The Academy - Forgiveness and Permission (Year One, Book Four) (35 page)

I marched with the others toward the open shower room. The showers overhead rattled me, and I felt my stomach starting to churn like I did every time I thought of taking a shower instead of a bath. My mind flashed with images of being tied to the stool in the shower by my mother. I swallowed my fears and willed myself to remain calm. The showers weren’t on and knowing I didn’t have to take one ebbed some of my shaking, but only just.

There was only one open archway that lead in, so someone couldn’t duck out and run away. The old beige tiles were heavily cracked, and the room was heady with must. No one used the showers since we were given little time before the bell rang to change, and we were the last class. One could simply go home and shower when they got there, so using the dingy old showers wasn’t a big deal.

I hid my hands behind my back to mask my shaking fingers. I didn’t want to appear so nervous.

Karen glanced down at me. “You look pale. Are you okay?”

I swallowed again, trying to come up with something honest I could relay to her that would make sense. It wasn’t like I could tell her about my shower phobia. “I didn’t look before, but I was wondering if my violin was still there.”

Karen nodded. “I was thinking of that. I left my cell phone in my locker. I hope it’s still there. I don’t want to have to pay a couple hundred dollars for another one.”

I was sharing my sympathy, crossing my fingers that neither of us had stuff missing. I was hoping this would get resolved quickly.

We all seemed to be holding our breath, waiting to overhear, but the murmur of adult voices, what we suspected were the other coaches, weren’t easy to listen in on. The voices reverberated against the walls and they were speaking too low.

Coach French appeared in the archway of the shower room. “Emily Adams. Come with me, please?”

I shoved a finger to my lip. One by one, the girls were called out, and they didn’t return. Soon, Coach French didn’t come back, but simply shouted out a name from deeper in the locker rooms. That girl would leave alone to face off with the coaches.

Our numbers dwindled. Karen left, her name being called halfway down the list. I thought at first Coach was calling us alphabetically but at some point, I ended up alone with another girl in the class and I knew I wasn’t that low on the alphabetical list.

Coach French appeared in the archway, looking annoyed and tired. “Just checking to see how many we had left. Sharon?” she asked.

The other girl nodded, following Coach French into the locker room.

This was too strange. Why was I last? Before with other people in the shower room, it hadn’t been too bad. Now alone, I had nothing to look at except the shower heads and the drains. A wave of lightheadedness swept over me but I forced my teeth down on my tongue, willing myself to remain strong. I had to focus. I’d get called up soon. My fingers hovered over the phone in my bra again, but since the bell hadn’t sounded yet for dismissal, I was sure everyone else was in class.

Minutes passed. No one called for me. What was going on?

Coach French’s murmuring voice, along with a couple of male voices, echoed back to me.

I sucked in a breath, thinking of Mr. Blackbourne. I pulled my phone from my bra, found his app on my phone. My finger hovered over the white button. I knew I didn’t have anything to worry about. I didn’t steal anything, but I was uncomfortable. I hated the thought of calling on him if this turned out to not be a big deal.

His voice echoed through my head.

We will come for you every time, for any reason. Until the day you tell us to stop, we will always be right behind you.

I swallowed, hitting the white button and hoping I was doing the right thing.

“Miss Sang Sorenson,” a familiar voice had me jumping.

I dropped the phone at my feet. It bounced off of one corner of the case and slid across the floor.

Mr. McCoy’s swollen figure lumbered in the archway. His watery eyes narrowed on me and his bristling mustache twitched under his nose. “So you’re our thief.”

I took a step back, putting up my hands in a defensive stance. Where were the other coaches? “What do you mean? I didn’t take anything.”

“You’re the last one, and everyone else was clean.”

“Check my locker,” I said. “I don’t have anything that belongs to other people.”

“You could have easily gotten one of those accomplices to help you.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

He smirked, taking a step forward. “Wouldn’t you?”

A rattling echo sounded. My phone was vibrating.

I inched closer to the phone to pick it up.

“Don’t move,” Mr. McCoy said, his crackling voice full of warning. He walked over to the phone, bending over to collect it from the tiles. He turned it around to look at the face. From the distance, I could tell the screen was cracked.

