IT’S WEEK FOUR AT THE Academy, and I start trying my best—my real, actual, true best. I flat-out confess to Joni that I need her to help me be disciplined and study, and just like she promised, she starts staying in our room instead of going to the library or wherever she usually goes to study. Every night she sits right across from me at her desk, and every time she senses me getting fidgety, she says, “Ten more minutes and then we take a quick yoga break.”
The sixty-second yoga-pose breaks actually work so much better than running to the basement vending machine for snacks, which is what I did the first few weeks I was here. It also feels good to have Joni physically next to me, even if she’s just quietly studying. I got an A on that Military Strategy paper about incentive, and another A- on a trig quiz! Spanish is still proving especially hard. There’re, like, twenty pages of reading assigned per class, and the words on the pages are written in Spanish. And in chemistry, I’m trying so hard to keep up after what I did back home. I’m never going to even be tempted to cheat again, because this time I’ll be ready for every test. Plus, working more efficiently means I’m able to allot twenty minutes to blogging each night, so I’ve been more consistent about getting my posts back up and running.
There are so many miserable days of physical training (and I still haven’t done better at any of the drills!) that I can barely walk by the time I show up at the gymnasium on Friday. I scan for Jack and Joni. I pass two boys doing burpees by choice, an exercise Sturtevant makes us do that not only sounds disgusting but also burns the living crap out of your leg muscles. I swerve through a group of girls talking about War Games, and then arch onto my tiptoes to look over their heads for Jack. He’s usually easy to find because he towers over almost everyone.
Watching Jack every day in PT makes me like him more than ever. He’s the fastest, strongest, most agile, and the most determined, but it’s even more than that. His face gets this look when it’s time to do a drill, like every moment is wildly important, like he’s imagining being in combat. It’s like he has to be the best, but not for something small like bragging rights. You can tell by watching him that he’s in this for things much bigger than him.
It’s 0529 and I’m pretty sure Sturtevant’s gonna blow her ear-blasting whistle any second. I finally spot Jack and Joni standing together in the far corner of the gym. Joni’s stretching her quad with her leg kicked back and listening carefully to something Jack’s saying. Jack sees me and waves. I walk toward him, trying to clear my head, but it’s not easy. I want to be alone with him more than ever. I can’t stop thinking about what it felt like to have his fingers laced through mine the night we snuck out, and how I want that again and again. And it’s like that night happened, but then we pulled everything back when I told Jack I needed to be better. Now he’s trying so hard to help me be better—giving me tips in PT, taking me to a study group for Military Strategy, and basically just not sneaking out with me, and I don’t know how to tell him how much I like him, or how even if I don’t want to sneak out again, I do want to see him again alone like that night weeks ago.
I make my way toward Jack and Joni, ducking as I pass Sgt. O’Neil and two more TACs I don’t recognize with matching clipboards and grim expressions. This week O’Neil assigned us a paper to write for archery about the staging of Shakespearean battles. As if I don’t have enough work to do in all of my academic classes! Though I do think I can turn that project into a blog post if I incorporate Shakespearean costumes. . . .
I get to Jack and Joni, and Jack holds up his hand to high-five me. I reach up, and he raises his hand just enough that it’s out of my reach. “Hey,” I say, simultaneously thinking how lame it is that this is the quintessential joke guys have invented since the beginning of time, and also that I’m so glad he’s doing it because it means I have to step closer to him to try to reach his hand. “Are you rubbing in my shortness?” I ask as I jump up to slap his palm with mine.
“Hardly,” he says. “I’m congratulating you on getting out of last place for War Games.”
“What?! Are you serious?” I ask him. Can that be?!
“I checked it this morning,” Jack says.
“You’re cadet one ninety-one,” Joni says.
“Oh my gosh!” I say, and then Joni puts her arms around me in a big hug. Jack and I exchange a nervous glance over her shoulder—for a second he looks like he’s going to hug me, too, but then he just stands there fidgeting. “Listen, you obviously got out of last place because of your mad strategic-thinking skills,” he says, “but there’s a chance you can do something physical today to impress Sturtevant and move up even higher.”
