ARC: Crushed (13 page)

Next time. I don’t want to think of the implications of that.

“So why the sudden urge for a vacation?” I ask. “Sounds like living with the demons is one never-ending party.”

“Ah, well, you know. Work is work, I guess,” he answers vaguely.

“No,” I say dryly. “It’s not. You’re a professional playboy for pity’s sake.”

I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything, either. I turn to study his profile. “So what’s the problem?”

He plays with a small piece of broken shingle, spinning it between his fingers. He doesn’t look at me. “There are plenty of bad people out there, or people on the edge, who need only the slightest nudge to send them spiralling downward.” He chucks the piece of shingle off the roof, as if to illustrate his point. “But those aren’t the one’s I’m sent after. My job isn’t to turn the mean ones, but the weak ones. Their only crime is loneliness.

“They aren’t evil. They don’t dream of money or power or bloody perversions in the dark.” He pauses, and I wonder what images play in his head. “They dream of something beautiful,” he says softly. Then his voice hardens. “And I use it to destroy them.”

“So why do it?”

He shrugs and doesn’t look at me. “I have no choice.”

“You could
not
side with the demons.”

At that, he does turn. “It’s what I am,” he says simply. “I’ve tried, like you, to be something else.” His eyes are inscrutable, filled with a terrible nothingness. “It didn’t work out.” He blinks, and the shadows disappear. “Besides, it’s not forever.”

I look at him curiously. His mood shifts and his lips quirk up in a sneaky little smile. “You asked if I’m bad at my job? I am. Abysmal, really.” He shakes his head tragically. “Right now, they’re chalking it up to my being a rookie but,” he shakes his head woefully, “I’m afraid I’m just not gifted in the art of seduction.” He looks at me through his lashes.

Liar.

“They’ll have no choice but to reassign me eventually. But for now, I need a break. So I’m taking a vacation.”

“In the mountains of West Virginia. I would have picked Tahiti.”

“I’m ready to leave when you are.”

I laugh. “How exactly do you see this…” I wave between the two of us, unable to come up with a descriptor.

“Beautiful friendship?” he supplies with a devilish grin.

“…going?” I finish, ignoring him. “Us being mortal enemies and all.”

“I prefer the term ‘star-crossed lovers’.”

I snort. “Regardless, it can’t end well.”

“The best romances don’t.”

I roll my eyes then slant him a sideways look. “Eventually, I
am
going to have to kill you.”

“Why do you say that?” He looks almost serious for once. Almost.

“For starters, you know too much. About this Crusader camp, about me.”

He opens his mouth as if to somehow contradict me, but I keep going.

“Even if that wasn’t the case, we’re still on opposing sides in a war. You said yourself, you’re going to go back eventually. What happens then?” I shake my head.

“Ah, well, don’t worry about that,” he says, resting back on his elbows. “I have a plan.”

“A plan?” I ask dubiously.

“Oh yes,” he assures me. “A quite clever one in which, I, the hero, daringly rescue our doomed love.”

“Hero?” I roll my eyes. “You’re an agent…”

“…of evil,” he finishes. “I know, I know. But we’re all the heroes in our own little dramas,” he says smoothly.

I laugh. “And what role do I play in your little drama?”

“Unwitting dupe.”

“Hm. Looks like I’m gonna kill you sooner than I thought.”

He laughs, unconcerned.

He looks back over the horizon, and I’m startled to notice it’s turned from navy to grey. He seems to notice at the same time, because he sits up with a quiet “wow”, and a stretch.

“Yeah,” I say, doing the same, but neither of us stand, reluctant for the night to end. Finally, I have no choice. “I’d better get back, before Jo comes to unlock me.” I make a face.

He groans and stands, then and offers a hand to pull me up. This time, I let him. “Come on, jailbird.”

Jailbird. So true. I wince.

He follows me as I creep back across the roof. I sit to swing down from the roof and into the cracked gable, but then stop.

