by Jahn, Amalie
“Why eleven?” Leonetta asks as if the number’s the most pressing topic to discuss.
“Ten seems a little predictable and twenty of any one thing is way too many to think of. So, we always have eleven,” Summer explains.
Leonetta sets down her fork to flip through the notebook. “You have a lot of these lists.”
“We’ve been working on them for over two years,” Alice explains. “There are sixty-three altogether.”
I’m impressed by the longevity of their friendship, given the transient nature of the area. Perhaps Summer’s a townie, too.
“Nah. Life-long military kid. But this is our third year at Bragg,” she tells me. “It won’t be long until we head somewhere new. I honestly can’t believe we’re still here. It’s the longest we’ve been stationed anywhere. My dad’s set to pin Colonel this spring, though, then he’ll get his new assignment.” As she says this, her eyes cut from Alice who’s stopped eating and is biting at her lip.
My heart aches for them and the inevitability of their separation. To spare them from thinking about it further, I change the subject. “So, what’s the deal with this list? Why shouldn’t I date a private?”
I scan the first entries: 1. Work crazy, stupid hours. 2. Never call when they say they will. 3. No sexy facial hair.
“Summer’s dating a private,” Alice tells us. “But he’s a jerk.”
“He’s not that bad,” Summer says defensively. “And he’s super cute.”
“Because looks are the most important thing,” Alice teases.
Summer rolls her eyes, takes a bite of pizza, and continues, ignoring her friend. “I met Travis at the Fort Bragg fair last June. I got sick on the Centrifuge, and he showed up outta nowhere to hold back my hair while I stood there puking into a trashcan beside the grandstand. He was so sweet. Got me a drink of water and stayed with me until I felt well enough to walk back to my parents’ car.”
“That’s disgusting,” Leonetta says.
Summer shrugs. “We didn’t start dating right away, even though he gave me his number, in case I ever needed someone to hold back my hair again. But I didn’t call because the last thing I wanted was to get involved with some private.”
“Ergo, the list,” Alice chimes in.
“Yeah, I mean, I’d grown up hearing horror stories from my dad about these eighteen-year-olds and how they’re all Hooah and think they’re total badasses and will pick up any girl they can find because they can. So, I didn’t call. But then, a week later, I ran into him in the PX with my mom. And he was all like, ‘I didn’t think you could look any prettier than when you were puking into a trashcan, but I was wrong. You’re even prettier when you’re well.’”
Now it’s Alice’s turn to roll her eyes. “Yeah. And can you believe she fell for that line?”
I did because I might have, too. “What’s this one about?” I ask, pointing to number six on the list. “Date strippers.”
“You gonna tell them?” Alice asks, narrowing her eyes at Summer.
She finishes off her pizza and takes a sip of Diet Coke before beginning. “A few weeks ago, we were at the Mexican place on Bragg Boulevard for dinner and his stupid phone starts buzzing. He’s gotta keep it on all the time in case someone from the unit needs him so I’m totally used to it, but this time it was driving me crazy. Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing non-stop through the entire meal. I kept waiting for him to call back whoever it was because, with the way his phone was going off, I was sure it was someone from Division. But he never did. He just sat there like a statue ignoring it.” She takes another sip of her pop and continues. “Later that night, in the car on the way home, he got out to pump gas and left his phone on his seat. I was so curious about why he never responded to the incessant buzzing, I snooped. The same number called him fourteen times while we were eating and had been calling over and over for weeks.”
“Who was it?” Leonetta interrupts through a bite of beans.
“A stripper, of course,” Alice explains.
“No,” I say, horrified some guy would betray Summer. I’ve never even seen a strip club, let alone met a stripper, and the idea of being deceived by someone who I thought loved me was unimaginable.
“Yeah. Turns out he gave her his number back in the fall when he was out at some club with the guys. He tried to feed me all this BS about how he didn’t want to go to the club in the first place and how his buddy gave her his number. He swears he’s never returned her calls, but his call history doesn’t lie.”
