FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION, Private Brooks!
It’s become my new battle cry, and I actually think it’s working. I feel kind of psyched when I say it to myself.
On Sunday evening, Joni and I are sitting cross-legged on our floor, brainstorming ideas for my leadership project, and Joni is being super encouraging and saying things like: “Frankie, we can totally do this, we just have to come up with a single good idea!”
I have a notebook and a pen, and so far we’ve come up with two ideas:
1) Start a club for new students adjusting to life at the Academy, based on my experience. (Joni’s idea.)
2) Start a Save the Rain Forest Campaign and make fashionable T-shirts to support the cause, based on the fact that everyone loves rain forests and fashionable T-shirts. (My idea.)
“The problem with the rain forest idea is that it has nothing to do with the military at all,” Joni says. She puts down her pen and fishes through her handbag.
“Not everyone’s does,” I say as she yanks out a pack of gummy bears.
“Yeah, but Sturtevant is pushing you to come up with something really good,” Joni says. She looks at me and pops a gummy bear in her mouth.
“Well,” I say, “the problem with your idea is I don’t think there are any new students except me.”
Joni chews. She’s so much more polite than me. She actually finishes her gummy bear before talking. “Then maybe you could write some kind of handbook that introduces any future incoming student to life at the Academy. You like to write.”
“Not that kind of boring writing,” I say, opening my hand for one of her gummies. She puts two orange ones in my palm and I stuff them in my mouth. “I just don’t get why Sturtevant let Amanda do a volunteering thing for her leadership project and not me.”
“Let’s not focus on that, okay?” Joni says. “It’s not productive.”
“Fine,” I say. I pull my hair into a ponytail. Most of it falls back out. “So, let’s see, what if I did a bake sale? I’m actually terrific at making gluten-free muffins.”
Joni pulls her knees to her chest. “Again, not military related,” she says.
“I’ll just write it down, as an option,” I say. Frankie’s Glorious Gluten-Free Muffins!!! I write, because that’s what my sister calls them.
“But how is that being a leader?” Joni asks carefully. “I think it’s more like being a baker.”
“Okay. I see your point,” I say, and then I giggle, which starts Joni giggling, too. She’s way more relaxed when it’s just us hanging out in our room than she is at school.
“Jack said you’re doing great in Military Strategy class,” Joni says.
“He said that?”
Joni nods, and I feel myself blush. “Lt. Martin complimented me in front of the whole class and said I have some really out-of-the box thinking,” I tell her. “It was amazing, basically the first thing I’ve done right since I got to the Academy!”
And it was especially satisfying because Lt. Martin and I got off to a rocky start after I passed that note to Jack, and then it got worse when he presented us with a battlefield type situation and asked us to write down what we would do in one hundred words or less, and my idea was only five words: Lie down and play dead, which Lt. Martin said was not in the tradition nor spirit of the US military. But then we got into these more complicated scenarios, more mental stuff, and he started getting really into my answers. My parents always say I’m good at knowing what will happen on TV dramas before they happen, so I just worked things out like that. Even Jack keeps whispering things like good one, Brooks, under his breath in Military Strategy.
“So what if you did something for your leadership project that had to do with military strategy?” Joni asks.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Joni says, “you’re apparently the military-strategy genius.”
Maybe it’s not true, but it still makes me smile.
“Listen, I gotta pick up a book before dinner,” Joni says. “But I’ll be home a lot this week and we can study together and think more about this, okay?”
“Thank you,” I say, and I give her a hug before she leaves. How lucky am I that I got assigned to be Joni’s roommate?
I make my way to my computer. It’s Sunday, and I already finished all my homework due tomorrow, but for Wednesday, Lt. Martin assigned us fifteen hundred words to be written on any military strategy we deem fit to get our opponent to see things from our point of view.
#WhyDoYourHomeworkWhenYouCan . . . was once a scintillating trending topic started by moi on Twitter, but now I’m realizing if I don’t go online until nighttime after my studying is done, the homework itself goes faster, and then I still have time left over to work on my blog. It’s all about incentive, which, come to think of it, could be a good idea for my military strategy paper. I open up my laptop and write: INCENTIVE IS WAY BETTER THAN COERCION: Give your enemy the right reason to tell you his secrets, and you’ll feel so much better about yourself!
