TWO HOURS AND ZERO ARCHERY targets hit later, Joni and I are sitting in a circle of desks in classroom 203 inside Flannery Hall. We’re waiting for Lt. Sturtevant to lead our small-group leadership meeting, because, you know, the Academy is all about leadership. There are leadership seminars we have to attend twice a month, and then small-group meetings once a month with an advisor to develop a project we have to complete over the course of the semester. Of course everyone already knows what they’re doing for their projects except me. Ciara is vice president of the LGBT club; Amanda organizes a group of ten students who go off campus and read to foster kids once a month (which surprises me, given she mostly seems pretty mean); Jack is the editor in chief of the school newspaper (and he writes nearly half the stories, and they’re really good); and Joni leads tours of the Academy for prospective students. Joni told me Lt. Sturtevant pushed her to come up with an idea that would help her overcome her shyness, which I thought was cool. Not every teacher sees your weaknesses and tries to improve them.
I stare around the classroom. We must be in a social studies or geography classroom—there are maps and globes everywhere. It reminds me of my bedroom, where I have this funky light-up globe perched on my desk that Ella and I used to play with all the time. We’d close our eyes and spin it, and then point to a random spot and plan a trip. Ah, my bedroom. I miss my bedroom!
“How’s your boob?” Joni asks me. “Did you slice it off with that arrow?”
I smile despite myself. “It’s still hanging on, thank God. It’s probably the only time having barely there boobs has worked in my favor.”
Joni and I trade grins, and then she takes out a notebook and starts thumbing through it. I can see over her shoulder to all the detailed progress reports she’s made for her leadership project.
I take out my notebook and stare down at a blank page. Normally, a blank page inspires me, but I just haven’t had the time to give this much thought.
Windows look out onto the athletic field, and I can see two boys throwing a baseball back and forth. Leadership seminars meet during our personal time, which means I’m not going to be able to blog tonight, which is obviously not ideal. I just hope my readers bear with me through this challenging period in my life!
I turn back to the dozen or so kids in the circle. Jennifer Davis, the girl who laughed at me in archery, is here, too, avoiding my gaze. She’s talking to another girl named Penelope who I know from Military Strategy.
Footsteps make me turn toward the door. “Good afternoon, cadets,” Sturtevant says as she enters. She sits at a desk in our makeshift circle. “Welcome to your first small-group leadership seminar this semester.”
“Good afternoon, Lt. Sturtevant,” we say back. Sturtevant sits so erect it looks painful. We all sit up a little straighter, too.
“I’d like to dive right in and hear a pitch from you, Private Brooks,” Sturtevant says, “on what you’d like your leadership project to be this year. Then we’ll review the progress the rest of you are making.”
“A pitch?” I repeat. I mean, obviously I haven’t developed a pitch yet, because I’ve been so busy trying to learn hand-to-hand combat and not get demerits and keep my average above 3.5!
“Yes, that’s what I said,” Sturtevant says, opening her notebook like she’s about to jot down all my brilliant ideas.
Joni’s right next to me, and I can feel her stiffen. Sometimes it seems like she physically feels my pain. “Um, well,” I say. Amanda’s foster-kid leadership project floats through my head. I did tons of volunteering at home; that would be a pretty easy fit. “I’m heavily involved in community volunteering back home in Mount Pleasant,” I say.
“That’s nice,” Sturtevant says. It doesn’t even come out sarcastic; she sounds downright annoyed.
“I teach this very popular course at our local nursing home called It’s Not 1952 Anymore,” I say, “and I help old people, I mean, the elderly, navigate things like what to wear and how to text.”
Sturtevant blows air between her lips. “Are you looking for some kind of award, Brooks?”
“Um, no, of course not,” I say. “I mean, unless you want to give me one.”
Sturtevant gets a constipated look on her face. “I’m not sure how what you’re telling me translates to your leadership project for the Academy,” she says.
“Well, I could just bring my course back. I could go off campus”—freedom!—“and teach my course in Albany at a nursing home. The course was very popular. I always got rave reviews. So many elderly people want to dress fashionably, they just don’t know how to make runway reality.”
Sturtevant shakes her head. “I don’t think so, Brooks,” she says. “I’m pretty sure you can come up with something better than that.”
Ugh! Why does she hate everything about me?! What could possibly be wrong with my idea?!
Jennifer Davis puts her fist to her mouth like she’s trying not to laugh at me again. Joni shifts in the seat next to me. Sturtevant is writing in her notebook—God knows what—and Joni passes me a note that says, Just tell her you’ll go back to the drawing board. I’ll help you!
I clear my throat. “I’d like some extra time to go back to the drawing board,” I say.
“That’s fine,” says Sturtevant with a disgusted wave of her hand, like she doesn’t even want to deal with me. “And when you come back to your classmates and me with an idea, let’s keep in mind the standards of Albany Military Academy, and let’s also keep in mind just how heavily this project determines whether you pass or fail your year here at the Academy.”