Deadly First Day, page 24
part #1 of Embassy Academy Series
“Keep my head down and hope they find the person who did it. There’s not a lot more I can do.”
“Again, wow.” She moves toward the door.
Without thinking, I reach out and grab her sleeve. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”
Dali rounds on me, face tight.
“That morning, when Na was killed. Your second period class is near the bathroom, right? Did you see anything weird on your way to class? Anyone in the hallway?”
Her forehead furrows. “Everyone was in the hallway. It was right before class.”
“No, I know, but what about professors? Were any of them there?”
Dali bites her lip. “I saw Professor Rook, but his classroom is near there. I wasn’t really paying attention. I had a migraine, so I was on my way to the health center. I missed all of second period. Sorry.”
The warning bell rings in the hallway, and hundreds of feet thump as people head to their first period classes.
“See you later?”
At my nod, Dali pushes out of the bathroom and disappears into the mass of crimson and red. But I’m frozen in place. It’s as if my shoes have been fused to the tile floor. Dali saw Professor Rook in the hallway that morning. The man who may have had reason to shut Na up to protect his reputation. The same man who threatened me when I confronted him.
The more I learn about Na, the more I uncover about what happened leading up to the day she was killed, the more sure I am.
Professor Rook killed Na, and I’m the only one who can expose him.
31
Warm, musty air fills the gymnasium, like a blanket over my head making my breath hot and humid. It reminds me of how hot our kitchen gets back home, when I’m prepping Thanksgiving dinner, making it that much harder to forget that my father and stepmother didn’t invite us home for the holiday. My father said he had too much prep work to do for the negotiations this weekend. At least he called me this time, instead of using Charlotte as the messenger.
Beads of sweat roll down my back, and my heart is pounding as I widen my stance. Wait for the attack.
Thwack!
Charlotte serves the tennis ball with all of the venom she can muster, despite the brace around her knee.
My shoes slap over the surface of the court as I race to get ahead of the fuzzy green orb. My breath comes in short pants, and without having to look in the mirror I know my face is as red as the red velvet cheesecake cupcakes I made last night, instead of sleeping.
I’m feeling it now, the lack of sleep. My movements are sluggish and my feet made of lead. So of course today was the day Charlotte showed up at my room with an extra tennis racket and demanded I help her train. Warned me not to tell her mother. When I saw the way she held those rackets like flaming swords in her hands, I was tempted.
Off to the side, Mikhail stands against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. He’s still distant from me, since that night in the kitchen. If we were becoming friends before, any progress we made is gone now.
“Their drilling rights negotiations have stalled,” Dali calls from where she’s sitting on the sidelines, clutching Charlotte’s phone.
My stepsister curses as she reaches down to retrieve another ball from the clear tube at her feet. Charlotte charmed the senator's aid into sending her updates on the negotiations taking place today. “Why is your dad being such a rigid tightwad, Dali?”
Up until she mentioned it this morning, I had completely forgotten that Dali’s dad was part of the block of African leaders negotiating with the senator’s committee for oil drilling easements in southeastern Africa.
Dali’s lips thin, and she conjures a tremendous shrug. “I don’t know. Sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“He’s just trying to do the best he can for our country,” Dali grumbles, low enough that Charlotte can’t hear.
I give her a sympathetic smile, which she returns with a halfhearted one of her own before dropping her focus back to the phone.
A tennis ball spirals past my nose.
“Come on, Adrienne. You’re not even trying.” Charlotte lobs yet another ball toward the net even more viciously than the last one. Her eyes lock onto the ball, probably calculating how to improve her next attempt.
Determination courses through me. I am going to return this serve. Bolting across the court, I stretch my arm and sweep with all my might in what Charlotte called a backhanded swing. There’s a crack as the ball hits my racket and ricochets back toward the other side of the court.
“Got it!” Genevieve yells, running to intercept the ball. It comes flying back over the net and past me before I can get anywhere near it.
