The Point

by John Dixon

  They sat opposite each other, soft music playing in the background.

  Dalia leaned back. “Don’t be such a wimp. People will walk all over you if you let them. That’s why I’m the Queen Bitch.” She showed her cocky smile, ready to ditch Scarlett’s concerns and go off again about how she was so awesome.

  “He’s losing patience,” Scarlett said, hurrying so that Dalia wouldn’t interrupt. “Can we step up the yoga and try meditation? They might help me break through.”

  “What are you talking about? We’re here every day.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  Someone knocked at the door.

  “Be a dear and answer that, would you?” Dalia said.

  Anger rose in Scarlett—she was so sick of Dalia’s condescending attitude—but she stood and crossed the room and opened the door.

  Clayton filled the doorway, looking anxious. “Hey, Scarlett,” Clayton said, looking past her, “Dalia here?”

  “She’s the one over there,” she said, “the one you’re looking at.”

  She stepped aside, but Dalia said, “Not now, Clayton. We’re busy.”

  Clayton looked at her with hurt eyes.

  “Come on, Scarlett,” Dalia said without even looking at Clayton, then turned and stretched her arms overhead, lifting onto her tiptoes, giving Clayton a good look at her yoga pants. “Let’s go.”

  Clayton stood there, transfixed. “But in the dreams,” he whispered so softly that Scarlett barely even heard him, “you said…” His hands twitched at his sides as if they were looking for something they could lift.

  “Get him out of here, Scarlett,” Dalia said, and touched her toes.

  Clayton let out a soft groan. What had happened to him?

  “Sorry,” Scarlett said, and patted one big shoulder. “Got work to do.”

  Clayton stared at Dalia. The fire of desperation in his eyes dimmed to hopelessness. He stalked off down the hall without even saying good-bye.

  Scarlett closed the door and returned to her mat.

  Dalia rolled her eyes again. “God, why can’t he just leave me alone?”

  “I thought you were friends.”

  “Guys can never leave it at that,” she said, and her smile glowed with cruel delight.

  * * *

  —

  THAT WEEKEND, FULLER reappeared and marched the new cadets above ground to witness the real cadets march past the superintendent’s house. They’d spent the summer in Beast Barracks, learning to soldier. This march signified their switch from new cadets to plebes.

  They had arrived at West Point this summer a bunch of wide-eyed high school kids. Now they looked like soldiers. Leaner and tougher. Serious and proud. They had suffered, sacrificed, and survived. Camaraderie thrummed off them.

  Scarlett wondered what that would feel like.

  “Congratulations,” Fuller announced unceremoniously once the real West Pointers disappeared. “You’re plebes now.” Then he marched them back underground, far from sunlight, fresh air, and class camaraderie.

  At least she had a friend in Lucy. That night, they played chess in their room.

  “You know, you can just move the pieces with your hand,” Scarlett said, pushing her pawn, strengthening her center, and nullifying Lucy’s threat, “especially if you’re going to make moves like that.”

  “Talk is cheap, sis,” Lucy said, “on the chessboard and in life. The more I do with my mind, the better my control. I can’t generate crazy force out of thin air like Seamus or move heavy stuff like Hopkins. All I can do is practice, practice, practice. I might not be the flashiest or most powerful TK, but I’m the most reliable, and Rhoads knows it.”

  Scarlett pushed another pawn. “You work too hard. Why don’t you shake things up, sneak out tonight, take a walk?”

  Lucy shook her head. “Not me. I don’t share your self-destructive tendencies, Marilyn Mon-bro. I play it safe. Besides, summer’s over. You need your sleep. Once classes start on Monday, you’ll forget what sleep is.”

  Seamus appeared at the door, holding a plastic bin. “Mail call,” he said, and tossed Lucy an envelope. “Another love letter from your sailor boyfriend.”

  “He’s a submariner, not a sailor, and he’s not my boyfriend. He’s my manfriend.” Lucy’s eyebrows bounced up and down.

  “Spare me the details,” Seamus said.