“What are you going to do today?” I want to ask if he’s coming back, but he’d probably like that too much.

He shrugs. “Anything I want, I guess.”

Must be nice.

A slow smile stretches his full mouth. “But I guess what I’ll want is to be back here by midnight.”

I don’t let him see my smile as I swing down from the roof, but I suspect he knows it’s there.

Chapter 14

Loud banging wakes me. I rub my eyes and blearily seek out my clock. 8.40. Jo must have unlocked my door but not woken me. Coward. As a result, I slept through breakfast and part of first period.

Devastated by this idea, I stretch languidly and leisurely climb out of bed. Whoever’s outside is still banging. One of the many crappy things about boarding school is they always know where to find you if you play hooky. I reach out and jerk the door open. A kid from my first class, a short boy who’s never done me any harm, stands on the other side. Jaden, I think.

“Yo,” I say, then yawn hugely. I don’t cover my mouth.

His arm’s still up in the air, poised mid-knock. “Uh,” he swallows. “Headmaster wants to see you.”

“So?”

I don’t move and neither does he. Finally he adds. “So you’re supposed to come to his office.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you supposed to make me?”

“Errr…” He shifts from one foot to the other. I don’t think he wants to admit the answer is “yes”. I sigh. It’s not his fault. I throw him a bone.

“Hold on.” I shut the door in his face. I throw on some clothes, tossing a sneer at the pile of cheerful options Jo had left for me yesterday. I pull on a tight black T-shirt with the silhouette of an attack dog on it, a pair of my holiest jeans, and sneakers. I shove my pre-lunch books in my backpack and glance in the mirror. My hair, short and evenly cut, stands up in the back in a spiky mess. I decide I like it, so leave it.

I jerk the door open again, making Jaden jump. He gives me a sheepish smile before leading the way down the hall.

I yawn again. Thank God I ate those demons yesterday. As many meals as I’ve been missing, I’d waste away. Still, my stomach rumbles. Jaden must have heard and digs in his backpack and passes me a granola bar with a tentative smile. It’s smushed and twisted out of shape, but I take it and scarf it down in three bites, shoving the wrapper in my pocket.

It doesn’t take long before Jaden deposits me at the Headmaster’s door. I gave him a “well-done soldier” and a mocking salute, which I’m amused to see he returns, before he jets down the stairs in an overabundance of energy.

The Headmaster’s office is located in one of the center sections of our stair-step school, right in the middle between the high school classes and the younger kids. His door’s open when I arrive, but he’s facing away from me, leaning back in the battered chair behind his equally-battered desk. Probably into his seventies, he’s compact and muscular, gnarled all over with a tangle of muscles and scars: a tough piece of gristle that death found too tough so spat back out. I used to find him quite scary, but after dealing with him and the Sarge, it’s clear why he was the one chosen to deal with children.

I rap two knuckles on the door and he swivels to face me.

I wonder if the Sarge’s demand for confidentiality on yesterday’s events applies to herself, and study him carefully, searching for any tension. Or judgement.

“Miss Porter, glad you can make it,” he says, dryly. “Imagine my surprise when I try to scold you for punching Isaiah, only to find you playing hooky.”

Nope just his usual amused tolerance. I relax and settle into our usual routine. “Miss Porter,” he begins.

Melange
, I silently amend.

“Violence is never the answer.”

Fourth period Combat Training to the contrary.

“If you have a problem with a student, you should report it to a teacher.”

After that, I tune in and out. Mostly out.

When his tone gets conclusive, I click back in for the sentencing. “It’s clear you can’t be in class with Mr Hooper.”

Wait? What? I’m out of Advanced Crusader History for good? This is better than I expected.

“But it’s too far in the semester to bother sticking you anywhere else; you’re behind enough as it is.”

OH MY GOD! Free period!

“And there’s too much going on right now.” His face tightens and he rubs his temples. His thoughts drift away, and wherever they go, it’s not a happy place. “We don’t have the Crusaders available to watch you.”