“Are we hula-hooping?” I ask. “Because that’s a physical thing I’m surprisingly good at.”
“Um, no,” Jack says. “Rumor has it we’re doing the high ropes course.”
“Oh,” I say, my War Games buzz crashing a little. “High ropes?”
I try to act natural; I’m trying to get better at taking things as they come. But I was just getting used to regular PT. I’m not ready for anything high or having to do with ropes.
I exhale. I don’t have a choice. It’s another thing the Academy has made loud and clear for me: I’m not in charge. At home, my school taught so many touchy-feely concepts reinforced by the parents in our community, mostly focused on us teenagers being in charge of our own experience. My mother has actually said things to me like: If you don’t want to do your homework, perhaps you could talk with your teacher about an alternate project tailored more to your interests. That would never happen here. And surprisingly, it’s almost more reassuring to know my place rather than having to constantly try to figure out where I stand.
“The high ropes course is fun, Frankie,” Joni says. “I promise. Hard but fun.”
Jack clears his throat. “There are some kids who are gonna freak out up there and fall, and no offense to them, but maybe this could be a chance to move up even a few more spots in the War Games rankings. It just takes balance and confidence.”
Balance and confidence. Can I do that?
Sturtevant blows her whistle and we all straighten. “You’ll follow Sgt. O’Neil and me through the back door, and we’ll train outside this morning,” she says. She looks a little tired today. She doesn’t say anything more—she just swings open an exit door and cold air rushes in. We exit through the back of the gym, and I realize I’ve never seen this part of campus. The sun is just up. Light pours through the trees’ bare branches in pure, white rays. O’Neil says something about how the gloomiest night will wear on to a morning. The temperature is somewhere in the forties, so being outside is like trying to exist in a refrigerator, which I find uncomfortable. Why are these people all so outdoorsy? And where are the ropes?
To our right along the outside of the building are boxes filled with helmets in varying sizes. I’m relieved that they have ones marked EXTRA LARGE. “Select your helmets in an orderly fashion,” Sturtevant says. It can’t be a good sign that we need helmets, but at least I find one that fits. I strap it on as Jack talks to Joni and me about a reporter from the Wall Street Journal who’s teaching an online journalism course he wants to take, and it makes me smile because he so obviously loves what he loves, and of course I can relate to that.
I spot Archie. “It must be so nice to have such a modestly sized head,” I say to him as he selects a helmet from the box marked MEDIUM. Sturtevant’s whistle blows again, and she and O’Neil lead us around the side of the building. That’s when I see them:
The ropes.
I tip my helmet head way up and take in a ropes course that looks both like a twelve-year-old boy’s dream and also my own personal nightmare. Two wooden poles the width of telephone poles (but taller) shoot up into the sky. Terrifying makeshift ladders constructed by brick-sized slabs of wood are nailed into each pole. At the top of each pole is a landing spot—almost like a platform, the kind of thing trapeze people wait on before flying through the sky with their death wishes. The two poles are about a basketball court apart from each other, and they’re connected by trails of rope like some kind of makeshift bridge only an insane person would want to cross. My head is still at an awkward angle as I try to take it in, and then just like that—as fast as a sneeze comes on—I start hyperventilating. I’ve never hyperventilated before, but I know that’s what’s happening as soon as it hits me. It’s like I can’t get a breath in, so then my body starts trying to get one thousand breaths in all at the same time. I open my mouth to call to Jack and Joni—they’re right in front of me facing Sturtevant—but they don’t see me or hear me because I’m basically a silent movie. I’m trying to move my mouth around words but sound won’t come out. I can’t stop breathing so fast.
