THE NEXT DAY I’M PACING one of the Academy’s outdoor training fields when I see it: my War Games ranking!
I’ve been pressing refresh on my phone all day. Sturtevant must have just changed it, and my name is right there, glorious as ever: Frances Brooks, Cadet #172. How awesome is that?! The thrill is so great I can barely even feel the pain from where the harness rope-burned me while saving my life.
Last night on my blog I posted about the ropes course, linking to all kinds of live-action ropes-course shots I found online. (I wish Sturtevant let me take pictures of myself during PT, but obviously that’s a big no-no.) Anyway, it’s getting me thinking . . .
What if I can figure out a way to involve fashion and blogging in my leadership project for the Academy? I keep thinking of Julia’s words: Make it something only you could do.
I don’t quite know how I’ll do it . . . but I just feel like there has to be some way to make it work, because here’s the thing: my military-style posts are getting more comments than any other posts I’ve written this year. My readers all agree that army-green joggers, aviator sunglasses, and military-style jackets really set a woman apart and communicate strength. Maybe if I want to make my mark at the Academy, I have to do as I’m told without losing my joie de vivre and passion for fashion; and maybe I need to revolutionize the way military style is seen by my fashion community!
Enter: my first military-style photo shoot for FreshFrankie.
I came up with the idea late last night and asked Jack and Joni to be my models. First they got all shy and said no, but when I explained I was trying really hard to cook up a good idea for my leadership project, they caved!
It’s just a kernel of an idea . . . but what if I could figure out how to showcase military fashion? Would Sturtevant ever go for that? I’m not sure how it would work . . . some kind of slide-show presentation online? But I’d have to make it way different from my blog . . .
I obviously need to think about it some more.
Now I’m waiting for Jack and Joni. I’ve been here on the athletic field for nearly an hour, scouting out my location and coming up with some ideas for shots. The photographer (me, in this case) should always be early to a shoot. I’ve learned just how much the photographer runs the show from watching behind-the-scenes footage on W’s and Vogue’s websites.
The art director is important, too, which I gathered from the time my dad got me an informational interview with the accessories director at Self magazine, which was amazing. The whole way down to New York City my dad lectured me on how the vast majority of the world is without money or connections, and how I had to figure out a way to give back to the world even if I decided to work in fashion. Here’s the thing: I do know how fortunate I am, and of course I plan to give back. Duh!
It’s Saturday, which means I’m not wearing my uniform, but I am wearing an amazingly chic military-inspired outfit, if I do say so myself, which includes light green utility jeggings, a hip-length cinched jacket with extra pockets, and a structured messenger bag to hold the semiprofessional Olympus camera my parents got me for Christmas last year. I’m also wearing riding boots and my new fashion staple: aviator sunglasses. I don’t know how I’ve lived this long without realizing they’re by far the most stylish kind of eyewear. And you can get them at the drugstore for like nine bucks!
I check my watch. I still kind of can’t believe I convinced Jack and Joni to do this, and I’m praying they won’t bail. Wind whips the platinum pieces of hair across my face. I swipe them out of my eyes, scanning the field for my friends.
“Frankie!”
I turn to see Jack and Joni walking beneath the goalposts. Jack stands taller when he’s wearing his uniform, and he doesn’t stuff his hands into his pockets like he does in street clothes. Joni’s dressed in uniform, too. As much as I love the capriciousness of fashion and the changing moods and seasons, Jack and Joni’s military uniforms look totally and completely right on them no matter where they are. I’ll have to remember to work the timelessness of military fashion into my post. I really think military chic is going to be a new movement for my readers. How totally inspiring!
I wave as Jack and Joni come closer. Jack grins, his dark eyes crinkling. “Do I look fashionable enough?” he asks me.
“Yes, you do,” I say, trying to sound professional. I want to add: You look fantastic, but that might be overkill, even if it’s the truth. “Should we get to work?” I ask, my voice fluttery. I gesture toward the obstacle course set up on the PT field. There’s a rock wall, a balance beam, a tire footwork course, a two-handed vault, and a whole bunch of other things that look ridiculously hard to do, but maybe if I keep building strength, eventually I’ll be able to conquer them.