I smile to myself. I think Lt. Martin would love that idea!
I close my Word doc and open up Safari. Tonight I have my first night on dining hall duty, which is obviously slightly terrifying, but since I already finished my homework, thank you very much, I search Instagram for hairstyles compatible with hairnets. Most of the photos I find show the hairnet starting farther back on the crown, which, unfortunately, I don’t think is going to fly with the cafeteria people, since I’m pretty sure the whole point is to keep your hair out of the food. So instead I do some braids that circle the crown of my hair, which should still be visible through the netting. It’s all very lunch lady meets Game of Thrones.
I have to wear my uniform even though it’s Sunday, because that’s the rule when you have mess hall duty. I check myself out in the mirror and it dawns on me that my black stiletto boots would look similar to my shiny shoes, and I could wear them tonight and give my blisters a few extra hours to heal from my still too-tight shiny shoes. I honestly don’t think it would be a big deal, because it’s not a weekday and we don’t have any physical training, so what’s the difference? I slip them on and check myself out. They’re way less conspicuous than my running shoes, that’s for sure. Plus I’m four inches taller and my pants look chicer and more streamlined—I’m like the Hollywood version of a butt-kicker.
Stiletto boots are a go!
It’s 5:32—or 1732, according to the military—and I’m psyched because I have time to blog before reporting to mess hall duty.
My Anna Karenina paperback catches my eye from the corner of my desk. I still have another week to finish it, so there’s probably no point in starting it now . . .
I tap my fingers on my desk. I have twenty minutes left before I have to get to the mess hall, so I guess I could split it evenly: ten minutes on my blog, ten minutes on reading for English.
I feel good about things as my fingers arch over the computer. I think my parents would be happy. I let go of a breath, and just like whenever I start to write about fashion, my stress disappears.
Très chic and utilitarian; the military has forever inspired fashion. Extra pockets, anyone? Aviator sunglasses? Who can resist a belt that cinches the waist?
I post a photo of Stella McCartney’s Georgina Utility Tweed Jacket. It’s mega expensive, so I also find a similar but cheap version from Forever 21 and link to that, too. Then I write a bit about why army-green joggers are the new leggings.
At 5:42, I start my reading, and it becomes clear that Anna Karenina understands exactly what it’s like to be oppressed by social and moral laws even if she never went to military academy. I get caught up in the book and read a few minutes past the ten-minute mark, so then I have to run from my room and sprint across the quad to get to the mess hall on time, which is hard given that I’m wearing stilettos and my arm and leg muscles feel like jellyfish are attacking them from PT this week.
Inside the mess hall it smells like deli meat and starch. The heat is cranking at least five degrees higher than any establishment should ever be. I knock at the door marked STAFF, and a fiftysomething woman opens it. “Frances Brooks?” she asks kindly. If she notices my stiletto boots, she doesn’t say anything.
“Yes,” I say. “Frankie.”
“I’m Gloria,” she says. “Come right this way.” She smiles and I relax a little. She looks like a grandma who knits scarves and watches Lifetime movies.
I follow her into the middle of the cafeteria, past the salad bar and into the area where the hot food is served. She tells me to wait by the meat loaf, and then returns a minute later with a bucket of gray water and a mop. She’s wearing a hairnet now, and passes me an identical one.
I try not to cringe as I put it on because I don’t want to be disrespectful of her job, but I can’t help it. I don’t even know how to mop, and this bucket reeks of Clorox. At home we have a cleaning lady named Savannah who uses a homemade cleaning solution made of vinegar and essential oils like lavender. Why didn’t my parents ever teach me how to clean?
“So, like, I’m supposed to mop in here?” I ask, gesturing to all the students grabbing trays and ordering food. I guess I thought I’d be in a more private place. I didn’t realize I was going to be on display for the entire Academy to see me mop. Not like there’s anything wrong with that. And I guess, well, maybe this is the kind of thing that will help me be disciplined and everything, it’s just . . .
