“CRANK IT UP!” CIARA SHOUTS over the sound of Joni’s hair dryer.
I turn up the George Ezra song and Ciara does a dance move straight out of the 70s. Joni bops her head along to the lyrics:
Give me one good reason why I should never make a change . . .
“I love this song,” Joni shouts as she smooths her hair with a bristle brush.
It’s Saturday night and the three of us are in Ciara’s room getting ready for the marine corps dance. At first Joni was a little nervous to hang out with Ciara because she worried it would piss off Amanda, but I convinced her that the less we make a big deal out of everything, the better it will be between all of us. I really hope my new strategy will work, and so far I think it does! This week Amanda mostly avoided me, but then two days ago in PT, she shared her water with me because I forgot mine. I think maybe she respected me when I stood up to her at the pool. And I noticed she didn’t turn away when I waved to her and Ciara at lunch yesterday. Even if we don’t become great friends, I want us to be civil, so that’s progress, at least!
I really needed tonight after the previous week at school. I nearly drowned in the pool the day we did lifesaving, and it also dropped me back a few spots in War Games ranking. Ugh!
I holed up and whined about it for a few days, but then Joni reminded me I didn’t have time to whine if I was going to make my presentation to Sturtevant on Sunday (tomorrow!) for my leadership project.
She’s right, obviously, and I’ve been working on it like crazy! Joni also said sometimes if you hold a goal right in the front of your mind, it makes the work so much easier. I keep visualizing myself tomorrow, standing in Sturtevant’s office, doing my presentation for my (potential!) fashion show, doing my absolute best job of convincing her why I deserve to stay. I feel like I’ve come so far here, and now it’s not just about surviving, it’s about proving to Sturtevant and everyone else that I’m good enough to have a place here.
“A room of my own,” Ciara says to me while Joni blows her hair dry. She gestures around the tiny room like it’s a palace. Apparently she got a single because her roommate complained to Lt. Sturtevant she was morally opposed to Ciara being gay. Ciara told me it was the only time bigotry had ever worked in her favor.
Ciara’s walls are decked with tear-outs from fashion magazines along with photos of Celine, her French bulldog, and one of her and Amanda in uniform at what she tells me was the Academy’s freshman orientation. Above Ciara’s desk is a picture of a boy with golden-brown skin in his twenties wearing an army uniform in the desert. He’s got the bottom of his boots lifted, and across both rubber soles scrawled in marker are the words: I will miss you every step of the way. My heart catches when I see it. Ciara says to me, “That’s my cousin Bobby. He emailed that picture to his mom when he got overseas.” Ciara and I trade a glance, and she says, “I look at that picture when I’m having a hard day.”
I swallow down a lump in my throat. Joni turns off her blow dryer, oblivious to our conversation. “You know how my date asked me to the dance?” she says. “He was like, ‘Will you go to my dance, and also is your friend okay—the one who couldn’t save the dummy?’”
I scowl at her. “My CPR was perfect,” I say proudly. “And I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t save the dummies.”
“But you were the only one who almost had to go to the infirmary for water inhalation,” Joni says, barely able to stifle her laugh.
Ciara snorts. “The look on Sturtevant’s face when she realized she had to jump in after you was priceless. Like she was annoyed enough at you that you couldn’t save the dummy, and then she had to get her uniform wet so you wouldn’t drown.”
Joni’s laughing so hard she smacks a hand on her leg. “I think she actually has a soft spot for you, Frankie, that’s the best part.”
“Well, you guys better hope she likes my proposal for my leadership project tomorrow,” I say. “Or she’s gonna kick me out whether she likes me or not.”
“She’s gonna like it, Frankie,” Joni says, and we smile at each other.
Joni’s going tonight with a senior guy from her leadership group. She says she’s made it very clear to him they’re just friends. It makes me happy to think she’s making another friend besides Jack and me.
