by Jesse Jordan
I look down at my left knee, which is so stiff and swollen that I can actually see it stretching out the ugly uniform pants that we have to wear for class, and bite back a comment. It was true, I did fall down, I should have gone in to get stitches, but I don't want to look weak.
Of course, since Jordan and Sandi are best buddies, that just means I get more crap from Sandi. “Sandi, if you don't mind, I've got a paper to finish in the next hour, so just drop it,” I tell her, pulling out my headphones and tucking them into my ears. “I need to focus. EN 301 sucks.”
I get the paper finished with twenty minutes to spare thankfully. After class, I limp my way back to Pershing Barracks, my knee killing me. Mel, who is not only the spirit officer this semester but also the coach of the orienteering team, takes one look at me as I come up the stairs and shakes his head. “Nope, you got the day off. It's just practice anyway.”
“Come on Mel,” I protest, even if part of me is happy. Mel's perky and compact, with enough energy to power the lights in the mess hall if you hooked him up to a generator, and he's been one of the people in the Ironside that's treated me fairly. I want to work hard for him. “It's not that bad, and I can still walk.”
“And come Thursday, when we've got the meet, you're going to be struggling the whole time,” Mel says, waving me off. Mel turns and sits on the steps, patting the spot next to him. “Hold up, sit down if you can.”
I try, and while my knee won't exactly bend normally, by using the railing and my good leg, I sit down well enough that I don't collapse the last few inches. “What's up?”
“Half a semester,” Mel says, looking at me through the corner of his eye. “You've been in the Ironside half a semester, and to be honest Christina, you're not making many friends.”
“You know I can't control how other people think about me,” I say, even if it does hurt a little. “I just do my best.”
“That's a little of your problem. You're the Rudy of the company this year,” Mel says. “You ever watch that movie?”
“Not into football, but I know the story,” I reply, shivering on the inside for reasons unrelated to the semi-warm fall weather. Rudy is Daddy's favorite movie. “Guy busted his butt, played at Notre Dame, got to go onto the field his last game of his senior year.”
“Yeah. That one,” Mel replies. “Except, the reality is a lot different than the movie. The reality was, most of his teammates thought that Rudy Reuttiger was an asshole. Later on, sure, they loved the guy. Everyone likes the Rudy in hindsight, when they realize not only how shitty they treated the guy but also how much of the suck work Rudys put up with.”
“So you're saying I'm Rudy?” I ask, and Mel nods. “Thanks.”
“Sadly, the Corps, for all of our talk about building leaders, we tend to go by the same law of the jungle that a lot of other places do. Every year, the company or a class by some unspoken, magical mind meld act, identifies the weak and starts to push them out. How many did your class start with, back in Beast?”
“About twelve hundred, I think.”
Mel nods. “My class too. You know how many are left in mine? I crunched the numbers on this, and about three fourths of my starting class will graduate. That percentage’s been pretty consistent going back two decades.”
“What's your point, Mel?” I ask. “You think I'm in that twenty five percent?”
Mel shrugs. “You could be. About half the people who leave the Academy, they do it by choice. The other half, they're the ones who get lost for various other stuff. Grades, honor cases, medical boards, hard luck discharges... and you know every year someone ends up killing themselves. Actually the stats aren't too bad that way.”
“Not acceptable though. We should be better than that,” I reply. “Psych major here, we talked about this in one of my classes.”
Mel humphs, then shrugs. “True, but I wonder, how many of those twenty five percent were culled from the herd that is the Corps even before they left? How many academic failures would have been okay if they'd gotten some help from their company? How many of the quits would have stuck it out through their rough patch if someone had actually listened to them, guided them past their dark hours? Oh sure, you can take the Machiavellian approach and say that the twenty five percent were just too damn weak, but that's bullshit. I've failed tests, I've had times when I wanted to quit. I just happen to be popular enough that my classmates have backed off at those times, or given me the support needed to keep going. You... you don't get that.”