Gloria smiles. She’s holding her mop like it’s her boyfriend, flush against her side and curled beneath her arm. “Yes, you’re going to mop in here,” she affirms. “The entire floor, which is fifteen thousand square feet. And also when one of your fellow students has a spill. Like right there,” she says, pointing to a gross patch of tomato sauce.
She hands me the mop. “You have to use some elbow grease with this particular mop,” she says way too loudly.
I’m already sweating bullets beneath my hairnet. “Um,” I say, glancing between the tomato stain and Gloria. Is she going to help me?
She motions toward the stain.
“Right,” I say. I think I’m on my own. I hold my mop with two hands and use my foot to nudge the bucket toward the stain. Water sloshes over the side of the bucket and onto my stiletto boot. Gross! I pick up the bucket and teeter over to the spot. This would be so much easier if I actually knew how to mop. I dunk the mop into the water, then pick it up and plop it onto the tomato sauce.
“No, no, no,” Gloria says, striding over to me. “You need to drain the water first, like this.”
The cafeteria has only gotten busier. Academy students are sidestepping Gloria and me to avoid the water I spilled. A beautiful girl with cornrows says “Poor thing” to her friend, who’s chewing gum and staring at me. That redheaded boy Archie walks toward me, and he says, “Hey, Frankie,” and I pause to say hello to him but then Gloria asks, “You see what I mean about elbow grease?” and there’s an awkward moment when Archie looks like he can’t decide if he should stop and talk to me or keep walking, and then he takes off. I can’t blame him. Gloria is practically shouting her mopping tips as she slides the mop back and forth over the patch of tomato sauce. We both watch as the red stain disappears like magic.
“I get it,” I say, nodding. “Lots of elbow grease.”
She passes me back the mop. “See that juice?” she asks, pointing to a heart-shaped splatter of purple liquid near the pasta station.
Unfortunately, I do. I start to move my bucket toward the juice when I see Ciara and Amanda. They’re standing in the lunch line behind Joni, whose face is flushed yet again. Amanda’s closest to Joni, and she’s saying something into her ear, and whatever it is makes Joni’s eyes go bright with tears. Joni stumbles out of line, leaving her tray of hot pasta. Ciara stands there looking helpless, her eyes following Joni as she hurries through the cafeteria. I almost ask Gloria if I can go after Joni, but I stop myself. I can’t mess this up.
Joni shoves through the side doors of the cafeteria and then she’s gone. I take out my mop and start on the juice stain, trying to forget about Joni and whatever Amanda must have just said to make her so upset. I’ll bring her some dinner back to our room when my shift is over so she isn’t hungry.
Amanda and Ciara finish up at the pasta station and head toward Gloria and me. Ciara still looks a little thrown from the thing with Joni, and when she sees me she lets out a surprised laugh, then covers her mouth.
“Hi,” I say, flustered.
Ciara says, “Hey,” but Amanda stands there giving me the weirdest look, almost like she expected me to be here, mopping away in a hairnet. Maybe because she’s the one who told on me.
I lift my hand into a wave. At least I don’t have to wear sanitary gloves. We’re all standing there and staring at one another when Gloria taps her foot.
“I should get back to work,” I say, taking Gloria’s hint.
Ciara starts to walk away, but Amanda doesn’t move, so Ciara stops and just stands there waiting for Amanda, and the worst part is that I am, too. I can’t explain it, but there’s something about Amanda. It’s like she stares at you for a beat too long, like she’s trying to dominate you with eye contact. I want to come out and ask her if she told on me, but honestly, she makes me too nervous.
Students mill around us. A guy with a tattoo on his neck elbows another guy over the last lunch tray. We stand there, stone-still, but then Amanda tips her glass to the side, just enough to spill a tiny drop of Coke on the floor that lands near Gloria and me.
“Whoops!” she says. She laughs, and I guess it’s supposed to be a joke, but it definitely doesn’t feel very funny.
“Amanda, seriously?” I say. I mean, come on.
“I should report you for misconduct,” Gloria says, but she sounds unsure. I have a feeling Gloria has never reported anyone for anything.
“I was kidding!” Amanda says, her laugh slowing to a giggle. Her blonde hair is curled perfectly, making her look almost cherubic, which is false advertising.