Ciara moves to the mirror and examines her reflection. She opens a tiny velvet pouch, retrieving gold pyramid stud earrings. Behind her, Joni slips into a simple black shift dress. When Ciara turns and sees Joni, she says, “Wow! You look gorgeous.”
Joni goes bright red. “Oh, um, thanks,” she says. Then she turns and busies herself buckling her patent-leather heels.
My phone chimes and I see a string of texts from Jack:
I’m thinking you’re a hydrangeas lover because I saw them once in my mom’s Elle Decor
Not like I read Elle Decor
Wait no flowers bc Joni’s allergic . . . so . . . Candy? Or no bc you’re sweet enough already? Whoa. Lame. I’m gonna delete this.
No! I accidentally pushed SEND!
I laugh, wanting to tell Jack that he’s making my day with all the thought he’s putting into this, but I don’t know how to write that without sounding cheesy. So instead, I write: ☺ you don’t need to get me anything. I’m psyched just to hang out with you.
A dance; slow music; me in a dress: I shudder when I imagine everything that could happen between us tonight.
“This looks like a torture device,” Joni says, holding up my eyelash curler.
“It makes your eyes pop,” I say, and then I get an idea. “Let me do your makeup! Please?”
“Um, no,” Joni says.
“Come on, it’ll be fun. And I’ll post before and afters on my blog, and if you hate it, I’ll interview you and you can talk about the evils and artifice of makeup. It’s always good for me to have another opinion on FreshFrankie.”
Joni agrees, and then Ciara says, “Do mine, too,” and I hear my sister’s voice warning me about eyelash germs. Ciara’s smiling as she edges closer to Joni. I like Ciara a whole lot more when she isn’t around Amanda. She’s so much more relaxed, so game for anything.
A Prince song comes on, and I start curling Ciara’s lashes and do a teeny tiny smudge of eyeliner. “It’ll be sexy and subtle,” I say. Ciara’s perfume—something lemony and grassy—fills the air between us. I finish her makeup and start on Joni, carefully slipping the curler over her lashes and pressing down as she prattles on with the reasons she doesn’t think her date is hot—too short; already potentially balding. I go along with it because obviously she hasn’t told Ciara yet that she’s gay. Seems to me like Ciara would be a pretty great person to tell, but maybe Joni’s worried about exposing herself to Amanda’s closest friend.
“So, who do you like?” Ciara asks, her voice even. She’s staring at Joni like it’s just the two of them. I start doing makeup on Joni’s right eye, smudging a little liner beneath her lower lid, then the top, and that’s when I notice sweat beading her hairline.
“Are you okay, Joni?” I ask. I put a hand on hers. She’s clammy.
“I’m fine,” Joni says quickly, snatching back her hand. “I just need some air. Meet you guys downstairs?”
“But I only did one eye,” I say, the liner poised in midair.
“I’ll think I’ll survive,” Joni says, and then shoots us a smile that she obviously has to force. She grabs her purse and scrams.
The door shuts behind Joni. I glance at Ciara.
“That was weird,” I say.
Ciara considers me. “Yeah,” she says, glancing at her phone. “We should probably go down to the lobby and check on her. Our dates are going to be here any second.”
I take a quick breath. I can’t wait to see Jack. I hope he likes my dress, but I have to keep in mind that my dress is a) amazing, but b) a fashionable girl dresses for herself, not guys or society (reference FreshFrankie post #457: “Will Wearing a Jumpsuit Leave You Dateless? Who Cares? They’re Worth It!”), which is why I chose an Alexander Wang black minidress with a neon-yellow cutout just above my right hip.
And #sidenote, I’d like to add that my bare arms look amazing from the eight thousand push-ups I’ve done since my arrival at the Academy. And I feel strong, which isn’t a word I would have ever used to describe anything other than my fashion sense before Sturtevant repeatedly kicked my butt during PT.