“So what do you think I should do?” I ask, touched. “You know that once you're branded as a loser by your company, it's hard to change that perception.”
Mel nods, then looks over his shoulder. “I'm not really sure, but if anyone knows, it's Vasushenko. That fucker's liked by nobody, but he's made of stronger stuff than this barracks. Tell you what, if someone dropped a nuke on the Academy right now, I think Ivan Vasushenko would be the only survivor outside the cockroaches.”
“Sounds like you admire him,” I tell Mel, who chuckles. “What?”
“I don't like him either, but I do respect him. Did you know he's the defending brigade open boxing champ?” Mel says. “I watched him last year, he was one of my Plebes when I was a squad leader, he plowed through his Plebe boxing class with absolutely no mercy. Four graded bouts, four knockouts in the first round, no mercy shown any of them. Then the crazy fuck signs up for the Brigade Boxing Open. You been to that?”
I shake my head. “I've never found the time. Why, is it intense?”
“It's perhaps the most brutal of the combat opens the Corps does. It's open to literally anyone. La-dee-da-dee-erebahdy can participate. Vasushenko, he's not on any team, he's this total loner who's basically liked by nobody. And he was a Plebe... Plebes get eaten for breakfast in the Brigade Boxing Open. Nobody wants to train with them, nobody is willing to be their cornerman except other Plebes... it's the damn blind leading the blind.”
Mel shakes his head. “Vasushenko, he walked in there and beat the living hell out of every person he faced. The only guy he didn't knock out was in the finals, a Firstie who was on the Boxing Team who ended up getting third place in the regional Golden Gloves last year.”
“I figured he'd be loved by everyone then. Major Franklin strikes me as the type that loves Brigade Champions.”
Mel nods. “Perhaps. But that's Vasushenko. He's got this vibe about him, guys just don't like him. They think he's arrogant, and maybe he is. But it's not bragging when you can back your shit up the way he does. Anyway, he's going in to train today for boxing, this year's Brigade Open is coming up. So, here's your deal. You walk with the rest of the orienteering team towards practice. Then, at Arvin, you peel off to go watch Vasushenko train. He's not shy, you might get an insight on this guy. Rest your knee, and stop by the trainer's office afterwards if it's still stiff on you.”
I give Mel a smile, and let out a sigh. “Thanks, Mel. Well, I see why you're a good spirit officer. You know how to help out.”
“Go get changed, I'll grab Vasushenko when he comes out of his room. He's in the same wing as you. You know that?”
I nod, having come to at least a passing acquaintance with Ivan Vasushenko. He's not the sort of guy you miss seeing, all six three, two hundred and who knows what pounds of him. He and I have never said anything to each other, he likes to keep pretty much to himself. Then again, he's living with Gene Brusche, their room is a heat magnet. He probably doesn't like too many of the Ironside himself.
Still, he is handsome, with his blonde flat top, blue eyes and chiseled jaw. I get to my room and change quickly, pulling on regular PT clothes instead of the intramural shirt that I normally wear. On a whim, I grab my cell phone as well and tuck it into the pocket of my jacket. I don't use it to call people much, but the camera is good and I like to take photos to help with my drawings.
When I get out, Mel and the rest of the orienteering team are waiting, and Mel points towards Arvin. “Sorry, Gene just came out for footba
ll, said Ivan left for training early. You'll find him in the second floor boxing room Gene said.”
I walk with the orienteering team to the entrance of Arvin, where Mel breaks everyone off into a jog up the hill towards the orienteering site. I go inside and up the stairs towards the boxing room. I hear the boxing room before I see the door, the pounding and bass thud of bags being punched and the whipping sound of jumpropes telling me where I'm headed even without being that familiar with the sport.
I go to the door and look in, seeing a group of about a dozen people working. There's a big timer going in the corner, with a couple of guys working the bags, and another four are in the rings, moving around and hitting padded targets being held by other people.
