BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
My eyes open the next morning and the first thing I see is Joni’s face. She’s staring at me like she’s been waiting for me to wake up, which—even though I’m half asleep—strikes me as incredibly weird.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
“What the heck?” I say, flinging my arm out from beneath the covers. I try to find my phone on the floor and knock over my mug. Cold hibiscus tea sloshes across the cover of W Magazine. What time is it? It can’t be five a.m. already.
A crazy-loud trumpeting noise sounds in the distance, overpowering even my alarm.
“What is that?!” I ask, hysteria creeping into my voice.
“Reveille, obviously,” Joni says. “Haven’t you seen any military movies?”
I barely slept last night because I was so nervous about today, and my bones feel full of sand as I rummage for my phone and press snooze. The bugle trumpets along with a snare drum in a feisty rhythm that almost makes me want to wake up and protect my country. I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep for just five seconds, but the music is actually kind of moving, which is really saying something because I’m the last person on Earth who wants to be literally or figuratively moved right now.
Joni flicks on the overhead light and sears my retinas. She’s fully dressed in her uniform. How did she do that in the dark? “Wake up!” she yells.
I yank my covers over my eyes. Waking up gracefully has never been my strong suit. Chanel Iman said that “a good night’s sleep is always the best way to wake up and go to work,” but the people in charge of school wake-up times never seem to get that. “I’m just going to snooze for a few more—”
“Frankie, I can’t wait for you. I can’t miss formation and inspection,” she huffs. “And don’t forget to make your rack before you leave.”
The door slams. My rack?
I pull the covers off my face. Did she seriously just leave? I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
Ugh. I was kind of counting on her to show me where the gymnasium was for morning PT. I glance at my schedule. It has something called First formation and accountability listed for 0515, right before Physical training, which starts at 0530. Maybe that’s what she meant. Shoot! Why didn’t I clarify this with her last night?!
I pull on a heavy-duty sports bra that isn’t necessary for my lack of cleavage, but it makes me feel nice and sporty, so I go with it. I open my closet door and see my uniform. Here I go again . . .
I put on my uniform, and then I stare down my hat. I think I need to wear it—I don’t want to get yelled at in front of everyone. My phone says it’s thirty-two degrees outside, but there’s no way Lt. Sturtevant is going to let me get away with my faux-fur trapper hat. I put on the hat and check myself out in my mirror. The problem is my body is skinny but my head is quite large because big heads run in my family. So the tiny hat is drawing attention to my big-ass head, and now I look even more like a lollipop than usual. Whatever. Ugh! I slip into my shoes and no, just no, no freaking way. I absolutely cannot wear these shoes again. I already feel them ripping open the blisters they made on my feet yesterday.
I glance over to my running sneakers beneath our sink. I wonder if I could just wear them until I can reorder shoes that fit? That seems reasonable—the tactical officers (TACs, as Joni said) can’t possibly expect me to wear shoes that pinch. I make my way toward them. They’re barely scuffed, because a person who seeks a fashionable life should not wear serious running shoes with gel cushions except for the following reasons:
exercise
athletic shoe modeling
working at Foot Locker
orthopedic problems
I slip them on and tie the neon-yellow laces—at least now my uniform will have that pop of color I wanted. I try to tie my hair into a side pony so it looks cuter in the hat, but it doesn’t quite fit because my new lob is so short: white-blonde pieces spike everywhere! I clip the pieces back with barrettes, which makes me look like a weird science experiment.
I check my watch and realize I need to seriously hurry. I’m zipping my meal card and my phone into my jacket pocket when the bugle sounds again. Reveille, as Joni called it. This time it sounds even closer. I move to our window and glance out to the quad, where two hundred uniformed cadets are standing in the dark in a neatly arranged formation. I squint to see an older man in uniform pass a folded flag to a boy who’s maybe fourteen. He’s so scrawny he looks like he might crumble beneath the weight of the flag, but I can’t stop staring at his face, illuminated beneath a streetlamp. A look of sheer reverence transforms his features as he holds the flag and carries it to two other cadets, who attach it to the flagpole. I crack the window and hear someone shout:
“Set, huh! Accompanied by Lt. Sturtevant and Sgt. O’Neil!”