She takes a nonchalant sip of pop, as if she couldn’t care less about the whole ordeal. If Zander was ever disloyal to me I’d be heartbroken. But then again, Zander’s not my boyfriend. And I’m not Summer.
“Are you two still together?” I ask.
She sighs heavily, plucking the steno pad off the table, tossing it into her bag. “Yeah. I guess so. I mean, like I said, I’m only gonna be here like, what, four or five more months, tops? So, I figured, what’s the sense in having some drama-filled break-up? Might as well enjoy the free meals and trips to the movies while I can, then cut ties once we ship out. No harm, no foul.”
Everyone’s packing around me, but I’ve been so engrossed in Summer’s story I’ve forgotten to eat. I scarf down what I can, encouraging the others to go on without me. By the time I finally leave the cafeteria, the hallways have emptied, and my thoughts return to Summer as I make my way back to English. Part of me is envious of her callous attitude. Of her ability to separate her emotions from the reality of her boyfriend’s infidelity. Perhaps she’s able to remain steadfast because she’s not in love with him, and never really was, which would account for her blasé attitude. On the other hand, if she does genuinely love him and is still unmoved by his deception, what does that say about her? I’m inclined to think, however, she’s suffering far more greatly than she’s letting on and is only putting on a good face for the rest of us.
Does she cry when she’s alone?
Would I if I was her?
I start down the stairs to the first floor, barely mindful of my location, my head swimming with thoughts of my dad, who was once a young private himself here in Fayetteville. Was he like the guys Summer’s father described: eighteen years old, full of piss and vinegar, only looking for a good time? Was he like Travis?
He and my mom flew here from Iowa so many years ago, with the simple dream of starting a life together on their own terms, away from the prying eyes of small-town, middle-America. What would Mom think of Alice and Summer’s list describing ‘Eleven Reasons to Never Date a Private?’ Would she agree with them or did she see things differently? Of course, there’s no way Dad would have left Mom sitting home alone while he went out with the other privates to strip clubs. He’d loved her then. He loves her still.
I have vivid memories of Mom and Dad talking about ‘The Army Years’—from the beginning of their marriage until just after I was born. They were high school sweethearts, but Dad had no interest in becoming a farmer, like his father and grandfather before. Looking for an alternative to small-town life, he was seduced by the enlistment officer who met with all the guys in his class during the spring of his senior year, convincing him, in lieu of farming, the Army might be a perfect match.
Without their families’ blessings, they were married by a justice of the peace at the Des Moines city courthouse on the morning of June 11, three days after their high school graduation and only hours before boarding the plane that flew them swiftly from their sheltered lives in Iowa to the great unknown of North Carolina. It was the first time Mom had ever been on a plane, out of the state, or away from her parents.
But they were young. And they were in love. And they were determined to make a life for themselves out in the world.
Over the years, Ashley and I have listened to the story of those early days so many times, the memories seep from our pores as if they are our own. How they arrived in Fayetteville with four borrowed pieces of luggage and an envelope containing $1046.39 of cash,
comprised of graduation gifts, Mom’s babysitting money, and Dad’s savings from years of working odd jobs around the local farms. To this day, I have no idea how they survived. On ramen, stale bread, and faith, Mom’s always said.
Lost in my thoughts, I’ve wandered into an unfamiliar hallway. Panic sets in, not only because I’m late but also because I’m lost and have no idea how to get back to the cafeteria much less English class. Standing paralyzed in the center of the hall, I hear Leonetta bellowing from somewhere back in the direction from which I’ve just come.
“Netta?” I call back.
Her heavy footfalls clomp down the nearest stairwell. “Tess?” she replies.
“I’m here,” I tell her. “Don’t move. I’ll come to you.”
I follow her voice back down the hall, and as I turn to climb the nearest staircase, she’s there, grinning at me like the Cheshire cat.