Ivan's in the corner by himself though, nobody is talking with him as he rests. The timer in the corner blares, and Ivan gets up, approaching the bag that he is apparently using. Watching him move, my breath catches in my throat as he punches, the bag exploding backwards and he throws punches in groups of three and four, his arm muscles flexing in amazing displays of power.
But it's not just his arms. His leg muscles are flexing too, everything seems to be flexing, all of it in sinuous motion, and it's breathtaking to watch. There's no wasted energy either, I can see that, and the sound coming from the bag each time his fist connects is just thunderous, like Ivan isn't a man hitting the bag but more like a god, Thor himself not even needing his hammer to mete out justice.
I sort of slide my way around the door, watching for the whole three minute round as Ivan decimates the bag, and I'm left wondering why the thing isn't torn to shreds by the time the bell rings again. I decide to make my move. “Uh... Ivan?”
Ivan looks over, and I can see that while he recognizes me, we've never exchanged words before, he probably doesn't even know my name. Finally, it clicks. “Chris... Christi?”
“Christina,” I correct him, finding his accent intriguing. “Uhm, Mel said that I should watch you train, my knee's all screwed up today. Do you mind if I take some photos? I like to do some drawing, and well... you'd make some good sketches.”
“As you wish,” Ivan says, turning away already. “Just stay close to the wall, out of the way. The chair is good.”
I see the folding chair and sit down, taking out my phone. The timer rings, and Ivan's a whirlwind of motion again, the bag groaning with every thunderous blow. I can see the looks from some of the other boxers, glancing over nervously as he continues his practice. They know better than I do what that sort of power feels like, and they respect it.
I try to take good photos every time Ivan comes into full view as he circles the bag, going for another five rounds before he takes his gloves off and grabs a water bottle, drinking deeply before grabbing some iron weights from another table and going to a rope that's been stretched from the wall over to one of the posts on the two elevated rings. He starts doing some sort of ducking exercise, where he's going under the rope before throwing punches. I take a few more photos, and then put my camera away, I don't need a thousand photos of the man. Instead I just watch, entranced as he moves with such a perfect blend of barbaric power and dancer’s grace that I feel my mouth go dry, and a warm tingle in the pit of my belly that I haven’t felt in a while.
For another hour, Ivan goes through practice routines, always by himself, nobody helping him. It doesn't faze him at all though, and as he finishes his last round of what I think is shadow-boxing in the empty ring, he looks out, leaning on the ropes. I can see nothing but utter confidence in his face as he surveys the practice room. He climbs out of the ring and walks over towards me, grabbing a sports bag that is sitting on the floor. “You enjoyed?”
“It was impressive,” I agree, trying to stay calm. God he’s hot. “You do that every day?”
“No,” Ivan says, already getting ready to leave. “Today is a sports day. On drill days I do other training. Did you get good photographs?”
“Some, yes. Would you... would you mind if I stopped by when I had free time to take more?” I ask, for some reason nervous. He's a Yearling, I'm a Cow, but... well, the way he moved was just amazing. And his attitude, I can see why a lot of the other cadets don't like him, but it's not cockiness. I think he's just confident, he knows who is he and what he's capable of. That can scare a lot of people around West Point, especially coming from a Yearling, who are still supposed to be figuring out who they can be.
“That is fine,” Ivan says after a moment, then smirks. “For art?”
I stammer, then smile back. “Yes. For art. Uh, do you happen to train on Fridays or weekends? I'm doing orienteering for another two weeks.”
Ivan nods, his smile vanishing about as fast as it came out. “Yes. Fridays and then one day either Saturday or Sunday. Would you like me to email?”
“Yes, that'd be nice. Thanks.”
“Do not mention it, I also enjoy art from time to time. Please excuse me, I must change shirts in order to get dinner. I will see you around,” Ivan says, then takes off running. As he turns the corner, I realize something else about him. His English is not quite perfect. In fact, in our conversation, I don't think I heard him use a contraction once.
Chapter 4
Ivan
It is Thursday a week later before I notice that Christina has made some time to come to each of my practices that I email her about. Last week, I could not practice on Friday, I had duties. Still, she came to see my practice on Sunday, sitting quietly in the corner taking photographs before leaving without saying anything.
