The Academy Read online

  Steel’s incredible powers of memory had worked to his favor. Hinchman never had to repeat a concept twice. If he outlined a play on a whiteboard, Steel had it memorized instantly, requiring only repetition in the pit to perfect it. But over the weeks of early morning practice, another benefit of his reliable memory revealed itself. He came to realize that each ball possessed individual characteristics. Some were smoother than others; some were slightly more or less inflated; each ball bounced differently. Steel could visually capture each bounce, each reflected angle like a camera taking high-speed shots. If he and Hinchman spent a few minutes passing and shooting at each other, Steel’s photographic brain recorded and learned the nuances of each ball. He taught himself to measure the force with which the ball was struck, so that the next time Hinchman’s hand started five inches, or a foot from the ball, Steel knew how fast it would travel and at what angle it would leave the ground. He then calculated the trajectory, and he found it easy to predict both its path and its rate of travel. All of this happened in but an instant, and yet he found it an effortless task—he knew exactly where the ball would go practically before it was hit.

  He had never adapted his gift to a sport; he’d always considered himself more brainiac than jock, so his early success with ga-ga inspired him to try all the harder, to practice agility moves on his own, to learn striking techniques—slapping, spinning, and clubbing the ball—and to listen carefully to everything Hinchman taught him. It was not uncommon to hear the slap of an open palm striking a ball across the playing fields in the free time between the end of organized sports and the dinner bell, and to look out to see a solitary figure—Trapp—working against the brick wall of the gymnasium.

  The tryout, with twenty students competing for the seven spots on Sparta, began just after lunch, in a forty-minute time period before the start of afternoon classes. As a club sport, ga-ga could not cut into organized athletics, so Hinchman and the other club coaches found, and took advantage of, whatever free time could be had. The boys didn’t bother removing their ties; they simply peeled off their school blazers and entered the pit. The girls wore stretch-fabric bike shorts beneath the khaki skirts they were required to wear to classes. The twenty students were divided into four teams, and play began. Ten players became nine, eight, seven…and the play intensified. Five…three…and finally a team won. The other ten players entered the pit, and another round began. At the end of play, the teams were recombined by Hinchman, who was furiously taking down and studying notes on his aluminum clipboard.

  It should have been simple enough. The twenty students would be reduced to fifteen after the first cut; to ten following the second tryout; and down to eight, by the end of the third.

  It might have been simple enough if it hadn’t been for Steel. Nineteen of the tryouts were Fifth and Sixth Formers, many returning team players. All except for Steel. Just the idea that a Third Form student would try out for a club team rankled many of the upperclassmen who had tried, and failed, to make a club team in the years prior.

  So on this particular warm September afternoon, with students having little to do until the 1 p.m. bell, group by group, they began to fill the octagonal wooden bleachers that had surrounded the ga-ga pit for the past forty years. Matches often filled up the stands as students came out to support their club teams. Tournaments at the end of each semester were standing room only. But seldom, if ever, had more than a handful of the curious or bored gathered to watch a tryout.

  The phenomenal abilities of the young Third Form student escaped no one. It seemed that the spud was magnetically repelled from him. Moreover, he was an unselfish player, willing to pass rather than to take the strike. He seemed to see the pit, the angles, the movement of players, in ways others did not. He stood out from the moment play began.

  Steel had been coached by Hinchman to not worry too much about this first round of tryouts. The competition would be tough, but there were always four or five students out of their depth. Hinchman felt that, with all the hard work Steel had put into it, he was fairly certain to make the first cut. After that, it was anyone’s game. But Hinchman had only been vaguely aware of a boy out playing shots against the gymnasium wall late afternoons. Had failed to connect that this boy might possibly have been Steel.

  Steel’s superiority and confidence revealed itself immediately. In the first round alone, he had three assists and two strikes, had been the last player standing for his group, meaning he played a role in the elimination of every player in the opposing group. Hinchman had to recheck his notes several times to believe this. Such dominance had not been seen in the pits for over twenty years. It had to be some kind of fluke.

  By the time the second round began, Hinchman secretly tested Steel further by saddling him with three of the worst performers from the first round. Word spread quickly through the small school—the action was at the ga-ga pit. The stands filled.

  Hinchman had never seen anything like it: faculty and students alike crammed onto the bleachers, pointing out players and talking among themselves—at a tryout.

  Steel paid little attention to his own accomplishments. His focus was on each player, the bounce of the ball, the method of striking, the footwork. Watching the first round both as a spectator and player, he had recorded the patterns of each player. Just as Hinchman had told him, a player performed in predictable ways. This player rose to her toes before a strike, but onto her heels in anticipation of a pass. One of the boys held his breath and pursed his lips before an attempted strike; another lifted his elbow higher before the attack. Each move, each face, each pattern was recorded into the neocortex of his brain, where it was permanently filed. Hinchman could recombine the groups all he wanted: Steel knew exactly what competition he faced before the first whistle ever blew.