Shoot. This is definitely the formation part because they’re certainly forming something: all two hundred uniformed cadets salute as the flag is being raised with a snare drum firing and the bugle sounding behind them. I bite back tears. This is so foreign to me, but it also feels oddly familiar, like the swell of patriotism and camaraderie I sometimes feel during the Pledge of Allegiance or whenever I hear the national anthem at Mets games. I love my country, too, darn it!
I race out the door, determined to join the other cadets, but as soon as I get in the elevator, it stalls. I jam a few buttons and sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. Am I trapped in this thing? I crush the open door button a dozen times. I take out my phone to call someone—who, though?—for help, but I don’t have any service inside the elevator. I’m one second away from pressing the alarm button when the thing jolts to life, descending to the lobby. The doors open and I speed across the carpet, passing a poster taped to the wall about an upcoming dance. Then there’s a list that says: CONGRATULATIONS TO OUR TOP TEN PERCENT! War Games again, I guess. The top name jumps out at me: Private Jack Wattson.
I push through the doors, but by the time I race onto the quad, all the cadets are gone. It’s like a ghost town. The whipping American flag is the only sign that someone was just here. I’m standing there on the rocky gravel, frozen, when my phone beeps with a text from Ella.
I know you’re probably already running five minutes late for PT, so you’ll need to hurry. Cross the parking lot in front of your dorm, then take a right. Follow the sidewalk—there’s a shortcut past Sorin Dorm that will put you onto South Quad. The PT gymnasium is directly across South Quad smack in the middle of a bunch of dorms. It’s marked Rockne Hall. Good luck!
Homesickness washes over me. I text back: Best sister ever. I love you.
I start running. The sun isn’t up and the air is bitingly cold, but the Academy’s campus is beautiful, filled mostly with older gray- and white-brick buildings that are much lovelier than the 70s-style barracks I’m inhabiting with Joni.
I sprint across South Quad, and, just like whenever I sprint, I’m struck by the fact that my halfhearted flirtation with my elliptical machine isn’t working out so well for me. Maybe this new daily PT routine will be a good thing. My endorphins kick in as I tear over the grass and sidestep the patches of snow like an action-movie heroine, and suddenly I start feeling hopeful about things.
Military school could be a new beginning for me, a way to shake off everything that happened at home. Maybe I could try to make it work for me here. I don’t need to do the whole War Games thing, but I could definitely use a regular workout to get some more muscle tone in my arms to make my sleeveless tops look better. I’m smiling just thinking about it as I push through heavy glass doors into the building marked ROCKNE HALL. I step inside and see closed double doors right in front of me, and I can hear a woman’s voice coming from behind them, in what must be the gymnasium. I inch open the doors, figuring I’ll just slip inside and take my place among the students, but the door is heavier than I imagined, and I need to shoulder the thing.
Crack!
The hinges moan as the door swings wide. I freeze. Every single cadet is there, staring at me. I’ve somehow picked the door that opens to Lt. Sturtevant’s backside as she lectures to what appears to be the entire student body. Hundreds of eyes go huge as Sturtevant stops midsentence and pivots on her heel to face me. She looks shocked, but her features quickly morph into disgust, then acceptance, and then—most terrifying of all—pleasure. She’s staring at me like she’s been waiting for this moment her entire life. A smile twists her lips.
“Brooks,” she says, her voice slick. “You’ve missed formation and inspection, you’re tardy, and you’re wearing sneakers.”
She says sneakers the way most people say fungus.
“Right,” I say, “because my shiny uniform shoes don’t fit, and . . .”
