The Academy--Chapter Eight

WOAH-HO-HO, this is chapter eight. EIGHT. EIGHT!!!!

Please proceed. (Sorry, this portion is kinda boring.)

Chapter 8

“So.”
Alastair looked up from his French homework that was spread across the metal table.
“So,” he said, showing his teeth for a brief moment before concentrating on his work again.
“So,” I sighed. “Who did you talk to?”
“My parents.”
One thing that I loved about Alastair was that he didn’t pretend to not know what I was talking about. Even if he wasn’t sure, he gave the answer that he thought I wanted, and usually his assumptions were correct.
“Anybody else?”
He held his pencil above the paper, barely hovering, then set it down. Straightening up from his hunched position, he interlaced his fingers on the table in front of him and looked at me.
“My brother.”
My eyebrows went up. “Wait, you have a brother?”
“Yeah. Trey.”
“Alastair and Trey,” I mused. “How old is he?”
“He’s eighteen.”
“Same age as Doren,” I said absently. “Did he go to the Academy?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Hesitating at first, he murmured, “He didn’t want to.”
“But most everyone from Lawrence goes here.”
Alastair picked up his pencil again and wrote a French sentence in careful cursive.
“We don’t live in Lawrence.”
I gazed at Alastair’s dark locks curiously. This boy was always full of surprises. Why hadn’t he told me that his family lived away from Lawrence?
“Well, where do you-–they–-live, then?”
“Germany.”
“Germany?”
“Yeah. Surprised, are you?”
“Yes.”
I let him continue with his homework in silence.
The conversation was pointless, anyways. I only wanted to hear Alastair to talk about something–-anything–-because I didn’t want to think about my family. I didn’t want to think that my mother would dismiss my hidden warning and send Eloise to the Academy in one week. I didn’t want to see a strawberry-blonde head come through that enormous front gate. I didn’t want that head to be exposed to all of this; I didn’t want it to be molded and brainwashed with all of the refuse that filled this miserable place.
“Poppy, if you really wanted to talk about your younger sister, why didn’t you just talk about her?”
“I know,” I breathed out in relief. Another great thing about Alastair–-he could read me. He knew what was wrong and what I wanted to talk about. “I’m really, really frightened. What if my message didn’t get across to my mother? What if she sends Eloise here anyways? What am I going to do about Sawyer?”
Epiphany.
“Sawyer,” I repeated. I suddenly stood, rattling the table and sending Alastair’s pencil across the paper in a squiggly line. I apologized quickly and excused myself. Beginning to run, I flew across the courtyard, snow following my feet in flurries. I almost ran into a couple of small children, and had to squeeze myself between a group of sixteen-year-olds. When I reached the girls’ dormitories, I breathed shortly and opened the door. I didn’t even stop to wipe off my wet shoes on the mat before sprinting down the entry hallway and slamming a palm into the elevator button. Impatiently, I waited.
When the elevator finally let me onto the correct floor, I made my way past a few doors and then unlocked the door to my apartment. Avery lay on the bed, asleep. I wanted to wake her up and ask her about her call to her parents, but I didn’t want to take the time just yet. A more pressing matter was at hand.