My heart thundered.

Mr. McCoy flicked through the phone. “Calling for help, huh?” He smirked, typing in a message with his thumbs. “Mr. Blackbourne wants to know where you are. I’ll tell him you’re going home, so he won’t bother stepping in this time.”

My skin crawled. I had orders, I reminded myself. Avoid McCoy at all costs. Even if he wants me to stay, find Mr. Blackbourne’s office and lock myself in.

I side stepped toward the wall, trying to take a wide berth around him to avoid getting in arm’s reach. I clenched my fists, holding them to my thighs as I walked.

Mr. McCoy lunged over, taking up the space in front of me. “Where do you think you’re going?”

I aimed to duck under his arm, but he shoved his body to block.

“Let me go,” I said, in what I hoped was a tone that would make him realize I’d do whatever it took to get out of there.

“Do you think you can walk out of here? I’ve caught you red-handed stealing from other girls.”

“You have no proof,” I said. “You’re assuming.”

“My logical conclusions are rarely wrong.”

I turned again, trying to get around him on the other side. His hand shot out to the center of my chest and he shoved.

I hadn’t been expecting it and I fell back, landing hard against the tile on my butt. A sharp pain radiated from my tailbone. Did it crack again?

I forced myself up, jumping to my feet and backing away, holding my hands up. “Let me go,” I said, in a voice as loud as I could muster.

McCoy grinned in a way that made my skin crawl. “Did you think you could walk out of here? What did you assume would happen? I would forget about it? I could call the police right now and have you arrested for being a thief.”

“Why haven’t you?”

He sputtered. “What?”

“Why haven’t you called the police?” I asked. I was tired of this, tired of him. He had spooked me before when he had grabbed me in the hallway. This time, I knew what I was supposed to do. My heart still thundered in my chest, but my mouth flew open. “That’s what you want from me, right? You want to get rid of me? Here’s your perfect excuse. Call the police. Use my phone, if you’d like.”

He smirked. “You’re trying to dare me?”

“I don’t think you’ve got any evidence. You just want to intimidate me. Why? What interest is it to you what I do?”

He frowned, held my cell phone out in front of him and dropped it to the floor. Another crack echoed through the shower room. He staggered forward, pointing a chubby finger toward me. “Listen to me, Miss Sang. You are a conniving little girl and no one will believe you for a minute. I’ve been at this school for twenty years. You’ve been caught stealing. Not to mention all the trouble you’ve been in since you first started here.” He took another step forward, within arm’s length now. His eyes lowered from my face to my chest. “I’m doing you a favor. Cooperate and I won’t call the police.”

“I said call them,” I urged, although with less conviction this time. I backed up until I met with the shower wall.

He grunted, lifted a hand toward my face, fingers a breath-width away from my nose.

In a panic, I struck out, swiping away his hand. I wasn’t thinking, only reacting. My brain wasn’t working enough to tell me what to do. All I knew was here was the vice principal telling me I was in trouble.

Mr. McCoy glowered at me, raising a fist. “Think you can hit me?”

What else could I do? Never when Kota or Nathan was showing me how to hit someone else did I imagine I’d have to ever use it. I never thought he would go this far. They had trained me, but somehow still never thought he would go this far. How would I ever recover if I hit him? He could charge me with assault and I’d be arrested. Wasn’t I supposed to stay out of trouble?

His hand shot out again, gripping at my shoulder and shoving me hard against the wall of the showers. His voice dropped several octaves. “You think you can hit me and get away with it?”

The pain that hit my back as I met with the wall sparked the anger I needed. My hand made a fist and I aimed for his solar plexus.

He jumped back, letting go of me and out of the reach of my fists. His face reddened, enraged.

I held up my fists, readying my feet, ready to kick. “Stay away from me,” I said, my voice a squeak and cracking.

The corner of his mouth lifted. Was he enjoying this? “You’re in trouble, now. Hitting a vice principal. You’ll end up in jail for a long time. You’ll be expelled.”

I gritted my teeth, aimed my knee and kicked out. If I was going to get expelled now, I was at least going to get a good strike in.

He must have been expecting it, because the moment my foot struck out, he lurched away. He caught my ankle and shoved.