My cell phone rings. Oh my God. How did I not silence it? I dig into my pocket with shaking hands, knowing it’s Andrea even before I see her name because she’s the only other person I know besides my sister who’s awake at this ungodly hour, doggedly hitting balls at indoor tennis practice. Lt. Sturtevant looks like she’s actually going to end me. The cadets are all staring, and Sturtevant is now grinning with pointy canines that look like fangs.
“Would you like to answer that?” she asks.
Ring! Ring!
I make out Jack standing in the first row of cadets, seeming even bigger than he did in the cafeteria last night. His clear dark eyes hold mine, and he shakes his head just slightly, like he’s trying to warn me.
“Do you want to answer that?!” Lt. Sturtevant shouts, so rudely that I flinch.
“I do,” I say, because I really don’t appreciate her speaking to me like that. In Mount Pleasant the teachers all take a course taught by a local expert called Why Yelling Ruins a Teachable Moment.
Sturtevant stares at me, and it’s right when she bares her teeth that an eerily calm feeling comes over me. Because if there’s one thing I’ve never been, it’s a rule follower. I take a breath, and then swipe my finger over my phone’s screen. “Hey, Andrea,” I say, as casually as I can.
Students are gaping at me, their mouths slack. A few kids audibly gasp, and one girl says “No way” loud enough that I just make it out above the low hum of the radiator. The entire student body is hooked on my every word, my every movement, and as calm as I’m trying to stay, my hands are sweating all over my phone. It’s so slippery I can barely hold it against my ear.
“Why didn’t you call me back last night?” Andrea asks me.
My heart is racing for so many reasons I can hardly breathe.
“Um, now’s actually not a great time,” I finally sputter. “Morning PT.”
Andrea tells me to oh my God fine call her back whenever, and then Lt. Sturtevant shrieks: “Frances Abernathy Brooks!” so loudly the entire gymnasium shakes. Her shoulders are squared and her body is so rigid it looks painful, but her voice gives away how furious she is. “You have officially received one demerit, which is extremely generous for every way you’ve disobeyed code today,” she says through gritted teeth. I can hear the effort it takes her to keep her words steady. “Two more and you’re out of Albany Military Academy!”
That wouldn’t be the worst thing for either of us! I want to say as Sturtevant gestures with a straight arm. “Take your place next to Ciara Washington,” she says. She’s pointing at a girl standing three spots down from Joni. I recognize her as one of the two girls who couldn’t stop laughing in the cafeteria last night—the side-bun girl. And the other girl, the blonde windbreaker wearer named Amanda who Jack warned me about, is right next to her.
I catch the look on Joni’s face as I start toward Ciara. She’s staring straight ahead with lips pursed, not daring to look at me. And neither is Jack. Ciara, unlike Jack and Joni, is staring directly at me with an incredulous look on her face. She looks like she wants to throw her arms around me, and she actually grins as I scoot next to her. I’m almost worried she’s going to put her hand out to high-five me, but she doesn’t. Amanda just stares.
“As I was saying,” Lt. Sturtevant starts. Now she’s glaring at both Ciara and me. “I expect you to push yourselves to the top of your game not only because of War Games selection, but because Albany Military Academy demands this of you each and every day. You will be the best you, or you will be removed from the Academy.” Her gaze narrows on me. “Is that clear?”
I nod. It’s clear.
The gym is quiet as Sturtevant goes on, “We train our minds and our bodies daily at the Academy because a sound mind and body take us where we want to go, whether as a civilian or as a member of the United States military.” She starts pacing, and I sense the portion of her speech meant specifically for me is over. “You’ll be working in groups of threes for drills this morning. Your scores will be tallied for War Games based on how well you do as a group, so choose your partners wisely.”
Okay, so, wisely probably means I should try to stick with Joni. I glance down the line at her, thinking maybe she’ll want to be my partner, which I realize might sound deluded, but we are roommates. She doesn’t. She grabs Jack’s arm, and says, “Partners?”
