outside. Want to go home?”
That was probably the best thing he could have said to me. If he had made me a different offer—any other offer—I might have taken him up on it. But the thought of getting back into that blue station wagon, back to 202 Lincoln Drive a quitter, back to my mother’s I-told-you-sos—no, anyplace but home. I clenched my fists and shouted, “NO, SIR!”
He studied me thoughtfully. Then he reached under his desk, retrieved a green book, and slammed it on his desk. I jumped.
He snickered, then roared, “SIGN IN, SMACKHEAD! Name. Date. Time. Class.”
“Yes, sir.” I staggered up to his desk and took his pen.
“Left-handed, huh? That’s just another strike against you, Smack.”
My hand shook as I began my name. D, a, scratch, scratch. I gulped. The pen wouldn’t write.
“Get your nasty elbow off my desk, Grub Ball! I don’t want your arm hairs touching my desk again!”
I tried again. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Nothing.
“WHAT’S YOUR MAJOR MALFUNCTION, BONEHEAD? YOU TRYING TO GROW A BRAIN?”
“Sir, I ... this ... this p-p-pen is, um—” I looked up at him.
His hand shot down, grabbed the pen out of my hand, and threw it against the wall. “YOU ARE TRYING MY PATIENCE, MISS !” He slammed another pen down on the desk. “WRITE!”
My shaking fingers formed the correct letters. Davis, Andrea. June 28, 2004. I looked at my watch. 11:09. I could feel his eyes drilling into my head. Class— 2004.
The First Sergeant spun the book around. Then his head sprang up, fire dancing behind the wire-framed glasses, spreading to his cheeks, his ears, down his neck. “WHAT?” I had never heard anyone yell so loud in my life. “WHAT IS THAT, MISS ?” He cursed, making my mother’s angry words sound like the sentimental mush on Hallmark cards. He jabbed his finger up and down onto the book until I thought only a hole would remain where my “2004” was written.
He leaned over the desk until his wire-framed face was so close to mine that I could smell his breakfast—eggs and coffee—as he hissed, “Six weeks ago one thousand men and women sat in Michie Stadium, ending four long years of sleepless nights, grueling days, area tours, Cow English, baked scrod, CORs, the IOC, and Juice PRs!”
I bit my lip. What in the world is he talking about?
“They gave their sweat, blood, and tears to earn the right to be called the Class of 2004. DO YOU DARE EQUATE YOURSELF TO THEM?”
“N-n-n-no, sir,” I croaked, clutching at the fabric of my shorts.
He snatched the pen from off his desk where I had left it and with bold strokes crossed out the “2004” and scrawled “2008” in its place. Then he turned his eyes onto a pile of papers on his desk. “New Cadet Davis, you are in Third Squad, Third Platoon. Room 305. Your squad leader is Cadet Daily.”
My body went cold. I remembered Cadet Daily. And he said he’d remember me, too.
The First Sergeant looked at me again and yelled, “WHAT SQUAD, MAGGOT?”
Somehow my vocal cords defrosted enough for me to shout, “Sir, I am in Third Squad, Third Platoon.” Whatever that is.
The whites of his eyes became my whole world. “Are you scared now , New Cadet?” he whispered.
“NO, SIR!” I shouted, my voice shaking like I had been injected with fifty shots of espresso.
“Only fools don’t fear the enemy, New Cadet,” he said. “And I’m the enemy.” My eyes followed his finger to his name tag. The white letters S-T-O-C-K-E-L, etched into the black plastic, seemed to mock me. Cadet Stockel opened his mouth and bellowed, “POST!”
I flew out the door, where the next victim was already waiting.
“Report to your room, New Cadet,” I heard some other upperclass cadet say to me, “and deposit your gear. Then report back to the Cadet in the Red Sash. And no gazing around! Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!” I said. I sped along the bare wall, away from the growing throng of new cadets mouthing the words on the sign. I
That was probably the best thing he could have said to me. If he had made me a different offer—any other offer—I might have taken him up on it. But the thought of getting back into that blue station wagon, back to 202 Lincoln Drive a quitter, back to my mother’s I-told-you-sos—no, anyplace but home. I clenched my fists and shouted, “NO, SIR!”
He studied me thoughtfully. Then he reached under his desk, retrieved a green book, and slammed it on his desk. I jumped.
He snickered, then roared, “SIGN IN, SMACKHEAD! Name. Date. Time. Class.”
“Yes, sir.” I staggered up to his desk and took his pen.
“Left-handed, huh? That’s just another strike against you, Smack.”
My hand shook as I began my name. D, a, scratch, scratch. I gulped. The pen wouldn’t write.
“Get your nasty elbow off my desk, Grub Ball! I don’t want your arm hairs touching my desk again!”
I tried again. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Nothing.
“WHAT’S YOUR MAJOR MALFUNCTION, BONEHEAD? YOU TRYING TO GROW A BRAIN?”
“Sir, I ... this ... this p-p-pen is, um—” I looked up at him.
His hand shot down, grabbed the pen out of my hand, and threw it against the wall. “YOU ARE TRYING MY PATIENCE, MISS !” He slammed another pen down on the desk. “WRITE!”
My shaking fingers formed the correct letters. Davis, Andrea. June 28, 2004. I looked at my watch. 11:09. I could feel his eyes drilling into my head. Class— 2004.
The First Sergeant spun the book around. Then his head sprang up, fire dancing behind the wire-framed glasses, spreading to his cheeks, his ears, down his neck. “WHAT?” I had never heard anyone yell so loud in my life. “WHAT IS THAT, MISS ?” He cursed, making my mother’s angry words sound like the sentimental mush on Hallmark cards. He jabbed his finger up and down onto the book until I thought only a hole would remain where my “2004” was written.
He leaned over the desk until his wire-framed face was so close to mine that I could smell his breakfast—eggs and coffee—as he hissed, “Six weeks ago one thousand men and women sat in Michie Stadium, ending four long years of sleepless nights, grueling days, area tours, Cow English, baked scrod, CORs, the IOC, and Juice PRs!”
I bit my lip. What in the world is he talking about?
“They gave their sweat, blood, and tears to earn the right to be called the Class of 2004. DO YOU DARE EQUATE YOURSELF TO THEM?”
“N-n-n-no, sir,” I croaked, clutching at the fabric of my shorts.
He snatched the pen from off his desk where I had left it and with bold strokes crossed out the “2004” and scrawled “2008” in its place. Then he turned his eyes onto a pile of papers on his desk. “New Cadet Davis, you are in Third Squad, Third Platoon. Room 305. Your squad leader is Cadet Daily.”
My body went cold. I remembered Cadet Daily. And he said he’d remember me, too.
The First Sergeant looked at me again and yelled, “WHAT SQUAD, MAGGOT?”
Somehow my vocal cords defrosted enough for me to shout, “Sir, I am in Third Squad, Third Platoon.” Whatever that is.
The whites of his eyes became my whole world. “Are you scared now , New Cadet?” he whispered.
“NO, SIR!” I shouted, my voice shaking like I had been injected with fifty shots of espresso.
“Only fools don’t fear the enemy, New Cadet,” he said. “And I’m the enemy.” My eyes followed his finger to his name tag. The white letters S-T-O-C-K-E-L, etched into the black plastic, seemed to mock me. Cadet Stockel opened his mouth and bellowed, “POST!”
I flew out the door, where the next victim was already waiting.
“Report to your room, New Cadet,” I heard some other upperclass cadet say to me, “and deposit your gear. Then report back to the Cadet in the Red Sash. And no gazing around! Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!” I said. I sped along the bare wall, away from the growing throng of new cadets mouthing the words on the sign. I
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