My legs wobble. I lean a little to the side and then a hand grabs my elbow. “Frankie?” Ciara says. She whirls me around. “Uh-oh. Okay. Get down.” She shoves me to the ground and for a second I think she’s attacking me, which seems unfair because obviously I’m hyperventilating and can’t fight back. We’re in the back row of cadets and I’m pretty sure no one else has noticed Ciara engaging me in combat, but also I don’t even care too much about that because I feel like I’m dying anyway, which I’ve felt at least six times since arriving at the Academy.
Ciara curls my spine and pushes my neck forward and my head down. “I used to get panic attacks,” she says, shoving my face toward the dirt. “I know what to do. Put your head between your knees and breathe.” That’s when I realize this is her version of helping. And she might have dislocated my shoulders, but the position of having my head way down low to almost the dirt automatically slows my breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
“Brooks!” Sturtevant screams. My helmet rests against tiny pebbles—I didn’t realize I was so flexible.
I lift my head a little and see Joni staring down at me. Jack’s there, too, now, bending to help me, but Sturtevant’s already moving through the cadets, shouting, “Clear out!”
Sturtevant squats. I can see her shoes—they’re so shiny. I would normally be scared, but I’m having that post-near-death-experience feeling where something just happened but you’re still alive and therefore flushed with euphoria. “Hi, Lt. Sturtevant,” I say to her feet. “Your shiny shoes look so nice.”
I lift my eyes to see her lips purse. I can see up close they’re quite chapped.
“Brooks, are you going to be able to participate today with the rest of us, or do I need to send you to the nurse’s office?”
If she had offered a spa appointment, I might have taken it, but I don’t really like the nurse here. It felt like she was purposely trying to hurt me with the tweezers when she was removing my splinters a few weeks ago.
“I don’t need to go to the nurse,” I say, finally catching my breath. “I’ll be fine.”
“Good,” Sturtevant says. “You’ll also be going first. Stand up.”
What?! “Oh,” I say, “I’ve actually never done something like this, so maybe—”
“Do you know why you moved up a few places in your War Games ranking?” Sturtevant asks. She doesn’t wait for me to answer before yelling, “It’s certainly not because of anything physical you’ve done here at the Academy! It’s because your Military Strategy teacher seems to think you have some aptitude for the subject. So why don’t you get off your butt, stand up, and actually try to do something that requires physical strength as well as mental clarity.”
“Um, okay,” I say, shaky as I push to my feet. Sturtevant is holding a red harness—like the kind of thing you would maybe put a horse’s head in, but bigger. Faster than I can say this sucks! she’s looping it beneath my crotch, and then around my hips, securing it so tight I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to breathe ever again. No one could hyperventilate in this thing, at least.
“You will use these carabiners to secure yourself to the safety cables,” she says, loud enough for everyone, not just me. She’s holding up ropes that are attached to my harness. On the ropes are heavy-duty silver clips. “Being attached to the safety cables is your lifeline,” Sturtevant says. “This is not a team exercise. You—and only you—are responsible for making sure you are attached and therefore not at risk of falling.” She turns to me. “Climb, Brooks!”
“Right now?” I ask. “The pole?”
I can see the muscles in Sturtevant’s neck pulsing. “The pole,” she says.
Oh my God. I turn to see Jack and Joni. Joni gives me a thumbs-up, and Jack gives me an even bigger and more crooked smile than usual, and I know it’s meant to be their votes of confidence, but I just don’t know how this is going to be possible.
“What if I fall off the ladder?!” I ask Sturtevant, my voice way more panicky than I want it to be. And obviously I want to do the thing she said—have physical strength—but seriously, it’s not like I’m going to be attached as I’m climbing. And the pole is really high!
“Are you serious, Brooks? Can you not climb a ladder?”
“I don’t know!” I say. “I’ve never climbed one! In my town we have workers who do things like painting and other ladder-type jobs.” I know I sound like a princess, but at this point, I just want to stay alive. What if I panic and jump off the ladder?
“I’ll spot her,” O’Neil says.
“Thank God,” I say.