  The second round proved more difficult than the first. He would pass the ball, only to have his teammate miss it. Two on his team were incredibly slow to pick up a shot off the wall, and were quickly eliminated. Only minutes into the game, it was five players to Steel’s three, and Steel understood from Hinchman’s coaching the tremendous disadvantage this put him in. A few shots later it was four to two: he and a girl were facing four others. One of the opposition grew overconfident and struck the spud too hard. The ball bounced over the wall, and the player left the game. Three to two. Steel’s teammate was surrounded in a brilliant show of team play, and before Steel could offer a countermove to free her, she was struck and it was down to just him. Three to his one.

  He knew what was coming—the triangle. They had performed it on the girl, and now they would come after him with the same technique.

  The whistle blew.

  Passing the ball, the other team worked to isolate Steel between them, to move him to the center of the pit. If he stayed too close to the wall, they could use quick passing and a deflection to hit him. But a properly executed triangle meant defeat. He and Hinchman had reviewed the problem formation a dozen times on the whiteboard. The one sure way—the only real way—to beat it was to intercept an early pass and make an immediate strike. Once a triangle formed and the passing sped up, the captured player was all but out. Eventually the legs would be exposed and hit.

  Steel had memorized most of the idiosyncrasies of his opponents. It was now a matter of pushing away the pressure, of seeing his predicament as opportunity instead of challenge. Here was his chance to put into practice everything he and Hinchman had discussed.

  Two of the three he faced were seniors, veteran players with championship competitions under their belts. They worked fluidly as teammates, so comfortable with the other person’s play as to use head and eye signals instead of words to set their plays. But Steel had seen most of this in the first round and had it committed to memory.

  When the tall one—the captain—cocked his head to the left, Steel knew the triangle was coming. Before he ever saw the second senior move to occupy the position, Steel measured the movement of the captain’s hand from the ball, and he jumped into
the passing lane, a step ahead of the boy for whom the pass was intended. Steel stole the pass, spun, and slapped the spud into a low skid. The senior jumped to avoid the strike, but what he didn’t realize was that Steel already knew that jump of his; Steel’s strike was not intended to hit him directly, but to rebound off the wall behind him and hit him in the calves as he came down.

  The crowd erupted into a cheer. Many of the spectators came to their feet. The senior left the pit, snarling at Steel on his way out.

  Hinchman held the ball, ready to resume play.

  Steel felt good about his chances: two to one. The remaining senior, a girl, was a problem…she was a very good player. The junior, a boy, presented Steel with possibilities. He had a slow left hand and was clumsy when forced to spin to the left.

  The spud hovered in Hinchman’s hand, ready to fall.

  Steel spotted a familiar face in the stands. It was Nell Campbell, on her feet, eyes bright, her cheeks flushed with excitement. Her full attention, every bit of her energy, was focused on him. She was cheering, bouncing up and down, her hair lifting like a curtain over her head.

  The whistle blew. The ball fell.

  Steel turned too late.

  He felt the cold slap of the spud sting his left leg. He’d been hit. He was out.

  The crowd let out a collective sigh. Steel, confused and caught, glanced once to Hinchman—his coach was disappointed. Then to Nell Campbell. All the excitement had left her face. She turned, disinterested in him now, collected her books and left the bleachers. A good number of other students left as well.

  Steel stepped over the wall of the pit, his first real taste of failure like a poison in his system. He wanted to hide. He wanted to run away. He wasn’t used to being beaten, and it hurt him all the more.

  He found a seat with the other losers. Having lasted as he had, he was certain to make the cut and play in the second round. But he’d let himself down, allowed himself to be distracted. Worse, he’d let Hinchman down.

  The following tryouts had yet to be scheduled. He understood he had more to learn than just technique. He had beaten himself, and that hurt most of all.

  Worse, he could relive the cheers, the stands exploding as he broke the triangle. He’d never experienced anything like that—the thrill of massive adoration.

  He wanted it again. He wanted more.

  “There will be more ga-ga tryouts after classes today, but before athletics begin.” Kaileigh had snuck up behind him as Steel was on his way back to his dorm, intending to lick his wounds.

  “You saw?” he asked.

  “Yes. And you were incredible.”

  “I got knocked out.”

  “So what? For a while there…anyway, the point is there will be more tryouts.”

  “I won’t go again until tomorrow or Wednesday. The next round.”

  “I’m not talking about you, as amazing as that may be to you. I’m talking about all the team tryouts and the attention they receive.”

  She was right. He was focused entirely on his loss. It had consumed him.

  “So? What about it?” he said.

  “So half the school will be watching. Meaning that would be an excellent time to—”

  “Check out the chapel.” He stopped and turned. Kaileigh’s face revealed her reluctance. “But I thought you didn’t want to risk getting into trouble,” he said.

  “That was until you brought up the idea of something horrible happening, of those boys pulling off a Columbine. If I did anything that…if I ever looked back and thought I could have stopped something like that from happening. Well…no one needs another school shooting.”

  “It’s about time,” he said. “So you’ll go with me? I can’t do it without a guard.”