She did the same today, her phone in her hand as she takes about a dozen photographs as I go through my routine. I wonder if she is using the pictures for her supposed art work. I am intrigued however, since she does not know about my own art, my other stress relief activity.
On my way back from Arvin, I find myself thinking about Christina Logan. She is not my typical target, that is for sure. Not from a politically or economically influential family, my contacts did not even know who she was past a simple name and class rank. Her class rank is quite low. Her academic grades are adequate, but her military and physical grades barely qualify.
She is also not socially successful, her reputation among the Ironside already is that of a try-hard loser, what some of the other cadets call a Rudy. I am not sure the reason why. And she is not, at least according to the majority of my American company mates, pretty. It is to do with the American obsession with stick figure women, I think. Christina is not fat at all, but healthy, and I can see the few times I've looked at her in her class uniform, most of the problem is in the horrible fit of her uniform trousers. The Academy does not know how to make clothes that fit any type of woman except stick figures with man hips, and Christina Logan is not that. For me, I find her very pretty, and more than once I have thought about what she looks like beneath her uniform.
I get back to my room, and see Gene staring at the paper on his desk, his face turning red. “Motherfuckers.”
“What is it?” I ask, curious. “What did you get?”
“Two hours for my bed being unmade,” Gene says, sighing. “Seriously Ivan, I laid down for twenty minutes to get some extra sleep during first period! When I got up, I tightened the tuck on my pillow, and headed off to math class. Apparently it wasn't tight enough for SFC Hauser. So, guess what I get to do Saturday?”
“Paint the rocks?” I ask, trying to make a joke. Gene gets it, and sighs, chuckling.
“Or something equally useless. Here's to hoping it rains this weekend!” Gene says, balling up the paper and chucking it towards our wastebasket. “How was your workout? Did Logan stop by again?”
“Yes. She took pictures for drawings. I did not know she liked to draw. Have you seen her work?” I ask, and Gene shakes his head. “Me neither.”
“From what the rumors are, almost nobody has,” Gene says. “I asked Petrowski, she says other than watching Logan sketch on some pad that she keeps in her desk drawer, she's seen nothing at all.”
“And
how did you happen to have a conversation with Sandra Petrowski? You are not her type.”
Gene shrugs and chuckles. “No, but she does need help in Spanish, and I happen to be pretty fluent in it.”
“How did you get so good?” I ask. “Your name is not Spanish.”
“No, but growing up in a rough neighborhood with a lot of first and second generation Mexicans sure helps,” Gene laughs. “Helped to avoid a few ass kickings.”
“I suppose. In my hometown, all the gangs also spoke the same language, so that was not necessary,” I reply. “But it did help with my fighting.”
Gene laughs, and I have to admit, it is a good feeling, to laugh with a classmate. Gene might be lazy in some ways, but he is also a decent person. It is not until afterwards that I start to feel uneasy again, thinking about Christina Logan. She is not my target profile, but maybe that is not bad? Who says I cannot mix a little bit of my mission with pleasure?
Sunday afternoon, and I am waiting for Christina by the steps to go downstairs, wondering why exactly I am doing so. The other times, I went to the gym on my own, and she would show up later. This time however, I actually knocked on her door and told her I was going, and when she said she would be ready in a minute, I decided to wait.
Whatever the reason, I have my bag on my shoulder, waiting for Christina to come down. I do not have to wait long though as she comes down the hall with a pretty smile, until Jordan Quackenbush comes the other direction, her face in a half sneer. “So... well, I guess that'll work on your poor cardio some.”
Before Christina can say anything, Jordan disappears into her room. I can see Christina's face, she is obviously hurt by the comment, but instead of saying anything, she just swallows it down and lets it slide. “So you mind if we walk?”
I shake my head, glancing at the door Jordan just went in. “No... today is a light day, I was not going to do any heavy bag work actually. Today is speed and footwork.”