Free The Last Academy by Anne Applegate Page A

rattlesnake-mean theory. But there was always a good reason not to dial. Like I had work to do, or someone else was already on the phone, or the two-hour time change made it too late to call there. Keeping busy seemed a lot easier than having to dial home and ask whoever picked up on the other end why I was far away when they were together.
    And even all that was better than thinking about those other things that had happened: The Golden Mummy Girl Tamara had turned into, or that smell on her that made me think I was being poisoned. Or what Tamara had said at the end: Go ask your friend Barnaby Charon .
     
    A few days later, I sat on a bleacher seat, pretending to watch lacrosse. I felt nice and invisible there. The boys in the bleachers watched the game and the other girls mooned over the players, so there wasn’t too much pressure to talk to anyone. This time, a few of the varsity players stayed to watch the JV team practice. That meant I got to peek at Mark Elliott for a whole hour. I didn’t want to care about boys anymore, but even as Eeyored out as I felt, I couldn’t entirely ignore him.
    When the practice finished and everybody started heading back to campus, he caught up and walked next to me.
    “Hi,” he said. Just like that.
    “Hi,” I said. He was still sweaty and dirty from practice, and he scrubbed his face with his jersey. When it pulled up, I saw his stomach was completely flat, exceptfor these muscles that flexed when he moved. It made me a little dizzy.
    “Some scrimmage,” he said, into the jersey.
    “Yeah.” I kept sneaking glances. It was like being exposed to some superprivate thing. Like his belly button was the page of a diary. “I thought Kirby was going to tank when he got the ball, but he held in there. Janson’s got a serious tackle.”
    I had no idea what he was talking about. Game something. I nodded. When was the last time I had taken a breath? I felt kind of faint. When I inhaled, everything smelled overwhelming: the sun on the grass. The occasional whiff of Mark Elliott. My own hair blowing around, getting caught in the corner of my mouth.
    “Yeah,” I said.
    “You know Beau?” Mark Elliott asked. Beau was one of his friends. They played lacrosse together. Beau was walking a distance behind us, talking to three other senior jocks, his hands tucked casually into his waistband, I guess for lack of pockets.
    “Think you might want to go out with him sometime?” Mark Elliott asked me, staring out across the field, not meeting my eye. His eyebrows squinched together like he was angry.
    “What?” I stopped moving. Breathing, talking, and walking were all I could handle. Throw thinking into the mix, and I had to give something up.
    “He’s kind of shy, but he thinks you’re cute,” Mark Elliott said, still looking off at the horizon like he was too annoyed with me to make eye contact.
    I glanced back at Beau. He and his friends had stopped, too. Beau was cute. He was popular and seemed nice enough. I was superflattered, but I didn’t go all flushed and giggly at the idea of him. I mean, zero sparks. He wasn’t Mark Elliott, was all. We started walking again.
    “No, thanks. I mean, I like him fine. But I don’t … he’s not …” I stopped, totally flustered. Was I actually rejecting a date with a good-looking senior? Did I just say no to something Mark Elliott asked me? How could I be more wrong?
    “He’s not what?” he persisted.
    “I like you.” As soon as it was out of my mouth, I smacked my hand to my lips, trying to grab the words back before they got heard.
    “Oh,” Mark Elliott said. He stopped. I kept walking. I don’t know why. I just kept walking. I wanted to die.
     
    I continued to want to die all the way across the soccer field and the baseball diamond, past the pool and the tennis courts, along the theater, and down to Kelser House.
    Nora stood outside my room, pounding the patio doors with her fist. I was glad to see her, to really talk to