Sturtevant puts her hand to her temples. “I’m getting a headache from the sound of your voice, Brooks,” she says. “The rest of your activity will be completed in silence, or you will earn a demerit.”
A demerit for talking?! I walk on trembling legs toward the pole and O’Neil follows. Adrenaline is pulsing through me, but O’Neil looks pretty calm standing there in his parka, and then he says, “Up you go,” and I start climbing because I don’t know what else to do.
The wood-slab ladder isn’t as rickety as it looked from afar, I’m happy to report—the rectangles of wood feel sturdy beneath my feet. I climb, trying really hard to not look down because I know I’ll freeze if I do. Just try your best, Frankie, I tell myself. And I try to remember what Jack said: balance and confidence. If I just make it even a little way across the rope, I could maybe get myself a few spots ahead in War Games. That would be such an improvement.
“Climb through the square!” O’Neil shouts from below, which is the most obvious statement anyone has ever made, but I don’t say so because it would be rude and also I’m not allowed to talk. I climb higher and higher until I’m almost there. I can see a square of blue sky, and then I’m climbing right through it. I scramble onto the wooden ledge. I expect to feel relieved—I made it to the platform!—but suddenly I’m more terrified than ever. I’m on all fours on the platform, staring out at the ropes. There’s one thick rope that I’m obviously meant to walk on, and then two thinner ropes that are positioned to be “railings,” except I’m pretty sure railings aren’t supposed to swing in the breeze. Is everyone freaking serious with this?! A quick moment passes in which I consider the possibility that this is all a joke—some kind of initiation prank that everyone else is in on. But Sturtevant doesn’t exactly seem like the kind of person to mess around, and hazing is forbidden at the Academy.
I can’t seem to get out of my crouched position. I know it’s the next step, but I can’t seem to bring myself to stand up.
“Stand up, Brooks!” Sturtevant shouts from below. Her voice sounds wobblier carried on the wind.
It’s weird. Now that I’m not allowed to say anything, it’s hard to stall. Maybe that’s why Sturtevant made me shut my mouth. I’m just awkwardly hunched over on all fours like a drooling baby.
“Make your body erect like a glistening skyscraper!” O’Neil shouts from the grass, and I make the mistake of looking directly down at him through the hole in the platform. Ah! He’s so tiny! I am seriously so high up! What if I fall off the platform?!
I’m frozen in the cat/cow yoga position Joni makes me do in our room—it’s like I absolutely can’t move.
“Brooks, you need to stand up and clip your carabiners!” Sturtevant yells.
I can’t! What if the wind blows and pushes me right off the platform? It’s way windier up here than it was down on the ground. But I can’t tell anyone that because I’m not allowed to talk!
Sweat beads on my neck. Oh my God! I just have to do this. I have to stand up. This is too mortifying to be on all fours. A squat—I’ll do that next and then push up to a stand. One, two, three . . .
I’m squatting!
Standing is next. I know how to stand: I do it every day. It’s just that I’m so high up. I’m so incredibly high up. I’m . . .
I’m standing! Like an erect skyscraper!
“Clip your carabiners, Frankie!” Sturtevant shouts.
It’s the first time she’s ever called me Frankie, and she’s reminding me to clip myself so I don’t fall. Maybe she secretly cares about me? Or maybe she’s just worried about bad press for the Academy if I drop to my death.
I look down at her because I have to make sure I’m clipping these things to the right places. About three feet above the rope railings there are two cords secured from the telephone poles. I’m pretty sure that’s what she wants me to clip them to. I stare down and try to do charades to show that I want confirmation that I’m clipping my lifelines to the right place so I don’t perish. I catch the eyes of two hundred cadets staring up at me. They’re so clearly enthralled; they look like they’re watching a reality TV show and I’m the train-wreck star.
