and he scowled at her. She jerked away as if she’d been slapped and continued on to the Academy.
The Academy’s elaborate stone entrance was marred with graffiti. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of urine and pressed the buzzer.
“Name?” The intercom squawked.
“Ava Vaughn.”
The ornate door clicked open. The depressed inner-city exterior hid a modern fencing studio. Amazed, Ava stared. In the wide open space, students in white fencing gear sparred on long thin red strips. Others practiced lunges and attacks in front of mirrors. The ring of metal, the hum of voices, and the mechanical chug of fitness equipment filled the air.
An instructor carrying a clipboard approached. “Ms. Vaughn?”
She nodded.
He eyed her, clearly not impressed. “Change and warm up. Then we’ll evaluate you.”
Before he could shoo her away, she said, “But Bossemi—”
“Invited you, I know. Doesn’t mean you’ll train with him. You have to impress us first.” He poked his pencil toward the locker rooms in the back.
As Ava changed clothes, she thought about the Three Rivers Regional Competition. She had fought well and won all her bouts, gaining the notice of Sandro Bossemi, a three-time Olympic champion from Italy.
Fencers from around the world re-located just to train at the Accadamia della Spada, which translated to the Academy of the Sword. Admittance to the school was by invitation only. Ava dreamed about being asked to train here.
However, reality proved to be another matter. Even though she had out-fenced all her opponents at the competition, the students at the Academy countered her efforts to spar them with ease. She couldn’t even claim her youth as an excuse. A few fourteen-and fifteen-year-olds trained here, making her feel old at seventeen. After her first night of practice, Ava doubted she would be asked back.
A moment of panic engulfed her. What will I do? She steadied her hyperactive heart. I’ll train even harder and Bossemi will invite me again.
When she lost her last bout, Mr. Clipboard joined her. He had been evaluating her all evening. She braced for the dismissal.
“Tomorrow you’ll work with Signore Salvatori,” he said. He flipped a paper. “We’ll arrange a practice time with your tutor. I’ll need contact information.”
It took her a moment to recover from her surprise. “I go to James Edward High.”
“Oh.” Scanning the page, he marked it. “Then you can have Salvatori’s seven to ten p.m. slot. Do you speak Italian?”
“No, but I’m fluent in French.” Since fencing bouts were officiated in French, she had been determined to learn it.
“Salvatori only teaches in Italian so you may want to learn a few words for your lessons each evening.”
“Each?” Ava tried to keep up with the information.
“If we are to teach you anything, you’re to be here every night, and from two to five on Saturday. You have Sunday off; Sandro Bossemi is a devout Catholic.”
Dazed, Ava walked to the locker room. Conflicting emotions warred in her. She was thrilled to not be dismissed, but daunted by the training schedule.
By the time she changed, the room was empty. She would have loved to leave her heavy gear bag here, but she had school practice tomorrow afternoon. Guess I’ll be doing my homework on the bus. When she calculated her travel time, she realized she would also be eating her dinner on the bus. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a side order of diesel fumes. Wonderful.
Pulling out her cell phone, she called her mother.
“Donny’s 24-Hour Diner, can I help you?”
“I’d like an extra large banana split to go please,” Ava said.
Mom laughed. “Ava, sweetie! How was practice?”
“Like a
“Showing off on the first night isn’t a good way to make friends.” Her mother kept her tone light, but Ava knew the little dig was aimed directly at her.
For Ava, fencing had always come first. She didn’t have time for friends she didn’t need. Her mother disagreed.
Ava drew in a calming breath. “How soon can you pick me up?”
Silence. Her mother worked full-time and attended college classes at night, but to pay for Ava’s training at the Academy, she scaled back her course load to one class so she could take another job as the night manager of Donny’s.
You don’t reach the Olympics without sacrifice.
“You can come during your dinner break,” Ava prompted.
“Ava, I can’t. I only get thirty minutes to eat. Can you get a ride? It could be a good ice breaker for making a friend.”
Her fingers tightened on the phone. Her mother just wouldn’t quit. Perhaps if she had an imaginary friend her mother would get off her back.
“I already made a friend,” Ava said.
“Already?” Doubt laced her mom’s voice.
“Yeah. Her name’s Tammy, she lives in Copperstown. Her parents own the Copper Tea Kettle.”
“Oh! The place with all those fancy teas?”
“Yeah. They’re big tea drinkers. Look, Mom, I’ve gotta go. I’ll get a ride with her. Bye.” Ava closed her phone, and checked the time. Ten minutes until the next bus.
She left the locker room and almost ran into a group of fencing coaches, including Mr. Clipboard talking with the karate instructor. They all jumped back when they spotted her, and conversation ceased.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to surprise you,” she said into the silence. No response. As she passed them, her back burned with their stares.
That was creepy. If the Karate Dude doesn’t want people to watch through his window, he should buy curtains.
When she reached the bus stop, she dropped her heavy bag on the sidewalk in relief.
“You lied to your mother,” a man said behind her.
She spun. The Karate Dude stood five feet away, peering at her with loathing. “Tammy isn’t one of the Academy students.”
Anger flared. “You perv. You shouldn’t be hanging around the girls’ locker room.”
“And you shouldn’t have come here alone.” His intent gaze pierced her body like the point of a sword. “Your kind is always overconfident,” he said.
“My kind? Fencers?” Fear brushed her stomach. Perhaps this was one of those situations her mother warned her about.
“You can quit with the charade. I know what you are.”
And he was a dangerous wacko. Should she scream or call the police? He put his hand in the pocket of his black leather jacket. Ava grabbed her phone, searching the street for help. No one.
The Karate Dude yanked out a bottle. In one fluid motion, he flipped the lid off and flung the contents into her face.
She yelped and swiped at her cheeks. Acid? Wiping her eyes in panic, she steeled herself for the pain. Nothing. A few drops of the liquid dripped into her mouth. Water?
Karate Dude’s satisfied smirk faded.
“What the hell was that for?” she demanded. Ava dried her face on the sleeve of her coat, and smoothed her—now wet—blonde hair from her eyes.
“You’re not … I thought …” He sputtered and seemed shocked. “But you’re so pale …”
Ava spotted the bus. “Stay away from me, you sicko freak, or the next time I’ll call the police.”
The bus squealed to a stop and the door hissed open. She grabbed her bag, sprinted up the steps, and dropped into the seat behind the driver. Glaring at the freak, she didn’t relax until the doors shut and the bus drove
