Don't Get Mad, Get Even

by Barb Goffman

  And all his secrets.

 

  “An Officer and a Gentleman’s Agreement” first appeared in Murder to Mil-Spec, published by Wolfmont Press in 2010.

  I wrote this tale for a charity anthology to be filled with stories involving veterans or active-duty military personnel. I didn’t want to write a story involving battle because I had no experience to draw from and didn’t want to get the details wrong. But I wanted to take on this challenge, so I figured I’d write about U.S.-based personnel. I came up with the story’s title first, which almost never happens for me, and then I batted some plot ideas around with a now-former boss. He suggested writing something involving the Navy mascot, and the story evolved from there. I worried that a story involving the death of an animal might turn off some readers, but I hoped they (and you, dear reader) would accept it if the death happened off page and there was justice for the animal in the end.

  This story required a bit more research than most of my other stories, and I have certain people to thank: Andy Wachtel, for suggesting I tap into the Army/Navy rivalry; author Vincent O’Neil, an Army veteran, who helped me with details about West Point (despite his misgivings about what I planned to write—any mistakes are my own); the employees in the goat barn at Frying Pan Farm Park in Herndon, Virginia, for providing helpful information about goats; and actor Jack Nicholson, who I don’t know, but whose portrayal of Col. Nathan “You Can’t Handle The Truth” Jessup in A Few Good Men inspired me and helped me find the voice for my character Jack (yes, named after him).

  EVIL LITTLE GIRL

  July 1977

  Pushing my bangs off my forehead, I slapped away the water droplet inching its way toward my nose, glad to take my anger out on something.

  Since we’d left the pool a couple minutes ago, my bunkmates had been singing that song again. That same obnoxious song they’d sung over and over since we’d arrived at camp a week ago. The song that made me want to claw their eyes out.

  “Short People.”

  They sang loudly, and they sang off key, and over and over, they turned to me, laughing.

  I so wanted to make a snide comment back at them. Something to cut them down to size. But I knew better. Every time I’d ever stood up for myself, it had only made things worse. So I clutched my towel closer, put my head down, and tried to ignore them. It wasn’t easy since we were all going to the same place. The “tween” cabin at Camp Quinnehtukqut, where—my parents had assured me—I’d make great friends. Friends for life, Mom had said.

  She always said stuff like that, even though she’d never introduced me to any friends she’d known since she was twelve.

  Back at the cabin, I headed to the showers in the rear of the building, and the usual snickering began. My so-called friends had all begun blossoming, as my grandma would sickeningly say. I remained flat. Flat and short. So much shorter than all the other girls my age that when I’d gotten off the bus a week ago, one of the counselors had mistakenly sent me to the nine-year-olds’ cabin. Completely humiliating. When I finally found the right cabin, I held my breath as I climbed the porch stairs. Maybe this place wouldn’t be like home. Maybe I would make friends here. Good friends. Those lifer friends Mom always talked about.

  Instead I walked in and met Darla.

  “Hey! Who let the baby in here?” She smirked, then started sucking her thumb. The other four girls mimicked her, then laughed at me. Our counselor, Gina, was nowhere to be seen. Nice introduction to sleep-away camp.

  I tried all week to laugh off things like that and be friendly, the way Dad always encouraged. But it didn’t help. I wasn’t into boys, so I didn’t know what to say when Darla and the others panted over Shaun Cassidy and the Hardy Boys TV show. My hair wasn’t long enough to feather, so I couldn’t bond with the girls over hairspray and Farrah Fawcett. And of course I was a head shorter than them. My size seemed to bring out their venom.

  Mom always said being petite was a good thing, but I knew the truth. It sucked. It sucked so much that sometimes it took all my strength not to start smashing things.

  That night at dinner, Darla loosened the lid on a saltshaker, then knocked it all over me and my food, to howls from the rest of the girls. It was a small thing, but I’d had enough. I had to get out of there, away from Darla and her friends, who thought it was cool to be called brats. I had to go home.

  But Mom and Dad would never let me leave camp early. Dad would call this summer a character-building experience. Keep trying and toughen up, he’d say. Mom would tell me to smile more and give the girls another chance. They never got it when I complained about the girls at school, and they wouldn’t get it now. I had to find a reason for them to come take me home. A reason even they couldn’t ignore.