A few cadets even hang their mouths in O shapes. I see Jack and realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look scared. Which reminds me that I need to get my carabiners on right because then I’ll actually be safe if I panic and fall off the platform. I wave around my carabiners, and then clip the metal to the cords, waiting for Sturtevant to scream any corrections. Finally she says, “Good, Brooks! You’re secured! Now walk!”
Right: the tightrope part. There are the two rope railings for me to hold on to, and then the tightrope for me to walk across. If I just hold these railings—I reach out, and suddenly my hands are around them, but I’m still on the platform. I’ll lean a smidge forward. Oh God.
The rope railings are bristly beneath my palms. They’re pretty thick, and if I could just use them to balance myself it might be possible to walk the tightrope. All I need to do is put one foot on the tightrope. First just the front half of my foot . . . I take one small step and there we go . . . oh my God! My hair is soaked with sweat beneath my helmet, and every inch of my exposed skin is sweating, too, so that when the cold breeze hits me I feel ill.
You have to do this, Frankie. Worst thing that happens is you fall, but the harness will catch you. Okay. Right. I count to three in my head, and step off the platform.
I’m on the rope! I’m like that famous 1970s tightrope walker who walked on a rope between the World Trade Towers!
Just one foot in front of the other. I take another step—now I’m walking—really, truly walking, like a person with a destination in mind. Someone whistles from below—I think it’s a cheering kind of whistle meant to encourage me—but I don’t dare look down. I just keep going. It’s exhilarating! I’m way up here! In the sky! Walking!
“Good work, Brooks!” Sturtevant shouts. “Keep going!”
I don’t say thanks, but I think it. I just keep trucking on: right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. I’m gripping on to the railings like my life depends on it, because it kind of does. Whoa! Another breeze hits—why does the wind feel so strong? Is there a storm coming or something?
Oh no. I’m wobbling—I’m definitely wobbling. I know I’m about to fall. Yep. Definitely about to fall . . . maybe falling . . . I’m totally falling!
No!
I kick one foot off the rope like I’m a gymnast trying to balance myself. I don’t even know where the instinct comes from: I hate gymnastics! It’s a breeding ground for eating disorders. But here I am, balancing myself in some kind of gymnast balance-beam pose that defies the laws of my athletic ability and gravity.
A collective ooooh! comes from at least a hundred cadets below. Others shout, “No!” and “Hold on!”
Why are they allowed to talk and I’m not?!
I’m still in the gymnast position. My right thigh muscle is burning from trying to balance all my weight on that leg. I just need to lower my left leg back down toward the rope. Slowly. Down . . . down . . . down . . .
Score! Both feet are back on the rope. I want to clap for myself but that would mean letting go of the rope railings.
I have to focus; I have to keep going. Right? Isn’t that what I’m learning here? That no matter what crazy situation you’re put into—no matter how foreign it is, and how challenging—you just put one foot in front of the other and keep going?
The wind picks up even more, but I’m okay. I’m almost there—I think I’m going to make it to the other end! I pick up my pace—right, left, right, left, right, left—faster and faster—I’ve got this!
Until I don’t.
Suddenly the rope starts sloping up to meet the second platform, and it becomes tauter like a straight, hard line on an incline instead of a softer, pliable thing. Another gust of wind hits and just like that I’m off. There’s no balancing; there’s no saving myself. I’m off the rope just inches before I would have made the platform. I can see it as I fall.
No no no!
My large head starts falling fastest. I’m pointing down toward the ground and convinced I’m about to hit the dirt when my carabiners snap me upright and stop me in midair, and then I’m dangling with my arms splayed like a paper doll.
I feel tears start as I swing back and forth, but I swallow them back with everything I have. I’m not going to cry. Not today—no way. Not when I did way better than I ever thought I could.
Sturtevant helps lower me down. “Well done, Brooks,” she says. At first I think she’s joking, but then I look up into her face and see how serious she is. She’s proud of me for making it as far as I did.
“It was a good walk,” she says.
I stay still as Sturtevant unclasps my carabiners. I look out at all the cadets, and I can’t stop grinning when they start clapping.