I want to say it wasn’t funny, or that it was immature, or something like that. But I feel about two feet tall standing there with my mop and my hairnet. For about the hundredth time since I got here, I just wish Andrea and Julia were here. Or my sister. I’d even take my parents right now! I just wish I could go home and have a night with my family snuggled on our big fluffy couch, watching a movie.
A heavy hand falls on my shoulder. I’m so revved up by the Amanda thing that I jump.
“Whoa, tiger,” a familiar voice says. I turn to see Jack. He’s wearing a hairnet and holding a scuffed red mop. The sight of him fills me right up—it’s like his warmth conquers the frigid chill Amanda unleashed.
“Why are you wearing that?” I ask, smiling even wider as he gives me his crooked grin.
“This thing?” he says, touching his hairnet. “Because it looks so good on me.”
Amanda’s staring from Jack to me. She’s frowning, and I think back to how Archie warned me about falling in with the wrong people.
“Come on,” I say, giggling a little. “Why are you wearing a hairnet?”
“My Missouri hat didn’t go with this shirt?” Jack tries again. He’s smirking this time.
“Jack,” Gloria says warmly.
Jack sings “Gloria” the way it gets sung in Catholic mass, with two dozen syllables stuffed into one Gloria: “Glo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oria!” and Gloria beams like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. And maybe it’s not, but there’s something about Jack that’s contagious. I can feel myself beaming, too.
Amanda rolls her eyes. “Let’s go,” she says to Ciara, and they take off. In the absence of Amanda’s cold front, I can feel the cafeteria’s buzzy feeling again. Laughter and conversations twine together around us as silverware clinks.
“The thing is,” Jack says to me, “I have to get in trouble every so often so I can come see Gloria.”
“And if this floor don’t shine like the top of the Chrysler Building,” Gloria says.
“Annie,” I say, smiling at Gloria’s quote. “I was just thinking about how my sister and I used to watch it,” I tell her, and she winks. I like her. Maybe this won’t be so bad.
“Can’t say I’ve seen it,” Jack says.
Gloria and I exchange a look like what a travesty.
“You’ve never seen Annie?” I ask.
“Maybe I saw it a while ago,” Jack says, grinning.
“Maybe it’s your favorite movie and you’re embarrassed to tell us,” I say.
“Maybe,” Jack says. Then, to Gloria, he says, “I’ll take it from here. I can help her.”
“I see you’ve already helped yourself to my favorite mop,” Gloria says.
“Old Faithful,” Jack says, running his hand lovingly over the thing. He dips it down and kisses it mock-passionately.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Gloria says, and then, to me, “I’ll be in my office if you need me.” She glances at her watch. “You’ve got one hour to cover the whole floor, so work quickly enough that you can grab some grub before the dining hall closes.”
I start to thank her, but she’s already retreating to her office.
“So,” Jack says.
“So,” I say.
“Want help?”
I chew my bottom lip. I should just be polite and accept his help, but before I know it I’m saying things I probably shouldn’t. “Why are you always being so nice to me?” I ask, my words soft.
Jack’s long fingers curl around the mop. “I’m a sucker for lost causes,” he says. “And you’ve gotten in trouble like three times since you got here. And two of those times were my fault.”
“I’ve actually only gotten in trouble twice,” I say.
“Are we not counting the note you passed me in class?”
“We’re not,” I say.
“Okay, then,” Jack says, rubbing his jaw like he’s considering this. “Answering your phone in PT and sneaking out with me.”
The way he says it . . . sneaking out with me . . . gives me shivers. I’ve never snuck out with anyone before. And I know I’m supposed to be good here, but all I want is for Jack to come to my room tonight so we can sneak out again. How am I supposed to stop wanting to do these things?
Jack isn’t smiling anymore. He’s looking at me like we’re alone together, and like he knows how much I want to be alone with him. I try not to look away like how I always used to do when Josh looked at me at school; I want to be braver. So I hold his eyes with mine, and then he’s the one blushing and looking away. He runs his mop over a clean patch of floor like he’s just looking for something to do. “I told Sturtevant it was me you were with,” he says.
“You did what?” I ask. “You shouldn’t have done that!”