Ciara and I zip our phones and keys into our purses. In the hallway, we pass a poster that says DON’T JUST READ TWITTER. Jack’s name is listed along with two others I don’t recognize. “What’s this?” I ask, stopping to check out the poster.
Ciara squints. “Jack did that last year, too,” she says. “He and some other guys and this girl named Priya give a talk about news outlets and international relations type reporting they think Academy kids need to know about. Jack makes it so funny. He’s a great public speaker.”
I swell with pride. Ciara must see it on my face, because she says, “Easy, fangirl.”
“I’m not a fangirl,” I say. “I’m just very supportive of people I care about doing creative work.”
Ciara giggles and I give up trying to play it cool. “Whatever,” I say. “I may also have a minor crush on him.”
“Minor?” Ciara repeats.
I jab the elevator button a few times, not meeting her glance. “Okay, fine. Major crush,” I admit.
“He likes you, too, you know,” she says, and I try not to let on how unbearably fluttery that makes me. What if Jack tries to kiss me tonight? What if I try to kiss him?
The next move is yours.
I’m buzzing with nerves as Ciara checks a text from her date, Dhruv. “Always freaking late,” she grumbles.
I’ve never met him, but Ciara told me that Dhruv Gupta is a senior who’s been one of her best friends since the two of them took over the treasurer and vice president roles in the LGBT club, which Ciara refers to as the table tennis club because apparently they play Ping-Pong at their meetings before discussing any pressing issues, which sounds like how my mom’s book club is really a wine club. Dhruv is openly gay like Ciara, and Ciara told me that them going together is a way to make a statement on heteronormative pairings.
We wait for the elevator in comfortable silence, and I almost want to tell Ciara how easy it is to hang out with her without Amanda around, making things tense. But then I consider Amanda’s situation at home, and I say something different. “It’s good that Amanda has you,” I say. “It seems like you’re a loyal friend to her.”
“Yeah. Well, our friendship makes my life complicated,” Ciara says. “But I don’t have a perfect family life back home, either, and you can only understand that when you’ve lived it, like Amanda has. She’s been there for me, and so I want to be there for her, too.”
The elevator doors open and we get inside. I don’t want to pry further and I don’t want to pretend to give advice on something I don’t completely understand. I shouldn’t have been so quick to pass judgment on their friendship in the first place; my mom always says you never know what makes friendships, relationships, and families tick. So I just say, “That makes sense,” and Ciara smiles at me like she’s grateful that I understand.
When the doors open on the ground floor, Jack’s standing there in uniform like something out of a movie. He looks gorgeous in his crisp dress blues, the uniform cadets wear for special occasions. Gold buttons parade down the front of his dark jacket and a white belt with a gold buckle cinches his waist. Pins decorate the lapel. He’s so gorgeously tall, and he’s holding a copy of March Vogue. “Better than flowers?” he asks, passing it into my arms.
“Six hundred pages of spring fashion?” I say, pressing the magazine to my chest, and then kissing it to make him laugh. “Um, yeah.”
“Get a room,” Ciara says to my magazine and me, and then excuses herself to call Dhruv.
“You could be on the cover of GQ,” I say appreciatively, taking in Jack’s six-foot-four frame in his uniform.
“No way,” he says. “I only model for your blog.”
“The comments are still flowing in on that post,” I say. “It was shared two hundred times.”
Jack smiles. And then he says, “You’re the one who looks like a girl in a magazine.”
“You like this dress?” I ask, surprised.
“Well, not really, but I like you,” he says. I burst out laughing, and then he does, too. “No, seriously, you look amazing in it,” he says. “Even if there’s a big hole in the side.”
“It’s a cutout!” I say.
“It’s a hole,” he says. “But at least your hip won’t overheat at the dance.”
I laugh again, and then I try to be polite and thank him for taking me to his dance, but he waves me off. “You might want to wait and see my dance moves before you thank me,” he says.
Ciara peeks her head back inside the lobby. “Guys!” she calls. “Dhruv’s going to meet us at the gym. And I can’t find Joni.”
