I NEVER THOUGHT I’D ACCESSORIZE my look with weapons, but two days later I’m standing on a grassy field holding a bow and arrow, because archery is my newly assigned after-school sport.
Archery!
At least Lt. Sturtevant isn’t teaching it. She’s been riding me extra hard in PT, keeping her eye on me like she’s just waiting for me to mess up or mouth off one more time. I keep wondering why it’s so hard for me to be good, and if it’s this hard for everyone. I think about Julia, and how she’s always so respectful of authority. She would never Instagram her teacher.
(Though that photo did get over a thousand likes.)
To make up for my terribly disrespectful attitude problem, I’ve started studying way harder. Classes are ramping up in terms of intensity: I’ve managed to keep my GPA at 3.58, with trigonometry being the class that’s by far the scariest. Tomorrow we have a quiz on sines and cosines, and I figured out I need to get at least a 3.25 to keep my average at a 3.5, which means tonight I’m probably not going to get to blog, again. Even Julia and Andrea have noticed, texting me things like: you ok? Never seen you miss a post!
But I can’t get kicked out of here—I just can’t. My stubborn streak is at a full flare-up: I miss my family so much, but even getting back to them wouldn’t be worth the embarrassment of failing!
The TAC who teaches archery, Sgt. O’Neil, is male and wearing head-to-toe khaki, which normally I’d say was a huge fashion no-no, but I’m willing to look past it in the context of the United States military, because these are the folks who are protecting my rights to liberty and happiness and such. I wonder if there’s a fashion designer who works on the uniforms the military wears? Probably yes, because there’s a designer behind so many things you see, touch, sit on, walk on, kick, throw, or snuggle. It’s mind-boggling.
Sgt. O’Neil paces down the line of cadets and hands out bows and arrows, and I can just catch Joni out of the corner of my eye, reaching out a slim hand to take her weapons. She hasn’t returned to our room until past curfew for two nights in a row; I have no idea where she goes, but she must be pretty sneaky—she doesn’t have a single demerit yet. It’s interesting that she risks it considering what Jack told me about her scholarship, but I guess it must be something or someone really worth it.
When Joni sees me, her face lights up with a grin. Seeing her smiling at me like that, I just can’t imagine she sent that photo to Sturtevant. I think, even by the time I left Sturtevant’s office that day, I knew it wasn’t Joni. She doesn’t seem to have a mean bone in her entire body.
There are a dozen cadets standing in a straight line in front of six multicolored ringed targets placed forty feet away. I’m the only one who seems to be getting frostbite out here. Once we each have our weapons, Sgt. O’Neil blathers on about the parts of the bow and arrow—sight window, arrow shelf, hunting stabilizer—and gazes reverently at his own bow like it’s a golden harp and not a killing machine.
“As you know,” O’Neil says, “you will be selected for War Games based on your leadership qualities, strategic thinking, and, of course, your physical training. You will be scored individually during physical challenges and by TAC discretion. For those of you who are new here,” O’Neil says, glaring at me like it’s my fault, “that means you have much to prove.” He looks a little smug, like he’s enjoying lecturing me, cadet #201 in last place! “Remember that only the top fifty percent of cadets will qualify for War Games placement.”
It still blows my mind that there’s so much emphasis on being our best just so we can compete against other military schools, like a travel war team. “Thanks, but no thanks,” I whisper to the girl next to me, who doesn’t seem to agree with me at all.
“What was that, Private Brooks?” Sgt. O’Neil asks.
Shoot. “Um, nothing,” I say. “I just had something in my throat.”
Sgt. O’Neil straightens and looks annoyed. “As I was saying, the top fifty percent will have proven themselves true leaders,” he finishes. I try to focus on what he’s saying, but then he starts telling some story about how he placed top five in his very own War Games at the Academy back in 1999. I stifle a yawn. Do adults have any idea how inapplicable these stories are? Who gives a flip about 1999? I’m exhausted from waking up at five for weeks on end, and my arm already hurts from holding this stupid bow. I stare down the target, realizing there’s no way I can hit it from all the way back here. I would literally take a pedicure-related fungal infection over this. Maybe even basketball.
“Today you’ll be working in assigned pairs,” O’Neil says, snapping me back to attention. “Personal scores will be recorded; this is not a group exercise. This is every man and woman for him- or herself! You will be ranked solely by the number of bull’s-eyes hit.”
Maybe if I hit a bull’s-eye I can finally get out of last place.
“Let the fun begin!” O’Neil shouts.
Fun? God, what I wouldn’t give for my idea of fun: shopping with my mom; Project Runway binge-watching with Ella; and then all three of us heading to Relaxation Spa for aromatherapy and reflexology. I can’t believe I never realized how easy my life used to be!
O’Neil glances down at his clipboard. “Randol and Jetson!” he shouts.
Someone’s last name is Jetson? That’s amazing.
“Levine and Davis!”
“Murphy and Brooks!”
Joni parades over to me, holding her bow and arrow with the confidence of a professional hunter. There’s a shuffle across the grass as the rest of the cadets find their partners. O’Neil starts marking up his clipboard.
“Hey,” Joni says.
I stare down at my bow. I need to tell Joni what happened with Sturtevant, and I’m really nervous.
“Frankie?”
I tilt my chin to look at her. I can feel my fingers getting sweaty on my bow even though it’s freezing out.
“Are you all right?” she asks. Her strawberry-blonde eyebrows knit together.