Jack shrugs his big shoulders. “It seemed unfair that you got stuck mopping and I didn’t. I don’t have any demerits this year, and my college only finds out if I get kicked out. One little demerit was worth it.” He smiles. “And the idea of hanging out with you wasn’t all that bad, either,” he says.
He’s making me really, really nervous.
“Now get to work, Annie,” he says, nudging his mop into mine. “It’s a hard knock life or whatever.”
“This from the guy who never saw Annie,” I say, surprised that I can even attempt a joke with how jittery I suddenly am. Jack smiles again. I take out my mop and plop it onto a patch of floor.
Mostly we mop together in silence. It’s kind of Zen watching all the grime disappear, and my mind drifts off, and somehow I find myself thinking about sines and cosines and all the other things I studied this week. I’m working so much harder here—it’s like the part of my brain that only had room for fashion is slowly letting a few other things in. I got an A- on my trig quiz—enough to keep my overall average above the 3.5 mark. Now I just need to figure out the right leadership project. But how am I supposed to be a leader here when everyone knows I’m the worst at everything?
I glance up at all the kids passing us to get their dinner. I expected that other students might make fun of us, but no one does. I’m not sure if that’s because I’m with Jack, who stands protectively near me the whole time we mop, or because they’ve all had mopping duty, too, and know it sucks, or because most of them are just genuinely kind. I think it’s a combination of all three.
Right before seven, when my left elbow is killing me from the weird position that mopping requires, Jack asks, “Want to get sandwiches and eat outside?”
“Outside?” I ask. “Like in the winter?”
“It’s fifty degrees out,” he says, smiling as he takes off his hairnet and sends his near-black hair standing on edge.
“You’re insane,” I say, “but I’ll do it.”
We carry our buckets to the side of the cafeteria and tuck them behind one of the food stations. I’m wishing for him to put his arm around me or make any kind of contact as we maneuver through the students, but he doesn’t. He pushes the exit door, and the blast of fresh air that greets us feels like relief. We sit on a bench aglow with lights from the dining hall.
“Warm,” Jack says. “For January.”
The stream of students leaving the dining hall has petered out to a trickle, but Jack still keeps his voice quiet. “I need to talk to you about something, because I’m worried it’s gonna mess things up for you here.”
My heart beats faster. I hold my turkey sandwich in the air, waiting.
“When I first got here last year, Amanda and I hooked up,” he says, and my eyes widen at how plainly he says it. “It was a mistake. I didn’t know her well enough to know it wasn’t a good idea, and I shouldn’t have done it. After we got together she hooked up with someone else the same night, and Joni and my sister, Rachel, walked in on them, and they told me what they saw. Amanda thinks that’s the whole reason she and I never turned into something. She was probably just embarrassed, and she blamed Joni and Rachel no matter how much I tried to tell her it wasn’t that.” His eyebrows knit together. “I’m almost positive she’s the one who got Rachel kicked out by sending a picture of her out after curfew, and now I’m worried she’s after you.”
“It’s what Joni thinks, too,” I say. “I asked her who she thought ever would have told on me, and Amanda was her first and only guess.”
A pit forms in my stomach. Jack’s hands go into his lap like he’s unsure of what to do with them. “I’m sorry I’ve made things harder for you here,” he says softly, his eyes darkening.
I want to reassure him that it’s not his fault, but that’s not entirely true.
“It’s not all you,” I say. “It’s just being new, and trying to figure things out, and my body is literally killing from PT and my brain is hurting from the classes. This place is really different from my high school or anything else I’ve ever done.” I gesture to my uniform. “Even the uniform thing.” I take a breath. “It’s just so hard not to want to go home, at times.”
Jack inches closer to me. Being alone with him like this is all I’ve been able to think about, and now it’s happening. I panic a little. I pick up a twig and start drawing in the dirt by our feet so Jack can’t see my face.
“I can see Amanda doing it,” I finally say. No matter how sorry I am for whatever makes her this way, I can see Amanda orchestrating something cruel.
“She’s had a shitty go of it,” Jack says. “Her parents took off when she was eight and left her with an aunt, and when she stopped being easy to take care of, her aunt shipped her here.”
