Beyond the Point

by Claire Gibson

  Dani felt the pressure of her mother’s arms around her body, the softness of her father’s lips against her cheek, the punch of her brother’s fist against her shoulder.

  “Go get ’em, D,” Dominic said.

  And then, with no opportunity to look back, she’d followed Hannah and several hundred other eighteen-year-olds down the stairs and onto the football field. They proceeded to the fifty-yard line and waited for their first instruction, their parents standing behind them watching in silence. In that moment, Dani’s back stiffened, and her neck grew tall and straight. A cloud hovered above, threatening to pour rain on their heads.

  “Cadet candidates,” a cadre shouted from beside her. “Move your bags to your left hand. And move.”

  IN THE HOURS, days, and weeks after that moment, so much had happened, Dani could barely remember it all. In the first hour, they’d issued uniforms, inspected everyone’s body for tattoos, and led every candidate through a barbershop, where the boys had their heads sheared like sheep. Hair covered the floor like in an image Dani had seen at the Holocaust Memorial Museum, and she’d fought the urge to gag. By the afternoon, they’d taught her to salute, to stand at attention, to march. By the time the sun had set, Dani didn’t know if it had been six hours or six days since she’d said goodbye. The mediocre sleep she got every night felt like naps in one never-ending day. Cadre quickly started calling Dani “Headlights,” simply because her eyes were permanently stretched wide, always on high alert. And her eyes weren’t the only thing that had changed. Within the first week, she was speaking an entirely new language.

  CBT stood for “Cadet Basic Training.” If someone “smoked you,” it meant he beat you in some kind of competition. “Racking” was sleeping. To “police” your area meant to clean up. But all that language was for the future, because as a plebe, Dani was only allowed to speak one of four responses:

  Yes, sir.

  No, sir.

  No excuse, sir.

  Sir, I do not understand.

  The boys looked infantile, their heads shaved to the skull. The girls were scattered among the boys, hard to pick out since they were so few. The teammate she’d met on R-Day, Hannah Speer, had been assigned to a different company, and even though Dani kept her eyes peeled—Headlights!—she hadn’t seen Hannah once. Dani wondered if the girl from Texas had already quit, but hoped she hadn’t. When Dani felt the urge to give up, when she felt pain growing in her body, she imagined Hannah out there facing these same obstacles and tried her best to be strong.

  “YOU’VE GOT TO breathe, McNalley,” Tim Nesmith instructed her. He bent down in a low squat and repositioned the rifle to better aim it at the target. “Breathe in. And when you breathe out, right at the end of your breath—when you have nothing left—that’s when you pull. Keep your eyes open. Trust yourself. You can do this.”

  As she found her position, Dani realized that his instructions—Breathe. Give it all you’ve got. Trust.—were basically what she’d been doing her whole life. But if that was the case, why couldn’t she hit this stupid target?

  Back on the ground, Dani inhaled, feeling her chest expand. The air smelled of spent ammunition, a combination of tin, mud, and grass. She exhaled, kept her eyes open, squeezed the trigger, and watched a rip the size of a quarter open in the outer ring of the target.

  “I hit it!” she yelled, standing up, exultant.

  Tim offered her a high five, and they laughed together until they saw their platoon leader, Mike Wilkerson, approaching them from down the field. Wilkerson was a Cow—West Point speak for a junior. A former football player who’d quit after his first season, he had a thick neck, big ears, and hair cut so short, he looked bald. For the last three weeks, he’d been staring over Dani’s shoulder, constantly hazing her and refusing her any moment of rest. Before Wilkerson spoke, Dani already knew that he was coming for her. Her head, neck, and shoulders ached from the strain of feigning confidence.

  “New Cadet McNalley,” Wilkerson said as he stopped in front of them. “Recite ‘Duty, Honor, Country.’”

  Dani swallowed. Tim had worked hard on this one. And listening to him repeat it over and over again, she was confident she’d memorized it, too.