  Maybe I could get hurt. Break my arm. No, I didn’t want to do that. Maybe I could break Darla’s arm. Mighty tempting, but I didn’t want to get in trouble. I just wanted to go home.

  I scanned the large dining hall and spotted Jason Bartlett laughing with his friends on the other side of the room, while the older girls nearby gazed on dreamily. Bingo. Jason was sixteen. Tan with wavy brown hair. Very popular. He had just been named captain of the camp tennis team. I, of course, had never talked to him.

  It didn’t matter. As soon as the meal ended and our free-play time began, I ran to the porch of the camp office so I’d be first in line to use the pay phone. I called home collect, like I had twice that week already. Thankfully Mom answered.

  “Hi, Mom.” I hiccupped the way I do when I cry too long.

  “Cassie, what’s wrong?”

  “I want to go home, Mom. Please come take me home.” I sniffled.

  “Are you still not getting along with the girls in your cabin? I was hoping by now you’d have found a way to make friends.”

  Yeah, like that would ever happen.

  “No, they still don’t like me.” I hiccupped again.

  “Well, Cassie, you need to keep trying—”

  “That’s not it, Mom. It’s…well…there’s this boy.” I walked around the corner of the building, pulling the cord after me, so the kids lined up to use the phone couldn’t hear me.

  “Oh, you’re finally interested in boys—”

  “No, Mom.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “This boy, Jason Bartlett, he keeps…bothering me.”

  “Bothering you? What do you mean?”

  “Whenever I’m by myself, he shows up. He kisses me and touches me…” I let my voice trail off. I didn’t know what else to say.

  Mom coughed, then cleared her throat. “Cassie, sometimes young boys don’t know the right way to tell a girl they like them. It’s your job to make it clear that you’re not that kind of girl. No touching allowed.”

  “It’s not that easy, Mom. He’s not a young boy. He’s sixteen!”

  Mom was quiet for so long I wondered if we’d gotten cut off. “What’s this boy’s name again?” she finally asked. I told her. “Okay,” she said. “Don’t worry. Daddy and I will take care of everything.”

  We said goodbye, and I nearly skipped back to the cabin. In just a few hours, I’d be home. Home. With my books and air conditioning and TV. School wouldn’t start for two months. Two whole months without having to deal with any mean girls. Heaven.

  A half-hour later, I sat on the basketball-court bleachers during the weekly sing-along. I’d picked a spot where I could see the one road that came into camp. I wanted to go pack the moment Mom and Dad arrived in our station wagon.

  I was slapping a mosquito when I first heard the siren. It grew louder and louder. Then a police car roared in. Two officers got out and marched over to us. The singing trailed off, until all you could hear were the crickets and two little boys in the front who didn’t notice they were the only ones still singing the “Oscar Mayer Wiener” song. A shush from their friends quickly shut them up, too.

  Lenny and Fay, the head counselors, met the officers at the far edge of the chalkboard-green court. Moments later—while all the kids�
�� mouths fell open—Lenny called Jason Bartlett over to speak with the police.

  Oh, no. No no no. Mom hadn’t called the police, had she? She was supposed to come take me home.

  Fay stepped away from the officers and headed toward the bleachers. Toward me. “Cassie, can you come down here, please?”

  Everyone gaped at me. My cheeks burned as I climbed down the bleachers. When I reached Fay, she put her arm around my shoulder and guided me away from the court. Jason, Lenny, and the police officers were headed to the camp office. Fay and I followed. It took two or three minutes. It felt like forever.

  The sing-along started up again with the “Y.M.C.A.” song as we entered the white cabin. It had air conditioning and padded window seats, and I wished I could be anywhere else. Fay guided me to one of the comfy spots. I flinched when Jason yelled “No way!” from behind a closed door.

  Fay sat beside me, took my hand, and squeezed it. “Don’t worry.” She nodded at the door. “You’re safe now. Why didn’t you tell someone Jason was bothering you?”

  I stared at my lap. What should I say? I never imagined Mom would call the police.