  “You’re on mail duty now?” Lucy asked, opening the letter. “What did you do this time?” Seamus had only recently finished weeks of laundry duty.

  Lucy had explained to Scarlett that Seamus was always in trouble for something, usually for speaking his mind.

  “Maybe I volunteered,” Seamus said with a cockeyed grin.

  He turned and started for the door without so much as glancing at Scarlett, which was normal. Whenever she smiled at him or said anything, he either ignored her or got snarky. He still had a chip on his shoulder about her Level III privileges.

  “Wait,” Scarlett called to him. Mail was pure gold, the best thing, even better than food or sleep, and she’d been waiting for mail call in hopes that she might hear from her brother. Dan had to respond someday. “Any mail for me?”

  “Oh, Winter…yeah, sorry,” he said. “You got letters from friends.”

  Scarlett rose from her seat, grinning. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” Seamus said. “You got a letter from every…last…one of them.” He turned the bin upside down. Nothing dropped to the ground. No letters, no packages, nothing. He burst into laughter, executed a crisp about-face, and flipped her the bird as he left the room.

  Hey, Dan. What’s up?

  You heading home for Thanksgiving next week? I can’t. Maybe I’ll see you for Christmas. I can’t come home then, either, but family can visit.

  Write back, okay?

  Later,

  Scarlett

  SHE FOLDED THE LETTER AND put it in an envelope and addressed it and set it aside to mail. Not much of a note, but so be it. She’d sent her brother seven or eight letters, but Dan still hadn’t responded. She was losing patience. Maybe she’d blasted him through the air, but he’d started it, and he’d crossed a line that they’d both understood that he was never supposed to cross again.

  She was too busy to dwell on his silence.

  Fall semester had been brutal. Every day was packed. Mornings were given over to math, American history, and physics. They were hard. Really hard.

  Afternoon training sucked. Rhoads expected her to hold on to more energy. It was impossible. Trying harder just hurt worse and made it harder to deal with Dalia.

  Yoga and meditation was a joke. All she did was sit around and listen to Dalia talk. If they were in high school, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but here she was under constant stress and never with enough time to stay on top of stuff.

  The Point killed its lights at 2200, which meant staying up for hours to study, yet she somehow never managed to study everything she needed to study, and she was always scrambling to keep up with the mile-long list of stuff they expected her to do, from polishing her boots to memorizing the knowledge book.

  Lucy suggested that she quit taking nighttime walks, but if she didn’t get out of The Point from time to time, she’d go crazy, and not bounce-your-leg-in-class crazy. She’d go full on Jack-Torrance-in-The-Shining crazy. All work and no midnight walks made Scarlett a dull girl, after all.

  One evening, when Seamus dropped in to collect laundry—this time he’d talked back to a classroom instructor—he agreed to play Scarlett in chess. She knew he was good, but she didn’t expect him to beat her. That was what he did, though, attacking aggressively out of the same weird Stonewall position he’d used against Lucy on Scarlett’s first day at The Point.

  Seamus was good-looking and smart and interesting but unfortunately still had a chip on his shoulder about
her Level III status. She wished she’d known him back in high school. He probably would have been way cooler after smoking a bowl or two. Even now, she’d love to take him for a ride on her Yamaha, stay up all night, and split a six-pack while watching the sun rise.

  Instead, she was stuck here. The one advantage to being so busy was that fall semester flew. Everyone was scrambling, trying to find enough time to read and study. They were under constant pressure to think, act, and speak like leaders. Various milestones loomed, cranking their stress levels: midterms, PT and obstacle course tests, ability-specific threshold deadlines, and countless events—Ring Weekend, Branch Night, Sandhurst—that cluttered the calendar and demanded constant preparation. At any moment, cadre or upperclassmen could stop a plebe and quiz him or her on the knowledge book, demanding that the plebe sing “Benny Havens, Oh!”; explain the composition, deployment, and destructive power of an M18A1 claymore mine; or correctly identify the number of days until Army beat Navy. Whenever someone asked Scarlett—usually it was Hopkins, who remained pissed at Scarlett for escaping from her cell and midnight hazing—how many days it was until Army would beat Navy, she felt like saying, Well, sir, based on their record against Navy, I wouldn’t hold my breath.

