The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “And then I met Shirley and Mitch. Man, I was jealous! They were the coolest parents, and in case you didn’t know, Base Salsa champions—four years running. Shirley, you shake your bootie like no one else!”

  “Hey!” shouted Ches. “That’s my mom you’re talking about, perv!”

  “Pity you didn’t inherit any dance skills, dude. You have two left feet!”

  I could see Amy nodding in silent agreement, and snickers amongst Ches’s college friends.

  “Yeah, well me and Ches, and later on our buddy Fido, too, we did a whole load of shi… um … stuff, hanging out at the pier in the summer, surfing our asses off. We had a lot of firsts together—junior prom—that hell on earth. No one, no one should force a 16 year old guy into a suit, let alone a tux—that’s just evil. So we blew off our senior prom and got wasted on some good wee … on, um, Mitch’s beer—thanks for that Mitch, by the way.”

  “You can pay me back later,” he yelled.

  “Not gonna happen, Mitch. And just so’s you know, it was Ches who drank your Jack Daniel’s on Christmas that year.”

  “I can’t believe you ratted me out!” whined Ches.

  “Don’t get me started, man! Yeah, so we did that a lot, senior year, pretty certain that we’d spend our lives on the beach, me, Ches, Fido. But no one has a choice about growing up. I know Ches wouldn’t want to forget the third wheel of our wonky train, even though he isn’t here to be with you today, brother.”

  The sudden silence was profound.

  “So please join me in a toast to Fido, and the others who didn’t make it home: To absent friends.”

  Everyone drank the toast with me, and I knew I’d killed the buzz. I had to get it back.

  “Yeah, and there was another time Ches was so hungover, he threw up in his book bag and then forgot about it. Until the next day—when we had Biology. Man, that stunk so bad! Shirley and Mitch weren’t too happy when Ches had his ass handed to him by Principal Hernandez two days before graduation. Ches, when it comes to whisky, man, just say no!

  “Well, after that we spent our senior prom night on the beach like I said, dissing girls and saying how it was way cooler to just hang—guys only. And then Amy came along and rocked his world. Man, you should have seen the sappy look in his eye when he talked about her. I was about ready to puke—no offense!”

  Her eyes snapped as she stared at me, and I really wished Ches hadn’t told her about my TJ hook-up.

  “But then I met her, and saw how cool she was, and how she kept his ass in line. And how much she loved him. And how much he loved her … the kind of love that you know is going to make it no matter what shit life throws at you…”

  I took a deep breath, not wanting to sound like a fucking pussy.

  “Amy, not only are you marrying a great guy and my best friend—my brother—but you’re joining an awesome family, and I know how happy they are to have you as a part of it.”

  I really meant that. I was almost jealous that she got to be part of their family, but I knew Mitch and Shirley considered me another son, pretty much.

  “So, please raise your glasses to toast a beautiful bride and a damn fine groom: To Amy and Ches.”

  I sat down, relieved that I’d managed to speak in an almost coherent way, without swearing. Much.

  Shirley nudged by arm.

  “That was a really nice speech, Seb. I’m glad I wore waterproof mascara,” and she leaned over to kiss my cheek.

  “Me, too,” said Mitch, raising his eyebrows and puckering his lips.

  Shirley slapped his arm and laughed.

  It felt really good being back with my family, my real family, even if I couldn’t help feeling that everything had changed now that Ches was married.

  I watched him take Amy’s hand and lead her onto the floor for the first dance. They’d picked Van Morrison’s Brown-eyed Girl, and I really wished they’d chosen any fucking song but that one. It brought back too many memories of another brown-eyed girl.

  After a minute Shirley and Mitch took to the floor. Damn they could move. It was a real pity Ches hadn’t inherited the rhythm gene—Amy looked like she was dancing with a lame bullock. Sad fucker.

  I headed for the bar, and duties done, I got a couple of tequila shots lined up.

  The short bridesmaid kept eyeing me up, so I got my focus on the bottle in front of me, until Shirley came over to bust my chops. I knew I was in trouble when she used my full name.

