Grabbing my water bottle from the cup holder, I got off of the treadmill, my body glistening with sweat. With the final notes of my cool-down song pulsing through my headphones, I used the complimentary hand towel to mop up my soaking face and neck while twisting down into an oblique stretch. When I came back up, I took note of my surroundings and let out an out-of-breath sigh.
At the gym, pushing myself past the limit, a world away from responsibilities; here I was at bliss.
Since my arms still felt a little sore from yesterday’s kick-boxing lesson, I decided to skip the two hours of weight training and head home early.
Throwing fake punches at the air and humming a song, I changed and loaded up the car. The farther I got from the gym, however, I felt a burden plant itself onto my shoulder, getting heavier and stronger as I got closer and closer to home. I pushed the worries away, plastered a fake smile on my face, and threw the front door open.
“I’m hooome!” I announced to particularly nobody. My dad would be out at the shooting arenas on Saturdays, and my mom had died when I was four. Before I could launch into a miserable self-pity party, however, my dog Beezley leapt up at me, baring his teeth and growling angrily at the intruder. However, when he recognized me, he sat back and panted happily, his tail thumping on the carpet under him.
Petting Beezley’s silky coat half-heartedly, I stumbled into the living room and connected the Xbox. As I grabbed the remotes from the holster, my eyes fell on a picture of my parents, holding a little toddler in their arms and grinning cheekily at the camera.
I smiled melancholy, my eyes welling up with tears. They were standing at the air force base, where my mom used to fly before the accident. My dad was still in his army uniform, a revolver in his hands and a twinkle in his eyes. That same liveliness that had disappeared with my mother…
Angrily scrubbing at the tears streaking down my face, I cursed myself. Crying is for weak people. Sadness is a pathetic output to built-up frustration. Rubbing my callused hands together, I made my way down to the basement to get the Black Ops CD, surreptitiously sliding down the stairs like my dad had taught me to. Mask your steps with the element of surprise, I could hear him whisper in my mind.
“…that she’d be happy here, actually.” I overheard my dad’s voice drifting up. He sounded strained, as if undecided and tense. I froze on the steps, my senses going into overdrive.
“I think she’d be very happy here. After all, she is only a girl; and all girls need their motherly position.” A feminine voice, overly high and fringy, reminding me of sparkles and pink ribbons. Bleech.
“Y – yes, your right…” If my dad was tense before, now he was constipated. How dare that woman bring up my mother… I growled in my head. One more false step and she’d face me.
“And Gwyneth Academy not only brings out the mature female in the young women, but also teaches them to be polite, dainty, and intelligent to anyone and everyone she meets.” The feminine voice continued. But the voice sounded weak and fable, beyond the over-exaggerated “damsel in distress”. No, this was more of a middle-aged woman, not very tall, considering the projectory of the sound. But she was boisterous and vanity, I guessed from the confidence in her voice. She probably sat up tall and held her head up high by her tone.
I held back a sarcastic laugh; a prissy old geezer with something stuck up her ass. Exactly what I needed.
“Ahh, Alex, your back.” My dad said coolly, obviously hearing my poor attempt at disguising my scoff, though his tone giving away nothing. Shamefaced at getting caught, I trudged into the room.
My father, still in his military getup, was accompanied by a short, skinny old woman in a pastel three-piece suit, her silver hair tied back into a taught bun and her thin lips pressed together tightly as she saw the baggy shirt and board shorts I walked around in. Her beady black eyes never left mine from behind her tortoise-shell glasses, glaring at me as I fell back into a plush couch.
“Hmmph.” The old lady stuck her nose up and crossed her legs at the ankles.
“Gianni, this is my daughter, Alexia.” My dad helplessly ushered to me, anxious at ‘Gianni’s reaction. Smirking at his obvious discomfort, I lazily gave a peace sign in her direction.
“Alex, this is Gianni, headmistress of the Gwyneth Academy.”
“Thank god, because I was wondering if there was an age limit for selling Girl Scout cookies.” I grumbled sarcastically, not meeting Gianni’s scorching glare.
“Alexia! Do not use the Lord’s name like that! And frankly, I don’t care much for your attitude. Maybe you should be more respectful to your elders.” Gianni snapped in her ridiculously high voice. I rolled my eyes.
“Maybe you’d better stop talking as if you just inhaled a helium balloon.” I hissed under my breath.
“Alex,” My dad pleaded, leaning forward to look at me with begging puppy eyes, “Please. The Gwyneth Academy is one of the highest private-school in this area. Their ranking is unbelievably high, and only a selective few get to enter. Those who graduate have proven to go on to Ivy League schools.”
“How does this involve me?” I raised an eyebrow defiantly. Ivy League, my ass. I was going to military school, major in criminology, then move on to being a field agent at the CIA.
“Well, Derrick, you remember Derrick, the one we met up at P.F Chang’s? He offered me to be a director of the Puccio-Raimondi, this army training camp back at the Force? This is the opportunity of a lifetime for me, but I can’t leave you home alone all year, so…”
I jumped up. “YES! Dad, oh my god, this is PERFECT!” I squealed, running over to him and giving him a hug. “I’ve always wanted to go to the Puccio-Raimondi! Wait, when are we leaving?” I turned to look back at the sneering pink lady, “And why is she here?”
Even before I was done with the sentence, I got what was going on.
“Ohhh, no no no no no, HELL no. No. ABSULUTELY NOT.”
“Alex, please. You’re going to love the Gwyneth Academy! I’ve always been worried that you’d never be able to be with your own gender, and this is a perfect solution!”
I turned to Gianni, who looked like she was restraining herself from saying something.
“You want me…to be at a prissy “camp” against my will…making macaroni sculptures and balancing books on my head…with a bunch of chicks walking around like they have something up their butts? Instead of a camp…with my dad, the only family I have left, around the people I know, doing the things I love…” I cocked an eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Frankly, there’s no choice, Alex.” Dad shrugged helplessly. “I’ve already packed and made arrangements. Next week, I’ll move into a PR cabin, and you’ll be transferred to a Gwyneth dorm.”
I froze, my weaknesses restrained behind my eyes. “A week?” My voice cracked. Sadness = bad. Anger = good. Anger makes you work faster, keeps the adrenalin flowing. Sadness is just an alibi from doing anything.
Turning on my heel, I marched out of the basement and into our backyard. Grabbing a bow and a quiver of arrows from the supply closet, I aimed at the target roughly 100 yards away. Stretching the band, I swiftly let go, watching the arrow cut through the air and hit the tiny red circle in the center of the target.
“Bullseye.”
