The Academy (32 page)

“Who hasn’t?” Myla said.

The other girl laughed in a way that sounded relieved. “Thank God. That’s the part I didn’t know how to bring up. Basically, I’m writing an article about everything that’s going on, trying to tie it all together. For example, did you know that Mr. Carr has been harassing band members about their religion? He has a Christian club or Bible study group that meets before and after school, and he’s trying to get all of the band members to join it. He’s not just threatening them with hell—he’s threatening to kick them out of band if they don’t convert. Mrs. Habeck, on the other hand, is some sort of witch or pagan. And not one of those we’re-all-one, worship-the-earth Wiccans. She believes in blood sacrifice, and she’s been trying to recruit students to
her
beliefs.”

“I thought you weren’t allowed to do stuff like that at school.”

“You’re not allowed to do stuff like that at a
normal
school. But a charter school’s a different story. And that’s just the beginning of what goes on here. Anyway, I’ve been documenting incidents, talking to witnesses. It’s a pretty well-researched piece, if I do say so myself. The editor in chief and our adviser have already approved it. We’re going to get the word out.”

“Where do I come in?” Myla asked.

“To be honest, I don’t know, exactly. But I figure the student council might have some pull with the administration. Or the PTA. At the very least, you could help us by giving me an on-the-record quote. You’re sort of in a position of authority, and your support might help get this ball rolling.”

“So you want me to come with you?” Myla asked.

“I know you’re on student council, but I
know
you.” She lowered her eyes. “Or at least I did.” She looked up again at Myla. “And you’re not like the rest of them.”

“Uh, thanks. I guess.”

“I mean it. And the things going on . . .” Rachel shook her head. “I can’t explain it. You just have to see it.” She took a deep breath. “And that’s what I want you to do. I was given a couple of tips this morning, and I’m going to check them out.”

“Very Kristen Bell of you.”

Rachel reddened.

“That was a compliment,” Myla said quickly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been hanging around Brad and Ed too much. Their sarcasm’s rubbing off on me. I swore it wouldn’t, but . . .”

“I heard you were going out with Brad,” Rachel said. “Congratulations.”

“You knew that?” Myla was surprised. “And you know Brad?”

“I keep my ear to the ground,” Rachel intoned with mock solemnity. “And I know everyone.”

Myla laughed. “I missed you,” she said.

“I missed you, too.”

The second bell rang.

“You’re definitely late for class now. I can write you an excuse, if you want to go back—or I can write you a pass if you want to come with me.”

“I’ll come,” Myla said.

Rachel was suddenly all business. She opened her backpack, pulled out a notebook and took a pen from her right front jeans pocket. “First stop: girls’ locker room. I got a report that something goes on there every fifth period. But we have to hurry.” She started walking fast down the walkway that led to the sports complex. “A lot of these things I’ve uncovered are tied to certain teachers at certain periods.” She was walking so fast that Myla was having a hard time keeping up. Rachel looked behind her. “Have you noticed anything specific in any of your classes, anything recurring?”

“No,” Myla said, catching up. “Not that I can think of.”

“What about the locker room or your PE class? Who do you have, by the way?”

“French. Sometimes Temple. And, no, I haven’t noticed anything.”

“I’ve heard bad things about Temple,” Rachel said. “That’s who we’re here to see.”

They were nearing the locker rooms. Off to their right, on the field, a couple of the boys had already suited up and were standing around, waiting. Ahead, through the entrance to the stadium, members of Tyler’s all-white football team were walking in a circle around the all-Hispanic soccer team, singing obnoxiously at the top of their lungs.

“La cucaracha! La cucaracha! Stick some peaches up your butt!”

Both teams were in uniform, and Myla thought that strange. Why were they even here? They were supposed to practice after school, not during fifth period.

“La cucaracha! La cucaracha! Stick some peaches up your butt!”

“In here,” Rachel said, drawing her attention away from the stadium. Turning to the left, Myla followed the other girl through the open double doors into the girls’ locker room.

Open doors?

Myla frowned. Anyone walking by could see inside. Those doors were supposed to be closed. And there was also supposed to be a tiled barrier inside the entrance, a large square block the girls had to walk around that hid the interior of the locker room from view when boys passed by. What had happened to that? It had been there this morning.

But that was only the beginning.

Heads turned as the two of them walked into the locker room. Alva Ramierez, one of the toughest, meanest girls in school, scowled at them. “You’re not in this class. What are you doing here?”

Rachel held up her notebook. “I’m writing a story for the school paper.”

“On what? My pussy?”

There were a few titters of nervous laughter from the other girls nearby.

Alva fixed Myla with a hard stare. “What are you staring at, lez?” She threw a wadded pair of panties at her head.

Myla deftly stepped aside.

“You two come to get your jollies watching us undress? That why you’re here?”

Elephants don’t turn me on,
would have been Myla’s response, but before she could even open her mouth, the door to the coach’s office opened, and Mrs. Temple walked out.

Completely naked.

The locker room grew silent. Even Alva seemed cowed. But there was no surprise on the faces of any of the girls, and Myla understood instantly that this was not something out of the ordinary. It happened a lot.

Rachel grabbed her arm and pulled her into the adjunct bathroom, out of the way. The bathroom was dark, and standing next to one of the sinks, they could see but not be seen.

