked more like a scene from a flashy music video than
real life. I tried to ignore the sidewalk party, but really had no choice—it was
either keep on walking, right into them, or else turn tail and run, like a dog
with its tail between its legs.
Guess I was walking right by then.
Surprisey!—Ashley-Leigh was there, brightly standing in the driver’s side
door, hanging halfway out of the truck . . . and her shirt, I noted with a stab
of pain. I couldn’t help but watch furtively behind my sunglasses. The tilt of
my head must’ve given me away because Pete looked right at me. Busted! I
flushed, but raised my chin a fraction. Slummin’ much?
Ashley’s eyes followed to where his had wandered. Suddenly, a wild,
throaty scream erupted from her followed by her literally pouncing on him
from her predator’s perch. He caught her easily, if somewhat stiffly, as she
wrapped her filthy paws around him, shrieking with laughter while her blown-
out hair spilled over his face in a daisy-yellow curtain. He clutched her waist
with his hands, and my lunch
nearly came back up. It apparently was to
remove her from his body. But still. I clenched my jaw to keep my face from shattering as I whisked past them.
Anger flared up and ignited inside me. I hated her. I hated him. I hated
myself. And mostly . . . I hated my whole dang life! I stomped off to class trying
to smother the flames before they engulfed me and everyone in my path. Of
all the girls in school! Really? And here I thought I was the immature one.
First in class (last in life), I hurled down my backpack and slumped into
my seat, the very picture of misery. So that’s the way he’s gonna play it? Well, fine—two could play that game.
Miguel came trucking in after me. We were partners again now that I’d
moved seats and moved on from Pete Davenport. He took one look at my face
and said, “What’s wrong?”
I just shook my head, smoldering in my seat.
• 283 •
He sighed and dropped his backpack. “Well, somethin’s wrong cause you were walking faster than most people run.” A long beat of silence. “Davenport
again?” His mouth crunched on his name like glass.
“No.”
“Liar, liar, pants-on-fire . . .”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.” And I didn’t. Where was the future anyway?
As if reading my mind Miguel said, “He’s not worth it, Katie . . . ‘sides,
isn’t he leaving, like, any day now?”
I sighed, not believing I could be even more miserable than I was before.
“I dunno. Maybe. I think it depends on if Daddy signs the paperwork or not.
And Drew has some kind of big physical he has to pass first in San Francisco.
I think it’s scheduled for the end of September.”
Miguel perked up immediately. “That’s only a week away.”
“I know.” Misery drooped my mouth.
He gave me a sidelong glance. “You know what you need?”
A new life. “What?”
“A manly-man who’s gonna stick around for a while, not some pretty-boy
preppy cadet.”
I snorted. “Oh really. You know any of those?”
“Just so happens . . . I do.” I arched an eyebrow at him. “And he’s a pretty
good student—not as smart as you, but damn close, es muy guapo,” he said,
brushing invisible lint off his shoulder, “and can cook up a mean batch of
cheese enchiladas.”
I laughed despite myself, partly because I was amused, and partly because
I wanted him to know I considered it to be a joke. “Well it’s too dang bad
nobody that fits that description happens to be available at this time,” I said
pointedly.
He held my smile a beat too long. “Yeah . . . too dang bad.”
My gaze shifted right in time to see Pete staring me down from the
doorway with Ashley-Leigh, looking too much like a yapping Maltese at his
heels, not to laugh. His face remained stony, so I quickly faced forward before
I could absorb any more of his-and-hers cold stares.
Miguel looked to see what I laughed at, nodded his head backward. “Well,
well, well . . . look what just dragged in the cat.”
“I already knew.”
“I’m sorry, Katie. I don’t know how he could go from you to her—it’s like escaping from Fiji to go spend a weekend at Padre Island.”
I snorted. Then giggled. Then laughed together with Miguel until we
took off into outright hysterics. The good kind of tears leaked from the
• 284 •
corners of my eyes. Miguel was funny and a good friend. He was also loyal, and not a liar and con artist. Why couldn’t it be him?
“Thanks, Miguel. I needed a laugh.” Impulsively, I poked a finger at the
crease in his cheek.
He caught my hand and held on to it. “Anytime . . .”
Feeling stares pounding the back of my head, I withdrew my hand as
quickly as possible without hurting his feelings. I felt bad because it didn’t
take someone with a sixth sense to figure out how Miguel felt about me, and
I didn’t want to lead him on.
Class rolled on, and by the time the bell rang for fifth-hour, I had a
gigantic crick in my neck from holding my head at a twelve o’clock position
for fifty-five minutes. Miguel and I packed up with him chatting me up with
renewed energy all the way to Chemistry. After class we normally parted, so
he could escort his girlfriend to her next class. Today he stayed glued by my
side. I hoped he wasn’t getting his hopes up, and hoped his girlfriend wouldn’t
notice the slight.
