MY PARENTS ARE TRYING TO act like this is all so completely normal.
“I’m sure the leaves will be gorgeous in the fall,” my mom says as we speed along I-87 the next day. Sometimes she’s so obvious.
“I won’t be there for the fall semester,” I remind them. “One semester at Albany Military Academy and then I’m back home, right?”
“Right?” Ella repeats from the seat next to me, her voice shrill.
“If you behave yourself and get good grades, Frankie,” my dad says, “and if we truly feel as though you’ve learned discipline at the Academy, we’ll consider having you return to Mount Pleasant High for your junior year.”
I don’t push back because of course I can behave and get good grades if it’s just for one semester. I mean, I think I can.
My dad fiddles with the AM radio stations for traffic reports, and my mom keeps trying to catch my glance in the mirror. When we do meet eyes, she smiles, but it’s a nervous one.
We pull off at exit 23 for Albany. I’ve only been to the capital once, on a field trip in sixth grade to see performance art inside a sculpturelike building called the Egg. The performance art was only so-so (unless you like exaggerated displays of love and war via dance, which I don’t), but what caught my attention on our drive through Albany was the picturesque park, the historic-looking brownstones that lined Lark Street, and the stoic capital building, where people were probably making important government decisions about things like school dress codes. (No one was happier than I was when they banned half-shirts at Mount Pleasant High School.)
We pass by the gleaming city and continue up a ramp that takes us beyond the city borders. Bucolic houses line the street for a few miles, followed by an explosion of minimalls featuring Verizon stores alongside day spas. There’s a bookstore called Book House, a Whole Foods, a run-down pet mart, and an upscale-looking salon called Rumors. A gold dome arcs high above a beautiful college campus farther along Route 9, and houses line neighborhoods with evenly spaced yards much smaller than the two- and four-acre plots I’m used to. There are no ponds, no ducks, no moss; it’s very pretty, but it’s way more suburban than Mount Pleasant.
I chew my lower lip as we fly past a Dunkin’ Donuts where teenagers are smoking in the parking lot, plus they’re wearing leather jackets, and not in the way they style them in Teen Vogue over flowing floral skirts.
“She’ll be okay, Marie,” my dad whispers to my mom. “The students aren’t even allowed off campus.”
Ella clutches her bear. “Just like prison,” she whispers.
“Military academy,” my dad corrects her.
Every inch of me prickles. “If we turn back now, I will never ever do anything wrong again,” I say, my palms sweating against my faux-leather leggings.
My dad turns down a skinny road marked ACADEMY WAY and drives toward a security gate. Behind a pane of plastic stands a security guard wearing army fatigues. Panic rises in my chest just like when I see army guys at the airports holding (real!) weapons.
“She’s going to hate it here,” Ella says to her bear.
The army guard stares at us. “Identification,” she says, and my dad passes his license into the slat beneath her window. She compares his picture to his smiling face, and gives him a suspicious look, which for whatever reason unsettles me. How military is this all going to be? Am I going to have to worry about intruders breaking on to campus to steal government secrets? Will I be learning government secrets and/or how to fight in a war? Have my parents thought this through?!
Just then a tall, built guy rounds the corner of a brick building. His skin is smooth and olive, and his gaze is fixed on an oversized, vintage-looking book. The security guard is saying something to us, but I can’t pay attention. This guy is cute, even in a bulky flannel shirt that makes him look like a woodcutter or a person who enjoys hiking. (Has anyone noticed that hiking is basically walking, but with ticks and less comfortable footwear?) He comes closer and I see that what he’s reading isn’t a book. It looks like newspapers tucked inside a folder. I watch as he disappears into a thick cover of trees.
“Um, we need to leave you here,” my dad says.
I snap my head around to look at him. “What?”
He gives a nervous laugh. “Apparently we can’t take you on campus, because we’re not approved visitors, according to this nice woman.” He gestures to the guard, who does not look like a nice woman at all. She stares at us as my dad unloads my stuff. I feel numb with nerves—I’m seriously supposed to walk across campus with my heavy suitcases?
We all get out of the car. “Shouldn’t there be some kind of concierge service for incoming students?” I ask the guard. I sound snotty even to myself. The guard glares at me, and I look away, embarrassed.
