Jonathan laughed. “You think the war is about the Taliban? It’s about oil.”
“So you don’t think there’s any good in getting rid of a violent and…” Alex searched frantically for the right word. “Oppressive government?”
“Oooh. Ten points for that one, math genius.” Jonathan grinned.
“Shut up.”
“You’re so naive. The Americans are over there protecting their own interests. They don’t care about the people of Afghanistan.”
“And the Canadians?”
“The Canadians are little puppets of the Americans.” Jonathan waved his hand dismissively. “They really don’t matter.”
Alex was reminded of his father. “So what would be a justifiable reason to go to war?” He challenged his roommate. “What would make it okay?”
“I don’t think war is ever okay,” said Jonathan matter-of-factly. “There is always an alternative, a way to engage in peaceful negotiations.”
“I don’t agree.” Alex was surprised at his own words, but the more he thought about it, the more he felt convinced he was right.
“Do me a favor, math genius. Go back to your trigonometry.”
“You’re an arrogant jerk.” Alex clenched his fists, infuriated by Jonathan’s patronizing tone.
“And you’re being ridiculous. What are you going to do—join the army?”
“Maybe I will.” Alex stood up. “Maybe I will. You know they pay for your school? And they give you a job after graduation and everything.”
“Alex.” Jonathan looked at him seriously. “You’re talking about the army. Are. You. Insane? They’ll send you to Afghanistan.” His expression was incredulous: his eyes were wide and his mouth hanging half open.
“Well, I’m not you. Maybe that doesn’t bother me.” Alex pictured himself decked out in army fatigues, running through the desert with a giant gun. Could he really do that? But Rory had said there were other opportunities for people like him. Math stuff. Code breaking. “I could work in encryption,” he added.
“Do you speak Arabic?”
“No.”
Jonathan gave him a pointed glance but said nothing.
“I might do it.” Alex threw his roommate a contemptuous look. “Not all of us are jaded about those poor girls in burkas.”
Jonathan shook his head. “Do whatever you want,” he said, shrugging. “I’m just saying, it’s not as simple as you think it is. It isn’t all about being a hero and rescuing the good and innocent people of Afghanistan.”
“No? Well, it’s not just about oil, either,” shot back Alex.
Jonathan didn’t reply. “I’m going to hit the hay.”
Alex watched, horrified, as he swept all his papers and books to the carpeted floor with a single arm motion. How could someone stand to live in such a mess? Alex backed away, as if the disorder was contagious. He thought he was messy, but Jonathan made him feel like his neat-freak mother.
“Goodnight, then.” Alex turned away from his roommate and sat down at his own desk. He logged on to the Internet and browsed articles on the Taliban. He also read more about Osama bin Laden, whom the Taliban were hiding away somewhere. Could I really join the army? What would my parents say? He still wasn’t sure.
. . .
“See ya, Benji.” Alex waved and quickly rolled the window back up. It was freezing. Even with the heat going at full blast he could still see his breath. He rubbed his hands together for warmth—he had never been able to drive with gloves on—and placed his chapped hands back on the steering wheel.
Exams were done, and like pretty much everyone else on campus, Alex was headed home for the holidays. He was the only one with a car (a beat-up 1990 Ford with a large dent in the side), and he had offered his friends a ride so they could avoid the bus. Benji lived the closest to him and was the last one to be dropped off. Alex turned up the radio for the final few blocks of the drive and groaned: more Nickelback. Were they ever not on?
Alex had been home twice since leaving for school—once for his mother’s birthday and then again at Thanksgiving. Both times he had expected home to feel different when he came back. He’d hoped that his parents would see him as an adult. Both times, though, he was surprised to find that it didn’t feel that way at all. As soon as he was home, it was as if he’d never left. On some levels it was nice—he liked not having to do his own laundry, for example—but on others, he felt disappointed: he’d hoped going away to school would have elevated him somehow in his parents’ eyes, made them realize he wasn’t a kid anymore, and forced them to treat him more like an adult. But nothing had changed in the Cameron house, where his mother still sighed behind the bathrobe-clad back of his father, while he alternately lashed out at the morning newspaper and lectured Alex on current events.