  Here at West Point, people lost their minds over football. After the constant pressure and right-dress-right nitpicking, football games gave cadets a chance to hang out and holler, and football, like most things at West Point, was layered with tradition and ritual. For members of The Point, football was even nicer. During home games, they were able to join the regular cadets above ground and just have fun. It was pretty exciting, and with each game, Scarlett, who’d never been a football fan, felt some of her prior cynicism falling away.

  Thanksgiving came and went. The cadets had a big meal at The Point. The food was pretty good, though Clayton ruined the cranberry sauce, saying it looked like it had “come out the ass end of a gut-shot hog.” After the meal, the cadre had even given them a few hours of liberty, but for Scarlett, that just meant more studying. Her mom sent a card shaped like a turkey and said that “they” were looking forward to seeing Scarlett over Christmas break. No word, however, whether they included Dan, and Dan himself certainly hadn’t given any clues. Her brother still hadn’t responded.

  By the time December rolled around, she was pumped for the Army–Navy game. Army had beaten Navy only once since 2002, but the Black Knights were having a good season and might have a shot. Making matters even more exciting, the game was being held at Lincoln Financial Field in Philly, close to where she had grown up. She wouldn’t be allowed to see family or friends, but it was cool to be back in Philly, and for the first time she felt unified with the cadets of The Point and West Point.

  Bundled in their dark woolen long coats, Scarlett and her classmates cheered like maniacs. It was the second Saturday in December, a bitterly cold yet beautiful day, the sky impossibly blue and the wind blowing so hard and cold that Scarlett grinned at the chill, her eyes leaking tears. Lucy shouted German insults whenever Navy celebrated a play. Everyone was excited. Even Lopez cheered. Two rows down, Seamus smiled, his cheeks pink from the cold, his eyes glistening. For once, he looked happy.

  Dalia had refused to attend. Football was beneath her. Scarlett was glad. Dalia would have complained the whole time.

  Navy had jumped out to an early lead. Going into the half, they were up by two touchdowns and a field goal. The enthusiasm of the West Point cadets never wavered, however. The Black Knights must have had a pretty good pep talk in the locker room, because when they came out for the second half, they looked like a whole new team. They scored quickly, shut down Navy’s first drive, and marched straight back up the field. Scarlett and her classmates cheered like crazy. Army failed to score a second touchdown that drive, but their kicker nailed a 40-yard field goal, making the score 17–10. They held Navy again on the next drive and ended the third quarter with another touchdown. Scarlett’s section of the stadium erupted in a volcano of celebration. Army had tied the game! Or so it had seemed…

  Unfortunately, a gust of wind roared across the field at the absolute worst moment, and Army’s kicker missed the extra point, leaving Navy with a one-point advantage, 17–16.

  During the fourth quarter, both defenses dominated, and when Army got the ball back with just under a minute left in the game, they were still down by a single point. They didn’t need a touchdown. With so little time on the clock, all they had to do was charge up the field one more time and get close enough for their kicker to score a field goal. Navy wouldn’t have time to fire back with a drive of their own.

  Scarlett was screaming at the top of her lungs. Army completed a pass for a first down, taking it out to their own 35-yard line. Lucy raged in German, eyes gleaming like an absolute madwoman. Seamus pumped a fist in the air, hollering encouragement.

  They had to get the ball up the field. Scarlett was on the edge of her seat. The whole stadium was going insane. She’d never felt anything like this in her entire life. The next pass was incomplete. And the next. And the next. The collective groan was thunderous. Suddenly it was fourth and 10, with ten seconds left on the clock and 65 yards of turf between Army and their big win.

  “Deine Mutter masturbiert im stehen!” Lucy shouted.

  Army snapped the ball. Navy attacked. The quarterback dropped back, pumping his arm, looking for a receiver downfield, scrambled, broke a tackle, and hurled the football. Just past midfield, a Black Knight made the catch and stepped out of bounds, making the first down and stopping the clock at two seconds.