  “I understand you told your mother that Jason has been touching you. Did he… He didn’t…force you, did he?” Fay couldn’t say the words, but I knew what she meant. Sort of.

  My mouth felt desert dry. I scuffed my sneaker on the floor and mumbled that Jason and his friends had been making raids on our cabin late at night. At Fay’s gasp, I looked up. Her tan had faded.

  “Where has Gina been?”

  My counselor. Right. I bowed my head again. “Um. She’s a sound sleeper.”

  “And all the girls in your cabin are having this…problem?” Her voice sounded screechy. “Oh, my God.” She gently placed her palm on my right cheek for a second before standing. “Stay right here, honey. You’re safe here. I’m going to go get Gina and the rest of the girls.”

  “No!” I leapt up. “Please, I…I don’t want them to know.”

  Fay turned and tilted her head. Some of her honey-blond hair escaped her ponytail. “What do you mean? How could they not know? You just said that the boys have been bothering them, too.”

  “Oh. That’s right.” My throat was parched, and I swallowed hard. “But the other girls…well, they might not remember.”

  Fay’s eyes widened again as she put her hands on her hips. “Excuse me? I don’t think I understand.” But she did. I could see it in her eyes.

  I sniffled as tears snaked down my cheeks and my chin trembled.

  “Lenny,” Fay called. “You should come out here.”

  “What’s going on?” Lenny asked as he and the officers stepped into the room. They stopped short when they saw me crying.

  “Cassie has something she wants to tell you.” The chill in Fay’s voice was worse than the camp lake early in the morning.

  I crossed my arms across my chest. “I…I…” I stared at the floor. “I made it all up. I’m sorry. I didn’t think my mom would tell anyone what I said. I just thought she’d come take me home. I want to go home.”

  When I looked up, I found Fay shaking her head and Lenny panting, his nostrils flaring like our neighbors’ mean dog.

  “You made it up?” Lenny said. “Do you have any idea what damage your accusation could have done?” He stormed toward me and pointed his finger in my face. “Your parents will be notified about all of this, and you are going to be punished for lying, young lady.”

  Jason barged into the room. “I told you I didn’t do anything. Can I go now?” The cops shrugged and nodded. As Jason stomped out, the gray-haired officer checked his watch, then glared at me.

  Maybe they would have sent me home if I hadn’t already said how badly I wanted to leave. When my parents arrived minutes later—at first terrified and then furious—the grownups decided making me stay would be the best punishment. The story of what I’d done would spread like poison ivy. Facing Jason and everyone else each day would teach me not to tell tales anymore, my mom said. I think she might have been more understanding if I hadn’t lied to her. That seemed to really piss her off.

  My parents finally left, and I went back to my cabin and a whole new level of hell. My bunkmates had already heard what I’d accused Jason of by the time they returned from the sing-along. They talked about me as if I weren’t there. The word bitch was used a lot.

  I hoped things would soon return to normal, with the girls merely making fun of me. I’d find a way to put up with that for seven more weeks. But instead things got worse. During volleyball, everyone smacked the ball really hard at me. In the pool, girls kicked me as they swam by. And three mornings after I’d accused Jason, I woke up with wads of gum stuck in my hair. It took more than an hour to get it all out. A couple pieces, I had to cut out with Gina’s scissors.

  Gina punished Darla and her crew by taking away their afternoon snack, rainbow snow cones. But she didn’t have much sympathy for me either. “You brought this on yourself,” she’d said when she loaned me her scissors. “You’re going to have to learn to deal with it.” And the girls called me a bitch.

  That night, our evening activity was again on the basketball court. Kids could get up and show off their talent. The girls from my cabin huddled near the bushes, practicing their cheers. Knowing I wasn’t welcome, I took a seat on the end of a bleacher. An older girl sat next to me and elbowed me off the edge. I fell, scraping my knees. Gina sent me back to our cabin to clean up.

  I walked gingerly under the pine trees. My right knee stung with each step, but I was happy to be alone for a while. Yet as I entered my empty cabin, I suddenly found myself fighting off tears. It was all too much. Why didn’t anyone ever like me? I’d only had one good friend before, and she’d moved away two years ago. I slumped down on my springy bed, hugged my foam pillow to my chest, and squeezed my eyes shut.