Alex thought of how his father would react when presented with the news that his son was joining the army. He couldn’t help but feel a small twinge of satisfaction as he imagined the horror and outrage on his face, his eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, and cheeks turning bright purple. He’s always so sure he’s right, thought Alex, digging his hands into the steering wheel. Just like Jonathan.
Since meeting Rory that first time, he’d met him twice more to discuss opportunities in the military. He’d also started attending debates on campus about the war in Afghanistan. He hadn’t told the guys; they thought he was studying geometry in the library. He was still ambivalent about the war, but thought that if he joined the army, he would have a chance to do some good. He imagined himself handing out candy to barefoot kids and rescuing grateful women. Rory encouraged this. “It would be great to have someone like you in Afghanistan,” he enthused. “Someone who’s both gifted academically and motivated by the desire for positive change. You have real leadership potential, Alex.”
The only person who was aware of his new extracurricular activities was Jonathan. He attended the same debates and had been surprised to find Alex tagging along.
“You’re really taking this seriously, aren’t you?” Jonathan said, giving his roommate a worried glance.
“Well, I think there is room for me,” said Alex defensively.
“Room where? You’re not still talking about the army, are you?” Jonathan scoffed.
“Maybe I am. Have you ever thought that it would be good for the military to have people who aren’t so convinced they’re right about everything, people who genuinely want to help and bring about change?”
Jonathan looked at him sharply. “Who have you been talking to?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It just sounds like someone’s trying to manipulate you.” Jonathan shrugged. “It’s your life, Cameron. If you want to throw it away getting blown to pieces in Kabul, I guess it’s your business.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
Alex gritted his teeth thinking about Jonathan and the inevitably similar reaction he was bound to get from his father. I am an adult, he told himself, a university student with my own ideas and opinions. I don’t see why my opinions aren’t as valid as theirs.
Alex pulled into his driveway, the car bouncing slightly as one of the front tires hit a small sinkhole. He shut off the car, which sputtered and groaned a bit as he did. He grabbed his bags from the backseat.
“Alex!” His mother was waiting at the door. She’d clearly been hovering at the window, waiting for him to get home. He smiled and folded her into a big bear hug, lifting her slightly off her feet. She was so tiny, he thought, as he swung her around once and then gently placed her back on the floor.
“How was the drive?” she asked.
“Not bad, just cold. I think I need to get the heat checked on the Ford.” He rubbed his hands together for warmth.
“You can take it to Joe’s garage on Monday; I think it’s open until Christmas Eve.�
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His mom looked down at the bags. “Which one has the laundry in it?”
Alex gave her a sheepish glance. “The blue-and-red one.”
She picked it up carefully, as if handling radioactive waste. “How long has it been sitting around?”
Alex blushed. “Two weeks.”
She shook her head. “Disgusting. I’ll go throw this in. Your dad’s just in the shower. There was an incident with jam this morning.”
“An incident?”
“You know your father is clumsy. Blueberry jam everywhere. Such a mess.” She sighed in a good-natured way and turned to the basement.
Alex gathered the rest of his things. He trudged up the stairs to his room, which was just as he had left it. He tossed his bags on the floor next to the desk and looked longingly at the bed, contemplating a nap before supper.
“Alex! You’re home.”
Alex turned to see his father in the doorway, grinning broadly. He was naked, save for a pink bath towel wrapped precariously around his waist. He reached forward to pull his son into a hug, and it fell promptly to the ground.
“Oops,” he said cheerfully, as Alex looked away, mortified. “Sorry. I had a little episode this morning with the jam.”
“I heard.”
