DAD LUMBERED to bed—gratefully—when I got home.
“It’s late,” he warned me before leaving the den.
“I know. I need to hydrate before I go to sleep.”
It wasn’t a total lie. I huddled in the swivel chair in front of the computer and gripped a mug of my special blend: heated Lemon-Lime Gatorade and decaf green tea—enough electrolytes and antioxidants for anyone.
Something had sparked in my thoughts during that conversation with Landon. Why bother with recruiters when there was the internet?
One mug of tea later, my mind overflowed with possibilities. On the screen in front of me, I had an application for an Army ROTC scholarship. Maybe Dad wouldn’t listen to me, but he might pay attention to money, especially in the form of a full-ride scholarship. This was it—the answer I’d been searching for. I felt like letting out a big laugh, loud enough to wake Dad.
Then I read the essay question. The application called it a personal statement, but it amounted to the same thing. The joy I felt iced over, then splintered. This part mattered. I’d have to hit it just right. Only, I didn’t know what that was. The only person who knew was the one person I could never ask.
Depressed, I checked email (nothing), then logged onto Facebook. A bunch of kids were posting texts from Lukas’s, making it sound like the Best. Party. Ever! I wondered if things were fun only because other people said so. When I refreshed the page, Landon’s image appeared on the sidebar.
I’d be lying if I said I’d never searched for Landon before. I had, right after he returned to Black Earth. And yeah, I’d spent plenty of time staring at his profile picture. Tonight, when I clicked on mutual friends, the first person listed was Nissa.
A wave of nausea hit me, and the massive amount of tea I’d drunk grumbled in my stomach. Friends? Since when? I clicked through to Nissa’s profile, then spent a frantic few minutes clicking more, and more, and more until I found the answer. November, of last year, two months before Landon had returned to Black Earth.
What. The. Hell.
She’d found him first? Or did he find her? Why hadn’t she told me? For that matter, why hadn’t he? I reviewed everything Nissa said or did over the last three months, ever since Landon barged his way into Black Earth High. That earlier relief—the idea that yes, we were still friends—soured. Clearly, I didn’t know everything about my best friend.
I shut everything down and headed upstairs. I wanted to forget about it all—parties, and Nissa, and Landon, school, the internet. I wanted something real.
I wanted my mom.
Before
January 1991
The Tactical Operations Center
Smells like damp sand and musty canvas
and the best French roast coffee
you’ve ever tasted.
We call it the TOC—as in tick-toc,
or Tee-Oh-See
Because this is the Army, and everyone knows
it’s better to use letters
than actual words.
The TOC (or Tee-Oh-See) has treads like a tank,
but not the armor of one.
Antennae sprout from the roof
like a garden of spindly weeds.
It’s a neon sign, one that says:
Shoot Here First.
We’ll lumber across the desert,
the perfect target for a stray Iraqi
with a rocket-propelled grenade.
My first thought is: I hope we don’t meet one.
My next thought is: We probably will.
The Best Part of Waking Up
The only way to get the best
French roast in the battalion
is on a strictly
need-to-know basis.
Master Sergeant Collier needs
to know you.
He needs to know
you’re worthy.
The list of who can pour a cup
without asking is short and way
above my pay grade.
The soldiers call it heaven in a canteen cup,
and when Master Sergeant Collier is feeling
generous, everyone gets a sip—if they’re lucky.
I sometimes wonder what would happen if the percolator
tipped and spilled across the desert.
We’d all rush forward,
lap up the coffee
before the last drops
sank into the sand.
And I wonder how it is that the best part
of my day is something
I can’t have.
In Which I Exchange Words with Master Sergeant Collier
Master Sergeant Collier: Ma’am, you do any sports in high school?
Me: I swam.
Master Sergeant Collier: No wonder you can hold your breath through all this shit.
Me: It’s the fine art of holding your breath.
Master Sergeant Collier: You been listening to any RUMINT lately, ma’am?
Me: Rumor Intelligence? Never do.
Master Sergeant Collier: Sometimes it’s true.
Me: And sometimes people don’t know what to do with their mouths.
Master Sergeant Collier: So are you saying I shouldn’t listen to the rumors about you?
Breakfast in the Desert
The field mess comes to life
while the desert is still cold.
Pans clang; pots scrape.