I can’t see his face. But it’s obvious he’s not saying no. I stand there feeling vulnerable and exposed, thinking they’re not going to ask me to be a part of their group. Then Jack turns to me and says, “Do you—” but Ciara’s arm is already around my waist.
“You. Me. Us,” she says, pointing to Amanda. The girl’s green eyes are on me for a beat too long before she breaks into what looks like a forced half smile. “Amanda,” she says. Ciara glances at Joni, who quickly turns away, looking flustered.
“Frankie,” I say to Amanda.
“Partners?” she asks.
I turn to look at Jack. “I’m just going to . . .”
“Perfect,” Amanda says, grabbing my hand and giving it a squeeze. Her fingers are freezing.
I try to smile at Amanda and Ciara, but I’m uneasy. I’d rather be the one to make the decision, not Amanda.
“You ready to be top-notch military school material?” Ciara asks me.
“Good luck, Frankie,” Joni says quietly.
“We don’t need luck, remember?” Amanda says. Something dark passes between them, and Joni opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, but then Ciara gives Joni a pleading look, almost like she’s asking her to just be quiet and leave it alone.
Jack puts his big hands on Joni’s arms, turning her toward him. “Let’s find a partner,” he says, his voice smooth and reassuring. He guides her into the fray and I try not to watch his broad shoulders move through the crowd.
“So, Frankie, you’re new,” Amanda says matter-of-factly. She kicks her leg back and stretches her hamstring.
I nod. Other students are settling into their groups of threes, and there’s a sense of chaos in a place that felt so still a few minutes ago.
“When did you get here?” Ciara asks. Her tall, angular thinness is even more pronounced next to Amanda’s petite curves. She has clear, dark skin and brown eyes, long black lashes and glossy, cherry-red lips. (We’re allowed to wear makeup here, just not nail polish, which is irritating because my Essie collection took up so much space in my suitcase.) They’re a very pretty pair, and they’re standing so close together it makes it obvious they’re tight.
“Yesterday,” I say. I try to copy the stretch that Amanda’s doing.
“Wow,” Amanda says, letting out a low whistle, like there’s something about my timing that spells trouble. “Your parents kicked you out right after the holidays. That’s harsh.”
Her words feel like knives. “They didn’t kick me out,” I say. I feel my lower lip tremble and try to make it stop. “They just, um, they wanted me to learn discipline.”
“Ah, discipline,” Ciara says. “That’s what I promised my parents I’d learn here. It was the only way I got them to pay for it! It’s super expensive to go here, in case you didn’t know.” I glance down at my hands. I feel like a spoiled brat for not thinking about that part of things. “And if you do well here you have a better shot at college,” Ciara continues. “I have my sights set on Princeton.” She gives me a smile that I’m pretty sure is genuine, and just like in the cafeteria last night, her glossy lipstick and perfectly styled hair make her look like a starlet at Sundance.
“So how do you know Joni and Jack?” Amanda asks. Her uniform hugs her figure a little more snugly than Ciara’s and mine, showing off some pretty enviable curves.
“Joni’s my roommate,” I say. “And I met Jack yesterday.”
Amanda’s staring at me, and it gives me that funny feeling I get when someone’s sizing me up. I’d really like her to stop. She and Ciara exchange a glance, and it makes me remember the way Amanda was secretly staring at Jack in the cafeteria.
I roll my ankle around. It feels a little funny, probably from balls-out sprinting over here. “Your shoes are so shiny,” I say, pointing to the black shoes peeking out beneath Amanda’s gray-blue pants. Positive fashion commentary can be a lifesaver when you have nothing else to say.
Ciara starts stretching like Amanda, bending forward and shifting her weight into each leg, alternating like a metronome. “I’m on uniform duty right now,” she says. “I’ve shined more TACs’ shoes than you can imagine.”
“Footwear and brass will be highly shined,” I add, quoting what I read last night in the handbook Lt. Sturtevant gave me, along with something like: Never mix articles of civilian clothes with your uniform. Your military uniform designates you as a special person: wear it with pride.