“Finally,” the girl sighs. “I was beginning to think I wouldn’t get to play at all.”
In her defense, it is the first time I’ve managed to return one of Charlotte’s serves.
I’m just glad Charlotte is trying to teach me tennis instead of swimming. I have a feeling that swim lessons with Charlotte would involve a plank over a pool of sharks. “No better way to learn than by doing,” she quipped when we started an hour ago.
I hunch over, huffing and trying to catch my breath past the burning in my throat. My arms are like limp noodles dangling boneless from my shoulder joints.
“I need water.”
“Fine. Take five.” Charlotte hobbles over to the bench and takes a drink of her water.
I guzzle my own water and prop my hands on my hips. I’m sweating like a pig.
The double doors at the other end of the gymnasium swing open and a pack of guys floods through, wearing soccer gear. Their trash talk carries toward us in several languages. One of them must say something especially biting, because another boy glares as the rest of them guffaw and crow in his direction. Ricardo is with them. He waves when he spots me, and I wave back. It’s not much, but it’s progress.
Genevieve puts on a smile and trots over there, her perfect white tennis skirt suddenly looking a lot shorter than it did a minute ago. Ricardo smiles at her, angling toward her, holding a scuffed up soccer ball in the crook of one arm.
Genevieve cocks her head, and her tinkling laugh reaches my ears.
Feeling like I’m spying on them, I turn away. “Let’s do this,” I call to Charlotte, renewing my grip on the tennis racket and marching onto the court.
“Finally.” Charlotte tosses her bottle aside with a crunch and limps to the other side of the court. She doesn’t even wait to see if I’m ready before she swipes a ball off the ground, lines up her serve, and pummels it.
I’ve got this one.
My satisfaction has never been so complete as I hit the ball and it soars back over the net. “Yes!” I growl, pumping my fist.
“Nice one. Let’s see if you can do it again.”
“Charlotte, you have to see this.” Dali shoves off the bench and runs over to my stepsister, holding out her phone.
“What is it?” They peer down at the phone together, frowning.
“What? What’s happening?”
Charlotte’s lips pucker to one side. Dali’s biting her lip. Neither one answers me.
Shrugging, I drop my racket and jog over there so I can see what’s going on. It’s a live news report from outside Capitol Hill. A tall, broad black man with a thick beard is coming down the steps, surrounded by aides and a bodyguard or two. The lines of his body are rigid as he glares into the camera before sliding into a dark sedan.
Next comes my father, who stops on the steps to give a brief statement to the press, also surrounded by aids and personal security.
“Senator Holt, does this mean that your negotiation with the African Oil Block has broken down? Has the United States lost its chance to strike a deal for the oil found in their newly discovered oil field?”
Genevieve slides in behind me and watches over my shoulder.
The senator’s charming mask doesn’t falter, even for a split second. “I have every confidence that these negotiations will be completed in a way that is acceptable to both the United States and the countries that comprise the African Block. We plan to restart the talks in the morning. That is all.” With a confident wave, he too climbs into a sedan and departs.
“That looked unpleasant,” Genevieve says over my shoulder.
Charlotte curses in French.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“Do you think your dad will return to the negotiations tomorrow?” Charlotte asks Dali, ignoring my question.
Oh, it was Dali’s dad, the ambassador from Malawi. Something about him tugs at my memory, but I can’t place him. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him before, but where? I don’t think it was the weekend we moved into the dorm, so it must have been earlier news coverage of the talks. Today isn’t the first time Charlotte has made us tune in.
Dali shakes her head. “I don’t know. If he feels that the U.S. is trying to strike a deal that unfairly benefits them, he might not. He can always come to a more favorable deal for the crude oil with another country if he…”
“No other country is going to give Malawi, or any of the other block countries, as good a deal as my father,” Charlotte snaps. “Your dad should take it, if he knows what’s good for his country.”
Dali’s mouth opens in retort, but I step between them.
“Hey, let’s not fight over this, okay? I’m sure they’ll come up with a good compromise. Let’s just play tennis.”
