I chastised myself for my momentary lapse and concentrated instead on the aggravatingly little amount of information I could find about them. According to the website that rates these schools, not much was known about what goes on behind the walls of “the world’s most exclusive boarding school.” I continued reading until I found their mission statement: The International Elite Academy exists to advance the physical, social, and environmental wellbeing of mankind. Blah, blah, blah . . . “Turning elite and responsible young men and women from around the globe into future world leaders since 1939.”
Oh please. I wanted to puke. I scrolled down, looking for the admissions process. There wasn’t one. Apparently, you couldn’t simply apply to the school. They had to pursue you. A chill ran up my spine at this revelation. It was rumored that you had to score in the top one percent on several standardized tests before you could even be considered for their testing process, which reportedly included a thorough physical exam and biological history.
Hmmmm . . . that’s a new one. I read on, intrigued. Apparently, candidates were put through a rigorous testing regime, the contents of which weren’t specified, but was speculated to include intensive mental and physical conditioning designed to weed out anyone except for the very brightest and most physically-abled. Less than one percent of recruits—who were already considered the top one percent—made it beyond the testing portion. And those who did were added to a remarkably exclusive waitlist that allegedly included four-star generals’ children, one of the King of Saudi Arabia’s daughters, and the Chief Executive of Hong Kong’s only son. There was, however, no published documentation to support these claims. Surprise, surprise . . . everything about this school seemed to be classified information.
I extrapolated information in a zombie-like trance, learning very l ittle about the school except that it was considered to be the most renowned military academy in the world, and was ultra-exclusive to the point of “almost anonymity.” Consequently, rumors swirled about the great lengths to which billionaires, diplomats, and even royalty went to acquire an invitation for their children. Some were known to give endowments in the millions to a school their child was not even admitted to, in the faintest hope they would be added to the waitlist.
Huh. My body froze up like an ice cube while my brain whirred with the information I’d uncovered. So the world’s wealthiest and most illustrious families were throwing millions at the school just for the chance of going through the admissions process, and yet Andrew Richmond Connelly from Nowhere, New Mexico was having the red carpet rolled out for him. I pictured our humble abode, complete with balding tires holding down the roof. It would almost be comical if there weren’t something so sinister about it. Why not just go back to their elite pool of recruits? Why go after one particular candidate so hard?
Mama’s “irrational” fear of outsiders and special schools was starting to make a whole lot of sense now. Her protectiveness seemed the opposite of irrational in light of current events. Why didn’t we just listen to her? Oh right—because she was “crazy.”
What made Daddy change his mind? I thought of the two handsome and obviously persuasive representatives, and my blood boiled. Who do they think they are messing with our lives this way? If they think we’re easy marks, just ripe for the picking, then they could just think again!
I only had a few more minutes left, so I zipped off an email to Reese, logged-out, and sat back to digest what I’d learned, instead of the protein bar I didn’t get around to eating. I left the library with more questions than answers, determined to have a come-to-Jesus-meeting with Daddy.
13
THE NEW GUY
When I stepped outside, the afternoon sun glinted off my glasses, scattering prisms of light across the patchy grass and uneven sidewalks that made up our school’s terrain. First-day-back excitement united everyone in a blanket of holiday like revelry. My backpack wasn’t the only thing weighing me down. I longed to lay down my burdens, if only for a moment, and join the land of the normal.
Usually, I hustled to class to avoid any social obligations I’d be uninterested in or unable to fulfill. Now I deliberately stalled so I could peruse the mingling students for a tall, hunky cadet posing as a senior. I was a black and white domino of dismay—equal parts afraid I would see him and that I wouldn’t. But there was nothing new to see, aside from a couple of unfortunate haircuts and some dubious couplings.
I huffed out a sigh. Really, what are the odds of lightening striking twice in Clovis? Guys like that generally stayed in their own world.
As I ambled to the low basic brick building for my Spanish II class, I played different scenarios out in my mind about who the new boy could possibly be. Suddenly, I was as interested as everybody else. My heart did flip-flops just thinking about the possibility of it being Pete or Ranger (although for way different reasons).
A Bienvenidos Estudiantes sign greeted us outside the open door, and from inside the room, our names written out on cards greeted us from our desks. We would be seated alphabetically. How very middle school of him. Everyone complained as they entered, walking around dejectedly looking for their assigned seats.
Mine would be easy to find—I was always in the first row, four or five seats back behind Zoe Bucknore or Sean Castillos. It’d been the same since kindergarten. No wonder everyone is so excited for a new face. I backtracked to my seat right next to the door, second from last.
Steph Aguilar passed me on the way to her seat and grimaced. “Ugh. First row, first seat.” I gave a sympathetic smile. “Where were you? We spotted the hot, new guy as he was coming back from lunch. Ashley-Leigh parked as close as possible, but everyone was literally all over him. She decided to stay a little longer and wait it out.”
The bell rang, ending our one-sided conversation. I sat down, doodling on the inside of my notebook and mulling over everything. I saw my unconscious doodles had morphed into two questions: Pete? Or Ranger?
“Bienvenidos!” Mr. Sanchez greeted us with an enthusiastic first-day-of-class voice and a neon-yellow tie. Both seemed especially jarring considering my frayed nerves.
Just then, the door sucked opened behind me and closed with a Bang! that caused me and half the class to jump. This was followed by an “oopsie” and an unapologetic giggle.
“Nice of you to join us, Señorita Montgomery,” Mr. Sanchez chastised Ashley while she made her way to the center of the room with a lot of fanfare. “Okay, today we’re going to go over the syllabus, hand out your new workbooks,”—he briefly held one up: Dos Mundos, Two Worlds—“and then go around the room, so you can introduce yourselves and show off what you did this summer by telling us . . . in Spanish.”
Predictable groans followed this announcement. Not very original. Teachers must all take a class on how to bore students to death on the first day back. I didn’t care one way or the other, too preoccupied with speculation about the new guy and my list of questions for the mentor.
“First, I’m going to take role while,” he paused, looking around for a suitable candidate, “Señor Lopez passes out the syllabus.”
Miguel popped up with an affable smile while Mr. Sanchez began moving through the “B” names. I was mentally preparing for him to call mine next, when the door behind me sucked back open. Someone stepped into the room and closed the door with a soft click. Twenty-plus heads flew to the back of the room simultaneously. I found myself blushing under all the scrutiny until I realized—they weren’t staring at me. Tingles ran up my spine.