From: [email protected]
Jack,
I’m really sorry about upsetting you last night. Can we meet and talk?
From: [email protected]
Okay, I know you must be mad at me. But please can we just see each other?
From: [email protected]
Hey. Have you gotten my messages? (Voice mails? Texts? Emails? The letter I folded into a paper airplane and tried to fly through your window?) I’m sorry about what happened last night. Please can we just talk about it and I can explain how I really feel?
Frankie
The next morning, the image of me facedown in the wood chips runs through my mind no matter how much I will it not to. Amanda must have taken it down—or at least, someone did—but it still hovers in my thoughts, and the feeling of failure from that day, plus all the other ones, like my first day of PT when I answered my phone and cried during combat training, the pool, the mile run, and so many others, make me more determined than ever to prove to Lt. Sturtevant, myself, and everyone else at the Academy that not only do I belong here, I want to be here. And just because Jack hasn’t responded to my emails and I’m on the verge of tears every time I replay our conversation doesn’t mean I can’t give my all to this project. I’m not letting anything get in the way of proving myself—not even a guy I have major feelings for—and I’m not going to let myself get distracted from the importance of what I have to accomplish today, because I know I can make it here!
I have T minus eight hours to get my proposal into top shape, eight hours to show Sturtevant (and everyone else) that I can cut it at the Academy. I’m all revved up as I dig into my proposal, probably because I ran Jack’s and my two-mile circuit this morning, and not just because I hoped to bump into him. I actually found myself wanting to run to clear my head.
Albany temperatures dropped again last night, and everyone seems to be hibernating and/or buried in schoolwork. (Joni told me she was sorry to leave but she had to study alone today because of some difficile French test she has tomorrow.)
By midmorning I’m double-checking my work and putting the finishing touches on my research on the connections between the military, wartime, and fashion, like:
1) Women who suddenly needed to work during WWI wore split skirts so they could move effortlessly between work and home, which was arguably the first step toward women wearing pants in regular life rather than just sporting events.
2) Blackout conditions during WWII created the need for luminous, bright buttons and accessories so pedestrians could be seen.
3) Wartime restrictions on raw materials forced the creation of man-made fibers we still use in fashion today, and a simple, cleaner line changed the silhouette during WWII. So-called Utility Fashion went on sale in 1942 in an effort to control both quality and price, and the new materials regulated by the government made the production of clothes more efficient and cost effective. Plus, it helped people without enough money to purchase higher-quality clothes that would last longer.
4) Specific garments were created in wartime eras to aid safety and peace of mind, like the siren suit: a onesie-type outfit that could be pulled quickly over pajamas if a civilian needed to escape to an outdoor air raid shelter.
5) So-called glamour bands—head scarves used in factories to keep long hair away from the machinery, but also to add a splash of color to monotone factory uniforms—showed civilian desire to be both wartime-practical and fashionable.
I look over my work and pray I’m doing the right thing. It would be so much more foolproof to present a project more in line with Sturtevant’s sensibilities! But I don’t think I’m being stubborn for selfish reasons, like when I first got here. This feels a little different, more like determination.
I keep going.
I find more and more evidence of the way fashion changed to accommodate wartime and women’s changing roles, and there’s just so much good stuff—like a fashion series advertising proud-looking women, titled: Practical Wear for War Work. Free Inside Pattern of Smart Shirt and Overall, plus a WWII propaganda poster instructing women to Go through your wardrobe: Make-do and Mend, and I put all of it into my proposal and include a section detailing how I plan to bring a presentation like the one Sturtevant will see on paper to a live stage. I pretend like I’m already an editor at a big magazine and do major art boards. Black-and-white photos of men and women from the 1910s, 1920s, and 1940s parade across my corkboards, along with images of rayon dresses, split skirts, and handbags designed to house gas masks during WWII, which I’m hoping will drive home the point that I fully grasp fashion was changing because it had to accommodate the reality of war, rather than for some reason Sturtevant might deem frivolous. There are decades-old articles and ads I paste to my boards, like a Sears, Roebuck ad for nautical fashion, and then my favorite article, titled: “Expect Few Nylons Until Late in 1947,” which calls nylons those things most dear to a woman’s heart. Isn’t that just priceless?!
I’m nearly delirious from all the work when I finally put down my pen and shut my laptop. I’ve never worked for eight hours straight without a distraction on anything in my entire life. It’s exhilarating.