Free
, free period? No, that’s too good to believe. I eye him suspiciously.

“But I think I’ve found the perfect solution.”

Perfect for who? Given the twinkle in his eye, I suspect not me.

“A place where you couldn’t possibly get in trouble,” he says, creaking to his feet.

“Where?” I ask distrustfully.

“You’ll see.” He leaves the office, and I have no choice but to follow. My mind races: no Crusader can watch me, no other class will have me… I’m half afraid he’s going to lock me in the dungeon.

I clear my throat. “Headmaster?” I squeak.

He ignores me and we head further downward, through the middle grades, and into the elementary level.

Then we pass the doors out of the building, and still he keeps going.

He’s taking me to the dungeon. I won’t go down there. Not again. My feet start to drag.

But then, just as we’re about to reach the next flight of stairs he stops outside a door and I realize that what he has in mind is far, far worse.

“No, please,” I say, true horror in my voice.

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry Meda, but you’ve brought this upon yourself.”

No, it’s too humiliating to contemplate. “I’ll be good! I promise!” I plead. Oh god, the ridiculing I’ll be subjected to once word gets out. “Please!” I beg shamelessly, but I can tell it’s no good.

It’s the smothered smile that tips me off.

“You’ll report here during Crusader History and Western Civilization. I recommend you use this time to study for your other classes.” His leashed smile breaks free. “Maybe you’ll learn something about keeping your hands to yourself – I believe it’s covered extensively in their curriculum.” He pushes the door open, and I have no choice.

Every monster in the room turns to stare as I enter.

Kindergarteners.

Chapter 15

Headmaster Reinhardt closes the door behind us with the wooden thunk of the trap door of a gallows.

“Come now, Miss Porter, it won’t be so bad.”

He must be joking. I’m a seventeen-year-old in
kindergarten
– it’s the script for a bad comedy. I can just picture Isaiah’s smirk when he hears about this. Not to mention, my knowledge of children could fit comfortably in a thimble. I didn’t even spend time with them when I was one.

My only day in preschool didn’t end well. Especially for the other kid.

The very proportions of the room throw me off. Big room, short tables; big chalkboard, small chairs; big globe, small people. And there they are, thirty sets of too-big eyes set in midgety, largely-dirty faces. They watch me with open curiosity. Well, most of them do; one is eating paper. Their teacher, a bent woman not much larger than her students, stands. For all she looks like a stiff breeze could push her over, it’s my guess no kid ever has. I bet she sharpens her dentures on naughty children.

“This is the child?”

Child?

I twist to the headmaster, begging with my eyes.

“This is her,” he answers, clapping me on the shoulder.

It’s time to get serious. “You can’t trust me around teenagers, but you’ll throw these little children to me?” I growl it in my most dangerous voice.

He doesn’t blink. “I have it on very good authority that you’re rather fond of children.”

Have it on good authority?

Jo.

That’s it; I’m going to kill her. I knew she’d be pissed about Isaiah, but to stick me in with kindergarteners? And I AM NOT FOND OF CHILDREN! I just have a rule about eating them. And they’re vaguely terrifying. And manipulative, and demanding, and cruel.

OK fine, I do like them. With traits like those, how could I not? That doesn’t mean I want to spend hours with them. Oh God, the jokes I’d make if this was anyone else come bubbling to my surface. It’s so humiliating
I
want to make fun of me. My nine-million enemies are going to have a field day.

“Have a good day, Miss Porter.” His laughing tone suggests he knows how likely that is.

I glare in response. He leaves.

“Have a seat, Miss Porter.” The old crusader extends an arthritis-twisted finger toward a normal-sized table against the back wall. “You have some work, I presume?” Her drawn-on eyebrows brook no argument.

But I am angry.

They want me in kindergarten? Then I will be in kindergarten. I march over to a tiny chair and haul it out, then plop myself down with a challenging glare, shoving my legs under the short, round table.

