The Academy (15 page)

“Why?” I asked, but I was already in motion, sliding out of my bed.

“Because. Here.” He clicked on the light again and patted the covers beside him.

“What do you want?” I asked, settling where he indicated.

North had a strange look on his face. “To smell you. Come here.”

“What? No!” I protested but I didn’t struggle when he took me by the shoulders and brought me close. “North!” I gasped when he pressed his face to my still damp hair and then to the sensitive side of my neck. “What are you doing?”

He pulled back, frowning. “How is that possible?”

“How is
what
possible?” I demanded, trying to sound angry instead of breathless.

“That you still smell good.”

“Maybe I smell
good
because I just took a
shower,”
I said impatiently. “Did you ever think of that?”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” He shook his head, looking frustrated. “You still smell…I can’t explain it.”

“Then don’t try.” I left his bed and slid back into my own. “It doesn’t sound like it makes any sense anyway.”

“No.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Let’s go to sleep then,” I suggested. “We have to be up in three hours.”

“Don’t remind me,” he groaned. “You’re right—time to get some sleep. G’night, squirt.”

“Goodnight, North,” I replied.

But long after his breathing had gone deep and even, I lay awake. I gazed into the darkness and trembled with equal parts fear and exultation.

North, oh, North,
I thought.
If only you knew. If only I could tell you.
But that could never be. Never, I told myself sternly. Because it wasn’t only my secret I was keeping—it was my beloved brother’s as well. And I had no right to betray him just because I was falling in love. No right to risk his wellbeing as well as my own.

Forget about it,
I advised myself.
Stop thinking about North, stop feeling for him. Pretend you don’t care and eventually you won’t.
Yes, that was the best thing to do.

Firmly resolved to try and get over my schoolgirl crush, I rolled over and finally fell into a troubled sleep barely an hour before the alarm was set to ring.

Of course, my turbulent feelings for my roommate weren’t the only problem I had to contend with. There was still Broward and his band of bullies to worry about. However, after the dodge ball incident—as I had labeled it in my head—he actually began to pick on me a little less. It was as though drawing blood from me when he smashed me in the face with the hard-rubber ball had finally satisfied some barbaric craving of his. Or at least, assuaged it somewhat.

I still had to be careful not to be alone with him and any time we had class together I could be sure of getting shoved or tripped at least once or twice. But I refused to rise to the bait or get upset. I had sworn to myself that the tears I shed after our first physical-fitness class together were the last Broward would get from me, and I was determined to keep that particular promise.

Seeing that he couldn’t make me cry or get me angry with his constant harassment appeared to irritate and confuse Broward at first, but gradually he seemed to become bored with my determined indifference. In fact, his virulent hatred of me might have faded away all together in time…if Coach Janus hadn’t decided to teach a lesson on fencing.

My heart leapt in my chest the day, about two and a half months into the semester, that I came into the gymnasium and saw a familiar sight. There was a rack in the middle of the large room and hanging from it were long-sleeved, white cotton jackets in all different sizes. In a cart beside it were gloves and masks, sized extra large for Broward’s blocky head all the way down to extra small for my own petite features.

“What’s all this crap?” Broward sounded bored as he and Dawson and Nodes swaggered into the room. They examined the fencing jackets and the black-fronted masks with scorn, flicking them with blunt, grubby fingers.

“We must be playing dress up today.” Dawson pulled one of the tight white guard gloves over his big mitt of a hand and waved it daintily in the air. “Yoo-hoo, Broward.”

“Shut up, you idiot! You sound like Kinky Hinky,” Broward growled. “Seriously though, what the hell is Janus thinking?”

“I’m thinking I’ll teach you how to fence, Broward. If you’re as good with the sword as you are with your mouth, you might not be half bad.” Coach Janus came into the room, pushing a rolling rack of fencing swords. I was surprised to see that they were in no particular order, the heavier epees and foils mixed in with the lighter, more maneuverable sabers.

Broward’s face darkened. “This is stupid,” he said, stepping back from the rack of jackets and masks. “Why would anybody want to fight with a sword when we have blasters?”

Unbidden, my old tutor’s words rose to my lips. “Any lout can fire a blaster—it takes real skill to pierce rather than pulverize.”

“
What
did you say, freshie?” Broward demanded, rounding on me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I knew I was digging a hole but I couldn’t back down from his implied threat. Raising my chin, I frowned at him. “What it means is, a sword may be an antiquated weapon but it’s much more elegant and civilized than blowing a hole in your opponent.”

Coach Janus raised his bushy black eyebrows in obvious surprise. “Mr. Jameson has the right idea, Broward. Maybe he can give you a few pointers.”

“I’m sure he can.” The bully’s small piggy eyes were still trained on me with unwavering malevolence. I stared back silently, showing no fear. But inside I had begun to wish I had bitten my tongue and kept silent. Now that I had reawakened Broward’s interest in me, I was sure I would wind up paying the consequences before the class was over.

“Okay, so as you know, we had a fencing team here up until last year,” Coach Janus continued, oblivious to the staring contest that was currently going on between Broward and myself. “Unfortunately, Professor Praler, who coached them, had to leave and I’ve got too much on my plate to pick it up myself. But we have all the equipment and there’s no point letting it go to waste. So today we’re going to be fencing.”