  “Penny can help out. He can monitor the cameras and let us know if anyone’s coming.”

  “Last I checked, neither of us had a cell phone.”

  “No, but the maintenance guys use walkie-talkies, and Penny knows where they’re kept.”

  “We can ‘borrow’ a few?”

  “It can be arranged,” she said.

  “After class?”

  “Between our last class and the start of sports,” she suggested. “No one will use the chapel until choir practice, and that’s not until after dinner.”

  “Done your homework, have you?”

  She blushed and lowered her head, averting her eyes.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she answered. Steel knew better than to pursue this awkward moment.

  “We’ll meet under the silver ash around back.”

  Steel and Kaileigh entered the chapel through the choir room as they had done before. Steel carried the two-way radio Kaileigh had brought for him, the volume turned down low, but loud enough to hear.

  They opened the door that led into the chancel, the pipe organ to their right. Immediately, no matter how quietly they attempted to walk, their footfalls echoed off the stone and up to the high ceiling with its massive wooden crossbeams.

  Steel walked about the chancel, looking for a spot to hide a tiny camera.

  “Shouldn’t we try to move Sir David?” Kaileigh asked. “Remember the spilled coffee? I bet two of us could move it.”

  “Using the camera was Penny’s idea, not mine,” Steel answered. “And it’s smart. If we see something going on, then we’ll know what to do. And this way we don’t have to be here all night waiting around.”

  “But are we sure the camera will work? What if it’s too dark?”

  “You’re the one who thinks Penny is so cool.”

  “Do not.”

  “It’s a wireless camera from the library. He borrowed it.” Steel slipped it out of his pocket and showed it to her. It was nothing but a bead of clear plastic on a box about the size of a pack of cigarettes. It had a single switch and a short black wire as an antenna. He needed to find somewhere to install it that had a view of most of the chapel, yet a place not easily noticed.

  “The balcony,” Steel said.

  A hundred years earlier, a small choir had sung down into the nave from the balcony. It held three rows of stair-stepped wooden benches with a center aisle between them. It was only used now when the nave filled to overflowing—Christmas and Easter services.

  Steel and Kaileigh climbed a set of rickety wooden stairs. The stairwell smelled musty and old the higher they climbed.

  “You sure about this?” she asked in a whisper.

  “It’s the best spot,” Steel said.

  They entered the balcony, Kaileigh following Steel closely. Neither said a thing. The view was awe inspiring: the white marble Sir David kneeling with his massive sword; the rows of dark wood pews facing each other across the gray marble floor; the raised pulpit that slightly hid the pipe organ; the distant altar with a white linen cloth draped over it; the tall silver cross that rose from the altar majestically; and all of it bathed in a multicolored kaleidoscopic glow that emanated from the towering stained-glass windows in the transept and along the walls.

  Steel kneeled to get a look between the balustrades that supported the front rail. From here the camera would have a view of most of the chapel. Penny had provided him a ball of a claylike white adhesive, and Steel used it to stick the camera to the underside of the rail. He felt certain no one would see it. The lower rail was decorated with large dental molding; the box blended in well.

  Kaileigh followed his efforts and nodded at him, still not speaking.

  There was a reverence to the place, a holiness that seemed to demand their silence. But Steel had to speak. He switched the camera on.

  He clicked the transmission button and said, “P, do you see anything?” They couldn’t be absolutely certain their conversation wouldn’t be overheard, so they’d decided to keep things as cryptic as possible.

  “Got it. Angle it a little lower.”

  Steel worked with the small metal box. “Now?”

  “Better. Try a little to the left—your left.”
/>   Steel rocked the box on a slight angle.

  “Perfect. Wait a second…” Penny’s voice rang with concern. “You got company. Front door.”

  Steel double-checked the camera, confirming that it had been adhered good and tight.

  Kaileigh slipped beneath the bench. Steel had every intention of finding a place to hide as well, but he’d taken too long with the camera. A bang and groan thundered into the chapel as one of the heavy doors opened.

  Boom, it shut again.

  Steel twisted the volume button, shutting off the radio. He remained absolutely still. He dared not even breathe.

  Footsteps.

  And then, directly below him, a white-haired head appeared. An adult. A man.

  The man walked up the center of the marble floor, kneeled, held his hands to his lips, and then stood, finding a seat in the front row of the pews. He folded his hands and lowered his head.

  Steel slowly exhaled. He looked down, his eyes meeting Kaileigh’s. She looked slightly terrified, lying on her side beneath the low bench. He felt an urge to reach out and touch her face and calm her. He resisted it.

  They waited. And waited.

  Kaileigh tapped her watch, indicating the time: sports started in five minutes. They would both be marked absent. Not only would that have disciplinary consequences, but sometimes a coach would send a student off looking for the missing person. They didn’t need a search party coming after them. Worse: Penny would abandon his electronic surveillance soon. They would need his spying services in order to get out of the chapel without being seen.

  The next time he looked at Kaileigh she touched her lips, kissing the end of her finger, and pointed to him, reminding him to kiss her if they were caught.