The teacher doesn’t flinch, if anything she appears amused. I break first and look at what the other kids are doing. Coloring.

Heh, that’s actually not so bad.

I grab a sheet and slam it down loudly and grab a pencil.

I wait for the confrontation, but it doesn’t come. Instead there’s a placid. “Back to your assignments, children.” The eyes that were all on me turn back to their papers. Unlike the older grades where we’re at two-person tables, the kids here sit about eight to a round table. In the middle is a pile of paper, pencils, crayons, and markers. My tablemates are two boys and five girls. Most of them are ignoring me, now that the drama’s over. The tongue of one little boy with blond curls sticks out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on his paper.

I sneak a peek at the other kids’ papers – cheating already – and the assignment seems to be drawing some kind of monster. I see eyes and mouths, but the rest is largely unrecognizable.

I catch the girl on my left studying me. She’s a little thing, and looks to be half-Asian. Her skin is a pretty ivory, and her wavy, not-quite-black hair is pulled back into pigtails. They no-doubt started the day tidy, but the adventures of the past hours have pulled them half out, and one sags almost to her shoulder. She studies me intently and turns back to her drawing. Then back to me, then back to her drawing.

If we’re drawing monsters, I figure she’s as good as any. I start sketching.

Fifteen minutes later I feel a tug on my shirt. The girl. She points proudly to her art, wiggling excitedly in her chair.

“What’s that?” I ask.

She looks at me like I’m stupid. I must be stupid, because I keep looking at her. I should know better than to encourage them.

“That’s you.” She points at her drawing with her marker in a strange, backwards, twisty way as she squirms in her chair.

It’s terrible. For starters, “I don’t have three legs,” I say.

She wrinkles her forehead and turns back at her picture. “There’s two legs.”

“Liar.” I point at the third green (
green?
) stick coming from what could only be a torso.

She picks up her picture and holds it at arm’s length, tipping it to one side and her head to the other. Then she giggles, and rolls her eyes. “That’s your tail.”

“I don’t have a tail.” I check to be sure.

She giggles then regards her artwork with a wistful little sigh. “But wouldn’t it be nice if you did?”

Hard to argue with that.

I show her my drawing of her. She doesn’t approve.

“It’s supposed to be your favorite Beacon,” she scolds.

“Goody-goody.” I accuse. “I’ll draw that next.”

She glares to let me know I’d better before turning back to my picture. It’s far superior to her hunchbacked tripod – it has both her eyes on the same side of her head, for example. I even artistically neatened her hair. Still, I can’t miss the disappointment on her face. She turns her enormous, chocolate-brown gimme-beams on me and I break as easily as Colton’s bones.

I set down my masterpiece with a sigh and add a long curling monkey tail. The girl’s so pleased she takes it from me and proceeds to deface it with marker in the name of coloring.

I’m going to kill Jo.

When the bell rings, thirty tiny witnesses, the carrier monkeys of my humiliation, spread the story of my shame to the rest of the school.

My day tumbles downhill.

The jeers land fast and furious as I stomp my way through the day. Between classes, in class. I swear to God, even a teacher takes a swipe. By the time lunch rolls around, I am
seething
. I step into the cafeteria and find the originator of all my problems waiting by the door. I swear to God, if she thinks to pick a fight with me right now,
she will get one.

“Meda?”

At the sound of her traitorous voice, it takes every last ounce of self-control that I have not to rip her freaking head off.

“Meda, wait.” I hear her shuffling steps as she tries to keep up. I ignore her. Then she grabs my arm with a frustrated “Meda!”

“What?” I round on her fast enough to make her stumble.

“I just…Where were you last night?”

I freeze. Armand. “Last night,” I repeat slowly.

“Yeah. I just found out you didn’t come to dinner.”

It clicks. Not Armand, but when I was with the Crusaders. “So you weren’t here either?” I ask. “Hm. Maybe
I
should be demanding answers from
you
.” I jab her in the chest. “Since we’re in the business of policing each other.”