We walk silently toward the obstacle course and I see a lone medicine ball left behind. I try to tuck my hair behind my ears, but it’s no use. The wind is picking up, sending Joni’s strawberry-blonde hair flying, too. Jack glances at me again, and I look away, hot with nerves, trying to concentrate on the winter grass beneath my feet.
We stop in front of the wooden rock wall. It’s about eight feet tall, spotted with little plastic imitation rocks you could grip to climb up and over. We stand there considering each other, and then Joni looks at me pointedly and says, “We should get started, Frankie. I have to study for a French quiz.”
“Oh, okay,” I say quickly, feeling a little weird. It’s strange—sometimes things are okay when we’re all together, but sometimes it feels like three’s a crowd. “So how about we do some poses here,” I say, pointing to the rock wall, “and I’ll photograph you guys.”
“Poses?” Jack repeats.
“Just natural stuff,” I say as we stare at the thing. I have a little bit of a sick feeling when I think about Sturtevant making me climb it on some future morning. I take out my phone to get some music going to relax Jack and Joni so they’re game for the shoot. They burst out laughing when a Rihanna song plays. “Rachel,” they say at the same time.
Joni tells me, “Rachel had this crazy way of moving her legs like Rihanna does in the video.” Then Joni tries to do the crazy movement with her legs, and it just looks so ridiculous that we burst out laughing.
We joke around a little more, and when I get the sense they’re relaxed enough, I say, “Jack, how about you start to climb, and Joni, maybe you look up at Jack like you want his help, and Jack, you reach down and grab Joni’s hand.”
“Frankie, this isn’t 1950,” Joni says.
“No, of course not, I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, embarrassed.
“How about Joni and I race to the top,” Jack says.
“Yes!” Joni says, grinning.
I don’t even need to say Go! before they’re latching on to rocks and clambering up the wall. I fumble in my bag for my camera, barely able to snap a few shots before Jack and Joni reach the top, high-fiving each other and arguing over who won. They’re laughing as I snap a few more pictures.
“My fingers touched the top first and you know it,” Jack says.
“It’s not my fault your wingspan is seven feet,” Joni says.
I check over my shots. Some of them are blurry with motion, but there are a few that are perfect. The best one shows Joni at the top laughing with her head tilted back while Jack grins up at her. I thought I was going to want to show something that felt like the military to me—something tough and sweat-inducing. But this moment, with them having achieved something separately and yet still somehow as a team, feels even more like what the Academy is trying to teach us.
I’m quiet while they catch their breath. I think about how the military is so much more than these kinds of drills—so much more than training and teamwork and everything they’re teaching us here. It’s certainly more than goofing around and talking about military fashion—even I know that.
“Why?” I ask as they shimmy down the rocks. For a moment I don’t even think they’ve heard me. “Why do you guys want to be in the military?” I ask nervously. “I want to understand, and I don’t think I do.”
Joni and Jack push off the wall and land in a muddy patch of dirt. They’re standing together, united by their feat, and they’re watching me, waiting.
Jack looks at Joni. “You first?” he asks, and it seems more out of politeness than wanting to avoid the question.
“You,” Joni says softly.
Jack kicks at the ground, his shiny black boot leaving an imprint in the grass. “It’s always felt to me like something inevitable, a feeling I knew I’d never be able to shake. This,” he says, gesturing around himself like he means not only the three of us, but something way bigger: the school; the state; the country, “is worth protecting, and I guess I grew up wanting to protect it.” Jack’s blushing a little. It makes me wonder if he’s ever said this out loud. “If that’s through being in the military, or being a journalist and showing the world what war and the military are really like . . . I want to do that.”
“And there are other people and their families far away, too, who deserve protecting,” Joni says. “It’s not just our country.”
“Right,” Jack says, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know you didn’t,” Joni says kindly.
