The Academy's Legacy


The wind was always harsher up on that high gym balcony, and tonight was no different. My hair whipped across my eyes when I turned my head to take a last look over the two blocks of flames that used to be my school. The buildings were easy to pick out; most were dark shapes against the dancing orange glow. A few, like the kitchen and the lab, sent towers of pale grey smoke up against the night sky. Surprisingly, I could still envision precisely what kind of plant belonged in each of the smoldering flower beds across the street. I knew I'd never be able to erase the imprint this place left in me and on my life, but its strength, even after seven years, sometimes frightened me. I heard the sirens approaching as I made my way down the three flights of stone steps. My fingers slowly released the brown-painted iron railing that was now growing warm despite the cool night. I calmly waited in plain view, in the driveway near the street. My back was straight, legs spread wide, weight balanced over my toes, and fingers knit behind my head. Hopefully the LAPD would already know why they were coming, but I didn't want to take any chances on provoking them. I was satisfied, even though I had hours of questioning yet ahead for me tonight.

***

Celeste and I quieted down when the tardy bell rang, and we properly redirected our attention to the front of the classroom. Neither of us bowed our heads, and our eyes were open as Mrs. Kincaid said prayer. I read the latest additions to the scribbles on the brown plastic desk -- something about how the previous note about wanting to kiss Jeremy was a sin against God. I thought wanting to kiss him might be a sin against nature -- but God? -- not particularly. Celeste skimmed last night's assigned passage of Pilgrim's Progress. Her haste wasn't terribly necessary, considering we both had to read the book at least once before in the course of the eleven years we'd already spent at Hillbrook Christian Academy. During class I worked on completing that night's homework early, as usual. One ear was uninterestedly trained on Mrs. Kincaid's droning about Pilgrim's lack of faith and how that related to the students.

Celeste wrote furiously in her notebook, disguising as notes her progress in the novel she had been trying to write for five years now. My ever-present hatred for the school flared a moment as my thoughts flashed to a vision of Celeste, distraught and sobbing uncontrollably over the loss of her written work just barely a year previous. The principal had burned her notebook in his private fireplace when the writings had somehow fallen into his possession. She stormed out of his office, refusing to watch as he'd demanded. Then she found me and promptly broke down. I'd barely managed to keep her from suicide that night. Something she'd been working on for four years had just been maliciously destroyed. Things like that happened far too often at this school, and each time more weight was added to the ball of rage in the pit of my stomach. The school's administration had a vendetta for Celeste, and was constantly trying to justify expelling her. It seemed that in their estimation, she thought for herself too much. Her family legacy didn't help, either. Her older brother had turned the school upside-down in the course of the time he'd attended the Academy. While she wasn't nearly as provocative, it didn't seem to matter. My beliefs were much farther from what the school preached than hers were, but I was more careful about expressing my opinions. I moved through the school like an automaton for the most part. Celeste had unfortunately never learned the art of subtlety or restraint and was always speaking her mind on issues. Debating with the teachers got her in far more trouble than it was worth in most cases. Usually it landed her in a private conference with members of the administration.

My attention was snapped back to the classroom as Mrs. Kincaid singled Celeste out to answer a question which she, of course, answered correctly. We'd both developed the ability to faultlessly split our attention, so the teachers were constantly foiled in their attempts to catch Celeste not following the lesson. To give her a break from the grilling I raised my hand and offered some of my insights to Mrs. Kincaid. As usual, she ate them right up. Celeste took copious notes in between her scribblings on her novel so she'd have something to hand the teachers when they inevitably demanded to examine what she was working on. Her ability to keep up all this so consistently over the years amazed me as much as its necessity disgusted me. The constant stress that she bore would have been inconceivable for most high school students, but somehow she managed with only the occasional breakdowns. The bell for class end interrupted my thoughts, though it could never be too soon for either of us. On the way out the door we started talking about what was on our minds. Chapel was next, and we wouldn't be able to talk freely again until lunch.

"I wish she'd just give up trying. It's not like she's going to find anything unless she actually searches everything I carry."

"You know she won't do that, not in class at least. She couldn't have that many witnesses to an unreasonable search, after all. You could file harassment charges on her if she tried that too often, anyway."

"Ya, so instead the administration'll just search my locker every day until they do find something. It's not like I can prove that. Christ, I wish I could leave this hellhole -- not fucking likely, though. I have to carry on the family tradition, after all."

"Well, I'm trapped here, too. Only a year left, though. I hope we make it out in one piece."

"You know we lost that battle years ago. I just want to make it out alive at this point."

***

Three months after that day I sat cross-legged over Celeste's week-old grave, burning white sage to purify the area and to ease her spirit. There I wrote my vows of vengeance and sealed them with my signature in blood. The school had driven her to death, like too many before her, and I had to make sure the Academy would never do it again. First, though, I had to make sure that Celeste's work was finished.