“Frankie, please,” my mother says. I turn to see her crying, and then Ella bursts into tears, too.
“Mom,” I say, my voice choked, and suddenly we’re saying our good-byes at the curb. I throw my arms around my mom and Ella. Even my dad looks like he’s on the verge of crying. He arranges my suitcases carefully on the sidewalk and joins our hug, kissing the top of my head. It doesn’t matter how mad I am at them—the moment I watch them pile into their car and drive away from me breaks my heart. Why did they do this to me? Why did I do this to myself?
The guard is watching me sob and it pisses me right off. I glare at her, determined not to be scared just because she’s wearing army fatigues and could definitely kill me in hand-to-hand combat. I swipe away my tears and glance down at the map my dad gave me. I grip my suitcases in each hand and set off down the skinny road.
The first thing I see as I near the campus is a sprawling field where students decked in serious-looking military uniforms are playing a game of Capture the Flag with wayyyyy too much enthusiasm. Nearly all the students appear to be athletic, like a bunch of Andreas running around. Worse, they look like they’re actually enjoying themselves.
Here’s the thing: I hate athletics and also, I suck at them. The extent of my normal physical exertion is slugging through the American Heart Association’s recommended thirty minutes of daily cardio on my mother’s elliptical machine, while wearing coordinating Lululemon workout clothing. (People who use exercise, yard work, and/or pregnancy as a means to dress sloppily need a reality check.) I do not participate in activities such as but not limited to:
field hockey
lacrosse
soccer
basketball.
Don’t even get me started on basketball! The ball is too heavy; the net is too far away. How is that a good time?!
I watch as a tall blonde girl chases a hardy guy with flushed cheeks who looks like he eats red meat for every meal. I scan the players one by one, my anxiety rising with each moment. Where are the artistic and/or fashion-forward students? Classes this semester don’t officially start until tomorrow according to the Academy’s calendar, which apparently means today is uniform optional. Shouldn’t at least some of the kids be expressing their inner fashionistas?
Posted to the chain-link fence surrounding the game is a handwritten sign—WAR GAMES PREP!—and what looks like a sign-up sheet with at least fifty names. Are all these students playing this War Games thing voluntarily? Like for fun?
Ugh.
I turn onto a winding road that leads me past a few serious-looking brick buildings, and then the campus opens onto another quad about the size of three of Andrea’s beloved tennis courts. A rectangle of 1970s-style buildings surrounds the quad. Why is it that 1970s fashion went wild but the architecture stayed so functional and blah?
I crunch through the snow and try to tell myself maybe my roommate will be awesome. Maybe she’ll be a blogger, too. Like, a military one who writes passionately about serious issues like wartime economy.
I get a little nervous thinking about how I don’t know that much about the military. I know there’s the army, the navy, and the marines. I know that soldiers and military personnel put their lives on the line to protect us, and that they sometimes have to be separated from their families for a very long time, because, duh, everyone knows that. And I’m also pretty sure they must be eight million times braver than I am, because I get scared watching Homeland, and I know that’s fake.
But that’s it: that’s what I know, and it never struck me to be embarrassed about that until right now. We barely even talk about the military in my family, except tangentially, with my parents saying they’re praying for the troops to be able to return to their families soon, and of course the legendary war stories about Grandpa Frank. But I mostly forget to listen when my parents start talking about dead relatives, even really brave ones. The closer I get to the dorm, the more I realize how incredibly unprepared I am for all this. This isn’t a life I know.
I carefully wheel my suitcases around the patches of snow and watch as two short guys dressed in uniform, carrying instrument cases, cut across the quad. I have to admit, they do look good in their uniforms. But the whole concept gives me such anxiety. I’m not suited for a uniformed life. This spring is all about silhouettes with movement, and now I have to contain myself in a stiff uniform? It makes me shudder. Last night I had to give my measurements for the thing, which consisted of my mom trying to measure my bust, and Ella laughing like she did when I had to get fitted for a bra at Victoria’s Secret.