“Lemme call her,” I say.
“That’s a purse?” Jack asks as I rummage through my clutch for my phone. “It looks like an envelope.”
“It’s a miniclutch,” I say, “just enough room for a phone and credit card. I had to take my key off my key chain.”
“All in the name of fashion,” Jack says.
“Always,” I say.
The phone only rings once before Joni picks up. “Frankie!” she says, sounding out of breath. “My date got here early, so we just decided to head over.”
“Oh, okay,” I say weakly. Why didn’t they just wait for us, like we planned? “I guess we’ll just meet you there.”
“Great!” Joni says, way too enthusiastically. “Bye!”
“Is she okay?” Jack asks.
“I think so,” I say, and we stash my magazine in Ciara’s mailbox. Jack helps me slide into my coat, which is wildly unnecessary, but also really cute.
We walk across the quad, and Jack asks Ciara, “You ever play Ping-Pong with Dhruv?”
I squeeze his arm. He’s making an effort with her, no matter what he thinks of her friendship with Amanda.
“All the time at LGBT meetings,” Ciara says. “You have, too?”
“There’s a table in our dorm’s basement,” Jack says, “and Dhruv’s Ping-Pong skills are legendary. It’s a transcendent experience watching him play.”
I laugh. He has a weird sense of humor. I like it.
“And you, Frankie?” he asks as we traipse through the cold. It’s dark, and the ground is soggy with the memory of snow. “Ping-Pong? Horseshoes? Any random athletic skill you’d like to share with us?”
“You may have noticed I suck at everything sports-related, even games,” I say, dodging clumps of mud. I’m trying to keep my vintage Ferragamo heels from getting ruined.
“I don’t think you suck at anything,” Jack says.
Ciara glances at me. I can feel myself blushing.
“Your bionic vision must not be working in PT,” I say, elbowing him and trying to laugh it off. “I also suck at French. I picked French at school so I could go live abroad in Paris for a few years and work at a fashion company like Dior. But it turns out mon français est épouvantable.”
“But that sounded pretty good,” Jack says.
“It’s the only thing I know how to say, really.”
“It could get you pretty far, though,” Jack says. “If you just warn the French how terrible your French is, and say it with that charming smile of yours . . .”
“You speak French?” I ask him.
Jack nods. “We lived in France for five years while my dad was stationed there.”
“That’s my dream,” I say.
“Really? To be a military brat?” Jack asks.
I start at the dark note in his voice. “No,” I say quickly. “To have parents who raised me in France for a few years, just so I could learn the language and adopt the effortless cool of the French.”
I’m trying to be funny, but I can sense Jack’s mood has shifted. “It wasn’t all that great,” he says.
“Leaving your friends and living somewhere you didn’t even understand the language had to be hard,” Ciara says, and I wish I had thought to say that, instead of the stupid thing I actually said.
“Yeah,” I agree, dumbly. Say something else, Frankie. “Parents don’t always think about their kids, I guess.”
Jack glances at me. “It’s not like that,” he says. “It’s not like your parents, where they always have a choice in where they’ll work and live. My dad had orders.”
This is getting worse by the second. Every time I think I sort of understand military life, I so clearly don’t. “I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I didn’t mean to sound naive.”
Jack lets go of a breath. “I don’t expect you to know, I just want you to understand.”
I can hear in his words how much he wants me to get him. I imagine Jack and Rachel’s life now, and how after all that they sacrificed they still have to deal with their parents splitting up. We step onto a sidewalk, our path illuminated by antique-looking streetlamps. My arm is still linked through Jack’s when Joni rounds the corner of the PT building and spots us.
“There you are,” she says, glancing at Ciara, then at Jack and me. Her right eye looks bigger than her left because I only did the mascara and liner on that side. She introduces me to her date, and then we all head toward the PT building, which is decked out with multicolored streamers. There’s a huge sign hung above the entrance with spray-painted letters that read:
ALBANY MILITARY ACADEMY MARINE CORPS SNOWBALL
DANCE THE NIGHT AWAY!