“Damned jar broke and spilled everywhere. All over the paper. Didn’t even get to read it.”
“I’m sure it would have just made you mad, anyway.” The words tumbled out of Alex’s mouth like an overturned jar of marbles.
His father raised his eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Alex shrugged. He wished he could take back what he’d said. He didn’t want to get into it so soon, and not like this, with his father standing before him clutching a towel to cover himself.
“You know,” he said finally. “The war and all that.”
“Oh.” His father’s face darkened. “Well, I certainly have my thoughts on that. Just yesterday, I was reading that warmongering hawk of a columnist, what’s-her-name—”
“You know what, Dad?” Alex cut him off gently. “I’m really tired. I’m thinking about a nap.”
“Huh?” His father looked momentarily confused at the sudden shift in conversation. He recovered quickly, nodding. “Of course. Of course, you must be tired after the drive. Probably partying all night, too, now that exams are done, eh?” He gave Alex a wink. “I remember my wild college days.”
“Right, Dad.”
Alex watched his father saunter down the hall, losing hold of the towel once again to reveal his rather sizeable behind. Shuddering, Alex went back into his room and shut the door, grateful that he had his mother’s fit frame. There would be plenty of time to talk to his dad about the war later. And it wasn’t as if he was sure what he was going to do, either, he reminded himself. He was just thinking about it, in a serious way. Yawning, he pulled off his sweater and flopped on the bed. His father wasn’t entirely wrong—he had been up with friends until past three, but much of that time had been spent silently agonizing over the geometry final. Settling back, he lay his head on his old pillow and gave in to sleep, pushing all thoughts of calculations, war, and his father clear out of his head.
. . .
As he settled into the familiarity of being home, Alex thought less and less about the army. He still felt the same rush of irritation whenever his father pounded his cereal spoon on the breakfast table over news items that raised his ire, but he put off making any decisions or having any serious discussions.
On Christmas Eve, Alex got an e-mail from Benji: “Alex—grades are UP. Check at your own risk! Geometry’s a bitch. Lump of coal in my stocking…prof’s an ass. Later, B.”
Geometry’s a bitch. Alex felt his head spin and stomach drop, as if he were skydiving and his parachute had failed to open. He needed to maintain a least an A average to keep his scholarship and stay in the Honors program. Alex cringed, thinking of how it would feel if he were kicked out. He’d never even got a grade less than an A- in high school, and now here he was, worried about passing a damn geometry course.
Hands shaking slightly, Alex logged on to his university account and waited. His heart pounded so loudly, he was sure his mother would be at his door any second asking what all the racket was. He stared at the page in front of him for a moment, paralyzed, before clicking “grade report.”
A list of grades appeared before him. Alex had to blink twice; it all looked like a blur to him, as if someone had written the grades in pencil and then wiped a damp cloth across them. He breathed deeply and read out his grades, running his finger along the screen for confirmation: “A…A-…B+…A-…D.”
“D.” Alex said the last grade aloud. Saying it out loud made it feel worse. “D,” he said again, this time practically yelling. Then he quieted down, breathing heavily. “Shit,” he whispered, staring at the screen.
Alex quickly added up his five grades and divided them. He felt the room swing from side to side as if he were on a broken elevator or amusement park ride. He double-checked the numbers, but he had been right the first time: he was coming up just short of a B+. I’m going to get kicked out, he realized. He felt numb. It took a moment for the reality to sink in, like a burn that takes a second or two to cause pain. He tried to stand up, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t feel his legs. Where are my legs? he thought stupidly, panicked. He looked down, expecting them to have vanished, but there they were. Angrily, he poked his left thigh with a pencil. “Ow,” he muttered. So he wasn’t paralyzed. Momentarily disappointed—at least if he were in a wheelchair, no one would judge him for getting kicked out of honors math—he stood up and launched himself onto the bed, where he curled up in the fetal position. Checking to make sure his door was closed, he fished under his pillow for his old blanket and held it tightly to his chest. He inhaled its familiar scent and felt a slow-moving wave of calm overtake him, as if the blanket were a fast-acting tranquilizer.
