“All of the professors are dedicated. Really into helping kids.”
Shay just stared at her. Was this girl for real?
Nona walked to her desk chair and offered her sickly smile, then glanced to the top of the door. Shay followed her gaze to what appeared to be a sprinkler set into the ceiling. Or was it? She glanced at Nona, who casually lifted one eyebrow. “I’ve been here since last May, and I can tell you that I was really messed up. Drugs. A boyfriend who, now I see, was abusive. I hated it here for the first few weeks. But after a while …” She shrugged. “I lost my bad attitude and saw this academy for what it really is.”
“And what’s that?”
“Salvation. I was on the wrong path. I would have been dead before I was twenty-five if I hadn’t come here.”
Shay wasn’t buying it. She glanced up at the cross.
“You come here with Christ or is he a new friend?”
Nona winced. “I took Jesus into my heart once I realized how much I needed him, how he was there for me, how through his love, I was brought here.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t expect you to believe me. Not now.”
Not ever!
“But you will. Don’t you believe in God?”
“Of course I do,” Shay said without a trace of sarcasm. “But in my world, God isn’t judgmental. Isn’t the old fire-and-brimstone, vengeful and wrathful God you know.”
She expected Nona to shake her head, but it seemed she’d hit a nerve. “I know. Reverend Lynch is …”
“Old school.”
“Traditional. But Reverend McAllister, who everybody calls ‘Father Jake,’ he’s a lot more today. More relevant, I think. Spent time working in the inner city. You’ll like him. Everyone does.”
“Father Jake? Is he a priest?” Shay asked, thinking about the freckled, sandy-haired clergyman with the dimple in his chin and a smile in his eyes.
“No,” she said, smiling again, “but he did try it for a while, went to seminary school, I think, and discovered that he liked girls, so he switched.”
“Just like that?” Shay said.
“Who knows.” Nona shrugged. “Ask him. I’m sure he’d tell you.”
Shay said, “Anything here you don’t like? Anything not”—she made air quotes with her fingers—“perfect?”
“Sure. I hate Mrs. Pruitt’s tomato casserole. It’s gross.”
“Mrs. Pruitt?”
“She’s the head cook; everyone has to work with her, just like the other jobs around the school. We spend a week in the kitchen, a week in the barn, a week cleaning the dorms, and a week working outside around the grounds every month.”
“Free labor,” Shay said.
“It teaches us respect and responsibility and—”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard the drill already. The brainwashing starts from day one.”
Again Nona glanced to the sprinkler head. A warning? Or just a nervous habit? “So everything here is awesome?” Shay asked, and walked over to the desk. “Every little thing? I don’t think so.” She pushed herself onto the desktop and sat, her legs dangling as she looked at Nona. “I mean, other than the cook’s casserole?”
Nona shook her head, but there was hesitation in her gaze, a tiny bit of fear. As she glanced out the window, she shielded her hand with her body, blocking it from the doorway, then opened her fist where a short message was inked onto her palm: Camera & mic recording.
“Most of the food is okay,” Nona said, cutting Shay off before she could say a word, “but some of the chores are disgusting, like cleaning out the horse barn.” She exaggerated a shiver, but once more she glanced back to the doorway, then rolled her chair to the closet where she found a jar of hand cream on a shelf. With the aid of a tissue, she quickly erased the warning from her hand. When she glanced at her roommate again, her gaze said it all: Be careful. This place is dangerous. “Even mucking out the stalls is okay once you get used to it.”