I bite my bottom lip. That’s awful. “So what do we do?” I ask.
I expect Jack to shrug, or look hopeless, but he doesn’t. He runs a hand through his hair and looks at me with an intensity I haven’t seen before. “We protect you and Joni from Amanda.”
The winter sky is nearly black. Streetlights cast a golden glow on the sidewalks that run along the perimeter of the quad. I want to ask the obvious question: Are you protecting me because you like me and you’re worried it will upset Amanda?
Or am I reading everything wrong just like I did with Josh?
Still. Joni. She’s starting to become my real friend—it’s something I can feel deep in my bones. “I just, I want to be sure about Joni,” I say. “Do you think there’s any chance she likes you a little?”
“Not even a little,” Jack says. “You’re gonna need to trust me on this.” My breathing quickens as he leans closer.
“Frances Abernathy Brooks.”
My name sounds totally different than I’ve ever heard it. I whirl around to see Lt. Sturtevant. Jack and I scramble to our feet and salute.
“Should I report you for your footwear?” Sturtevant asks me, gesturing to my stiletto boots.
I glance down at them. They couldn’t possibly look more amazing peeking out from my pants.
“Another demerit?” Sturtevant asks.
“No, please,” I blurt. I can feel Jack straightening next to me. “My shoes are too tight, and I emailed someone in administration weeks ago and they said I’d get a new pair ASAP, but they haven’t arrived yet, and my feet are bleeding with blisters and I’m out of Band-Aids and I’m really sorry. I’ll wear the right shoes tomorrow for PT even if they’re too small. Please don’t report me.” I’m blabbering, and I’d probably start crying if my eyeballs weren’t too tired to make tears again today.
Sturtevant stares at me, and I know it’s not just my footwear she’s reacting to: it’s me. It’s like I’m always trying to get my way, and I’m not disciplined the way these other kids are; I bet most of all of them would have just sucked it up and worn their shiny shoes.
Sturtevant looks at her watch. “Both of you need to get back for recall to barracks. Private Wattson, go ahead. I’d like to speak with Private Brooks.”
Jack leaves for his dorm, glancing over his shoulder to lock eyes with me. I quickly look away, feeling my cheeks heat. I try to meet Sturtevant’s gaze, but I’m just so nervous.
Her voice is a notch softer than usual when she says, “Private Brooks, I’m increasingly concerned you don’t understand what’s happening here.” She lets out a breath. “You’re ranked two hundred and one out of two hundred and one cadets. With the exception of one of your teachers, the TACs here have no problem keeping you there until you show us something—anything—and the part I worry you’re not understanding is that an expulsion from the Academy doesn’t just mean you get sent home; it means there’s a permanent expulsion on your high school transcript. Your high school in Mount Pleasant won’t allow you to transfer back in regular time unless you’ve successfully matriculated here.”
Oh my God. “You mean I’d have to repeat a grade?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
My heart pounds so hard and fast I feel like it’s crawling up my throat. Another year home in Mount Pleasant? Another year I’d have to wait for fashion school, for my real life in New York City to start? My friends moving on without me?
“But I’m doing so well in Military Strategy!” I blurt. But even as I say it, it dawns on me that it’s the only class I’m really excelling in. In my other classes I’m just barely keeping the 3.5. And of course I suck at all the PT!
Sturtevant’s watching me almost like she feels sorry for me. “And that’s a good thing,” she says, “but we need to see more, Private Brooks. You don’t need to excel at the physical training in order to stay at the Academy,” she says, “only to qualify for War Games, which at this point looks highly unlikely for you. However, to stay here, you must complete physical training to the best of your ability, and that means you have to try your hardest and show us improvement. And you absolutely must stop disrespecting me, my colleagues, and the United States military, which is exactly what you’re doing when you photograph me in my office or wear high heels with your military uniform.”
Guilt pounds me. I need to fix this—I need to fix me.
“You’re excused, Private Brooks,” Sturtevant says. “Please think about what I’ve said.”
I head across the quad on shaking legs, unsure of how in the world I’m ever going to be able to do what I know I need to. What if the only way to learn discipline is to truly follow the rules for the first time in my entire life?