  “‘Duty, honor, country,’” she began. “‘These three—’”

  “Incorrect,” the cadre spat. “Not these three. Those three. Attention to detail, New Cadet McNalley. Twenty push-ups, and then start again.”

  Dani went to the ground, performed the push-ups with ease, then stood, breathless, and began again.

  “‘Duty, honor, country. Those three . . . uh—’”

  “I don’t recall General Douglas MacArthur stuttering,” Wilkerson spat. “Forty this time. Then start again.”

  Beads of sweat gathered along the top of Dani’s cotton underwear after she completed the push-ups. There was nothing she could do except try again until either she got it right or Wilkerson had mercy. He seemed to be enjoying her discomfort, even as he looked impressed by her ability to complete forty push-ups without pause. Closing her eyes for a moment, Dani tried to apply Tim’s instructions for hitting the target. She inhaled, exhaled, and started again.

  “‘Duty, honor, country. Those three hallowed words reverently dictate what you ought to be, what you can be, and what you will be.’” She paused, then stared Wilkerson in the eyes. “‘They are your rallying points: to build courage when courage seems to fail; to regain faith when there seems to be little cause for faith; to create hope when hope becomes forlorn.’”

  When she finished, Dani held her breath. Wilkerson stood in front of her with a look of shock and admiration on his face. He raised his eyebrows.

  “Wow,” he said. “Nice job, McNalley. Not to sound racist, but normally black kids can’t memorize shit.”

  Dani bit her cheeks harder than she ever had before, the tinny taste of blood spreading across her tongue. Later, she would cycle through all the things she wished she’d said to him—What, so you’ve met all black kids? or better, And what about you, Wilkerson, how’d you do with plebe knowledge?

  But plebes were only allowed to speak one of four responses. So Dani lifted her chin, set her jaw, and chose the only one that applied.

  “Sir, I do not understand.”

  Wilkerson offered her a half smile. “You did good. I’m giving you a compliment.”

  Dani’s body went hot with rage. Most often, racism was expressed in small, imperceptible movements of distrust: in glances, in grabbing purses tighter, in moving to the other side of the street. Rarely was she confronted with a blatant admission that someone assumed she would be less capable, simply because of the color of her skin. She seethed. But thankfully, before she could react, the upperclassman moved on.

  “I can’t believe he said that,” Tim said. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” Dani answered firmly. “I’m fine.”

  Once again, she knew she couldn’t complain. Not about her pain. Not about what Wilkerson had said. The look on Tim’s face was one of compassion and sadness. He obviously understood that there was a lot she wasn’t saying. But there was no use in dwelling on Wilkerson’s ignorance. She remembered the words her mother had spoken once when she was younger: “They’re ignorant, Dani. So they think you’re different? They’re right! You are different. You’re better.”

  “I think I’m ready to shoot again,” she said with confidence.

  “I should say so.” Tim handed her back the weapon. “Let’s go, soldier.”

  Dani found her spot on the ground and shot the target straight in the center three times in a row. This time, with her eyes wide open.

  5

  Fall 2000 // West Point, New York

  Twelve thirty on a misty afternoon in early September, four thousand cadets gathered in the mess hall, eating pierogies and passing plates of lemon-pepper chicken counterclockwise around the tables. Avery Adams rolled her head from side to side, trying to work out the tension that had appeared overnight. Plebes weren’t allo
wed to speak at meals, and since they only had fifteen minutes to jam food into their mouths before jetting off to classes, everyone kept their head down, stuffing their face as quickly as possible. It was disgusting. Like they were a bunch of farm animals at a trough.

  In August, all of the new cadets that had survived basic training had put on their as-for-class uniforms and joined the Corps of Cadets for the regular academic year. Training would commence again next summer, but until then, they were students. Writing assignments replaced weaponry. Homework took over hazing as the heaviest burden, and every weekend, the campus came alive with school spirit for the Army football team, which still hadn’t won a game. Avery dreaded the uphill walk to Michie Stadium, where she was forced to stand and freeze while the quarterback threw interceptions for two hours straight. Games were mandatory fun, and she hated every second.