“Eight days,” she says, shaking her head. “I thought I’d lose you way before this. Day three. Day four, maybe. And to be honest, I thought you had this place licked. I was feeling pretty good about my mentoring abilities.”
“Thank God you’re here,” I gush, rushing up the stairs to throw my arms around her. I can’t believe how relieved—and how stupid—I feel. “How’d you know where to find me? How’d you figure out I was lost?”
She trudges up the steps in front of me. “I didn’t know where to find you, but I figured after ten minutes passed and you still weren’t in class, something was up. Luckily Mrs. Alexander isn’t Ms. Krenshaw, so she didn’t hesitate to let me head out. Been looking for you all this time. What the heck happened?”
I shrug. “I guess I took a wrong turn outta the cafeteria. I was thinking about stuff and forgot to pay attention to where I was.”
“Thinking about what stuff?” she asks once we’re both at the top of the staircase, walking side-by-side.
I want to tell her about my parents, their humble military beginnings, and how they left the Army because of me, but it somehow feels too personal for the hallway or maybe for our fledgling friendship. Instead, I say, “I was thinking about Summer and how her boyfriend lies to her and talks to other girls behind her back. I guess I’m hoping all guys aren’t like that. They can’t be, right?”
“Wouldn’t know,” she says matter-of-factly.
I don’t know Leonetta well enough to judge whether she’s had much experience with guys. It’s possible she’s never had a boyfriend.
That would make two of us.
“Zander, the guy I told you about from back home… I mean, back in Iowa, isn’t a jerk. At least, I don’t think he is.”
She tightens her face, glancing at me suspiciously as if I’ve been withholding valuable information all this time.
“He isn’t my boyfriend if that’s what you’re thinking,” I tell her quickly. “Remember? He’s the guy from next door. I’ve known him since we were babies. Anyway, he’s dated a couple girls and was sweet to all of them.”
“He was never your boyfriend?” she asks.
I’m staring at my shoes, leather Merrells, which probably still hide traces of the herd between their treads. Zander owns the exact same pair, but the men’s version, in his size. We bought them together on a rare trip to the Merle Hay Mall in Des Moines before school started in the fall. With summer job money burning holes in our pockets, we’d set out back-to-school shopping, just the two of us, in his father’s pickup. After the two-hour drive, listening to practically every song on Zander’s playlist—Miranda Lambert, Blake Shelton, Big & Rich—we’d window-shopped until lunch, realizing our paltry savings weren’t going to go very far, and we were going to need to be selective about what we ultimately chose to purchase. Somehow, he’d convinced me the Merrells, on sale for $69.95, were a sound investment. Looking at them now, I’m sure they weren’t, because wearing them away from the farm feels excessive, like driving around Fayetteville on snow tires. The truth is, I’m only still wearing them because they remind me of him.
“No,” I tell her. “We never dated. It wasn’t like that between us.”
I hate myself for using the past tense, but I still haven’t spoken to him since he snuck into my bedroom New Year’s Eve, and in the days since, everything about him is starting to feel distant.
“I’m sure there are good guys in the world who won’t lie to us or break our hearts,” she says as we approach the door to our English class. “I’m just not sure where to find them.”
chapter 11
Apologies
Sunday, January 20
I’m sprawled across my bed reading The Bluest Eye in preparation for Tuesday’s afterschool lit circle when my phone rings. I dog-ear the book and scootch across the bed so I can grab the phone off my nightstand. I assume it’s Leonetta calling to chat or Alice confirming our evening study session, so without looking at the screen, I answer with a lighthearted, “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.”
For a second, my heart stops beating inside my chest. It’s Zander, and his voice is like a cool glass of water on a hot, summer day. I don’t appreciate how much I’ve missed hearing his voice until it’s reverberating inside my head: familiar, supportive, cheerful.
Exactly like home.
“Zander,” is all I say, because there seems to be an unfortunate disconnect between my brain and my mouth. Or maybe it’s my heart gumming up the works.