Where they get water for boiling
and scrubbing and cooking,
I don't know.
The soles of combat boots grate
against the metal stairs,
three steps up into the cavern
of griddles and steam,
of melted butter on grits,
and sizzle of bacon fat.
When I close my eyes, I might be
anywhere.
Denny's, the officers' club, home.
I bypass pancakes and hash browns,
preferring an egg the cook plunks on my plate
with tongs.
For one moment, it's the cleanest thing
in this desert.
I crack the fragile shell
on the stock of my rifle.
Inside I discover a trail
of sand.
Sand. In everything. Even breakfast.
And I wonder how much salt
I will need to add
to fool my molars.
Saturday morning, I stood poolside, shrouded in my Dolphins hoodie. The poems I’d read last night left me unsettled. Nothing about my mom’s deployment seemed fair. The second I thought that, I heard Dad.
Dad on life: Sometimes, princess, life just isn’t fair.
Even worse, my eyelids felt heavy and I blinked away what seemed like a pound of grit. The only consolation was, judging by the red, sunken eyes and ratty hair, practice was going to suck far, far worse for Jodi and Sierra.
Today our tech crew arrived. In fact, Josh Wylie, our guru of all things technical, was unwinding cords and schooling his two new freshmen recruits on the finer points of dropping the underwater speakers. I knew then this day couldn’t be all bad.
It may sound strange, but there’s no better place to listen to music than underwater. Dad always laughed when I told him this, but he’d never tried it. A few brisk laps to something upbeat and I’d wash away all my doubts about Nissa, worries about the Army, my mom, Dad, and anything to do with Landon.
Except Landon chose that moment to fling open the door to the upper deck. As the host, all he had to do was show up for dress rehearsals. But here he was. Kayla preened and actually pulled off her Dolphins hoodie before going over to talk to him. Coach Patti gave him an indulgent grin and what looked like a stern, no messing around, waggle of her finger.
And, as if on cue, the rest of the team executed a synchronized sigh.
I stood on the far end of the pool deck, near enough to the tech boys to hear them grumble. Josh’s ears burned bright red. He was a junior and we stole him from the drama club every spring. Secretly, I thought it was the other way around. For Josh, the synchro show was his show.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Josh said now.
No one spoke. At last, I offered up, “He’s hosting the show.”
Josh grunted. “Is he swimming in it too?”
Landon landed with a splat on the pool deck, feet bare, cargo pants rolled to his knees.
“It’ll be okay,” I said to Josh, hoping that it really would be. Maybe the tech boys and the junior class It Boy could peacefully coexist.
Landon marched along the pool deck, leaving the slightest impression of his feet on the tile behind him, until he reached Josh, the underwater speakers, and a mass of coiled cords that the tech boys guarded. Josh flattened a palm against Landon’s chest. He even shoved, a little. In the halls of Black Earth High that wasn’t the sort of move Josh could get away with—except with the other techies. But here?
Here, it worked. Landon skidded backward, a perplexed frown on his face.
“It’s like watching a nature show,” a scratchy voice said next to me.
I pulled back my hood so I could look at Nissa. “Do you think they’ll battle it out for dominance?”
Her giggle morphed into a cough. “God, I feel like shit this morning. You?”
“I’m okay.” I eyed her. “Not hung over at least.”
She held up a hand. “I know, I know. It’s stupid to drink during swim season. I only had that one beer.”
“With extra spit—that probably did you in.”
Nissa made a face. “Two-faced jerk.”
Okay, so Tim was still a sore spot. Mentally, I moved him to the “do not discuss” list, figuring at some point, he’d do something cute and all would be forgiven. That was how it usually worked with Nissa, which meant things were the same. My gaze flickered between her and Landon, who was now helping to unroll the speaker cords. Well, mostly the same. Maybe at some point, I’d work up the nerve to ask Nissa about Facebook. Maybe it really wasn’t that big of a deal.
“MacKenna?” My name echoed through the pool area. Patti waved in my direction. Next to her stood Constance. I hurried over, my stomach jumping.
“As soon as Josh has the speakers dropped,” Patti said, “I want you to try the duet. The musical cues might help with the timing of the lift.”
“You better warm up,” was all Constance said to me.
I stretched and tried not to obsess about performing the routine in front of everyone. We took our place on the pool deck and waited for the first strains of music to filter through the speakers.