I fell sideways against the wall, my leg twisted and he let go. I dropped to the floor, my knee throbbing in pain.

“Do you think you’re the first student to attack me?” Mr. McCoy stepped forward. He crouched and hovered over me. “I’ve had all manner of students, many much bigger than you, trying to get out of trouble by fighting and running away. That never works.”

I moaned, struggling against the pain. I gripped at the tile, trying to crawl. Kota was right. I was too slow. I give too much warning.

His fingers wrapped around my ankle, pulling me back toward him. I slid across the tile, scrambling to grip at the floor to get up and get away. He held strong, easily pinning my leg to the ground.

“Let me go,” I said, meaning to yell at him but fear captured my voice and my voice box wouldn’t let me get out much more than a few cracked syllables.

“You might ask for mercy,” he said, frowning. “And if you cooperate now, you might get some. Maybe. You don’t deserve it, though. I’ve seen your type before. You with your perverted fanfare of boyfriends following behind you. You flaunt yourself at them and they come for you, doing whatever you ask. Getting detentions all at the same time for you.” He glowered. “It’s disgusting.”

I kicked out toward him but his other hand found my second ankle. He wrapped his arms around my feet, holding them down against the floor.

“Don’t fight me,” he said, a warning growl under his voice, his grip on my ankles strengthened.

Fresh waves of pain shifted up my leg. I sat up, blindly striking out at him, wild. When he dodged my flying fists, I tried pulling myself up, reaching along the wall to try to yank myself out of his grasp.

He sighed heavily. “Will you stop? You’ll only wear yourself out.”

My hand clutched something metal and I pulled at it, trying to pick myself up. The handle twisted.

A stream of water shot out from the showerhead above us.

The moment the water streamed down into my face, against my body, I recoiled into myself, covering my head with my arms. My breath escaped me. I bit my tongue to keep myself conscious. If I fainted now, I couldn’t fight off McCoy. Memories and waves of queasiness sashayed through me, threatening to take me down.

Mr. McCoy let go of my ankles. “Stupid girl,” he snapped at me. He shook his arms over my head, standing away from the stream of water. He reached around the water, grabbing at the collar of my shirt. He used it to pull me out away from the wall and from the falling water.

He gripped at my stomach and started to drag me for a distance toward the archway of the shower room. I scratched at his arms, trying to get him to release me. He shook me hard enough that my head was rolling. I struck out blindly, trying to hit anything I could.

Panic seeped into every atom inside me. I called out, with what little voice I had. Where were the coaches? Where was he taking me? I couldn’t let him carry me off. Somehow I knew if I did, that would be the end.

“Let go of her,” thundered a commanding voice. A thud followed and I was dropped.

I crawled away, my skirt and blouse sticking to my body and my trembling and pain making it difficult to stand. I looked up in time to see Mr. Blackbourne standing over the slumped body of Mr. McCoy. I blinked, and blinked again. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I held my breath, assuming Mr. McCoy would get up. He would scream after us. He would come at me again. He would call the police now and have us both arrested.

No. He was down. One hit, and Mr. Blackbourne had knocked him out cold.

Mr. Blackbourne jumped over Mr. McCoy’s body, and raced to me. He hovered over, his steel eyes flashing. “Miss Sorenson,” he said, his voice a thousand times softer than I’d ever heard it before. “What hurts?”

I breathed out a groan, swallowing. In that split moment, I really didn’t know anything hurt at all. I was in shock. My mouth moved, trying to tell him this but my voice had disappeared. My eyes wandered to Mr. McCoy, trying to determine if it was safe.

Mr. Blackbourne frowned. He brought his hand to hover in front of my face and snapped sharply. “Don’t worry about him,” he commanded. The cool and collected Mr. Blackbourne I knew was taking over. “Can you get up?”

I gritted my teeth, shifting to get up on my knees. “I don’t know,” I said honestly, my voice small and unusual to me.

Mr. Blackbourne’s face steeled over. “Let me help,” he said. He wrapped his hands around my arms, pulling me up along with him.

My foot hurt, probably the old bone bruise having been aggravated. I was able to stand next to him. My knee felt like it had been twisted.