The brick wall of the PT building looks black and shiny in the darkness, and I can’t explain it, but the night feels magical, like we’re about to go have an adventure in the place that pushes me to my limits every day at the crack of dawn.
Jack must see it on my face. “You look happy,” he says.
“I am,” I say. “No one’s going to make me do push-ups tonight.”
“We’ll see about that,” he says, and I laugh, giddy as we walk through the entrance. It’s already so different from any dance at my old school. Officers mill about wearing their fancy dress-blue uniforms, the American flag stands proudly on a gold-painted pole, and a boy in uniform plays “Taps” on his bugle. My chest swells at the sound. These are the things that feel special to me here, the constant reminder that we’re all a part of something so much bigger than we are, that our country is something we all share, something we can all be proud of and feel love for.
Jack squeezes my hand and leads me toward a long folding table with a few seniors I recognize from PT sitting on metal chairs and holding clipboards. A red, white, and blue banner hangs above their heads. One of the girls grins when she sees Jack, then jumps up to hug him, and the second girl crosses us off her list. She looks at me sweetly and says, “Have fun, Frankie.” Then she leans closer. “You answering your cell in PT this semester was truly hilarious.”
Hilarious? Or just plain rude and disrespectful? I try to smile, but I’m still nervous when I remember it. It’s not who I want to be anymore.
We head into the gym, and standing at the entrance are Lt. Sturtevant and Sgt. O’Neil. They’re both decked out in their fancy uniforms—they look pretty awesome—and the craziest thing happens: I salute. It happens, just like that. It feels like the right thing to do.
Sturtevant and O’Neil salute back, and then, even crazier: Sturtevant smiles at me.
One more day until I present my leadership project to you, I think as I return her smile. By this time tomorrow, I’ll know my fate, and the thought makes me go warm all over as we head into the gym. I try to put it out of my mind, but it’s hard!
In the gym, I’m surprised at how many Academy kids are out on the floor dancing. Everyone looks so formal and distinguished. Some are wearing suits and dresses because we’re allowed to wear street clothes, but most of the guys are in their dress-blue uniforms, and a lot of the girls are, too. The mix is nice, actually.
Tonight there’s going to be a presentation of service awards for the seniors who’ve made the biggest contributions to the community, and all the plaques are lined up on a square table beneath the basketball hoop. Streamers and posters hang on the walls, and bowls of punch, Doritos, and pretzels are on two large tables tucked into a corner. A sequined disco ball hangs from the ceiling, and it’s spinning slowly, casting speckled light over the walls, bleachers, and dancers.
“Dance?” Jack asks me.
Katy Perry comes on over the speakers, and Jack says, jokingly, “OMG! It’s my favorite song!” I’m about to laugh, but then he pulls me toward the center of the gym, grabs my hips, and starts dancing.
“Whoa,” I yell over the music. “Seriously?”
“What?” he says, smirking.
“You said you were a bad dancer!”
“No, I didn’t,” he says, his grin widening. “I said you had to see my dance moves before you thanked me.” He steps away from me and starts dancing crazily—it’s like his feet are doing one thing and his arms are doing another, but the whole thing together goes completely with the music. It’s all I can do to keep dancing. I want to video this for my blog, but then I hear my mother’s voice: Don’t let technology take you out of the moment, Frankie! So I just watch, and everyone else does, too. The crowd pulls back to surround Jack in an amoebalike circle that sways and clumps as more people join.