As we filed out together—with half the school—for the ever-popular
gymnasium, I got a steady eyeful of Ashley-Leigh sashaying along next to
Pete. I noticed most of the energy was coming from her, though he did turn to
reward her with a smile. She beamed back at him like she was lit from within.
I had to bite my cheek the whole walk over, fighting a ridiculous urge to run
over and tackle her. I’m telling you, I was so amped up I could’ve taken on
the whole offensive line all by myself.
Pounding into the dressing room, the first thing I saw was Ashley-Leigh
self-reflecting on all her glory in front of the mirror. This only mounted my
anger, and it gathered force with every millimeter the self-congratulatory
smile spread across her face. She caught me staring and her smile turned into
a smirk. Then, rubbing salt in the wound, she proceeded to indulge in louder
than was strictly necessary bragging rights. A blanket of tittering magpies
quickly covered her so that I no longer saw her smug face in my line of vision,
but I could still see her legs wrapped around Pete, his arms around her waist.
It was an image burned into my brain. The burning moved to my chest, and
now my stomach churned with a surge of tumultuous emotions. It was like
a lifetime of frustrations and hurt was boiling over in my body, demanding
an outlet for justice.
I remembered Mama always telling me to be the bigger person, to let
Ashley’s petty transgressions go. Allow her to have the spotlight she craved.
And I obliged—no problem and no complaints. I mean, why should I care if
she always got to go first on the swings? Or if she took credit for class projects?
• 285 •
Or if she won class president in seventh grade, even though I was nominated too? (I had declined to run, opting instead to be her campaign manager—at
her insistence.)
I mean, who really cared about any of that? Not me. It was easy to let
her have her way, let her win, let her be the best at everything. But the truth
was: she wasn’t. Not even by half. And we both knew it. It was an unspoken
thing between us, like a dark family secret that went without saying—you
never mentioned it. That’s why we could never truly be friends. She couldn’t
stand knowing I was smarter, prettier, more athletic . . . and liked. So I’d been
throwing my game so long to appease her and Mama and everybody else, it’d
become like second nature to me.
Then Mama plucked me right out of the middle of middle school—
seventh-grade. I was no longer even allowed to play sports because she said I
was drawing too much attention. That’s it. Game over. No more competition
for Ashley-Leigh. She’d won. I mean . . . who really cared about any of
that anyway when your mama
was sick and dying? I no longer cared about
anything since then, except for taking care of my brothers.
But I did now.
I slammed my locker shut, making a mousy junior named Shelby jump
next to me. “You okay, Katie?”
I rattled the bench with my shoe, furiously whipping my laces into shape.
“Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I-I heard about Ashley-Leigh hooking up with that cadet,” she said
hesitantly. “I’m real sorry.”
“No biggy.” I said this a little too flippantly to be believable.
The whistle blew, and we lined up. Ashley-Leigh smirked at me on her
way out. Holding on to her triumphant gaze, I narrowed my eyes at her until
her smile deflated into something that resembled a helium balloon two hours
after the party ended. I could swear there was a hint of panic flickering in
those baby blues before she flounced over to whisper into Madison’s ear. They
both laughed in my face, but I didn’t so much as blink. It had the opposite
of their desired effect—fueling my anger. I was burning now, but not with
embarrassment. I didn’t feel an ounce of embarrassment; there wasn’t room for
any emotion but anger. I carried it with me like a weapon, all the way outside
and onto the soccer field. I wasn’t exactly sure how I was going to unleash it
yet, but I was certain it was going to be soon or I would combust.
Well they say the Lord works in mysterious ways. And I fully believe that
now, because it just so happened that Coach Sams and Coach Hampton were
lining the boys’ and girls’ P.E. classes up together. Apparently, a game of coed
• 286 •
soccer was on the docket today. Counting us off in teams of One and Two, the intent was to get an even assortment of bad and not-as-bad players on each
team. I saw Coach Hampton point to Pete and say, “One.” I fervently prayed
that I would be Two.
My prayers were soon answered because Coach Sams set a hand on my
shoulder and said, “Two.” Then she blew the whistle, calling all Twos together
for a quick huddle. During the briefing, I eyed my fellow teammates somewhat
dispiritedly. The sum of all our parts didn’t equal one Pete Davenport. That
was okay . . . I had rage on my side.
I was only halfway paying attention to what Coach Sams was saying, so
intent was I on staring down a bored-looking Pete and Ashley-Leigh, who