Amanda and Ciara don’t look very impressed that I read my handbook, so I change tactics. “Glossy, high-lacquered materials are emerging as one of the top trends to wear this fall,” I say. “Boots, coats, etc. And they definitely photograph well.”
Still nothing. Their faces are blank. I miss Andrea and Julia so much it’s palpable.
A whistle blows and we all go silent and turn toward Sturtevant. “Sixteen laps equal one mile. Begin running now with your team.” She blows her whistle again and Ciara and Amanda take off.
“We have to run a mile right now?” I say to their backsides, panicked as I try to catch up to them.
“Um, yeah,” Amanda says when I’m in line with them, trying to match my stride with theirs. She looks slightly regretful about having picked me as a teammate.
Shoes squeak over the gym floor as the cadets run. A mile?
Amanda, Ciara, and I run a lap in silence, and I’m already gasping for air when I ask, “So what’s uniform duty?”
“You’re gonna get assigned a chore,” Ciara says, lengthening her stride. “Just try to make the best of it and pray you don’t get bathrooms or the mess hall. Bathrooms are the most disgusting, and the mess hall is just publicly humiliating.”
Amanda stops to tuck a wayward wisp of dirty-blonde hair into a see-through plastic clip, and I want to kiss her for the chance to catch my breath. I read the hair clip rule last night, too: Females must pin hair above neck with clear plastic clips, or with any clip that matches hair color. Neatness is a priority, and essential to military appearance. As different as my uniform is compared with what I usually wear, I have to say, there’s something very regal about it. Each student looks like he or she has purpose, which is probably not something you can say when you walk into most high schools. I wonder if I look like that, too, even with my running shoes.
Amanda picks up our pace. I can tell by watching the two of them that Amanda’s in charge. It’s subtle, but the hierarchy is there, and it reminds me of how I feel when I watch Lia Powers rule her minions at school. I’m trying to keep up with them, but it’s so hard—I’m panting rapidly to oxygenate my challenged cardiovascular system. Ciara helps by having me switch places so I can run on the inside and have less ground to cover.
While we’re running, Ciara tells me about how she’s from Brooklyn, and I tell her that my favorite clothing line, Vena Cava, was born in Brooklyn, and then Amanda says something I don’t understand, and it must be an inside joke because they both start laughing.
I feel left out, which is probably dumb. But it’s weird being so far from Andrea and Julia, and my sister, too. And, no matter how childish I feel for admitting it, it’s not so great being this far from my parents.
“What’s wrong?” Amanda asks.
The air in the gym feels too warm. I glance over at her, surprised at how quickly she picked up on my mood. She reminds me a little of Julia, at least in the perceptive way Julia can pick up on what someone else is feeling.
“I’m just homesick,” I say, wheezing a little. I don’t know how much longer I can run like this. “I’m really sorry, guys,” I say. “I have to slow down.”
Amanda rolls her eyes, and I’m so on the edge of what I can emotionally and physically handle that it almost makes me cry. By the seventh go around we’re getting lapped by other students. I can see the backside of Jack as he passes, and it’s like he’s not even having to try hard to run that fast. His strides are long and relaxed, compared with his teammates, who look like they’re sprinting. One random girl tries to pass us and nearly knocks me over. She apologizes profusely and sprints away.
“I hear what you’re saying about the homesickness,” Ciara says, maybe trying to distract me from how badly this is going. “My girlfriend and I broke up before I came here. I miss everything about Brooklyn, especially her.”
“That sucks,” I say, which comes out like su-uh-uhcks, because I’m huffing and puffing. “But maybe you’ll get back together this summer when you’re home?” Ho-oh-ome. I sound like a deranged Santa Claus. And I’m probably in worse shape than him.
“The breakup needed to happen,” Ciara says, her feet slapping the floor. “I just miss being friends.”