Everyone’s shouting and cheering and Jack’s soaking it up, but instead of seeming like a show-off, he just looks like a guy who’s having a great time. He throws his head back, grinning up at the disco ball as his arms whirl and his legs move faster than I realized was humanly possible. Everyone’s laughing and clapping, and it’s like his energy is contagious, and I don’t want to be apart from him for another second, so I jump right into the middle of the circle and start dancing. Everyone cheers, and the few people who know my name shout it out. I’m laughing as I twirl around the circle, right up until Jack pulls me to him and sways my hips in time with his. The rest of the kids start to move toward us, closing the circle until everyone’s dancing in a mash again. I’m exhausted by the time a slow song comes on. I rest my head against Jack’s chest, and he kisses the top of my head. “Wanna get some air?” he whispers.
I nod, breathless. I do.
Jack grabs my hand and guides me through the crowd. I love how his big, warm hand feels holding mine, and I love what it feels like to be the girl he wants close to him. I know I haven’t known him for that long, but everything I know about him, I really like. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?
Jack leads us into the lobby, not bothering to wave to the girls collecting tickets. He’s looking down at our hands intertwined, and there’s an expression on his face that I can’t read.
“This way,” Jack says, pushing through the glass doors. He leads me down the steps and around the side of the building.
“Where are we going?” I ask. “It’s freezing!”
“You’ll see,” he says.
I follow him carefully across a stone path, careful not to trip in my heels. “Slow down!” I say.
“Sorry,” Jack says. “I forgot about your five-inch heels.”
“I didn’t want to dance with your belly button all night, Freakishly Tall Guy.”
“Fair,” he says. But instead of slowing down, he scoops me into his arms.
“Hey!” I say. I’d tell him to put me down, except I really don’t want him to. The night is darkening around us as we move between two brick buildings. The moon is gone, leaving us in pitch-darkness.
“A little longer, princess,” Jack says, winding along the stone path.
I try to laugh but my head is swirling.
“This is sort of like a scary movie,” I whisper.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re overdramatic?” Jack asks. The lack of moonlight between the buildings makes it hard to see his face.
“My mother,” I say. “All the time.”
The buildings open up to a square courtyard. A stone patio surrounds a willow tree lit up with Christmas lights. Jack’s still holding me, and I can feel him watching my reaction. I turn to him. “It’s beautiful,” I say, my voice soft.
His face breaks into a wider grin than I’ve ever seen on him. “You like it?” he says.
“I love it,” I say. “Wait, did you . . . did you put these lights up?” I ask, so nervous that I’ll be wrong and embarrass myself for asking.
“I did,” he says, blushing.
I can’t bring myself to speak. It’s by far the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. (It’s maybe also the only romantic thing anyone has ever done for me, but that’s another story.) Jack’s eyes travel over me and I can barely stand still beneath his gaze. Finally he clears his throat and looks away.
“Willa,” he says, nodding at the tree. “That’s what I call her. You should see her in the spring, when she’s all flowery and stuff.”
“Flowery and stuff?” I repeat, laughing.
“I don’t want to seem too romantic,” he says, and my heart beats faster and faster.
“Too late,” I whisper as he lowers me gently to my feet. I want him to kiss me so bad I can hardly bear it.
Buzz! Ding!
My phone buzzes and chimes inside my clutch, and the sound feels so discordant with how quiet the night is that I unzip the thing to turn it off.
“Are you going to answer your phone?” Jack asks, and there’s a nervousness in his voice that makes him sound unfamiliar.
“What? No,” I say. “I’m turning it off, so it doesn’t . . .”
I want to say, so it doesn’t ruin this moment, but I know it already has. God! I fumble inside my clutch, my fingers shaking. I pull my phone out to switch it off. There’s a missed call from my parents, and a text that says call home.
“Frankie?” Jack says, his eyes on the screen.
“Um, I should call my parents,” I say, “in case something’s wrong. It’s really unlike them to text me that.”
“Of course,” Jack says carefully. “I’ll just give you some privacy.”
I nod. I’m halfway between wanting to kill my parents for ruining the moment and also desperately wanting to make sure everything’s okay. Jack walks slowly back along the path we came. “I’ll just be out here waiting,” he calls over his shoulder.