  Avery caught herself staring at the bespectacled cadet seated in front of her, whose face was as pale as the white uniform shirt he was wearing. He ate so fast, it was a wonder he had time to breathe. Shaking her head in disgust, she looked back down at her plate and sighed.

  Six months ago, she’d screamed and celebrated, having received her acceptance letter. The summer had introduced her to camouflage, ruck marching, orienteering through the woods, and the joys of memorizing useless trivia. Thanks to all the running her father had forced her to do leading up to R-Day, she’d quickly risen to the top of her platoon, scoring the highest possible marks on the Army Physical Fitness Test. In separate two-minute drills she could complete seventy-five push-ups and a hundred sit-ups. And when they sent her off for the two-mile run, Avery always returned within thirteen minutes flat. She hadn’t just met West Point’s standards; she’d exceeded them.

  The guys in her platoon had wavered between seeming annoyed that a girl had outperformed them and grateful to have her strength among their ranks. Avery had seen some of the other girls in other platoons. There were the butch ones, who’d cut their hair into pixie-like styles before R-Day to prove that they were serious. Then there were the unathletic ones, who failed to keep up with the guys and so immediately lost their respect. Girls who were pretty and athletic were the fewest and farthest between. For that reason, Avery knew that her stock was high, and the attention gave her a rush. Every sideways glance, every prohibited flirtation, helped her breathe just a little bit easier. She was wanted, and that made her feel powerful.

  Of course, she couldn’t fully savor the extra attention. West Point followed a strict “ninety-degree” rule—if two people of the opposite sex were in a room together, the door had to be open at a ninety-degree angle. It was so antiquated, so ridiculous, and yet, everyone seemed to follow the rule with religious precision. If a male and female cadet were found together with the door closed, it could mean long hours of walking back and forth along cadet area in full regalia. Marching tours were West Point’s favorite mode of punishment. Her TAC had explained that the rules existed to keep them focused on their academic and military instruction. To Avery, it all felt like a waste of her college experience.

  But sure enough, once the academic year began, her schedule grew so hectic, she didn’t have time to worry about West Point’s outdated rules of decorum and chastity. The Corps of Cadets reported every morning at 0630 for formation, standing at attention in silence, watching their breath enter the freezing morning air, four thousand miniature clouds. West Point required plebes to take at least twenty-two hours of classes, meaning that Avery had eight courses to keep up with, including chemistry, Spanish, calculus, and a class in the Department of Military Instruction. Plebes weren’t allowed to talk as they crossed campus between classes, and she had to address every upperclassman she passed with the proper rank and greeting. Her head moved on a constant swivel.

  “Beat Rutgers, ma’am,” Avery said to a Firstie who passed her way, naming Army’s next opponent, as required.

  An upperclassman who happened to be in her company, G-4, whose mascot was a gator, walked by her, and she quickly stammered, “Go gators, Sergeant.” She moved past him in case she’d used the wrong rank. Was he a sergeant? Or a sir?

  In high school, Avery had regularly worn blush and foundation, but West Point prohibited her from hiding her flaws, even the ones on the surface. Female plebes could wear light tinted moisturizer, but the standard for what constituted too much makeup was subjective and judged mainly by men. She’d risked concealing the pimples on her chin and the dark circles under her eyes only once. On that same day, she’d watched an upperclassman force a plebe who’d denied having makeup on her face to wipe her eyes on a towel. Smudges of beige and black streaked across the white fibers, and the upperclassman shook his head three times. Rumor had it, he’d reported the girl to the Honor Committee for lying. Avery had immediately rushed to the nearest bathroom and washed her face with harsh hand soap, wiping her eyes with a rough paper towel. If she was going to leave West Point, it was going to be on her own terms. Not because she’d used a little Maybelline.

  That afternoon, Avery’s turn had come up to be the “minute caller”—a job she’d been dreading since her first day at West Point. Ten minutes before lunch formation, she’d taken her place alone in the hallway announcing a list of memorized information, speaking loudly, slowly, and in a low monotone, like a man, so every cadet on the hall could hear her. Any slip-up or stumble would draw unwanted attention, and so Avery had studied the script for nearly an hour before stepping into the hallway and beginning.