I round the corner of another blah, brown-brick building and check out the sign: LYONS DORMITORY, 1979. I push open the door to a lobby covered in industrial carpet that makes me feel itchy just seeing it. Uncomfortable-looking couches surround a wooden coffee table. There’s no art on the gray walls, only framed photos of uniformed students in formations that look meticulous and practiced. Where am I supposed to go? Why didn’t they let my parents help me with this part?
“Private Brooks,” says a woman. I turn to see a severe fortysomething woman in a navy military uniform with a stiff jacket covered in pins and medals sitting behind a desk. Did she just call me by name? Or maybe I misheard her? I try to smile at her, but she’s giving me a once-over, and she’s obviously displeased with what she sees. Is it my hot-pink cashmere scarf? My faux-fur Eskimo trapper’s hat? It’s not like I understand her look, either, so I can empathize. She’s all uniform; no accessories or makeup. (Reference FreshFrankie post #456: “Would It Kill You to Swipe on a Little Lip Gloss?”) And I don’t think her hairstyle is a fashionable pixie cut gone wrong. The possibility is terrifying, but I think she may have purposely cut her hair to look like a man’s buzz cut.
Yikes. Now we’re staring each other down. Not good.
I walk toward her. “Hi, I’m Frankie Brooks,” I say, extending my hand. She takes it with a surprisingly warm grip.
“Lieutenant Sturtevant,” she says, still choosing not to smile or express any act of welcome, which is just rude. Warmth and kindness are always in fashion.
“I’m a new student this semester,” I add.
“I know exactly who you are,” Lt. Sturtevant says. “I know all of my cadets.” Maybe she thinks I don’t believe her, because she says, “Frances Abernathy Brooks.”
“Yes,” I say, nodding eagerly to convey my enthusiasm. “My initials spell FAB.”
The look on her face tells me she didn’t bother noticing this awesomeness.
“Sixteen years of age,” she goes on. “Formerly a sophomore at Mount Pleasant High School.”
She’s still holding eye contact. If she’s trying to freak me out, it’s working. I don’t want to avert my eyes—I don’t want to show weakness. But then she lowers her voice to say: “GPA two point nine.”
I finally break. I glance down at my hands. “That’s me,” I muster, exposed.
“You’ll need to keep your GPA at or above three point five to remain at the Academy,” she says.
“What?!” I blurt. Three point five?! I’ve never had a GPA that high, even at my normal school!
“Will that be a problem?” Lt. Sturtevant asks.
“Um,” I say.
“Good,” Lt. Sturtevant says, mistakenly taking my um for a no.
Lt. Sturtevant scans the paper in front of her and makes an illegible note next to my name. Then she looks at me again. There’s something so unnerving about her stare!
“Your schedule,” she says, passing me a piece of paper that makes me throw up a tiny bit as I read it over.
BROOKS, FRANCES ABERNATHY
0500: Reveille
0515–0520: First formation and accountability
0530–0620: Physical training
0630–0720: Mess I formation
0730–0740: School formation and announcements
0750–0840: Block I Class: Military Strategy
0850–0940: Block II Class: Trigonometry
0950–1040: Block III Class: English Honors
1050–1140: Mess II formation
1140–1200: Personal time
1200–1250: Block IV Class: Spanish 201
1300–1350: Block V Class: Chemistry
1400–1450: Block VI Class: Pottery
1500–1550: Computer Science
1600–1650: Athletics: TBA
1700–1800: Personal time
1800–1900: Mess III formation
1910–1950: Study Hall Block I
2000–2050: Study Hall Block II
2100–2130: Personal time
2130: Lights-out
My schedule hasn’t been this rigidly organized since I was a toddler and my mom was in charge!
“Sometime this week you’ll be assigned to a tactical officer and be enrolled in a leadership seminar,” Sturtevant says. “You’ll begin planning your leadership project under the supervision of said TAC. You will also be entered into the Academy’s annual War Games, an elite competition recognizing the top fifty percent of cadets as determined by their physical performance, leadership qualities, and strategic thinking abilities. All ranking is at the discretion of your tactical officers. The scores are updated daily.”
Is she serious? I get that this is supposed to be harder than regular school, but GPA over 3.5 plus sports and leadership projects? There’s no way I’m going to be able to make this work!