What we got was Landon.
“Hey, man,” he was saying, apparently to Josh. “Can you hook me up with something hands-free. This thing is a pain in the ass.”
“Landon ...” Patti’s warning tone reverberated across the water.
“Sorry,” Landon said. “This thing.” He shook the microphone and feedback screeched through the pool.
“This thing restricts my ... creative movement.”
Constance shifted, hands now on hips, a glare to freeze the pool centered on Landon.
“Boys,” Patti called out. “You can work on that later. Right now, we need the music for the Mulan number.”
Constance had choreographed an extensive deck routine, one that demanded I pay attention, and not screw up, and not pitch into the pool a second too early. The moment I hit the water, I forgot everything else. The music was like a cocoon. Between it and the water, nothing bad could happen. I hit my marks; Constance and I swam in unison, like we were really two halves of the same person.
On the lift, I held my body tight, extended my leg at the pinnacle, then re-entered the water with barely a splash.
I didn’t have to ask. Patti’s grin said it all. We’d done it, which meant we could do it again. Scattered applause echoed in the pool area, and Kylie met us at the pool’s edge for high fives. I was pushing myself from the pool when Patti called the next number.
“Sierra? You girls ready?”
“Of course,” came Sierra’s reply.
My arms went stiff, palms planted on the pool deck. I froze, half in, half out of the water. At the opposite end, Jodi stood with Sierra, flanking her left side. On her right, arms raised in a flourish, stood Nissa.
No one pulled a routine out of thin air. Constance and I had started late, but she was Patti’s favorite, and we were willing to swim overtime to perfect the duet. But Jodi, Sierra, and Nissa? No way they just came up with this. This arrangement—or whatever it was—had been going on for a while. And Nissa never said a word about it.
Sierra narrowed her eyes at me. I shoved myself from the water. The deck felt off kilter, slippery, as if it would send me sliding into the pool. I backed up, so the tile wall was flush against my spine. I hugged my arms and forced myself to watch the entire routine. No lift, but they executed some advanced stunts and were mostly in sync. I hated myself for wanting it to be awful.
At noon, we ate lunch in the stands, since dressing and then rushing across the street to the burger place was a pain. On the first row of benches, Nissa sat with Jodi and Sierra, their heads bent over a slightly soggy notebook. While everything told me this was a bad idea, I approached them anyway.
“We’re busy,” Sierra said, even before I had a chance to sit down. “Our routine.” Here, she shrugged. “You know how it is. Needs to be perfect.”
Nissa ducked her head and wouldn’t look at me. Constance was talking to Patti and again I was struck with the mother/daughter vibe—struck lonely, struck dumb. I retreated to the very top tier of the stands, in the far corner where the tech boys sat.
“Is it okay if I sit here?” I asked the two freshmen, Dylan and Matt.
They stared at me as if I’d made the request in Latin. Then they shifted, with a crinkle of paper lunch sacks and clunk of aluminum water bottles.
“Uh, sure, yeah,” said Matt, whose cheeks did this amazing techno-color transformation from pale to pink to the same blazing red as his MP3 player.
I gave myself a quick once over, just to make sure I wasn’t exposing a body part I shouldn’t. The Dolphins hoodie fell below my hips, so I didn’t think that was the problem. I tried a few conversation openers (What classes are you taking? Did you work on the fall play?) without much success. When Landon and Josh pushed past us, a large cardboard box suspended between them, I sighed with relief. All the boys gathered around while Josh pulled first one, then another microphone from inside.
“Hands-free,” Landon said.
“Sound quality,” Josh countered. “People will actually want to hear you—for some reason.”
Josh directed Dylan to stand at the pool entrance and then stationed Matt in front of the girls’ locker room.
“The girls take their cues from your narration,” Josh said, his voice all teacher stern. “They need to hear you, too.”
“Right. Got it,” Landon replied, his tone not nearly as contrite as his words. He toyed with his microphone, the world’s worse padawan learner.
The gigantic pace clock on the wall ticked off thirty seconds before Josh’s exasperated huff filled the pool area. “You have to talk if we’re going to test the microphones.”
Landon looked at the mic as if it were a foreign object. “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t care. Just keep talking.”
“In that case, tell me, Josh, how long have you worked with the Dolphins?”