At 1630, it’s time to get ready for Sturtevant, and I decide to wear my uniform because admittedly I’ve grown to feel stronger in it. I zip up my Academy parka and leave the warmth of my dorm for the snow. Freezing air slaps my cheeks. I need one of those face-warmer things to survive Albany. I’ve seen a few kids wearing those around campus. They look like burglars, but warm ones.
I enter Flannery Hall, the brick building that houses Sturtevant’s office. Glass cases showcasing various awards, plaques, and military medals of honor line the walls. A long wooden table that looks a hundred years old divides the front room. The last time I was here was that day Archie brought me to Sturtevant’s office, when I got into trouble for sneaking out with Jack. It feels so long ago.
The door to Sturtevant’s office is open, and she’s sitting with Sgt. O’Neil. In archery this week, O’Neil waxed on about my grandfather’s dedicated service to the military, so maybe he thinks the Academy only let me in because of his legacy, which is obviously actually true, and which means I have even more to prove.
When O’Neil and Sturtevant glance up to see me, I say, “I could come back another time” to Sturtevant, just in case they were in the middle of something.
Sturtevant and O’Neil salute, so I do, too, balancing my proposal in my left arm. I’m a little wobbly, and I feel my upside-down boat hat slip forward just a bit. I need to get better about pinning it right.
“Now is just fine, Private Brooks,” Sturtevant says. She gestures to a wooden seat in front of her desk, and right next to Sgt. O’Neil. There’s a new paperweight on her desk that was clearly made by a child: a clay snowman adorned with an emerald rhinestone. Does Sturtevant have children? Is she married? Why is it so bizarre to think about teachers living lives outside of school?
I sit. My proposal is pressed against my chest. It was so heavy to carry all the way over here, and I’m suddenly terrified to show it to them. What if they hate it?
“Um,” I say.
“Enough of the ums and uhs, Brooks,” O’Neil says impatiently. “You’re clever enough to speak in full sentences. Convey confidence rather than insecurity. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, nodding. I try again. “This is a presentation I’d like to show you,” I say, making my voice steady. “It demonstrates the interrelation of fashion and the military. It is also a pitch of why I’d like to present a fashion show focused on military fashion for my leadership project this year. As a side note, ticket sales from my project will go to Operation Paperback.”
I don’t wait for them to say anything—I’m too nervous. This is it—the moment my fate gets decided, the moment I get to earn my spot here, or be doomed with an expulsion.
I put my presentation carefully down on the table between them. I have four corkboards with photos and captions I made explaining the importance of each photo, so I separate the boards, and all four fit perfectly on Sturtevant’s desk without knocking into her rifle snow globe or her military manuals.
Sturtevant clears her throat. I realize I’m just staring down at my corkboards. I look up to meet her eyes, and she says, “May we begin perusing your proposal?”
I nod. “Yes, ma’am,” I say.
Sturtevant opens a case on her desk and retrieves her reading glasses, unfolding them carefully. She places them on her face, and each little moment starts to feel like forever, just like whenever anything important is happening. O’Neil hunches forward, and he and Sturtevant start reviewing the boards in total silence. Aren’t they going to say something?
I watch as Sturtevant’s eyes hover on a photo I labeled Land Girls, showing trouser-wearing women from the land army in WWI. I swear O’Neil blushes when he sees my section on the emergence of one-piece bathing suits and the first modern bra. Sturtevant’s eyes widen just a hair at the photo of Kim Kardashian from Us Weekly I pasted next to WWII-era star Deborah Kerr modeling wartime utility fashion in a March 1942 edition of Picture Post, and labeled it: Did Deborah Kerr start the trend of celebrity-endorsed fashion we see today? The article shows Kerr in three poses wearing a utility dress and coat, and it begins: Look in your shops for Utility Clothes. They are a fashion revolution. I think about the writer, a woman named Anne Scott-James, and I wonder if we’re alike, writing about fashion nearly eight decades apart.
I can hardly bear watching them evaluate everything—so I glance away, spotting a tiny piece of paper taped on the corner of Sturtevant’s desk. On it she’s scrawled a quote attributed to Colin Powell: Have a vision. Be demanding.
I take a breath. This is my vision. I turn back and watch as they take in my work. I feel a little flutter of confidence, and then I say, “I find it fascinating that even amid the realities of war, fashion was still at the forefront of society’s mind. You could argue that fashion changed during war, but it also flourished. Maybe that means something even bigger than this proposal, something about fashion itself, about how it’s a part of us. It’s there, throughout history, everywhere we look.”