The coach was walking naked between the lockers, up one aisle and down another. Some of the girls were in their gym clothes, some were still in their uniforms and others were in various states of undress, but all of them looked down or away, anyplace but at Mrs. Temple, who strode proudly past them, chest out, shaved crotch on display for all to see. One awkward-looking girl Myla didn’t recognize was standing there in bra and underwear, about to slip on gym shorts, when the coach stopped in front of her. She pulled down the girl’s underwear, turned her around, ran a finger into and down the crack of the girl’s buttocks from the top to the bottom, then continued walking, smiling to herself.

Myla felt like gagging. Rachel was scribbling furiously in her notebook, though she couldn’t possibly see what she was writing.

“In the gym in two!” the coach ordered, and girls scrambled to finish suiting up. “Bring your Ping-Pong paddles!”

Even Alva seemed to have forgotten they were there, and Myla and Rachel watched from the shadows as the locker room emptied out and the girls streamed through the open doorway on the other side of the room and into the adjoining gym. “Come on,” Rachel whispered, sneaking out, and Myla followed.

In the gym, they could see the girls were huddled around the free throw line of the nearest basket. Mrs. Temple, still naked, was standing in the center of the court, hands on hips. As she’d ordered, all the students were carrying Ping-Pong paddles.

“Line up!” the coach said. She spread her legs, bent over and grabbed her ankles. “You each get three hits! Now, I want to feel those swings with some follow-through! Alva, you first! Paddle my ass until it’s cherry apple red!”

Myla and Rachel watched as, one by one, the girls in the class stepped forward and smacked Mrs. Temple’s bare bottom three times in quick succession while the teacher critiqued their strokes. “Pull your arm farther back!” she barked at one girl. “More up-tilt at the end!” she told another.

A couple of times she quivered, moaned and said more softly, “Yes! That’s nice!”

Rachel tugged lightly on her arm, and Myla followed her back through the locker room and outside.

“Oh my God,” Myla said as they hurried down the walkway. “Oh my God.”

Rachel’s normally soft features were set in a grim expression. She did not speak until they were nearly to the lunch tables. “I was tipped off about that. One of the girls in that class told me to come and see for myself. I didn’t know exactly what was going on, but I sort of had an idea. I just didn’t think it was that . . . blatant.

“I should’ve brought along a camera,” she chastised herself. “Visual proof is always better.” She turned toward Myla. “But you’re my witness, right? You know what we saw.”

“I’ll never forget it.”

They stopped walking, and Rachel sat down at one of the lunch tables and jotted down a few more notes. “We have to go to room two eleven,” she said as she wrote, “but we have a few extra minutes.” She stood. “Let’s stop by the Little Theater. There’s something else I want to show you.”

The two of them walked back toward the classroom buildings. There was a scout stationed in front of the corridor that led back to the quad, but Rachel showed him her press pass and that got them through. “Jarrod Helms,” she said dismissively once they’d made it through the corridor. “The only thing more frightening than the thought of him in a uniform is the idea that someday he might get a badge and a gun to go along with it.”

Myla smiled. Same old Rachel.

They walked past a row of classrooms. Ahead, the door to the Little Theater was open, and from within came the sounds of fast-paced country music. Not speaking, motioning with her hand for Myla to follow, Rachel moved to the side of the door. She poked her head around the corner to look into the theater, then switched places with Myla and indicated that she was to do the same.

At first Myla saw nothing. Three-fourths of the auditorium, the area in which an audience would sit during a performance, was dark, the lights off. But she could still hear that hillbilly music, louder now and accompanied by a man’s voice calling out square-dancing instructions, and when she craned her head farther, she saw a lit stage peopled with boys and girls dressed in Western attire. They were paired up and dancing, following the unseen caller’s instructions.

“Swing your partner round and round. Sniff her where it really counts!”

As one, the boys twirled the girls, then lifted them up, shoving their noses straight into the girls’ crotches. There was no giggling or squealing, as she would have expected, no cries of outrage or indignation. Indeed, the students performed the movement mechanically, dutifully, as though they had been through it many times before and were concentrating hard on perfecting their technique.

“With your feet upon the floor, grab her ass and yell for more!”

The girls bent over. Using both hands, the boys reached forward, squeezed the proffered buttocks and, as one, yelled, “Yee haw!”

Myla felt a tug on her arm and pulled herself away from the sight. She followed Rachel down the corridor until they reached the closed doors of the band room. “Gross, isn’t it?” Rachel said.

Myla nodded slowly, looking around at the two-storied classroom buildings ringing the quad. “It makes me wonder what’s going on behind some of those other closed doors, what things are happening that we don’t know about yet.”

“That’s why I’m writing this article. That’s why I’m asking for your help. We need students to get involved. We need to put a stop to this.”

Myla was not even sure if that was possible. They weren’t dealing with a single out-of-control teacher here, or one unfair rule that needed to be changed. Whatever was happening was affecting the whole school. She thought of that locker. There was a supernatural element to it as well, and that frightened her more than anything.

Rachel, though, seemed undaunted, and that gave Myla strength.

The reporter strode into the quad and down a walkway toward the social sciences building. “Last stop on the tour,” she said.

Myla was not sure how much more of this she could take. “What is it this time?”