“All this information will be sent to you tonight via email, and you may check your War Games ranking at any given point on this link,” she says, handing me a small square of paper, as if I’m really gonna want to see where I stack up against kids who actually already know how to do military stuff.
She passes me a key. “Room 321,” she says, and then hands me a laminated student ID card with a photo (not my best) that my parents must have submitted. It makes me queasy thinking about my mom and dad getting all this ready behind my back. “This serves as both your identification and meal card,” she says. She reaches into a drawer and retrieves a bound handbook. Albany Military Academy is emblazoned on the front in gold letters. It’s the first flashy thing I’ve seen since I’ve been here. Lt. Sturtevant sees me looking at it, and frowns. “Uniform policies and behavior codes are not taken lightly here at the Academy; nor are matters of ethics,” she says, “which I recall may have been a problem for you at your last school.”
My face gets hot. My parents told her about the cheating?
“Your uniform is waiting in your closet,” she says. “Please change immediately and wear it to the dining hall tonight for dinner so we can be sure it fits properly.”
“Um, no,” I say, because I really don’t think that’s going to work for me. “Aren’t I allowed to wear my own outfits on days when classes aren’t in session?” I’m not going to let this woman boss me around. She can kick me right back out of here for all I care. What are my parents going to do? Make me go somewhere else?
Wait. Would they do that?
“The thing is,” I say, a little more carefully, “I’ve already planned my outfit for tonight, and you’ll probably be happy to know that I incorporated a chic military-inspired bomber jacket while still staying true to my romantic and feminine personal style.”
“From now on you’ll do exactly as I say without question,” Lt. Sturtevant says, and then she transfers the handbook into my shaking hands. Ugh! I hate when my hands shake! So much for confidence. “You’re dismissed.”
I sashay over to the elevator and try to regain my attitude. I board the elevator and flash Sturtevant my best smile. She glares back. I ride the elevator to the third floor, and when the doors open, I see that my father was being generous by calling my new home a dorm. This isn’t a dorm—it’s military barracks; the white-brick walls and cold tile beneath my feet make me sure of it. There are no decorations on the walls, and no jazzing up of the dorm room doors with selfies or inspiration boards culled from Pinterest. There must be rules against making this place look nice, and they’re probably somewhere in this horrible handbook. I pass a garbage chute and suppress the urge to throw the book down it.
I stop outside room 321. A hard plastic label marks MURPHY, and my last name hangs below it. BROOKS has never looked so severe. I fumble with my key and open the door. The two beds lining the walls are covered with monochromatic green bedspreads. The fabric is mildly offensive: it looks like a poly-wool blend, and it’s the kind of green that should only be glimpsed when gazing into a bowl of split pea soup.
There’s a sink to my right, and—thank God—a mirror above the sink with lighting strong enough to apply evening makeup without going overboard. A crucifix hangs above one of the beds, but otherwise, it’s hard to tell which bed is taken. Both beds are made tightly enough to make me realize military-style beds are not just a product of Hollywood movies. And except for the crucifix, there’s nothing on the ivory walls.
A closed laptop and two framed photos sit on one of the two wooden desks. I move to the empty desk and gingerly open the top drawer. It’s bare besides a small velvet-covered book. I open it without thinking and see a note inscribed on the first page:
Rachel,
Happy birthday. I know a diary is a lame present, but it’s supposed to remind you of all the good things your future holds.
JW
I shut it quickly, vowing not to read any of the entries. Maybe I could try to track the girl down and let her know her secrets are safe with me. Maybe she’d want to come get the diary.
I put the diary back and close the drawer slowly. I feel like I’m moving underwater. I can’t believe this is where I’m going to spend the next five months. I step toward the other desk and check out the framed photo. The picture is of a strawberry-blonde girl standing next to a tall, gray-haired man dressed in uniform and a woman in a cocktail dress. I’m about to touch the frame for some stupid reason when the door swings open.
“H-hi,” I stammer. My hand still hovers above her picture frame.
The girl in the doorway stares at me. She’s short like me, and her makeup-free face is pretty, with high cheekbones and big, deep-set blue eyes framed by stick-straight strawberry-blonde hair. Freckles mark every inch of her skin, making her look sun-kissed and a little younger than she probably is. She’s wearing the Academy’s military uniform—the same one I saw on all the kids in the brochure: a light blue button-down shirt, gray-blue pants with a navy stripe running down the side, and a matching gray-blue hat that looks like an upside-down boat. I’m not sure if it’s the uniform or what, but she looks quite serious.