  “Sebastian! What are you doing drinking here by yourself?”

  “Just chillin’, Shirley.”

  “You’re supposed to dance with the bridesmaids—it’s traditional.”

  “No way! Amy chewed my ass out for thirty minutes, telling me to stay the fu… hell away from her friends. I like having my testicles attached to my body.”

  She snorted, and I didn’t know if she was annoyed by my language or amused. I’d had just enough tequila that I didn’t care. Almost.

  “She told you not to sleep with them, Seb, not that you couldn’t dance with them!”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “Oh for goodness sake! Dance with me instead!” She grabbed my sleeve, and hauled me off to the dance floor and we stayed for a couple of numbers before she palmed me off on Stacey. Which was probably her plan in the first place.

  “I think you guys have met?” Shirley said, smirking at me as she spoke.

  “Hi, Mrs. Peters. Yes, we’ve met a couple of times,” said Stacey. “But I’ve never seen you in uniform before, Seb.”

  “He looks very handsome, doesn’t he?” said Shirley, her voice fond.

  “He sure does,” said Stacey, trying not to laugh.

  “Jeez, Shirley! I’m standing right here!”

  “Well, shape up, Marine! This lovely young lady is without a dance partner.”

  She pushed us together and strolled off. As much as she could in five inch heels.

  “Sorry about that,” I mumbled. “You don’t have to dance if you don’t want to.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” she said quickly.

  “Yeah, but I’d like to survive this wedding in one piece, and Amy gave me strict instructions not to … um…”

  “Not to what?”

  Fuck!

  “Ah hell: she told me not to hit on you, okay?”

  Stacey blushed. “She said that?”

  “Um, yeah. Sorry.”

  “Well, I’m sure I can risk your charms for one dance.”

  I raised my eyebrows at her sassy tone. “Sure about that?”

  “Quite sure,” she said, her voice challenging.

  “Well, okay, then.”

  I held her hand, and walked her toward the dance area.

  I remembered that I’d danced with her once before, on my 21st birthday, before it had all gone to shit. It felt … good. I mean, she seemed like a nice girl, and I was going to be at Pendleton for the next five months. Maybe we could take it a bit further. Maybe I could finally forget the woman who’d ripped my heart out.

  Maybe.

  I pulled her in closer and Stacey smiled up at me.

  CLR—Combat Logistics Regiment

  C5 Galaxy—military transport plane

  Space A—Space Available; military members can travel on military planes between bases if there is room available on that particular flight.

  IN GENEVA

  You learn a lot in the military. Well, I thought, being an adult, it would be a good career move to have somebody inspect me every day to make sure I put my pants on the right way, and had my shoes on the correct feet.

  I did get to be a real Marine while I was out in Iraq. I was still with my Unit then, still with my buddies. And I spent most of the Afghan tour in mud built villages trying to persuade the tribal elders to side with the allies; maybe it helped to make a difference. Now I’m stuck in the armpit of Europe on a chickenshit assignment all because my last CO in Paris was a dickless dumb-ass.

  So I fucked his wife.

  Funny enough
that’s a big no-no in the military—the kind of thing that can get you a court martial followed by a dishonorable discharge. Like I give a shit. I think it’s something to do with having to trust your life with the guy who’s got your back—so fucking his wife kind of puts a downer on things. And usually I don’t go near married women—not any more. But they both deserved it. Long story, short: the no-ball pen-pusher didn’t want anyone to know his wife was screwed by a noncom, so he had me assigned to a PR det in Geneva instead.

  There are worse places. There are worse countries. I’ve seen a few of them. But there comes a point when you’re so fucking bored that you bore yourself thinking about how bored you are. I’d reached that point two months ago.

  I’d even thought about getting the hell out and doing something else with my life, although I had no clue what. But I’d re-upped two years ago, so I had another two to go. The only glimmer of light was that they needed US interpreters in Afghan. I’d put my name out there, so who knows.

