Death's Academy Read Online Free PDF Page B

championship! I’m the roller! I can’t miss the game—the whole team is counting on me,” I protest.
    “You should’ve thought of that sooner,” my mom says.
    “We’re disappointed in you, son,” my dad interjects.
    “Disappointed? We’re a heaven of a lot more than disappointed!” she growls. “Not only that, but you pull this stunt right before the Reapless? We’re leaving in two days! You know we look forward to it all year. Your dad and I don’t have time to deal with you and get everything ready to leave.”
    “I still don’t know why it’s such a big deal. They let me go,” I say.
    My mom gives me a look that … well, let’s just say I’m lucky I’m not within striking distance because I’d have a handprint across my cheek right now. I’m not going to tell you which cheek, though.
    She grits her teeth and growls, “Internal Affairs has contacted Aunt Dementia, and they are inquiring how her chipmunk death schedule fell into your hands. She might be facing a disciplinary tribunal!”
    “Mom, I’m sorry. I wanted to get some practice before my next pre-exam,” I say with as sad a face and voice as I can muster. “You saw the grade I got on the first one. I mean if I had a benefactor—”
    “No, no! We’re not having this conversation again,” my mom blurts out.
    “But, Mom, how do I stand a chance to get into the Academy if I can’t practice? You had a benefactor. Dad had one. It’s not fair!”
    “We have told you now a thousand and one times. We can’t afford one. With your dad being bumped down to part-time at the prison and my two jobs, we’re just scraping by,” she says. “Besides, you have your dad. He can help you get ready.”
    I can’t believe my mom was actually able to say that last part with a straight face.
    “Are you kidding me? Dad? With his help I might as well not even show up for the exam,” I say.
    My mom makes a noise that almost sounds like she is agreeing with me. I glance up into the rearview mirror. My dad’s scowl has deepened, and I notice his grip on the steering wheel tighten and twist, the sun-bleached rubber cracks underneath his hands. He is probably thinking of wringing my neck, but you know what? It’s true. My dad is an absolute embarrassment. Everywhere I go, when someone hears my last name, they automatically ask who my dad is. When I tell them, “Obsidian Smith,” they get this look on their faces as if I just farted up their nose.
    No one will tell me exactly what happened, but what I have been able to piece together over the years is that my dad made one of the biggest bungles in the history of death. In fact, hoodies my parents’ age will say things like, “I pulled an Obsidian” when they do something really dumb. How would you like to have that trailing after you your whole life? Yep, it sucks.
    “You’re just going to have to make do, Night. I’m trying to keep our family afloat, and my jobs don’t leave me enough time to breathe, let alone get you ready for the exam. You need to take responsibility and get yourself ready,” she says.
    I open my mouth to retort when she adds, “Legally.”
    My shoulders slump.
    “Oh goodness, look at the time. I told them I wouldbe back at the office ten minutes ago. You’re going to need to drop me off first,” my mom says.
    We drive in silence to her office, and she doesn’t even wait for the car to come to a complete stop before she’s out the door and running up the sidewalk.
    “I’ll put your dinner in the fridge!” my dad calls after her.
    She waves her hand back at us and then disappears into the building. The car lurches forward, and I take a deep breath while folding my arms.
    “When we get home, you need to just go up to your room and stay there until dinner, got it?” my dad says.
    “Whatever,” I spit back.
    I turn my attention out the window and pretend to be interested in the creaking warehouses and condemned railroad buildings whipping by. They say that this