“Hi,” I say again, hoping to jog her memory about how you’re supposed to say hello to new people standing in your room.
“Hi. I’m Joni Maguire Murphy,” she says, still standing in the doorway. “My last roommate was kicked out.”
Okay.
“I’m Frankie. It’s nice to meet you,” I say, because I have no idea what else to say to that piece of information.
Joni smiles, and then tucks a lock of strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear, but she doesn’t look like she agrees. She moves to the bed and sits with her slouchy duffel bag still slung over her shoulder like she’s not sure if she’s going to stay.
“Mess III formations start in five minutes,” she says. “You can’t be late here.”
“Mess what formation?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Dinner,” she says, like I’m just so dumb.
We stare at each other. There’s nothing I want more than to be alone, but I’m starving, and plus I need to get the lay of the land here and see what I’m up against. Maybe there’s a way to politely get myself sent back to Mount Pleasant. Not get expelled or anything, just returned, like a too-tight dress from Nordstrom.
“Look, can I come with you?” I ask. “I just need to . . .” I dig through the precious junk in my handbag. “This is the food card, right?” I ask, flashing the plastic square at her. My cheekbone highlighter must have leaked out of its compact inside my bag. I try to brush off the dusting of gold sparkly powder that covers my picture on the meal card, but I can’t seem to get it off completely.
Joni nods warily.
“Can I go to dinner—the mess formation thing—with you?” I ask her again. “Maybe I could meet your friends?” This is getting embarrassing; I’m practically begging. “I just need to change into my uniform because that scary woman downstairs said so.”
“Yeah, you definitely can’t wear that,” Joni says, pointing to my Eskimo hat, which looks like a wild animal perched on the desk.
“I know,” I say, and then I march confidently toward my closet like I’m not inwardly freaking out. I open the door and that’s when I see it—my uniform. It’s hanging inside plastic and my name is right there on the lapel:
PRIVATE FRANCES BROOKS
I let out a little gasp, which is obviously mortifying. But it’s just so official. There’s the same blue button-down shirt and gray-blue pants with a navy stripe running down them that Joni’s wearing, and flat, shiny shoes that look like the kind my dad wears to work. Behind the whole ensemble is a black parka with Albany Military Academy stitched over the chest in red letters. And then, the pièce de résistance: the upside-down boat hat.
“I’ll wait for you in the hall,” Joni says. She stands up and leaves our room, shutting the door behind her. I get to work, telling myself it’s only a uniform, and lots of girls wear uniforms: like private school girls and field hockey players. I’ll just pretend I’m in the dressing room at Saks and the saleslady has brought me something terrific.
I take the pants off the hanger and shimmy into them. They feel trouser-y and comfortable. I put my arms in the shirt, which feels tight like a straitjacket. I can hardly breathe in it! It feels like the time I borrowed one of Andrea’s tube tops against my better fashion judgment and kept feeling like I couldn’t take a full breath all night. It was like living on the edge of a panic attack, and I kind of feel like that now.
I try buttoning the buttons but keep messing up the alignment. My fingers are sweating. I finally get the buttons right, and then try to tuck the shirt as neatly as possible into my pants. Then I put on the belt. I wish it were like a neon-colored faux-lizard skin, but it’s not. It’s just black. Which is functional and everything, it’s just the whole thing is so monochromatic and, really, I need a pop of color.
I duck to put on my shiny shoes. I’m usually a size six, but these feel tight. Ugh. They’re definitely pinching.
I lace the shoes and check myself out in the mirror. Whoa. I look really different, but actually sort of cool: very military and maybe even kind of brave. Shoot—the hat. Ugh. No way am I looking cool in this thing. I’ll just accidentally forget it. The tactical officers should probably know that I’m going to do my own thing here. I’m not going to go against my fashion beliefs just for the sake of the US military. That would be crazy!
I check myself out one more time, then swing open the door and grin at Joni like hey, isn’t this fun?