“Actually, I need a shower. Let’s call it a day. Come on, Genevieve.” Charlotte swipes her water bottle off the ground and heads for the doors.
I look at Dali, who sighs. “That was… intense.”
“Are you two coming?”
I jolt at Charlotte’s abrupt tone. “Coming.”
Dali shakes her head as we follow my stepsister.
The clothing rack squeaks as Charlotte shoves a bunch of dresses to the side. “I can’t believe it’s only ten days until the Winter Summit, and I don’t have a dress yet. Is it me, or does every dress here look derivative? Where is all of the new stuff? I’m going to go ask.” She breezes through the racks toward the back of the store, her limp barely noticeable.
Mikhail watches us from the front of the store.
The doctor finally okayed Charlotte to walk without her brace, but she’s not allowed to do any exercise for another week. Like his say-so will stop her.
“Didn’t you buy dresses on Black Friday? You know, when you dragged me out of bed at an ungodly hour to wait in line outside the Emily Allison store?” I yawn widely.
Charlotte shoots me a look. “Yes, I bought dresses on Black Friday, but I didn’t find the dress. So here we are. Stop complaining, loser. I said I’d buy you lunch, remember?”
Dali’s already holding her dress: a sequined mermaid-cut number with a high halter collar and low back. She’s going to look fierce in it.
Genevieve has her dress, too. A white confection that will make her look like Glenda the good witch. All she needs is a magic wand and a giant, shimmery bubble.
I haven’t found anything that speaks to me, although, in fairness, the only thing that’s speaking to me right now is an intense craving for caffeine. All of the dresses in Emily Allison are either too poofy or too tight. And I’m not super motivated to find anything since I don’t have a date. Kenneth is escorting Charlotte, which she’s thrilled about since he’s been so hard to pin down the last couple of months. Genevieve has a date too, but she refuses to tell us who it is. I have my suspicions.
I sigh, flicking dresses across the rack half-heartedly. Hopefully Charlotte finds something soon so we can all go back to the dormitory. I’ve got a fresh batch of molasses cookies and a few episodes of my baking show to watch.
“I’ve been thinking,” Dali says, cutting a glance toward where Genevieve is browsing the racks of accessories. “If you want to go to the Winter Summit with Ricardo, you should ask him.”
“Ask him?”
“Yeah. Who says you have to wait for him to ask you? Besides, I bet he’d say yes.”
I bite the inside of my lip. “I don’t know, that sounds… risky.”
“You can do it. You’re brave. You’ve talked to the police, what, three times and not let it bother you.”
“I’m not brave,” I whisper. “Being interrogated by the police is terrifying. I keep waiting for them to bust into my classes and arrest me in front of everyone.”
“But you haven’t let it stop you, and you don’t let it break you down when everyone at school is whispering nasty stuff about you. I admire that.”
“Really?”
Dali’s eyes shine with pride, and something else I can’t identify. “Yeah.”
Swallowing, I nod. “Maybe I will.”
Charlotte appears beside me. “They have more in the back that haven’t been put out yet. Want to come with?”
“Yeah, okay.” I follow her, and the sales girl gives us a tight smile.
Whatever Charlotte said to her, it was probably closer to vinegar than honey. I should remind her of the adage my grandma used to tell me, sometime.
“Follow me.” We go into the back room, where there are boxes and boxes of clothing that hasn’t been unpacked. A long rack hangs along the wall, new dresses dangling from it still wrapped in clear, protective plastic bags.
“Let me know if you want to try anything on.” The sales girl leaves us alone.
“This is awesome. I’ve always wanted to get into the back room of a designer’s shop. This is stuff no one else has seen yet. We’re the first.” Charlotte’s eyes are sparkling as she waltzes up to the rack and starts fingering the dresses.
I peruse a bit, looking for price tags. “How much are these? I don’t see a tag anywhere.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Charlotte says, eyeing a pink ombré dress that fades from a pale baby pink on the bodice to a dark fuchsia skirt that floats over the floor. “Daddy’s paying for it.”