“
I
have nothing to hide,” she grits out.

“Then where were you?”

“With the headmaster.” She tries to leave it at that, but I won’t let her.

“Oh? Discussing my
fondness
for children, perhaps? Or maybe picking out the jewelry for my door?” My voice is violent silk.

“Talking about how to stop you from attacking your classmates,” she snaps. “I was pulled out of the infirmary to find out you’d–” She catches herself and shakes her head. She forces her tone back to calm. “Anyway, I missed dinner. And they said… I heard you did, too.”

“Worried I was out terrorizing the natives? Don’t worry,
Mom
, the babysitters kept a sharp eye on me.”

“That’s not what I–”

“You can police my every action Jo, but don’t expect me to help.”

“I didn’t mean–” she doesn’t seem quite sure how to finish. I see an army of words muster on her tongue, but not a single one breaches her lips. She ends up pressing her mouth closed.

“Didn’t mean to
what,
Jo? What part didn’t you mean?” I step in to hiss. “To lock me in my room? To sit back and watch them starve me?
To make me the laughing stock of the school?”

Pink tinges her cheeks. “I’m sorry about the kindergarten thing. It’s just, I couldn’t think of… and I was angry.”

I bark a laugh. “Well, that makes it OK then. Good to know. Well, be warned, now I’m angry. Why don’t you sit back and see what I do?”

Her eyes grow wide. “Meda, you can’t. Don’t do anything–” She cuts herself off. Too late.

“Stupid?” I growl.

“Meda, I–”

“Get. Out. Of. My. Face, Jo.” I’m shaking. “Get out of my face,
right now
.”

Jo’s primary traits, cleverness and mulishness, battle for supremacy. Fortunately cleverness wins and she turns sharply on her heel and heads toward our usual table. I snatch up a tray and turn to get into line when Chi’s voice stops me. I didn’t realize he was behind me.

“You could give her a break, you know.”

“Could I?” I snap. So,
so
not in the mood.

“Yeah, you could,” he bites back, so uncharacteristically I have to stop. “She just got kicked off probation, did you know that? She won’t graduate.”

“What? Why?”

“The rope climb. Said they ‘don’t see the point’.”

Startled, I look for Jo, who sits staring at her empty tray. I force my gaze away.

“That’s too bad.”

Chi explodes. “‘Too bad?’
Too bad?
That’s all you can say?” The expression on Chi’s face makes me wince. I almost
ate
him once and he didn’t look at me like that. He waits, but I don’t know what to say. “What do you want me to do about it? Give her a hug? I’d lose an arm – even if we were on speaking terms.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Chi says with a biting sarcasm I didn’t think him capable of. “Maybe be nice to her?”

“Why don’t you tell
her
to be nice to
me
?”

“You think I haven’t?” He thrusts his hand through his hair and growls in frustration. “The two of you…” He shakes his head, then jabs a finger angrily toward my chest. “She
is
doing it all for you, whether you like it or not.” He takes a step back, hands out. “All of it.” He mutters and turns on his heel, not waiting for a response.

Great, even Chi’s against me now. I don’t know what I was expecting, of course he’d side with her. I toss the tray back down, having lost my appetite, and head back to my room. Thanks to them, I’ve missed yet another damn meal. I slam my door open and it makes a satisfying thwack against the wall.

I take a step into the room and stutter to a halt. A giant bag of Cheetos and an orange soda sit on my desk. They were placed so recently that condensation runs down the side of the still-icy beverage. I shoot glances around the room, but it’s empty. I take a few slow steps forward and pick up the note propped against the bottle.

Cheers to the seventh food group.

Seventh?
Oh, I get it. Neon-orange. Teehee.

I run my finger down the side of the bottle, delighting in its coldness in my air-conditioning-less room, then rip into the Cheetos. As I crunch the toxic orange Cheetos like they’re the bones of my erstwhile best friends, a slow smile spreads across my face.

That night, when Armand unlocks the door, I’m waiting for him.