I gathered together as much of her writing and notes as possible from her locker and room. I was grateful that her parents never locked the garage entrance. Disclosing all her hiding places without waking her parents in the next room had been a challenge. Only I knew enough about her book to put the papers I had into order and fill in the missing pieces. We had talked about the novel constantly and often joked that I knew parts even better than she did. I would complete her book, and publish it in her name. The Academy had stolen from her the joy of finishing her work.

That school would never destroy another life, and those who had contributed to her death would take responsibility for their actions someday. I wasn't going to leave it up to their God to exact vengeance for their sins. It would be many years before I could fulfill my vows, but I would. Finishing her novel would be a tribute to her life, and putting an end to the Academy would be a tribute to her death.

***

Everything went silent as I tried to comprehend. The only complete thought my mind could piece together was, "My God, they finally killed her. " My lips moved in toneless monotony, "They'll pay. They'll pay. With their God as my witness they'll pay. If I have to send them to hell myself they'll pay." It was long minutes before I realized her brother's voice was still speaking to me from the telephone. I dazedly mumbled "I understand," as I turned from the payphone and hung the receiver back on the cradle. I sunk down the wall into a chair, looking rather like a fading ghost. I finally noticed the school nurse was watching me suspiciously over the counter. It was all I could do to keep from flying at her, screaming at the top of my lungs, "Look what you did! Do you still think you're so holy? She's dead. Do you understand me? You killed her! All of you killed her." I fought the urge to throw up there, and instead ran out the door with her eyes following me.

I was in the bathroom for the better part of an hour. I didn't know how I was going to be able to keep going to the Academy after what they'd done. It disgusted me that they could act without so much as a thought to consequences. It repulsed me that they felt it necessary to thoroughly break down students without regard for what problems their methods might raise. When I finally regained enough strength I ran to her locker and grabbed everything left in it that wasn't a textbook. The administration wouldn't know of her death for a few more hours at the earliest, and they'd assume she took her things with her when she left for home. Home -- that's where I went and stayed for the next week. The administration allowed me the week's bereavement allotted to family because she was my best friend. It wouldn't surprise me if they guessed I knew a good number of the reasons for her suicide and thought it better to appease me.

How could I not know? She'd left her backpack and notebooks in her locker while she went to meet with the principal, and the notebooks of her book were gone when she went back to retrieve them. She'd run to me, frantic and breathless, asking if I'd taken them from her locker; I hadn't. I hugged her while she shook, knowing as well as she did that one of the administrators must have searched her locker while she was in the meeting. She was terrified that they'd burn her writings again. Expulsion didn't matter to her at this point as long as they didn't destroy what she'd worked so to rewrite. I barely talked her out of suicide the last time, and I was sure that I wouldn't be able to again. I tried to calm her down, only managing to get her to be able to stand on her feet again.

The principal walked up to us then with that self-righteous look on his face, and he spoke with the accompanying condescending tone. "Celeste, could you accompany me to my office for a few more minutes? I'm afraid I forgot to address one thing. Oh, and Shauna, you'd better get going if you're going to make it to Bible class on time." Her eyes pleaded with mine as he steered her away from me. My hatred burned into the back of his head until he disappeared into the office building. I was a few minutes late to class anyway; my pen tore through the tardy slip when I signed it.

My thoughts were elsewhere while Mr. Walton lectured on the evils of dancing. His topic probably meant that some students in another class had been caught at a party last weekend. My eyes shifted between the door across the room and the windows to my left, hoping to see some sign of Celeste. The sign I got was not the one I needed. Toward the end of class I watched from the second story as she wildly sprinted across the parking lot to her car. She fumbled with the keys before jerking the door open. Her face was soaked with tears. The car pulled erratically out and sped past the Academy's gates for the last time.

As soon as class was over I ran to the payphone in the nurse's office. I dialed her number, but it was busy. I almost yelled out, "Shit!" but managed to catch myself just barely. From listening to all of Celeste's ramblings I knew enough about her family to get her brother's work number from directory assistance. After a couple tries I got through to him. I turned my back to the nurse and talked low and fast, "Look, Mark, you've got to get home now. Celeste flew out of here like a bat out of hell, and I'm afraid she might try to kill herself. You know the administration here, Mark; she was with the principal right before she left. Get over there. Please, gods, I don't want her to die."

***

My expression was properly unreadable for the news cameras as the metal cinched about my wrists one click at a time. The public's sympathy goes with the martyr, not the persecutor, especially when the children and the unjustly dead are the cause. I learned my lesson those years ago in Bible class: the masses will pardon you any crime if the heretical leader is being tried next to you, and they'll crucify you if you don't keep them on your side.

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