Amanda has a funny look on her face. She doesn’t say anything about being homesick, but I can see something painful behind her green-eyed stare. Maybe she hates her family or something; maybe she’s glad she’s here. Then she asks me, “Do you have a boyfriend?” And I say, “No,” and she doesn’t say anything else at all.
We run in silence the rest of the way. I’m downright dizzy by the time we get to lap thirteen. A few of the groups have already finished. We pass the fire alarm and I seriously consider pulling it. We run lap fourteen with only three other groups, and then the worst thing happens—I have to walk a lap. I’m honestly too close to death to not say anything, so we jog lap sixteen all by ourselves because every other group is done. My cheeks burn with shame, and I’m trying so hard not to collapse. And it appears nearly all two hundred cadets are giving me pitying looks! “This is going to tank our War Games ranking,” Amanda says to Ciara.
“You’re the one with plenty of wiggle room,” Ciara says. “You’re in the top twenty percent.”
“I can’t believe she made us walk a lap,” Amanda says, like I’m not right there next to her! And like their precious War Games ranking is more important than my potential heart failure!
A whistle blares the second we finish. “Attennnnnntion!” Lt. Sturtevant yells, drawing the word out exactly like you always hear it in movies. Every student turns to face her, chins held high. I can’t breathe. My legs are shaking and I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. How high am I supposed to hold my chin? Are my feet supposed to be together or hip-width apart, like in yoga? I try to copy everyone else, but I’m so obviously an imposter, and Sturtevant so obviously notices.
“The fastest team mile was run in six minutes and thirty-nine seconds. Well done, cadets,” she says, glancing over to Jack, Joni, and their teammate, a cute redheaded guy.
Of course.
Sturtevant has an iPad she must have procured while we were running/dying. She types something, and says, “That secures all three of your spots in the top ten percent of War Games selection.”
I glance around and try to suss out how much everybody cares about this War Games situation, and it appears they really do. Nearly all the cadets are hanging on Sturtevant’s words. I can see maybe two or three who look uninterested, but that’s about it. Jack, Joni, and the redheaded guy are smiling, and Sturtevant makes a face that looks like she’s trying to smile, too. Then she strides over to me. “Brooks,” she says. It’s incredible how still and silent everyone has gone. Doesn’t anyone have an itch or a cramp? “Stand like this,” she says. My windpipe is still burning from exhaustion as Sturtevant places her hands on my shoulders, squaring them, and then positions my arms so there’s a little space between my elbows and my body. She curls my fingers into a relaxed fist, placing them just behind my hip bones, not quite to my butt. Then she puts my feet together and turns them slightly outward. She’s surprisingly gentle about the whole thing. When she’s done, she checks me over and gives a curt nod. She leaves me standing there, and I have to say, it feels good to be in this position (and also not to be running). I’m almost feeling okay again, until Sturtevant announces, “This morning during combat training we will review the skills we learned last week. There will be a strong focus on combat training for War Games qualifiers.”
My parents wouldn’t even let Ella and me touch the vintage army figurine guys Grandpa Frank left us because they worried it would encourage violent play. Did they even think about this before they sent me here? I can barely throw a softball. How the freak am I going to defend myself in combat?!
I’m so sweaty I feel like I’m going to pass out as Sturtevant blabs on about how the War Games are a privilege, and something not every military academy offers. So many cadets are nodding—it’s like they’ve all drunk the War Games Kool-Aid, but I don’t get it: What could ever be so great about extracurricular war activities that they’d all be so into this?!
“Washington, Moore, Brooks!” Sturtevant shouts.
Please don’t be saying my name.
I turn, catching sight of Jack. He’s watching me.
“Come to the front, cadets,” Sturtevant orders.
Fear prickles my skin as I follow Ciara and Amanda toward Sturtevant. When I used to take chorus, we had this teacher who would make the worst singers stand up by themselves and sing first. It was so painful, and it’s totally what’s happening right now. My whole body is still shaking as we all stand there in front of Sturtevant, waiting.