Joni does not seem moved by my change of clothes. Instead, she manages to roll her eyes for about the eighth time since she’s met me. She locks our door, and then slips on dark brown leather gloves way too masculine for her delicate hands. They make her look like she’s about to commit a crime.
“Did you not get a hat?” she asks me.
“I did,” I say. “It’s not my style.” Joni raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything. We start down the hall. “So are you from Albany?” I ask.
“Phoenix,” she says.
“Hot,” I say. “And so drying for the skin. Do you moisturize?”
She looks at me funny as we board the elevator. I don’t think she’s going to answer, but then she does. “I wear sunblock. Does that count?”
“Some products work better than others,” I say. “I can get you some samples. I have a lifestyle blog, so sometimes the companies I profile send samples for my consideration.”
Joni smirks. “A lifestyle blog?”
“Yes. It’s called FreshFrankie. Have you heard of it?”
She gives me a look like: Of course I haven’t heard of your stupid blog, and jabs the button for the lobby.
“It’s a blog about how to live your most extraordinary life,” I say, maybe a little too defensively.
The elevator opens and I scan for scary Lt. Sturtevant, but she’s nowhere to be found, thank God. Out on the quad, Joni starts sprint-walking. I’m not sure if she’s trying to get away from me, or if this is just how she walks. I can barely keep up without jogging a few steps. My feet are already killing in the shoes—they’re way too snug. We whiz by packs of students as we zoom toward a brick building, and when we get there Joni holds the door open for me.
The cafeteria smells vaguely like Applebee’s, which is where my one-and-only official boyfriend ever, Carl Jensen, used to take me for dates. (With his parents, who would sit a few tables away and drink root beer floats and stare at us. #WelcomeToMyLife.) A meandering line of students has formed inside the lobby. Each student passes his or her meal card to an old lady who swipes the card and says things like, “Go on in, Jonathan,” or, “Have a nice meal, Victoria.”
My eyes keep scanning the lunch line. Almost everyone’s wearing his or her uniform, and most of the kids look a little more conservative and clean-cut than I’m used to, but overall they seem pretty normal. They look kind of nice, actually. The majority of the guys have buzz cuts, but there are a few with shaggier hair, like the guy I saw walking on the quad reading newspapers. None of the boys have hair past their ears, because it isn’t allowed, apparently.
“Enjoy your dinner, Frances,” the lunch lady tells me.
I follow Joni into a massive dining hall filled with at least twenty tables holding about ten students each. We get our trays and drinks, and when Joni heads to the salad bar, I follow—I don’t want to lose track of her. We pile chicken and pistachios on top of spinach leaves (the food is fancy-looking, actually), and just as I’m choosing my dressing (French—so underrated), Joni takes off. It’s almost like she’s trying to lose me! I have to tear after her, and I don’t catch her until she puts her tray down in the middle of an empty table.
“Are you meeting your friends here?” I ask as I sit across from her. Most of the students are sitting in clumps of threes and fours.
“No,” she says matter-of-factly. But she doesn’t meet my eyes.
We start eating, and Joni still won’t really look at me. What if she doesn’t have any friends at all? I try to push away the thought. “So do you like going to school here?” I ask. I poke at my salad, annoyed at the crouton that somehow slipped in with my spinach leaves, because I just don’t think gluten is necessary or beneficial. I also feel that way about perfume.
“I love being at military school,” Joni says softly. “My dad and his two brothers were in the military, and so are a few of my cousins. My whole family, really.”
“Your mom, too?” I ask.
She jabs at the ice in her Coke. She reminds me of a little bird with quick, unpredictable movements. “No,” she says, and the way she says it makes me think I shouldn’t ask anything else about her mom.
“So do you want to be in the military?” I ask instead.
“Yeah,” she says. “That’s the plan.”
I fall quiet. The silence clearly doesn’t bother Joni. She picks at her salad and keeps checking her watch. The watch looks like it could survive a deep-sea fishing expedition or, more likely, a war. It’s a huge black rubber thing with teeny buttons and flashing lights.
At the table diagonal from us, two girls erupt in riotous laugher. I look at Joni and find her staring at them. The girls are shouting over each other, laughing so hard their shoulders are shaking.