Josh scowled, but in the spirit of keep talking actually answered. “This is my third year.” He looked toward Matt. “How’s it over there?”
Matt cupped a hand around his mouth. “A little fuzzy.”
Josh nodded and swapped microphones.
This continued, Landon asking reporter-on-the-scene kinds of questions, Josh switching microphones, tinkering with the settings on the sound system, the resulting conversation coming in odd waves, loud, then soft, brassy, then muted.
At last, they settled on one particular model. Josh adjusted settings, scowled some more, and absently answered Landon’s questions.
“So, why the Dolphins?” Landon said, in full-on newscaster mode. “A man of your capabilities should be heading up the tech crew for the spring musical.”
“Those drama turds don’t know what they’re missing. Dyl, how’s it sound now?”
“What, exactly, are they missing?” Landon prompted.
Josh snorted. “Like I need to deal with the egos? No thanks. I like running my own show.”
Oh, I knew it.
“With all due respect to the team, their show isn’t the production number, if you will, of the play. If you’re thinking college or career—”
“Screw that. The fringe benefits are worth it.”
“Really? Mind elaborating?”
“Seriously? Are you blind?” In a stage whisper, Josh added, “They’re all wearing swimsuits.”
Unfortunately, a stage whisper spoken into a hot microphone isn’t much of a whisper. Except for a weak burst of feedback, the entire pool went silent. Girls who’d been ignoring Josh turned to stare. I thought I saw Constance mouth something obscene, but I heard Patti. Actually, we all heard Patti, even without a microphone.
“Landon Scott, get over here right now!”
Landon’s eyes went wide. He tried to hand the microphone to Josh, but Josh turned his back. Landon set the mic down on a bench, then threaded through the stands until he reached Patti, who pointed to the hallway. Constance tried to follow, but Patti shook her head and closed the door behind her.
Had we just lost our host? I saw the same question reflected in the faces of the girls around me. We were all so focused on the door, no one noticed Josh picking up Landon’s discarded microphone until his voice quavered through the speakers.
“Uh, girls, I ... I want to say I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. You all swim real hard, and I would really hate it if what I said upset you, or made you want to quit or something, or—”
Josh’s voice sounded thick, his normally ruddy cheeks stained dark. I felt a pinprick of tears in my eyes and clamped my hand over my mouth, convinced that he was on the verge of crying. I caught a glimpse of Constance pushing her way through the stands. In that instant, I knew what she was going to do, but I was closer.
I slid down the three rows of benches, cracking my tailbone on the last one. Pain spiked all the way up my spine, but I swallowed it back. I walked over to Josh, slowly, like I was approaching a wounded animal. I eased the mic from his clenched fingers, then switched off the sound system.
“It’s okay,” I told him. “You make us look good.”
He hung his head, gaze locked on his feet. A moment later, Constance pushed past me, followed by Kylie. I took a step back, feeling suddenly extraneous, and landed on the bench. I winced, both at the ache in my tailbone and Patti’s reappearance—without Landon.
I can’t remember a longer or more subdued swim practice. It was like we collectively had the wind knocked out of us. Patti made us swim until four, but even she glanced at the clock at least ten times (that I counted) during the last hour. When I reached the locker room, I decided to—once again—skip the shower.
In the parking lot, Constance caught up to me and anchored me in place with her grip on my jacket.
“You, soldier girl,” she said. “You have a mission.”
“I do?”
“Landon. It’s your job to keep him in line. Got it?”
“He’s still the host?”
“Who else are we going to get? Brad Stanley?” Here, Constance rolled her eyes heavenward. “I’ll keep Josh from quitting, you keep Landon under control.”
“And this is my job … why?” Maybe Constance was doing me a huge favor by swimming a duet with me, but that didn’t mean I had to execute her every order. Besides, what she was saying made no sense.
“He’s hosting because of you. Therefore …” Constance shrugged. “Your job. Deal.”
“Right,” I said, but I don’t think she heard me—or the sarcasm. She turned, slung a drawstring bag over her shoulder, and headed for a white minivan with a dent in the side door.
Next to my Jeep, I saw the bright yellow Corvette Landon had driven from the previous night’s party. The Corvette’s windows were dark. No one sat inside. As I pulled from the overflow lot and onto the road, I thought the Corvette, there all by itself, looked incredibly lonely.