“Self-defense is a necessary skill to master whether or not you are a military student,” she says to me. She seems almost Zen, until she screams: “Boxing stance!” right in my face. She’s so close I can smell her toothpaste. (Tom’s of Maine Cinnamon Clove, the kind my mom buys for Ella and me even though we beg for Crest.) Ciara and Amanda jump into a wide stance and pop their hands up. I do the same, feeling ridiculous. I have no idea how to throw a punch, and I really don’t want anyone to punch me.
“An effective boxing stance will allow you to move forward, backward, side to side, and in a circle,” Sturtevant says. “Perhaps more importantly, it will signal to your opponent that you are trained and ready for a fight.” A fight. Right. Sweat trickles down my back. Please don’t make me fight anyone, Sturtevant. You have to realize I don’t know how! “It will signal to your opponent that you’re not about to be his next victim,” she says.
Last year there were some muggings at the mall, and no one was physically hurt but we were all scared. Maybe I could learn to do this. Maybe I could protect myself.
“Bend more at the knee, Brooks,” Sturtevant says. “Left foot forward! Right arm closer to your ribs!”
“Um, okay,” I say, trying hard to do what she says.
“Don’t speak to me unless I ask you a question, Brooks!”
That is so freaking rude.
“Right arm protects your ribs, right hand protects the right side of your chin, and left shoulder protects the left side of your face,” Sturtevant instructs.
That’s just a lot of instructions at once. I try my best to make my body look like Amanda’s and Ciara’s.
“Make a fist, for God’s sake, Brooks!” Sturtevant screams.
I do, and then she turns to the rest of the cadets. “This is your two-point cover, as everyone here besides Private Brooks is aware of,” she says, and I can’t figure out if she’s being sarcastic or genuinely trying to give me a break. She pivots back to us. “Now get your left hands up at a forty-five-degree angle. Step forward and slide, cadets!”
What the flip? I don’t know how to do any of this! I watch as Amanda and Ciara spring into action like trained Navy SEALs. They’re way better than I would have imagined—especially Amanda.
I jump-slide forward with my fists cocked, trying to do it like they did, but everything feels wrong.
Sturtevant grimaces like whatever I’m doing is physically traumatizing her. “I believe that’s called a sashay, Brooks,” she practically snorts, marching toward me. “Try again. Everything must be symmetrical. Slide forward ten inches, slide back ten inches.”
I don’t think that’s the definition of symmetrical, but I don’t say so.
“This time get your back heel off the floor and put a little more spring in your step.”
I lunge forward and then back, trying to make my distance even.
Sturtevant shakes her head. Then she jumps in to demonstrate, lunging forward and backward. “Advance! Retreat!” she shouts. Her fists are up, and her body is coiled like a mousetrap ready to spring, and it dawns on me that she could probably end my life in less than five seconds.
She moves forward three lunges until she’s a breath away from my face. It’s actually really scary, and my chest is burning with how much I want to cry, how much I want to run back to Mount Pleasant and jump into my mother’s arms. I fight back tears as Sturtevant shouts, basically in my face, “You are only as good as your weapons, cadets. How effective can you be?” She retreats three lunges back, and I stupidly think I’m in the clear until she practices her aforementioned “symmetry” and lunges three times toward me. “Strike!” she screams, and throws a punch directly at my face, missing me—on purpose, obviously—by the width of a hair.
I duck and scream. It’s a pathetic scream, a whiny-baby scream, an I don’t want to be here can someone please call my parents scream. It echoes off the wall and into the ears of two hundred cadets, reeking of defeat. Ciara freezes, and Amanda shrinks like she wants to be as far away from my misery as possible, but I can just see Joni in the front row of cadets; I can see her take a step toward me. Sturtevant pulls back, and there’s a look on her face that might be regret, but I’m not sure because my eyes are welling up and my vision has gone blurry.
My cheeks burn with embarrassment and a single hot tear rolls over my cheek. What could possibly be the point of this stupid training when I’ll never be as good as these other students?
I want to go home.