“Do you know those girls?” I ask.
One has smooth deep brown skin and a side bun peeking out beneath her hat, and the other is a curvy blonde. I can see how big the blonde’s boobs are, even beneath her athletic Albany Military Academy windbreaker. (There’s a special place in fashion purgatory reserved for garments constructed to protect against specific weather conditions.)
“I do know those girls,” Joni says, munching her lettuce with tiny but rapid jaw movements. Then she locks eyes with the girl wearing the side bun, and she flushes pink in that pretty, understated way that freckled strawberry blondes blush (think: Ralph Lauren ad). Joni looks away quickly, and so does the girl.
I try to force down a few more bites of my salad. I’m getting nowhere with Joni, and the idea of meeting a whole group of new students and trying to figure out military school sounds exhausting. I’m about to make an excuse to leave early and head back to our room when I see the boy from the quad. This time he’s in his military uniform, which looks so handsome and natural on him, like he was meant to be wearing it. He’s heading in our direction, his eyes on Joni. He says her name, and his voice is deep, and I know it’s so romance novel to be turned on by that, but I am.
He’s cute. Really, really cute. His skin is olive, and his dark eyes are the color of coffee. And he’s tall—so wonderfully tall—maybe six four or so. He arrives at our table and towers over us, noticing me for the first time. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he says back. I can see tiny, clear tubes snaking over his ears into his mussed hair. I’m pretty sure they’re cochlear implants because there’s a drummer in a band I love who has them and they look the same. His cheekbones are so chiseled that looking at him is like staring at a hot lead in a movie. He’s close enough that I can smell cinnamon gum and fresh air and boy. He smiles a little. It’s crooked, just the way I like.
For a second I flash back to Josh Archester, and then feel guilty remembering what I did.
Joni’s watching us. “This is my new roommate, Frankie,” she says. “Frankie, this is—”
“Jack Wattson,” he says.
JW—just like in the journal in my new desk. My heart picks up, and I turn to Joni. “Joni’s been showing me around,” I say, and Joni smiles like she’s having the time of her life doing so, which is obviously the opposite of reality.
“How nice of her,” Jack says, but he’s still looking at me. He finally turns to Joni, who now looks a little pissed. “Maybe we should show your new roommate the Tombs,” he says, his words low and even.
“Um . . . ,” Joni stalls.
“Unless you’re afraid of spiders,” Jack says to me.
“We don’t have written permission to leave campus, Jack,” Joni says.
I take a sip of my seltzer, the carbonation tickling my throat. I wonder how much trouble you get in if you sneak off campus.
“Actually, I love spiders,” I say to Jack, unable to stop myself. “And tombs.”
“Really?” Jack asks, dark eyes shining.
It was a dorky thing for me to say, but he didn’t seem to think so, so I keep going. “Oh, totally,” I say. “Ever since I saw Raiders of the Lost Ark. Iconic costume designer Deborah Nadoolman combined leather and linen for a lasting effect on men’s fashion.”
Jack raises an eyebrow, and then he laughs a deep, rumbling laugh, and I smile back at him. He’s so cute!
“I haven’t seen that movie,” Joni says flatly. Her words hang in the air between the three of us.
“We could see it together,” I say to Joni. Isn’t that what being away at a boarding school is supposed to be like? Staying up late and watching movies with your friends while eating snacks your parents would never allow? Visions of non-artisanal chocolate and butter-drenched popcorn float through my mind. I push away my salad. “We could make popcorn and watch it one night.”
“We don’t have a TV or microwave in our room,” Joni says.
“We have laptops,” I say, because it seems like such a 1990s suggestion to let that stop us. What’s up with this girl? I can’t tell if she’s a little socially awkward or just doesn’t like me.
“The classes are really hard here unless you’re a genius or something,” Joni says. “So you might want to use that time to study.”
I remember the 3.5 GPA Lt. Sturtevant told me I need to get (and keep!) in order to stay here. I obviously don’t want to stay here, but I also don’t want to get kicked out based on grades, either, because that would be so embarrassing. Everyone back home would find out!
I used to get good grades in junior high and some of freshman year. It wasn’t like I was the smartest kid in Mount Pleasant, but I used to genuinely like studying and showing my parents my test scores. And then I just got so distracted being online for fashion stuff, blogging and social media, too, and then I couldn’t keep up, and then the cheating . . .