  This was my tenth year in the Marines. It had been an interesting life up until Paris, two years ago. I’d found that I was good at languages—which was a big fucking shock to actually be good at anything—and had been promoted through the ranks. I’d been proud of being a Sergeant and had even thought about trying to get my degree so I could progress further. And then Paris had happened. For the last two years I’d been kicking my heels in one miserable office job after another, although I’d made Warrant Officer—just to get me out of their hair, I think. But now I’d got a new CO, so there was a chance I’d get moved. This guy was in that oxymoron of Military Intelligence. I’d met him briefly when he was out here for a few days. Nice wife. Blonde. Not my type.

  At least I had some leave coming up.

  My buddy, Ches, had asked me to come stateside and see the family. I was tempted, but since an incident with his wife’s best friend and her best friend, let’s just say I wasn’t as welcome as I might have been. Whatever.

  I was toying with the idea of taking off on my motorcycle and seeing some of Italy. I’d never been, although it was somewhere I’d wanted to see, ever since I was a kid. And the border was just a few miles away. What the hell. I had nothing better to do. Well, I did have one offer that I was considering. I’d spent last Christmas in the ski resort Klosters, with Benita from Düsseldorf. I had an open invitation to visit. I don’t normally do reruns, but did I mention I was bored? And I hadn’t been laid since Christmas—it was nearly fucking Easter.

  Except for Dorota from Poland, who had some business at the UN. She was only in town for one night. Classy chick. Nice ass.

  I realized I’d spent 20 minutes just staring out over the rooftops of Geneva towards the lake. It was peaceful.

  I liked my apartment: it was pretty basic but nobody came here but me. It was owned by an old lady called Madame Dubois. She was always trying to introduce me to her granddaughters but apart from that, she didn’t bother me.

  Today’s lesson in sheer fucking tedium was an ear-achingly dull hostile environment briefing—my fifth this month. It was part of my ‘rehabilitation’ after Paris. I don’t know how it was supposed to rehabilitate me. I mean, what part of sending me to Switzerland was supposed to teach me to keep my cock in my pocket when it came to the CO’s wife? My new boss was 3,000 miles away. With his wife. I’d need fucking super strength sperm to cause any trouble from this distance.

  This month I was with a British team: Major Mike Parsons and a Lieutenant Tom waste-of-fucking-air Crawley. I’d learned some new words since I’d met Crawley: ‘wanker’ was one; ‘tosser’ was the other. Both suited him. Parsons was okay except for the fact that he hated me. Probably because I always turned up late. I think he knew why I’d gotten this assignment, so he never gave me much shit about it. I think if he’d been my CO, he’d have handed me my ass, and I wouldn’t have blamed him. But we were only allies: civility was an optional extra.

  As I pulled on the jacket of my khaki service uniform, my attention was caught by the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s that was still next to my bed. Yeah, a quick hit of that might actually get my ass moving and make the morning’s mind-numbing monotony more bearable.

  Might.

  I was thirty minutes late, which was pretty good for me.

  Crawley was droning on about some tedious shit that even had the journos present yawning their heads off.

  Parsons didn’t look happy when he saw me. Guy had a broomstick up his ass like the rest of the Brits when it came to punctuality. Yeah, well, it was probably an army thing. I was a Marine.

  “Thank you, Tom. We’ll take a short break now, ladies and gentleman, and meet back here at 1100 hours. Refreshments will be served in Les Nations lounge. And we’re very glad to have our colonial colleague Chief Hunter to join us. I’m sure his insight will be invaluable.”

  Wow, wounded by sarcasm at close range. The Brits sure fight dirty. Next it’ll be harsh language.

  But my timing was pretty good—coffee break already.

  I hightailed it out of the hotel, knowing that if I stayed I’d be asked a shitload of dumb questions. I’ve had some journos come onto me, acting like they’re my best friend in the hope that I’ll dish the dirt. They must think I’m a fucking moron if they reckon I’m going to trust them after five minutes. Besides, I usually prefer to get kissed before I get screwed.

  It was all I could do to drag my weary ass back in that seminar room and hope that my brain didn’t completely atrophy before the afternoon patisseries. The Swiss French made awesome cakes.