Sturtevant glances up. She considers me, and O’Neil nods. “That’s well said, Private Brooks,” she says slowly. Then they both look down at my boards again. “Brooks, why don’t you tell us how you plan to see this through to fruition,” Sturtevant says, still looking down at my work. I can’t read the look on her face, but it has to be a good sign that she hasn’t said no yet!
I clear my throat. “Well, first, I plan to gather participants, and lead them in a creation of my fashion show, the first ever fashion show in the history of Albany Military Academy, if my research is correct.”
“I see,” Sturtevant says, finally lifting her gaze. “And how do you plan to enlist participants? Do you have a plan for that?”
Participants. Right. “Yes, I do,” I say, rummaging through the bag at my feet. I pull out the two flyers I made and pass them across the desk.
COME ONE, COME ALL!
TRY OUT FOR THE ACADEMYS FIRST-EVER FASHION SHOW!
That’s right! You can be a part of history! Albany Military Academy will be hosting its very first fashion show to raise money for Operation Paperback, a program that serves the United States military in myriad ways, like sending them books to read, or children’s books to read to their children via webcam. Please bring your positive attitude and willingness to be styled in both military and military-inspired street fashion by me, Francis Abernathy Brooks (that’s right! My initials spell FAB!) this Saturday, 6 p.m., Flannery Hall, room 121.
(PS EVERYONE is welcome! Even if you’re probably not going to make War Games like me! ☺ xo Frankie. PPS These aren’t even really auditions, because EVERYONE will make it! Totally not like War Games—seriously!)
Email me at [email protected] to sign up!
My confidence falters as they read over my flyer. What if they think I jumped the gun by making it?
“What’s this, Brooks?” Sturtevant asks as she sees the next flyer. It’s a special flyer I made for the back of bathroom doors; I used that famous wartime picture of Uncle Sam pointing his crooked index finger so he’d be pointing right at the person as they were peeing, and then I wrote: Don’t flush my leadership project dreams down the toilet! I want YOU for my fashion show!
“Just some marketing materials I worked on,” I say confidently, purposely not saying any ums and uhs.
Sturtevant looks up from the paper. She might actually be trying to conceal a smile. “It pleases me to see you be so thorough, Brooks,” she says. Then she looks over my corkboards one more time, and says, “This is impressive, private,” and my little flutter of confidence swells to a starburst. Even O’Neil meets my eyes and nods.
“And how do you plan to showcase military fashions other than the ones the current students own?”
“Well, I’d like to open the show with my grandfather’s military uniform. My dad has it. And he already said I could borrow it, and that my grandpa would probably be psyched if he were still alive, because he was actually quite a fashionable man. My father says he thinks I inherited my unique personal style from him.”
“I see,” Sturtevant says.
I go on, “My presentation will also include a slide show of images of military uniforms I don’t have access to, all from WWI and WWII. I’d like to focus on the world wars so that my coverage doesn’t get too scattered. Then, after the slide show, I’ll stage a live runway show of current military fashions and military-inspired street looks.”
Sturtevant nods. She even looks a little impressed! She glances me over, and then says, “I’m going to grant you approval to do this project, Brooks. We’ll need to work out a few logistics, obviously. But we should be able to find a space on campus for your fashion presentation at the end of the semester.”
Fashion presentation. It sounds so official. I let out a little squeal—I can’t help it! “Thank you so much,” I say.
“I’ll look forward to seeing it,” says Sturtevant. “And I’ll help you organize.”
Sturtevant’s going to help me—little old me! I practically explode with pride as she checks her watch. “You are dismissed,” she says. “Please use the copier down the hall to make copies of your flyers, and I’ll sign the bottom of each granting you permission to hang them in dorms and in the mess hall and wherever else you deem appropriate.”
I smile. I can’t believe this is happening. “Thank you so much,” I say again.
“Academy apostrophe S,” O’Neil says. I stare blankly back at him. “Academy apostrophe S,” he says again. Is he speaking in military code? “On your flyer, Brooks!” he scolds. “You need an apostrophe after Academy before the S to show possession.”
“Oh,” I say, flustered. “Thank you.”
“Correct grammar is a sign of fastidiousness and a bright mind,” O’Neil says. To Sturtevant, he says, “I was an English major.”
“So you’ve said,” Sturtevant says. To me, she says, “Good day, private.”