“It’s not going to be an easy life, of course,” Jack says. “But it’s the only life that’s ever made any sense to me. I’m gonna be one of the people who tell the truth about what’s happening. I’m going to be a part of it no matter what.”
The air between us is cold and still. There’s no bugle call, no one shouting instructions, no one threatening demerits. There’s just the three of us. The obstacle course suddenly looks kind of beautiful in the fading winter light.
“We have so much here,” Joni says softly. “We’re so lucky. And I guess, just like how some kids are pulled toward being artists or doctors, being in the service is what pulls me.”
The wind works through my hair and my fingertips prickle with cold. “Thank you for helping me get it,” I say. I have a lot more to learn, but it won’t just be about discipline; it’ll be about a way of life that millions of our countrymen and countrywomen undertake, which I know maybe sounds dramatic (who uses the word countrymen?), but it’s true. How can I not think more about the men and women who leave their families to keep me safe?
Joni leans back and gazes into the sky. Jack seems lost in thought, too, toying with a tiny crease on the sleeve of his uniform. I watch his hands smooth the fabric, and think about how Albany Military Academy is full of more surprises than I could have imagined. Maybe this won’t be the life I choose, but if I hadn’t come here, all this would have remained a mystery.
We’re all quiet for a while. And then Jack’s face goes darker, and I get nervous that something else is coming. “The other thing about being here is it strengthens you for real life stuff, which for me, lately, are the problems my family is having.”
I stare at him, waiting for him to explain.
He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “I’ve been wanting to tell you something, Frankie,” he says, clearing his throat. “A couple of months ago my parents decided to separate.”
I put down my camera, letting his words sink in. “That’s awful, Jack, I . . .” I try to form a sentence in my head that will make him feel better, but nothing comes.
“It sucks,” he says. “And right now it’s even worse for Rachel because she has to deal with their fighting all the time because my dad can’t afford to move out yet. My mom and dad and Rachel keep calling me so upset over all different stuff, and I feel, like, a million miles away and I can’t do anything. Everything about it kills me,” he says.
Before I can think about what I’m doing, I reach out and squeeze Jack’s hand. My skin feels like it’s on fire. I quickly let go, and Jack turns to me, his eyes searching my face. The silence between all three of us suddenly feels awkward.
“You guys are gonna be okay,” Joni finally says. I can tell by the way she says it that she already knew about Jack’s parents. “No matter what happens, your mom and Rachel are strong. So is your dad. So are you.”
“Rachel’s also a raging pain in the ass,” Jack says, smirking just a little, enough to shift the mood.
“Crazy how you can love your family so much and they still drive you nuts,” I say. I look over and see Joni flinch, and my heart stops when I think about Joni’s parents being dead. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Joni shakes her head. She doesn’t seem upset. Instead she says, “There was this one time when we were white-water river rafting in Montana, and my mom fell overboard, then a second later my dad lost his balance and fell overboard, too. But my dad always swore that he had jumped into the rapids to save her. My mom and I laughed so hard every time we heard him try to tell people that story, because we knew he’d just been clumsy and fell into the water. But he was so stubborn. His inner Navy SEAL wouldn’t admit he’d lost his balance like any other dad could have,” she says, letting out a soft laugh. “It’s hard when you lose what you thought you would have for so many more years. Family is everything.” She glances up from her hands and looks at both of us. “But so are friends,” she says.
I smile at them. My friends, my true friends—who else would stay behind in our room to help me study, or confess to sneaking out to help me mop, or go out of their comfort zones to model military uniforms for me?
I think about what today could mean. I could show all my readers what happens at military school—the friendships, the hardships, and the lessons we’re learning. I could show what it looks like to be here, why we wear what we wear, how it helps us perform and work together to be in uniform.
And I could go so much further with it as my leadership project, because what if changing wartime fashions reflect more than just practicality and style frivolity, but an entire country’s mood and outlook?
Can I make this work? Could I do something so big and awesome that it saves me from getting expelled, and happens to be something I truly believe in?