Alex wondered if he could petition to remain in the program. Maybe he could repeat the geometry class. Alex groaned and rolled over onto his other side. He now stared at the wall, at his old Star Wars posters and a calendar from 1998 he’d never bothered to take down. It had come free in the mail from a travel agency, but Alex had liked it: each month had a picture from a different destination. The calendar was stuck at December, and happy children eating gingerbread smiled at him from a snow-covered Christmas market somewhere in Germany. Alex stared enviously at them in their handmade hats and mittens. He daydreamed of clearing out his savings and hopping on a plane to Munich and not coming back. He’d have to learn German, sure, but it couldn’t be any worse than geometry. Also, he knew a little French, and weren’t all European languages pretty much the same?
Alex sat up and reached for the can of Coke on his bedside table. It was from yesterday, and warm and flat, but it was better than nothing. He swallowed the tepid liquid and resisted the urge to gag. Putting the can back down, he knocked his wallet to the floor.
Swearing to himself, Alex bent over to retrieve the wallet and settled back down on the bed. He opened it and took out Rory’s card. He read it for the hundredth time, reciting the phone and e-mail almost by heart. He played with the little card, flipping it back and forth between his left and right hands.
. . .
That night, Alex waited until his mother had served the soup before making his announcement.
“I’ve decided to join the army,” he said. His tone was matter-of-fact. “I’ve given it a lot of thought.”
His mother made a small noise and put down her wine glass. His father dropped his soupspoon in shock. They all watched as it hit the floor with a loud clatter.
“You. Are. Not. Enlisting. In. The. Army.” His father enunciated each word very carefully and slowly. His voice was thunderous, and his face was flushed. Alex felt his resolve crumble but mustered his strengt
h. He thought of his D in geometry, of Jonathan’s know-it-all laugh, and of the girls in burkas. Most of all, he thought of his father running away all those years ago. He steeled himself, staring at his father with hard eyes.
“You can’t stop me.” Alex was calm. “I’m over eighteen. I’m an adult.”
“An adult!” His father nearly choked on his words. “You’re a child. I don’t care what the law says. You spend most of your time playing video games!” His anger was rising. “And what about school? You’re just going to drop out of school?”
“The army is going to pay for school. I’m still going to finish, just later.” He watched his father’s reaction and felt a small thrill of pleasure at his fury.
“This is insanity.” His father was shaking his head so quickly, Alex wondered how he managed to stay upright. “How long have you been planning this?”
“I don’t know. A while, I guess.”
“And you thought you’d do this tonight? On Christmas Eve?”
Alex was silent. He felt a stab of guilt as he stared across the room at the carefully decorated tree. Each year his mother chose a theme: this year, in honor of his first year away at school, it was decorated with little graduation caps and miniature calculators.
“It’s just the three of us,” muttered Alex, pushing his guilt aside. “It’s not like it’s a big family holiday dinner.”
“That. Is. IRRELEVANT!” His dad was shouting again. He banged his fist on the table and the soup bowls shook, the soup inside swaying slightly from side to side.
“Don.” His mother spoke up for the first time. Her voice was quiet and trembling. She put a hand on her husband’s arm. “Please.”
She paused to breathe and spoke up again. “Please calm down, both of you.” Her voice was stern now. She turned to Alex. “Alex, I know 9/11 was upsetting and that you feel like you need to do something. But your father is right. You’re young, and you’re not thinking clearly. You need to finish school.”
Alex started to protest, but she cut him off abruptly. “Maybe you have a romantic view of war from movies and TV, Alex, but I can assure you that’s not how it is in real life. I’ve been through it: it’s horrible.” She gave her son a hard stare. “You could die, or lose a leg or an arm. Is that what you want?”
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