Waiting. It strikes me that he’s been waiting a lot for me. Waiting for me to figure out what the hell I’m doing at this school; waiting for me to catch up with him when I run; waiting for me to talk to Joni. I don’t want him to have to wait for me anymore.
The phone rings and my mom answers right away. “Sweetie?”
“Is everything okay?” I ask. “Is Ella okay?”
“What? Oh, of course, everything’s fine.”
Then why are you asking me to call home on a Saturday night when I’m falling in love with Jack Wattson and all I want to do is kiss him? “So then what’s up?” I ask, trying to keep annoyance out of my voice because I don’t want to be disrespectful.
“Oh, it’s just your father and I have been talking, and I’m, um, we’re, really missing you, and I wonder if sending you away was the right thing, and I just wanted to say maybe it’s time for you to come home.”
Come home? Now?
“Mom, I . . . ,” I start. Cold air whooshes over me. Without Jack I’m suddenly freezing here sitting beneath the beautiful tree. “I need to stay here, Mom,” I say slowly, my words careful but steady. “This isn’t about you and Dad, because of course I miss you guys and Ella so much, but you were right to send me here. I’m becoming better. Stronger. More disciplined, even, like you hoped,” I say with a little laugh.
My mom’s quiet on her end. An animal calls in the distance. I crook the phone against my neck and wrap my arms around my shivering body.
“If that’s how you feel,” my mom says softly.
“It’s how I feel,” I say.
“Then I’m proud of you, sweetie,” she says.
We say we love each other, and I promise to call her each night until her missing me gets a little easier. “I’m not forgetting where my real home is, Mom,” I say. “My home is with you, and Dad and Ella.”
We get off the phone, and I turn to see Jack. He steps out of the shadows and into the glow of the Christmas lights. “Everything okay?” he asks. There’s a dark look on his face, even illuminated so beautifully like it is.
“Everything’s fine,” I say quickly, unsure of how to read the way he’s looking at me.
“What did your parents say?” he asks. I can’t put my finger on it, but he almost seems suspicious. And why is he still standing so far away from me?
“My mom wants me to come home,” I say. “She thinks it’s where I belong, and she’s probably felt that way the whole time, but my dad was kind of heading up this whole military school thing.”
“So you’re going home?”
“What? No, I didn’t say that.”
“But you want to? I heard you say it, Frankie, that your home is with your mom.”
“Well, yeah, because it is. This isn’t my home, obviously,” I say, making a wide, sweeping gesture to indicate the Academy.
Color drains from Jack’s face. “Obviously?” he repeats. “So then are you just pretending to care about the military and all of us here until you can escape back home?”
“No!” I say. “I just mean, my parents, my home that I was raised in . . . of course that’s what I consider my home. My family is where I belong,” I say. I know I’m making it worse, but I can’t seem to stop talking or take it all back. And, anyway, why would I? It’s all true!
Jack starts backing away, his broad frame silhouetted by the glow of the Christmas lights. “I told you I was worried you didn’t really want to be here,” he says, “and now, everything you’re saying makes me think I was right.”
“Jack, I’m trying my hardest to stay here, in case you haven’t noticed. Doesn’t that count for something?” I open my mouth to say I love it here, but I’m so taken aback by the sentiment, by the fact that it’s truly how I feel, that I’m momentarily paralyzed. I love it here? Oh my God: I love it here! “Please don’t twist my words,” I say, so nervous my voice sounds shaky. “I care so much about being here.”
Jack’s dark lashes catch the moonlight as he blinks, looking at me like he’s trying to figure out what in the world just went down, and how this night could be swept out from beneath us so quickly.
“Please, just listen to me,” I manage to say. I start moving toward him; I want him to fold his arms around me like he did moments ago. “Wait!” I say, but he doesn’t. He takes off over the stone walkway, and I try to follow him but it’s no use—I can’t move fast enough in my heels. Jack turns, glancing at me one more time before curving around a brick building and disappearing from sight.