“Nice of him.”
Charlotte rolls her eyes. “He’s trying to make it up to you, you know. He feels really bad for not spending any time with you. He just doesn’t know how to say that.”
“Right. I’m sure that’s what it is.”
“I’m not kidding. I overheard him talking to my mom the last time I called home. She forgot to hang up the phone when we were done. He felt bad about cancelling Thanksgiving. Not spending more time with you is his biggest regret.”
I don’t know what to say, so I fall silent. As much as I try to pretend that my distant relationship with my dad doesn't bother me, it does. I can’t remember the number of times I had a school field trip or report card or fundraiser that I wanted to share with him, but he was rarely there. There were so many times that I wished I had the courage to tell him I wanted to spend time with him instead of getting a check written by one of his aides. His money didn’t mean anything to me; it felt like an afterthought, just like me.
I can admit now that once I found out I was moving to Washington, D.C. to attend the academy I thought I’d have more time with him, but obviously that hasn’t happened. I haven't gotten to know him any more than I did before, other than to experience his disappointment when I got wrapped up in this whole thing with Li Na. Despite his insistence that they were cancelling Thanksgiving so he could prepare for the talks with the African oil block, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was because he simply didn’t want me around.
“I used to be jealous of you.”
Charlotte’s blunt confession makes my head snap up as I spin toward her.
“What?”
“You heard me.” Her eyes are locked on me from where she stands at the other end of the dress rack. “You were this girl I’d never met, but I’d always heard about you from Daddy, especially after he’d spent some time with you for your birthday. He seemed so excited about seeing you, I was jealous. That’s why I was braggy when you first came to the academy. I thought if you saw how amazing our family was, you’d leave.”
I’m dumbstruck. What do I even say to that? I try to answer, but all that comes out is a disbelieving sniff.
“Look, I know he’s not the best dad ever, but he tries. He just has no idea how to relate to teenage girls. Well, teenagers, period. He’s the same with Callahan. If it wasn’t so sad, it’d be funny.”
I finally find my voice. “I can’t believe you were jealous of me. I was jealous of you. You have all those photos of your family on those amazing vacations. You all look so happy.”
Charlotte’s laugh is short and harsh. “You know what those photos don’t show? The amount of time he spent on his phone talking to someone in his office. My mom practically dragged him into those photos. Like I said, he’s totally clueless.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.” Charlotte pulls a blood red dress off the rack and holds it up to examine it.
“We’re okay now though, right? We’re friends?”
Charlotte rolls her eyes. “I’ve found you the perfect dress. Ricardo will kick himself for not asking you when he sees you wearing it.” I don’t tell her that the guy I’d love to see me in a gorgeous dress is not Ricardo.
“What happened to your stance that Ricardo is evil and I should stay away?”
She sighs and turns to me. “Look, I’m not a fan of his, but so far this year he hasn’t done anything that proves he’s the cad I think he is, so I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.”
I also don’t mention that he’s been making himself scarce, because I don’t want to argue with her about it.
“Is it that red one? Because red doesn’t look good on me. I end up looking like an overripe tomato.”
“This? Ugh, no.” She shoves it back into the rack. “And Adrienne. We are not friends. We’re sisters.”
32
Silence reigns in the kitchen, broken only by the low grind of my spoon as it cuts through the thick, spiced gingerbread cookie dough I’m mixing. The scents of ginger and cloves fill my nostrils, the aroma summoning images of Christmas. Flickering lights on a white flocked pine tree. Sparkling presents wrapped hurriedly by my mom and tucked under the snow-kissed boughs. Gingerbread men decorated by my mom and me, a tradition we’ve kept every year for as long as I can remember. Only, this year I’m making them alone, instead of accompanied by her explanation of how the baking process works on the ingredients in a chemical reaction that creates soft, tangy gingerbread men we almost can’t wait to sink our teeth into.