“I hope it’s okay I’m calling,” he says. “I figured your mom probably already gave you my letter but you were too pissed off at me to call, so I decided to do what I should have done at the beginning and reach out.”
He says it all in one breath as if he’s rehearsed, and I can’t help but feel a pang of remorse for the angst in his voice. Why didn’t I text him all week?
“Oh,” I say, trying not to fumble over my words. “It’s a great time actually. And I’m definitely not upset. Been busy I guess, what with the forced cross-country assimilation and all.”
It’s a flat out lie, but he laughs heartily, and I’m amazed at how hearing it can simultaneously fill my heart and break it.
“So, how bad is it?” he asks, all the awkwardness of our days apart seemingly forgotten. I can imagine him sitting in his kitchen, rocking on the back two legs of the chair with his dirty feet propped on the table, his mother having a fit.
“It’s not as bad as I thought it’d be,” I say, but then worry it might hurt to know I’m doing alright without him. “There’s no one here like you, though,” I add.
“Well, alright,” he says. “That’s not a bad start considering A) you’re not going to find anyone like me and B) you thought you were going to be completely miserable. Please tell me you’re not sitting alone at lunch, though.”
“I’m not a pariah,” I say with a laugh, “so no, I’m not sitting alone. In fact, I met a few girls who’ve been really nice to me. They even seem genuinely interested in what my life was like back on the farm, asking about the move and the cows, and you know, all the other stuff I left behind.” Of course, I don’t mention what I’ve told them about him. Instead, I go on about Leonetta and Alice and Summer. How willing they’ve been to find space for me in their lives, no questions asked. And I tell him about lit circle and tutoring and Summer’s crummy boyfriend. And also, how I ended up getting lost because the school’s so freakin’ big.
“I’m glad you’re getting things figured out.” He sounds sincerely happy for me—a reminder of why, until now, I never needed to look any further than my backyard for a best friend.
“I am,” I tell him. “But I’ve had a lot of help. Leonetta’s been watching out for me, giving me tips about our classes and the kids to avoid like Monika Moore. I keep trying to figure out why she cares so much, but all I can come up with is that maybe she just needs a friend as much as I do.”
“Who’s Monika Moore?” he asks.
I regret having brought her up because the last thing I want is Zander’s pity, but since I’m on a roll, quenched by his attention li
ke someone marooned in the desert, I can’t keep from sharing everything. “Ugh. She’s this girl who has it out for me already,” I continue, remembering our most recent run-in. “I got stuck sitting next to her on the first day of chemistry, and now she hates me. Like seriously hates me.”
“Why in the world would she hate you?”
“I brought the class size from twenty-seven to twenty-eight, thus eliminating the need for Monika and her two lackeys to remain a group of three. I’m the reason our teacher split them up, and now instead of getting to hang out in the back of the room with her friends, she’s stuck in the front with me.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah. It sucks big. And now, it’s like she’s doing everything in her power to make me as miserable as I’ve made her. You’ll never believe what that triflin’ heifer did to me last week…”
“Trifling what? Did you just call her a cow?” he interrupts.
I smile, acknowledging how Leonetta’s expression likens someone to an actual cow. Leave it to the dairy farmer.
“Netta calls everyone who’s been mean to her a triflin’ heifer. I have no idea why. It’s something she says, and I guess I’ve picked it up.”
“I like it,” he says. “Mind if I use it? We got a few triflin’ heifers around East Chester, don’t you think?”
“If you’re talking about Lacey, then yeah. And it’s not trademarked, so I don’t see why not.” I tell him about how Monika purposely switched my zinc with silver nitrate during our independent lab assignments, so instead of creating bubbles with the hydrochloric acid the way everyone else did, I concocted a ridiculous goopy glob.
“She sounds like a real piece of work.”
“She’s awful,” I agree.
“Why does she keep harassing you like that?”
I’d been asking myself the very same question. “I dunno. Maybe she’s bored, and it gives her something to do. Whatever it is, I hope she gets over it soon.”