A hum of interested conversation met his announcement and I saw the other cadets in the class eyeing the long, shiny swords with anticipation. I wanted to get my hands on one as much as any of them—more, probably. But I waited patiently for Coach Janus to give some verbal instructions and safety warnings or at least a set of rules. Nothing of the kind was forthcoming, however. He simply nodded at the equipment and said, “All right, ladies, suit up and grab yourself a sword. Then pick a partner and go to town. Oh, and be sure you wear your masks.”

I watched, aghast, as the cadets rushed forward and began pawing through the swords before turning to the tight-fitting white jackets. Pick a partner and go to town? What about the elegant dance of the fencer? The attack and withdraw, the riposte and reprisal? Not to mention the fact that the Coach hadn’t even explained that the three different types of fencing swords must never mix. Players wielding epees might fight other epee wielders and the same was true of foils and my own favorite, sabers. Each sword had its own weight and balance as well as a very distinct fighting style.

“Hey, freshie, on guard!” The blunt end of an epee was suddenly shoved in my face, only inches from my nose. Of course Broward was wielding it.

I jumped back quickly. The blades of most fencing swords are folded over at the tips, creating a rounded area called a “button.” But blunt or not, you could still put someone’s eye out with it if you tried hard enough.

“It’s
en guard,”
I corrected him sharply. “And you
never
shove a sword in an unmasked opponent’s face.”

“Oh,
sorry.”
He waved the epee at me again, tauntingly. He wasn’t wearing a mask and neither were Dawson and Nodes—either they considered me to be no threat or else they were just stupid. “I think it’s time to teach you another lesson, runt. How’d you like another poke in the nose?” Broward jabbed at me with the epee and only my reflexes saved me from a nasty blow to the face. I looked around hastily for the coach, but Janus was supervising two other cadets and hadn’t seen what was going on.

Suddenly Dawson and Nodes were pointing swords at me too. Both of them had chosen foils though it was clear by the inexpert way they held them, neither had any idea how to use their weapon.

I backed away slowly, trying to keep from being surrounded. “You think this is a fair fight, Broward?” I demanded, trying to keep them all in my sights. “I’m not even armed.”

“Get a sword then.” He poked at me again, making me skip backward and nearly fall. “Hurry up, freshie. Before I lose my patience and ‘accidentally’ put out one of those big, brown eyes of yours.”

The look on his brutal, lumpish face told me he was serious—he would really do it. My heart beat faster with fear. Most body parts could be regrown or reattached with modern medical technology but eyes were still too delicate. If Broward blinded me “by accident” it would be a permanent condition.

By luck, I had ended up beside the rack of fencing swords. Risking a glance behind me, I liberated one of the long, flat sabers from its resting place and fit my hand into the bell guard at the bottom. The sword felt right in my hand and a surge of confidence shot through me as soon as I was armed. I would have liked to find a mask to protect my face as well but it was clear from the way Broward was advancing he wasn’t going to give me the chance. Very well, I would have to rely on my swordsmanship.

“Aww, lookit that, boys—the freshie picked a little tiny sword. A little sword for a little baby,” Broward crooned, grinning at me.

“A saber may be lighter than an epee or a foil but it’s considerably more flexible and maneuverable,” I lectured, holding the sword before me in a defensive position in case he decided to lunge at me again. “The flat blade also means you can attack with the sides of the sword, not just the point.” I raised an eyebrow at Broward. “Care for a one-on-one demonstration? Or are you too scared to fight a bout on your own?”

The three of them—Broward, Dawson, and Nodes, were still surrounding me with swords pointed in my direction. At my taunting words, Broward gave an angry snarl and jerked his head at his two companions. “Get back. I’m gonna teach freshie here a lesson.”

Shrugging, Dawson and Nodes fell back, leaving me to face Broward alone.

I took my stance, sword held up before my face in the classical opening position and saluted him. He didn’t return the gesture and from the gleam in his mud-colored eyes, I could tell we weren’t going to be playing by the official rules. Or any rules at all for that matter.

Sure enough, before I had even finished my salute, Broward lunged forward, slicing at me with his epee. I met and deflected his blade then danced away as he struck out again. I deflected again and then attacked, turning his blade with my own and then jumping nimbly out of his reach.

“Hey, he’s fast—look at that!” someone said and I realized they were talking about me. The two cadets to our right, who had been playing around with their foils, had stopped their match and were watching Broward and me instead.

“Hold still, you little runt,” Broward grunted, his face purple with anger.

“And let you hit me? I don’t think so.” I danced around him again, forcing him to lumber in a circle to keep up with me. Of course, I was ignoring the traditional footwork but I thought under the circumstances Kristopher’s old tutor would have forgiven me for abandoning the standard form. We weren’t having a true match here—I was defending myself from someone who genuinely wanted to hurt me.

Around and around we circled. I was just getting warmed up but it was clear from his breathing that Broward was already getting winded. Every time he lunged at me, I parried or deflected the blow, but though he gave me several openings, I rarely struck back. I hoped that eventually he would get completely out of breath and give up.

But as more and more cadets stopped their own matches to watch ours, I began to see that was an impossibility. Broward
hated
to lose face—if he gave up now with half the class watching, everyone would consider him the loser and he couldn’t have that.

I was nowhere near tired but I was worried all the same—Broward’s rage was making him dangerous. He lunged at me, sweeping the epee through the air with reckless abandon. If we were fighting a regular match, I might have allowed a blow—or a touch, as it is called in fencing—to land, just to appease him. But the blows Broward was aiming at me were much too hard and fast to risk such a strategy. It was clear he wanted to hurt me in any way he could.