  “Attention all cadets . . . there are . . . five minutes . . . until assembly . . . for lunch formation.”

  “Don’t mess up, Adams,” an upperclassman had taunted, prowling around her like a predator.

  “The uniform is . . . as for class . . .”

  “Oh. I see you smiling. Don’t slip up. I’ll make you start over.”

  “For lunch we are having . . . lemon pepper chicken . . . pierogies . . . and Gatorade . . . I repeat . . . Five minutes remaining . . .”

  Cadets underwent daily inspections for shined shoes and polished brass buckles. Upperclassmen could stop and check that her uniform was properly “dressed off,” meaning tucked into her wool pants at a perfect forty-five-degree angle. At random intervals during the week, plebes were required to sort, fold, and deliver laundry to the upperclassmen in their company. In addition to all of her coursework, Avery had to memorize the names and room numbers of more than one hundred people, in order to properly deliver laundry and avoid hours of unnecessary hazing.

  “Do I LOOK like a female, Cadet Darby?” she’d heard a Cow shouting at a plebe last night. He’d held up a gray skirt. “This isn’t even my SIZE!”

  To complete all of her military duties and not neglect her homework, Avery had taken to staying up far past taps. When her roommate, a girl from California named Nadine, complained that the light was going to get them in trouble, Avery had started using a small flashlight instead.

  Streaming through the darkness, the small spotlight shined on chemistry equations while Nadine snored on top of her cot. Avery’s notebooks filled with little lists, outlining her days in fifteen-minute increments, as if, by scheduling each minute, all the tasks she’d been assigned could possibly be completed. Meanwhile, she found herself daydreaming about her friends back home, friends who were probably sleeping late, skipping class, and attending parties on the weekends just because they could.

  When Avery considered adding practices, games, and a hectic basketball travel schedule to her already-packed daily itinerary, it made her want to be sick. Last week, the team’s captain, Sarah Goodrich, had sent out an e-mail inviting all the new recruits to an “optional” practice that clearly wasn’t optional, since she’d couched optional in quotation marks. And when Avery wrote the practice on her calendar, she realized that something was going to have to give. What, she hadn’t decided. Perhaps she’d have to stop sleeping altogether.

  Her decision to come to West Point was beginning to feel like an exercise in pride tha
t had bitten her harshly in the ass. Who chooses to enroll in a prison? It was a cruel bait and switch, to tell prospective students West Point was prestigious, only to treat them like shit once they got there.

  The mess hall filled with a cacophony of sliding chairs, stacked plates, heavy feet leaving for class. Avery looked at her plate, still full of food. How had fifteen minutes already passed?

  “That’s it, plebes,” her table leader, John Collins, said. He checked his watch, then put his fork down on his plate and gave Avery a wink. “Time to get your ass to class.”

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Avery made her way to the Holleder Center, a large complex that housed coaches’ offices and a basketball arena for the men’s and women’s teams. She arrived twenty minutes early, hoping to shoot a few baskets before the rest of the team showed up. She’d expected the locker room to be empty, but when she turned the corner, Avery found herself face-to-face with a girl who was standing in front of a locker, completely naked.

  “Oh God.” Avery averted her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all good,” the girl answered. If Avery wasn’t mistaken, the girl chuckled, apparently amused by Avery’s blushing cheeks.

  Dropping her hand from her eyes, Avery tried to act cool, but it was hard to ignore how stunning this girl was. She had smooth brown skin and dark freckles across her face that looked like a map of the constellations. With a small waist and muscle definition, she looked like she could be on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Avery felt suddenly mediocre by comparison.

  “You should see your face right now,” the girl laughed as she put deodorant under her armpits.

  “No. It’s no big deal.” Avery found her way to an open locker. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.”

  The girl smiled wide. “I’m Dani.”

  “Avery,” she replied. “So you’re here to play basketball?”

  “Oh, because I’m black?”