“Guys aren’t allowed in the girls’ dorms after seven p.m.,” Jack says. His voice sounds serious, but I swear he’s trying not to smile.
I look at Joni. Visions of chocolate are replaced by thoughts of endless nights studying with her in our minuscule, monochromatic room. Could I even do that? I feel like Instagram has taken up the part of my brain that used to be able to focus on schoolwork.
“Plus, we have mandatory lights-out at nine thirty,” Joni says.
“I blog at least until midnight,” I say. I guess I could do it in the dark.
“Not anymore you don’t,” Joni says. “Guards patrol the campus. If they see the glow of screens through our windows, we get written up. Plus, all the tactical officers have the keys to our rooms. They’re allowed to enter at any time if they suspect we’re doing something we’re not supposed to.”
I sense a small prick of joy while she recounts this awfulness.
“The Academy isn’t exactly Fun City,” Jack says.
Right then the girls at the next table burst out laughing again. They get going even louder this time, until the cafeteria feels full with the sound of their giggling. They look fun—maybe I should try to make friends with them? “Those girls seem to feel differently,” I say, and as I turn to look at them, I notice the blonde windbreaker wearer stealing a glance at Jack. She’s sipping a soda, her eyes carefully lifted like she doesn’t want to get caught staring.
“You may want to steer clear of Amanda, actually,” Jack says. “The blonde one.” It catches me off guard, and I glance up to see his features darken. When he sees me eyeing him, he forces a smile, and then he mumbles something beneath his breath and leaves us just like that, midconversation. I watch him head toward a door that leads to the quad.
Weird.
An awkward moment passes between Joni and me. I busy myself arranging my salad into a triangle on my plate, my appetite gone.
“We usually eat together,” Joni says numbly to her dinner.
Because you’re boyfriend and girlfriend? Is that what’s going on?
I take a sip of my seltzer. “Are you guys together?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
Joni doesn’t look at me. I know she’s going to tell me they aren’t even before she says it.
“We’re not,” she says. She straightens like she has something to defend. “But we’re really close.”
What’s that supposed to mean? Is he off-limits? Not like I’m assuming he would like me, I’m just wondering.
“So, tomorrow,” I say, changing the subject to my immediate survival. I shouldn’t get distracted by boys, anyway, because I need to do well here or God only knows what will happen to me. “We have physical training, right? PT? That’s how the day starts?” I’m so nervous I can barely get the questions out. What if I can’t do the military training stuff at all and they just kick me out based on that? That would be mortifying!
“Yeah, PT,” Joni says, slicing a tomato in half. “We have War Games prep for the next few months, so just try not to suck too much.”
My body zings with nerves. “That lady lieutenant mentioned the War Games thing,” I say.
“They’re a big deal here,” Joni says, sprinkling salt on her tomato. She pops it into her mouth. “They select the best cadets and we compete in all kinds of events against other military schools. You have to be in the top fifty percent to get in.”
“Top fifty percent of what?” I ask. I didn’t totally get what the lieutenant meant when she told me this back in the dorm, either. But if it’s at all based on confidence or personal style, I could make it.
“Physical training,” Joni says, like duh, “and you know, more nebulous things like strategic thinking and leadership.” She takes a bite of salad. “It’s all based on our TACs’ discretion.”
“TACs?”
Joni gives me this look like oh my God you seriously know nothing. “Tactical officers,” she says. “And Lt. Sturtevant—or that lady lieutenant, as you called her—is our head TAC.”
My cheeks burn. “Right,” I say, trying to act like I couldn’t care less. I’m not going to act like War Games are the coolest thing I’ve ever heard of when they’re obviously not; and I’m not going to get my hopes up about something there’s no way I can do. “Your little War Games don’t exactly sound like my kind of thing,” I say. Joni flinches a little, and I instantly regret how insulting it came out. My cheeks go hot and I fumble to explain. “What I mean is, I just have to survive this place and get back home where I belong.”
“Suit yourself,” Joni says.
“I always do,” I say, because it’s true. And I don’t plan on changing now. Why would I?