Over the next couple of days every time the phone rang, Andrew or Daddy would jump up to answer it only to frown and grumble into the phone. Mikey and I were delighted in equal proportion to Daddy and Andrew’s disappointment. When almost a whole week went by and we hadn’t heard anything back from them, I began to get my hopes up that the feeling I had that Andrew wouldn’t be seeing the inside of “The Academy” again was accurate.
The following Monday found me back in school and on my regular schedule, except for P.E. I was allowed to sit out for the duration of the semester, in case someone hit me in the head with a ball. Probably for the best—I didn’t think I’d have the heart to play soccer. Ever again.
I tried to resume my life as normally as possible, but my lifelessness was commented on by more than one person. It was hard pretending okay when the whole world was drained of color. Overnight, it was back to the same muted sepia tone from before Pete’s arrival. Soon, I feared, it would digress further into nothing but black and white. And then even further . . . into gray.
Late afternoon, nine days after Pete left, I was picking up the mail when impatiently expectant hands snatched the tidy package right out from under me before I even had a chance to realize there was something to snatch.
“Aw, man!” Dejection radiated from the backseat. “It’s for you.” Andrew immediately tossed it back over.
“Hey! I’m sorry there’s no news, Drews, but you still can’t throw things at my head right now.” I was lying—as far as I was concerned no news was good news.
“No-news-Drews! No-news-Drews!” Mikey began gleefully chanting.
“Shut-up!” Andrew blasted at Mikey. Then to me: “Sorry . . . it’s only a stupid box.”
I eyed the unmarked box. I certainly hadn’t ordered anything. Hmmm. I picked it up and felt a zinging jolt radiate up my spine. A second later my foot stomped gas petal, spewing gravel behind us as we careened back to our house. I abandoned the boys in the smoking hatchback while I sprinted to the kitchen to wrench open the knife drawer. Then proceeded to butcher through the cardboard in my haste to pry it open for the prize inside. I felt like a girl about to pull out a little black velvet box. Instead, I found myself holding a plastic case with a pair of tortoise-shell glasses inside. Hands trembling, I put them on. Sure enough—they were prescription free. So Pete hadn’t been fooled after all. I wondered what he made of me walking around wearing glasses every day when I could see just fine. I was about to find out. There was a folded note inside.
Kate,
Here are the glasses I owe you. Sorry they are so late coming, but I didn’t have a chance to get them to you before because I left rather unexpectedly and had too many other loose ends to tie up. Wear them in good health. I agree with you . . . your mother was an exceptionally smart lady.
-Pete
Right the next day, we got another bit of gold delivered to us in our tin metal mailbox (although I considered this one to be fool’s gold). It was Andrew’s long-awaited-for acceptance letter to the International Elite Academy, delivered with zero fanfare. I read it over twice through my clear frames. Weirdly, I didn’t get worked up over it. I chalked it up to just being numb—I wasn’t feeling much of anything these days.
And that was the last we heard from Pete Davenport, or his academy, for quite some time.
37
KISS OF DEATH
October blew away, along with the flurry of snowflakes that dusted the ground in ghostly white. November emerged cold and desolate as the horizon of my future. Teeth brushed and barely showered, I was heading off to bed when a faint knock at the door stalled my feet. Huh? I hadn’t heard Daddy’s Bronco or any other vehicle for that matter. Blue started barking and wagging his tail at the same time. Some guard dog. I debated about going to fetch Daddy’s shotgun, but Blue began whining and scratching at the door, looking up expectantly like I should know what his canine senses had already picked up.
And then — Shezam! — like a bolt of lightning, it hit me. My heart stopped beating and everything. I flew to the door.
“You always open the door late at night when you’re home alone?”
“Pete!” I gasped.
He looked, for him, like hell—disheveled and like he hadn’t slept in two nights. But it was more than that, like he was weighed down by the weight of the world. Like the rest of us mere mortals. It was disconcerting to see him this way—the way a child feels the first time he sees a parent break down in front of him. Like your rock just cracked beneath your feet. I’d never seen Pete anything less than commanding and in charge. He honestly looked on the verge of collapse.
I was momentarily rooted to the spot . . . until he reached out to me, stumbling over the crowbar habitually placed at our doorstep at night. And then I snapped out of it to catch him as he half fell into me for a hard hug. I was too alarmed to even appreciate it.
“Pete! What is it? What’s wrong?”
Pete shrugged off his navy coat and let it drop before slinging a heavy arm over my shoulder. We trudged together over to the couch, where he sank heavily into the sunken cushions. He made a face at my face, closing his eyes against me as though I were too much to bear.
“Pete!” I shook his shoulder.
He lolled his head back, his eyes popping open to stare at me. An encyclopedia’s amount of emotions flitted across his face before landing on his old stand-by—humor.
“I have some good news and some bad news. Which one do you want first?” He spoke so softly I had to bend over to catch it.
“The good news!” I cried, straightening up. I was desperate for some good news, especially when he looked like this.
He reached up, in slow-mo, to pull me back down. “The Academy is no longer as interested in Andrew,” he whispered so softly I wasn’t even sure of what I’d heard.
“What’s the bad news?” And why are we whispering?
“The Academy is no longer as interested in Andrew.”
I caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath. Is he drunk? That would certainly explain the odd behavior. I, for one, thought this was good news all around so didn’t understand why he looked like someone just stole a kidney. I was about to form this question when he pulled me closer. Did. Not. Mind.
“Kate . . .” he began.
“What is it, Pete?” My eyes flicked back and forth across his face before homing in on his eyes; they appeared flat and black as his shirt.
“Will you do something for me?”
“Yeah, sure. Anything!” I cried. “Whatd’ya want me to do?”
A coil of something terrible rolled around his eyes. He laughed harshly. Ran a hand through his hair, which was shorter and stood on end after he did that now. Like the hairs on my arms. I’d already noticed his haircut of course: it was neat and uniform and diametrically opposed to his present state.
Eyes half-closed, he smiled sloppily up at me. “Kiss me,” he said, changing tactics mid-play.
“What?” Isn’t that the exact thing he’d been trying to get me not to do since we’d met?
Pete gave a devil-may-care grin, yet his eyes didn’t sparkle like his teeth. “Kiss me. I don’t care if there are a million reasons why it’s wrong. Just—”