  “Just a quick roll-call before we go on,” said Major Parsons, “now everyone is here…”

  Yeah, yeah I can take a hint. Jeez, he’d be hurting my feelings in a minute.

  “Elizabeth Ashton?”

  “Present and almost correct.”

  “Telek Burczyk?”

  “Tutaj.”

  “Henri Ducat?”

  “Oui.”

  “Ricardo Esteban?”

  “Si.”

  “Heinrich Keller?”

  “Jawohl.”

  “Marc Lebuin?”

  “Je suis présent.”

  “Lee Venzi?”

  A woman at the back raised her hand but didn’t speak. I glanced over.

  What the fuck? No fucking way!

  “You’re Lee Venzi?”

  I must have spoken out loud because everyone was staring at me. I rearranged my face back to boredom. Inside I was anything but. My heart was beating so fucking hard I thought it would break out of my chest.

  It took every ounce of self-control that I’d learned over the last ten years to keep standing and not completely lose it and run out of the room. My mouth was dry and I felt a cold sweat break out all over my body. Adrenaline was burning through me and I couldn’t tell if it was fight or flight.

  I wanted to run.

  I was frozen to the spot. I wanted to hit something. My hands were shaking so badly, I shoved them in my pockets and tried to concentrate on getting air into my lungs.

  How could it be her? After all these years? How could she be here?

  I thought I was having an out-of-my-fucking-mind—out-of-body experience. I fought to breathe normally, all the while thinking I was having a fucking heart attack.

  My body was shaking so hard I thought it must be fucking obvious. This was worse than a goddamn RPG attack by the fucking Taliban in Afghan.

  How? What was she doing here? Was it some sort of set up? Did she know I’d be here? No, not possible. She looked so fucking shocked. Shit, she hadn’t changed. She looked exactly the same as the day she walked out on me.

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Breathe, you dumb fuck, breathe.

  I stared out of the window, but it wasn’t Geneva I was seeing—it was Point Loma beach in San Diego. I was 17 and she was so fucking beautiful, wearing that yellow bikini, her skin all golden from the sun.

  I blinked, trying to clear the image, but it was as if the whole fucking summer we were together was n
ailed to my brain and playing relentlessly like a horror film where you know someone’s going to get the guts ripped out of them. Yeah, that was me. I was the one who got ripped to pieces. And as for her? She got to walk away and start a new life.

  Bitch.

  Why the hell did she have to come back and haunt me now? The ghost of fucks past.

  Fuck. How was I going to get through the next day and a half? I was sweating just thinking about being in the same room as her. I needed to get out. I could go off sick. Jeez, the way my body was responding, nobody would doubt that I was completely fucked.

  Crawley continued his mindless lecture. It was an almost pleasantly dull rumble in the background. Mentally, I was ten years and 6,000 miles away.

  God, she’d been so beautiful—the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. And, if I was honest, no one else had come close since. Well, fuck. She’d fooled me. I thought I was something special. Really got that fucking wrong. At least I knew that she hadn’t gone back to the asshole she’d been married to at the time.

  I risked a quick look.

  So fucking beautiful. I turned away—it hurt to look at her. But I couldn’t help noticing she was slumped in her seat and her cheeks were flushed. I’d have given my left nut to know what she was thinking.

  Crawley droned on.

  “Because most attacks occur on reaching home, always ensure that you can drive straight into your garage or compound, and secure the door or gate behind you.”

  I could hear the British woman whispering something that made the other journos laugh. Crawled-up-his-ass Crawley didn’t like that.

  “This is serious, madam. What I tell you today may save your life.”

  The British woman inflated immediately. Fuck, her tits were enormous—and not in a good way.

  “Listen, sunshine, you may think you’re something special with a weapon of mass destruction dangling between your legs, but let me tell you a thing or two: I’ve been to the frontline of every war since Uganda in 1979, before you were bloody well born.” She started ticking them off on her fingers. “Angola, Croatia, Rwanda, Bosnia, Iraq, Kuwait, Afghanistan, and … bloody hell, places you’ve never even heard of. And this woman,” she pointed her chin at Caro, “has been in more hot spots than you’ve had hot dates.”