  Sometime later the cabin screen door screeched open. I wiped at my eyes. No way I’d let the girls see me cry. But they didn’t come in. Jason Bartlett did. He pulled the wooden, inner door closed behind him, muffling the sound of a hooting owl.

  “Hey. I saw you fall,” he said. “How are you doing?”

  “Okay.” Why was he being nice to me?

  He walked toward my bed. “I wanted to know, why’d you say that stuff about me?”

  I bit my lip. My eyes started to tear again, and I dropped my chin on my chest. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I just wanted to go home. I never thought…”

  My bedsprings creaked as he sat beside me, then lifted my chin with his thumb. “I guess you like me, huh?”

  I started getting a funny feeling in my stomach. He was smiling at me in a way no one had ever smiled at me before.

  Then his eyes turned mean. “And you think I like you back. What a loser.” He leaned forward, licking his lips. “Let me show you what I like.” He pushed down on top of me, tearing at my shorts. I tried to shove him away, but he was too strong.

  A few minutes and several lifetimes later he got up. “That’s what you get for accusing me, bitch. You better keep your mouth shut now.” As he slammed the door behind him, I pulled up my shorts, then crawled under my gray blanket, shivering. I hurt in places I hadn’t known could hurt.

  When Gina and the girls finally came back, I crawled out of bed and tapped on Gina’s arm. “I need to talk to you.” I nodded my head toward the porch. She followed me outside.

  I knew I should tell her what happened, but suddenly, I couldn’t say anything.

  Gina crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, what is it?”

  “Umm.” I took a deep breath and blinked away the tears welling up in my eyes. “While you were at the talent show, Jason Bartlett came here. He…he…”

  A sigh escaped Gina’s lips. “Bartlett, again? Really? What’d he do to you this time?”

  I swallowed hard. “He forced me to…to, you know.” I motioned toward my private area.

  Her eyes widened. “You’re telling me that Jason Bartlett c
ame here and forced you to have sex with him?” I knew from the tone of her voice that she didn’t believe me. “Okay. Tell me exactly what happened. Give me the details. If it’s true, you’ll be able to do that.”

  But I couldn’t. I couldn’t say those words. Relive it. I stared at the floor, silent.

  “Just what I thought. I don’t know why you’re so hung up on Jason Bartlett, but you have got to stop making up lies about him. It’s ridiculous.”

  Gina grabbed my elbow, pulled me to Fay’s cabin, and told on me. Fay took away my snack-bar privileges for a week and marched me to Jason’s cabin where she forced me to apologize.

  Jason put on a good show, acting all mature and sympathetic for the little liar. But I saw the anger in his eyes.

  A couple days later, while I was taking a shortcut through the woods, Jason jumped out from behind a tree. “You like to make trouble for me, don’t you, loser? I’ll show you trouble.” I tried to run, but he was faster. If anyone noticed that my hair was full of pine needles and that the back of my shirt and shorts were smeared with dirt when I returned to the cabin, they didn’t say anything.

  I tried to stick around someone—anyone—after that, but the other kids were either mean to me or pretended I didn’t exist, and Gina said she wouldn’t be my babysitter. So sometimes I ended up alone. And every time that happened, Jason showed up.

  By the time visiting day came at the end of July, my stomach was always in knots, and I jumped at the slightest sound. I couldn’t stand it anymore. At least with the mean girls at home, I got a break after school every day. But here at camp, between the girls and Jason, the torture never ended. So as we sat on a scratchy wool blanket under the baking sun, I told Mom and Dad everything—well everything about the mean girls. I didn’t dare tell them about Jason. No one ever believed me about him, and I didn’t need to make things worse. I begged Mom and Dad to take me home. They looked at each other, communicating in that silent way of theirs, with head tilts and shakes, and said no. No. I must be exaggerating, Mom said. If I’d only try a little harder, I’d make friends. Besides, she wasn’t raising a quitter. Then Dad told me to buck up, that this was the best time of my life. I started ripping up clumps of grass, fighting not to throw them.