ARC: Crushed by Eliza Crewe Page A

Melange ,” I snarl. “And I’m already going.”
    I grab my books and storm out, slamming the door so hard the glass shatters.
    I smile savagely at the sound and take off down the hallway.

Chapter 9
     
    I’m sure Professor Grayland intended me to go to the Headmaster’s office, but since he didn’t actually say it, I don’t feel inclined to obey. I turn the corner, intending to hide out in my and Jo’s attic, and come face to face with Crusader Beck. She stops when she sees me, but when I move to step around her, she slides neatly in my way. Of course. I may be done with today, but today is clearly not done with me.
    As if to confirm my suspicions, she speaks. “Miss Melange, come with me please.” Her tone brooks no discussion. I gnash my teeth. Professor Grayland, clever old dodger, must have messaged ahead.
    To my surprise she doesn’t take me to the headmaster’s office, but instead down and out of the school. We’re halfway to the new school before I realize our destination.
    Now? Now the Corporates decide they want to grill me? Of course.
    The middle-aged man guarding the door nods as we approach and turns to grant us entry. He and my escort are careful to box me out as they cast whatever spell is used to deactivate the locks. The Templar blood-activated locks used at the last school were abandoned, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. None of this is news to me; it’s hardly the first time I’ve been hauled up in front of whatever visiting Crusader wanted to play one hundred questions with the Monster, but today I find it particularly irksome. The guard returns my disgusted glare impassively.
    We walk into the infirmary then briskly up to the stairwell on the far side and head up to the top floor.
    I hear Jo in my head trying to douse the fire in my heart. “Be good, Meda.” Good, good, good, good, good. The word plays in a loop until it means nothing. I’ve been good and they refuse to feed me. I’ve been good and they won’t train me. I’ve been good and they changed the locks. I’ve been good and they want to send me away.
    So the Corporates think they want custody, do they? Custody. I’m not some big-eyed orphan begging, “ Please sir, may I have some more? ” or singing about how the sun will come out tomorrow. I’m not the foster kid who’ll smile on the Christmas card in an ugly sweater matching my new mom’s. Rather, I’m the kid in the back of the orphanage playing with a lighter and the head of the doll that belongs to the sobbing girl next to me – they just need to see it. We’ll see who wants custody then.
    Besides, what good would good behavior do once they find out I broke Isaiah’s face? Actions speaking louder than words and all that. No, good is no good . In this case, bad is better.
    My face must reveal some of what I plan because Crusader Beck eyes me suspiciously. My lips curl, but before she can say anything, my hand snaps out and slams the doors to the meeting room open. The tables in the room are arranged in a “U”, and the house is packed. I pause until I have everyone’s attention then I theatrically raise one arm over my head and one curled out from my body like a ballerina and enter the room in a series of twirls. The room is wide, but not particularly deep, so it’s not many spins until I reach the middle.
    “Ba, badda-ba ba!” I sing and break into a few tap dance-steps – or at least my mocking approximation of some tap dance steps – jerking my arms back and forth like I’m holding a cane. Then I wrap it all up with a lunge and a clap.
    “Ta-da.” I sing. Oh, and add in some jazz hands, naturally.
    Stunned silence greets my performance. I don’t look around yet, but focus my eyes, and my snot-tastic sneer, front and center where the Sarge and Sergeant Graff are seated. At my energetic arrival the other corps leapt to their feet, and even now stand with their weapons out, ready to spring.
    I look the well-pressed soldiers up and