  They had time for one more play, one chance at winning glory for West Point. The kicking team trotted onto the field. It would be a 50-yard attempt, and a frigid crosswind was hammering across the field.

  Both teams got into position. The stadium went insane. Army kicked, Navy tried to block, and the ball sailed, tumbling end over end, toward the goalposts.

  Scarlett tensed—this was it!—and Lucy grabbed her arm, screaming German filth.

  But then the crosswind strengthened, and Scarlett joined the collective groan as the ball veered left, going wide…

  At the last second, however, the ball wobbled, jerked back to the right, clipped the post, and scored for the win.

  As the USMA cadets roared with excited bewilderment, Scarlett noticed Seamus turn from the field, doing his best to cover a secret smile. Seeing his suppressed excitement and satisfaction, she understood.

  He’d done it. He’d nudged the ball with his mind, winning the game for West Point.

  At that moment, Seamus looked up and saw her. At first his eyes widened—he knew that she knew—but then they exchanged a smile, and he raised a finger to his lips.

  Shhh.

  She smiled and nodded, then frowned as Lopez grabbed Seamus by the shoulder and dragged him away.

  SCARLETT RAN, THE JEERS OF Hopkins’s crew echoing after her like sounds from a nightmare. If only this were a dream. She’d certainly been having a lot of them, most of which dragged her kicking and screaming back into the past, back to the explosion at Sav’s guest house, back to the fight with Dan, back to the night of the burning car.

  But here, now, the catcalls and laughter closing in—this was no dream. She couldn’t let them catch her. Because then…

  “We’re coming for you, Wiiiiinnterrrr…”

  She’d slipped out earlier and strolled the West Point campus just to clear her head. The TK bullies had spotted her and given chase after she’d returned to The Point. If they caught her, she was going to be in huge trouble. Ever since Scarlett had escaped from the cells, Hopkins had been eye mauling her like a muzzled Doberman.

  At the end of the hallway, she came to a door marked RESTRICTED: CADRE ONLY.

  She hesitated, laying her fingertips against the cool metal of the door. If she ran, they almost certainly would catch her. If she hid behind the restricted door, she might
be able to wait them out and slip away.

  She heard them drawing closer.

  “She went this way.”

  “Finally got her.”

  “Come on. Hurry.”

  She pushed through the door, hating the clack the latch made closing behind her, and braced herself against the door, listening, her heart pounding.

  The TKs’ laughter swelled now, coming into the hallway, filling it. If they pushed through this door, trapping her here, her worst nightmare would come true.

  She looked over her shoulder, hoping to see a way out. But she was disappointed. There was no escape. She’d trapped herself in a short hallway that was dark save for a weird flickering blue light coming from a room at its dead end.

  The jeering cadets ran past, calling for her.

  Scarlett froze there, paralyzed with indecision. Hopkins would double back eventually. Should she run in the opposite direction and risk being seen or hide here and hope they didn’t check this corridor?

  Wrestling with this dilemma, she became increasingly aware of a low mechanical groan coming from down the hall and, beneath it, a quieter, more troubling sound: not the squeaking of machinery but a soft and terrible whimpering. The sound drew her toward the light, which flashed through a little square window set in a metal door.

  Down this off-limits hall, within the room pulsing eerie blue light, someone was suffering.

  Overtop the door, a plaque read THE CHAMBER.

  She leaned into the window and squinted against the flashing blue light. The machine ground on—ruh, ruh, ruh—as her eyes adjusted to the horrible scene beyond the door.

  At the center of the room, Seamus writhed atop a table. He struggled against his restraints, which held him at the center of what looked like a gleaming rib cage, curved metal bars rising from both sides of the table and arching overhead. Sizzling blue light arced in the slight gap between the metal ribs. A robotic arm moved up and down, back and forth, inches from his skull. At the end of the robotic arm spun a silver disk from which beams of blue light pulsed into Seamus’s temples and forehead. His eyes were squeezed shut. His chin jutted forward. He whimpered and thrashed, lost to pain and terror.