“I snuck out with Jack after curfew the other night,” I whisper. “And Sturtevant caught me. And now I got another demerit and I have to mop the dining hall!” My voice comes out in a hiss.
“You snuck out with Jack?” Joni asks. She checks over her shoulder to make sure O’Neil isn’t anywhere near us. “Did Sturtevant find out about Jack, too?”
“No,” I snap. “But can we please focus on me right now?”
“He could lose his scholarship to Cornell!” Joni says, all sniffly and defensive.
“Sneaking out was his idea!” I say. Then I click my tongue. “Cornell?” I ask. Impressive. “Early decision?”
Joni nods.
“He never told me,” I say.
Joni shrugs. “He’s modest.”
O’Neil is talking privately with a cadet at the end of the line. I lean in close to Joni. “Do you have any idea who would have told on me?”
Joni’s lips purse. She whispers, “Probably Amanda. I think she has it out for you, Frankie. She doesn’t like Jack and me, and you’ve been hanging out with us so much . . .”
God, Amanda. What is her problem?!
“Attention!” shouts O’Neil, and now he’s striding down the line toward us. I try to blend in and make my body look like the rest of the cadets’, but I’m the only person wearing sneakers and also the only platinum blonde, and plus I don’t know how to make my body that straight while holding my bow and arrow.
“Levine! Del Fico! Irwin! Randol! Brooks! Webb!” O’Neil shouts. “Step to the line.”
I take a timid step toward a white line. “This is your chance to defeat your enemies with precision and skill! To make them suffer with arrows of outrageous fortune!”
“He was an English major,” Joni whispers.
“Load!” screams O’Neil.
Load what? My arrow? How?
O’Neil turns to adjust a cadet. Joni’s gloved hand is suddenly over mine, placing the notch in my arrow against the string of my bow. “Are you a righty?” she whispers.
I nod, afraid that if I look her in the eye she’ll stop helping me.
“Then get your right foot back a bit to open up your chest,” she says. “Softer grip on the bow—open up your hand a little. Good. When O’Neil says aim, just bring your arrow back toward your face like Jennifer Lawrence does in Hunger Games, okay? Then look over the string so you can aim the arrow right at the bull’s-eye.”
“Aim!” calls O’Neil.
I yank my bow back like Joni said.
“Open up your chest more, Frankie!” Joni hisses. “Or you’re gonna hit your—”
Too late.
“Fire!”
I let go of the bow and feel a split second of total Hunger Games awesomeness—I am J. Law! Hear me roar! But then I feel the opposite of awesome when the arrow slices like a deadly paper cut across my chest. “Ow!” I yell as my arrow flies through the air and sails five feet over the target. I’m in so much pain I barely even notice that I’m the only one who entirely missed it. I double over, clutching my right boob. “Oh my God!” I say. “Am I bleeding?”
It hurts so bad I’m crying within three seconds, and then O’Neil is screaming, “Private Brooks!”
No, O’Neil. Please stay away.
Joni grabs my shoulders and tries to steady me.
“I said to open your chest!” she scolds.
I peek down to see if everything’s still there, and there’s totally a serious cut! (Okay, maybe more like a scratch, but still.) I’m so pissed that I pull at my bowstring, which is apparently a huge mistake, because O’Neil screams, “Don’t dry-fire that bow, Brooks! You’ll damage the equipment!”
Joni straightens. O’Neil is flying toward us. Joni backs up, but before she does, she gives my hand a squeeze.
“Get down on the mother-loving frost-covered winter grass and give me twenty, Brooks!” O’Neil shouts.
I turn to Joni as if somehow she can help me.
“Don’t cry,” she whispers. She narrows her light eyes on mine and gives me a small nod. “You’ve got this, Frankie.”
Ugh! I get down on the grass and start doing my push-ups. Why is everything so freaking difficult here?! One, two, three, four, oh-my-God-five, are-you-kidding-me-six, seven-I-just-cannot, eight-nope, nine-I’m-done!
I collapse onto the grass.
“Are you serious right now, Private Brooks?” O’Neil asks.
“I’m pretty serious!” I say, rolling over onto my back. Thank God my Academy parka is waterproof. “I can’t do any more!”
“In five, four, three, two . . . ,” O’Neil shouts, like I should be getting ready for a jazz solo. But the counting works, and suddenly I’m forcing myself to pop back up again. I do a set of four more push-ups, then I collapse again, and someone laughs.
“Private Davis?” O’Neil asks. “Did you just laugh at a young woman who could one day be your fellow soldier? Get down on the ground and give me forty!”
Jennifer Davis—a girl I know from trig—stops laughing, and then joins me on the ground. I slowly finish my twenty (and by slowly, I mean slower than Jennifer does her forty), and when I get up, Sgt. O’Neil says. “I’d like you to try to hit that target again, Private Brooks.”
“Oh, me too, thank you, sir, for the opportunity to try again,” I say, and I smile sweetly so Sgt. O’Neil doesn’t realize just how not thankful I am. Why is it so hard to cultivate gratitude when you’re having such a terrible time?
Shopping, fashion blogging, aromatherapy with my mom and Ella . . .
If I could only click my heels three times and go home, even just for a little break!
I pick up my bow and arrow, because I’m not home, I’m here, and I’m going to make the best of it. I stare down the target.
Look out, Academy: you’re about to see everything I’ve got!
Ready, aim . . .
Fire!