hallway to retrieve their Gym Alpha from their lockers in the latrines.
The music changed. The eerie theme from another classic movie, that Clint Eastwood Western The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly —one of my dad’s late-night cable favorites—was playing now. I paced back and forth across the room. I checked my watch. I wasn’t about to go out into that hallway of horrors a second before I had to.
Gabrielle was walking in circles near the door, checking her watch and adjusting her bun. Finally she said, “It’s 5:42. Think we should go?”
My stomach jumped, but I nodded.
Gabrielle opened the door a crack and peeked outside. “Those guys next door, what’re their names again?” she whispered.
“Boguslavsky and McGill.”
“Yeah, them. They just left.” She turned away from the door and faced me. “Do I look okay?”
Look okay? I hadn’t given much thought to my looks. At home I would’ve never left to go anywhere without a good half hour of “primping,” as my mother loved to call it. We had fought many gruesome battles over it. Battles in which my hair straightener was the booty, confiscated and locked away inside my mother’s room, and my makeup was the carnage, strewn in broken pieces across the yard. But today, primping just didn’t seem that important anymore.
“Well?” Gabrielle asked impatiently. “I don’t look fat in these stupid shorts, do I?”
“Fat?” I asked. At a time like this, who gives a rip if you look fat? I shook my head. “You’re not fat, Gabrielle.” I checked my watch again.
“Oh, I always look fat in shorts because I’m so short.” She stared up at me. For the first time, I noticed how short she really was. The top of her head barely reached my shoulder. “I had to get a waiver to get in here, you know. I’m only five feet tall.” She looked down at her feet and studied her running shoes. “Well, actually, I’m four feet eleven and a half.”
“Well, I really didn’t notice,” I said. She frowned. What a dumb thing to say. “I mean, I noticed that you’re short, but not that short.” Great—that was even worse! “You look fine, Gab.” I checked my watch once more. “Come on! We’ve got to get out of here! We have one minute.”
“Okay.” She pulled up her socks. “I’ll go first.” She charged out into the hallway. I followed, pulling the door closed behind me. She made a sharp right turn, only inches from the wall, and pinged toward Cadet Daily’s room. The rest of our squad was already there, lined up with their backs to the wall. Cadet Daily paced before them, yelling something about a “dress off.”
Dress off? Who’s wearing a dress?
“I was just having a little chat with your illustrious squadmates about dress offs,” he snarled at us. He stopped pacing and studied all of us, from head to running-shoed toe. “You maggots are so unmilitary, you make me want to puke!”
Dress offs ... dress offs. I should know this. Words, uniforms, and names whirled around my brain like snow flurries. Then I remembered. The thing we did yesterday when we got ready for the parade—wrapping our shirts tightly around ourselves and tucking them into our trousers the way people wrap Christmas presents. But why in the world do we need dress offs to go outside and sweat?
“You ragbags look like you just crawled out of bed.” He looked at his watch and snorted. “We’ve got to go to formation now. But first let me get one thing through your brainless boneheads.” He took a huge breath and roared, “I AM NOT PLEASED WITH YOUR PERFORMANCE THIS MORNING, THIRD SQUAD! YOU BETTER KNOCK YOURSELVES TOGETHER, OR I WILL SEE TO IT THAT YOU’RE GONE COME LUNCH FORMATION! DO I MAKE MYSELF ABSOLUTELY CLEAR? ”
“YES, SIR!”
“Good. Now, Third Squad—right, face !” We turned. “Davis, you’re leading. Go down the hall till you get to the stairwell. Don’t miss it! Then down the stairs till you reach the sally port, and I’ll take it from
The music changed. The eerie theme from another classic movie, that Clint Eastwood Western The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly —one of my dad’s late-night cable favorites—was playing now. I paced back and forth across the room. I checked my watch. I wasn’t about to go out into that hallway of horrors a second before I had to.
Gabrielle was walking in circles near the door, checking her watch and adjusting her bun. Finally she said, “It’s 5:42. Think we should go?”
My stomach jumped, but I nodded.
Gabrielle opened the door a crack and peeked outside. “Those guys next door, what’re their names again?” she whispered.
“Boguslavsky and McGill.”
“Yeah, them. They just left.” She turned away from the door and faced me. “Do I look okay?”
Look okay? I hadn’t given much thought to my looks. At home I would’ve never left to go anywhere without a good half hour of “primping,” as my mother loved to call it. We had fought many gruesome battles over it. Battles in which my hair straightener was the booty, confiscated and locked away inside my mother’s room, and my makeup was the carnage, strewn in broken pieces across the yard. But today, primping just didn’t seem that important anymore.
“Well?” Gabrielle asked impatiently. “I don’t look fat in these stupid shorts, do I?”
“Fat?” I asked. At a time like this, who gives a rip if you look fat? I shook my head. “You’re not fat, Gabrielle.” I checked my watch again.
“Oh, I always look fat in shorts because I’m so short.” She stared up at me. For the first time, I noticed how short she really was. The top of her head barely reached my shoulder. “I had to get a waiver to get in here, you know. I’m only five feet tall.” She looked down at her feet and studied her running shoes. “Well, actually, I’m four feet eleven and a half.”
“Well, I really didn’t notice,” I said. She frowned. What a dumb thing to say. “I mean, I noticed that you’re short, but not that short.” Great—that was even worse! “You look fine, Gab.” I checked my watch once more. “Come on! We’ve got to get out of here! We have one minute.”
“Okay.” She pulled up her socks. “I’ll go first.” She charged out into the hallway. I followed, pulling the door closed behind me. She made a sharp right turn, only inches from the wall, and pinged toward Cadet Daily’s room. The rest of our squad was already there, lined up with their backs to the wall. Cadet Daily paced before them, yelling something about a “dress off.”
Dress off? Who’s wearing a dress?
“I was just having a little chat with your illustrious squadmates about dress offs,” he snarled at us. He stopped pacing and studied all of us, from head to running-shoed toe. “You maggots are so unmilitary, you make me want to puke!”
Dress offs ... dress offs. I should know this. Words, uniforms, and names whirled around my brain like snow flurries. Then I remembered. The thing we did yesterday when we got ready for the parade—wrapping our shirts tightly around ourselves and tucking them into our trousers the way people wrap Christmas presents. But why in the world do we need dress offs to go outside and sweat?
“You ragbags look like you just crawled out of bed.” He looked at his watch and snorted. “We’ve got to go to formation now. But first let me get one thing through your brainless boneheads.” He took a huge breath and roared, “I AM NOT PLEASED WITH YOUR PERFORMANCE THIS MORNING, THIRD SQUAD! YOU BETTER KNOCK YOURSELVES TOGETHER, OR I WILL SEE TO IT THAT YOU’RE GONE COME LUNCH FORMATION! DO I MAKE MYSELF ABSOLUTELY CLEAR? ”
“YES, SIR!”
“Good. Now, Third Squad—right, face !” We turned. “Davis, you’re leading. Go down the hall till you get to the stairwell. Don’t miss it! Then down the stairs till you reach the sally port, and I’ll take it from
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