Beyond the Point

by Claire Gibson

  Taking a deep breath, Dani knocked on the coach’s office door.

  MINUTES LATER, THE printed photos were spread out over Jankovich’s already-crowded desk, an array of identical bodies, like images from a crime scene.

  “How did you get ahold of these?” the coach asked.

  Each photo showed the same person from a different angle, decapitated by the top edge of a camera lens: light skin, thin waist, round breasts, hairless between her legs. A headless body—bare for the entire corps to devour.

  “My friend received them in a forwarded e-mail.”

  “How do you know this is our locker room?” she asked, lifting one photo in her hand.

  “The carpet, see?” Dani pointed to the distinguishing black and gold lines. “And the . . . well. I know it’s ours, because I know who that is.”

  Blood rushed to Dani’s extremities as she watched the coach inspect the photos, turning them from side to side. What is she looking for? Letting out a massive sigh, Coach Jankovich ran a hand through her short hair, and it stood askew, pointing in different directions. She suddenly looked Dani directly in the face, her steel-blue eyes narrowing.

  Silence spread between them, leaving the room devoid of oxygen. Dani coughed, took a breath, and tried again.

  “I think we should report this. Someone hid a camera in our locker room and is now—”

  “The damage is already done, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Coach, I—”

  “Doing that is going to cause a huge scandal. There will be news crews. A massive witch hunt. We have a hard enough time recruiting girls without something like this. Every one of our recruits will renege on their commitment, Dani. Is that what you want?”

  “No. But this isn’t about basketball—”

  “Of course it’s about basketball! So someone snapped a few nudie photos in the locker rooms. Big deal. It’s not exactly rape we’re dealing with here.”

  “Does it have to be, for it to be wrong?”

  The coach steeled her gaze.

  “Whoever did this used a digital camera,” Dani continued pleadingly. “The angle is bad. That’s why you can’t see the face. They were taken from above—like someone stashed a camera above our lockers or something. And they’re not photos. You see the time stamp here? They’re still shots. Whoever did this has video footage. The camera could still be there.”

  “Well, then, we will remove it.”

  “We can’t just do that, Coach . . . if it’s there, it’s evidence.” Dani hated how exasperated she sounded. She wanted to reach across the desk and shake her coach into caring. Into understanding.

  “Jesus, Dani. You sound like you think you’re on some crime show or something. We’ll deal with it internally and move on.”

  There was a long pause, and in it, Dani knew she had to make a decision. She could walk away, or she could push back against what was an obvious attempt to brush this under the rug. Without a doubt, if she made any demands, her relationship with Coach Jankovich would never be the same.

  After taking a deep breath, Dani decided to push forward.

  “As the team captain, I felt it was my duty to bring this to your attention before I take it up the chain of command,” Dani said with authority.

  “Oh my God! You people!” Coach Jankovich laughed derisively. A square smile appeared on her face that looked forced and awkward. She stood from her chair, narrowed her eyes until they were dark slits. “I don’t know what you’re playing at here, but I can guarantee one thing. If you think you can come in here and make threats, you can think again. What did you do? Did you tell them all to write your name down, so you could lead your little revolution?”

  “What?”

  “You and your little cult. I bet you did this. Put the camera there. Sent the e-mail yourself.”

  “Coach, you and I both know that that’s ridiculous.”

  “The only thing that’s ridiculous is the fact that all of my work is going to go down the drain because of this trash.” Picking up the photos off her desk, she gripped them tight, crushing the pages.

  Dani bit the insides of her cheeks, hard. How could someone be this paranoid? This blind?

  “What makes you so scared of the truth?” Dani asked boldly. “That’s one of your players. And when she finds out what’s happened, she’s going to be crushed. Don’t you care? Aren’t you concerned about her at all?”

  “I’m concerned about the big picture,” the coach said.

  “You’re concerned about yourself.”

  They stood, facing once another across her desk, refusing to blink.

  “You’re dismissed.”

  Dani turned to leave. She took a halting step, feeling a surge of pain.

  “And you can forget about being captain,” the coach said, then lifted her chin toward Dani’s hip. “That is, if you can even play anymore.”

  LATE THAT EVENING, Dani sat next to Hannah on her bed, the two of them poring over the photos. By this point, every male on campus had received the zip file, of that much Dani was certain. It was only a matter of time before the women on campus started to get wind of the fact that naked photos of a female cadet were being passed around like common pornography.

  “We have to tell her,” Dani said to Hannah. “Before we do anything else. We have to tell her.”

  Hannah shook her head and groaned. “This isn’t going to go well at all.”

  “Where is she?” asked Dani.

  “I don’t know. I never know.”

  “Well then, let’s go to her room. We’ll wait.”

  WEST POINT ALMA MATER

  *

  Hail Alma Mater dear, to us be ever near

  Help us thy honor bear, through all the years.

  Let duty be well performed

  Honor be e’er untarned

  Country be ever armed,

  West Point, by thee.

  Guide us, they sons aright, teach us by day by night,

  To keep thine honor bright, for thee to fight.

  When we depart from thee,

  Serving on land or sea,

  May we still loyal be,

  West Point, to thee.

  And when our work is done, our course on earth is run

  May it be said, “Well Done, Be Thou at Peace.”

  E’er may that line of gray

  Increase from day to day

  Live, serve and die we pray,

  West Point, for thee.

  Between

  Three Months After Graduation

  Fall 2004

  11

  Summer 2004 // Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  Avery woke up naked in bed with a twenty-six-year-old enlisted soldier named Josh Ramirez. Pushing a white-blond hair off her face, she stared at the Tilt-A-Whirl ceiling, wondering how much she’d had to drink the night before. She’d lost count somewhere around her seventh gin and tonic. A heavy arm fell across her stomach and a face covered in day-old stubble nuzzled her neck. Avery sighed loudly. It was time for Josh to leave.

  “What’s your exit strategy?” she asked.

  The man kissed her neck and traced his fingers across her hip. “I was hoping for seconds,” he mumbled into her ear.

  Avery wrapped the scratchy comforter she’d bought at Target over her chest. “Well, that’s too bad,” she said. “Because I was hoping for breakfast.”

  She kissed him on the cheek, then turned to put her feet on the floor. The air mattress had partially deflated overnight, making it awkward for her to stand. Fighting the headache already building behind her eyes, Avery slipped into a robe and then walked out the door into the hallway, where she let out a silent scream and stamped her feet.

  She couldn’t believe Josh was still in her bed! It was Sunday, for Christ’s sake. At the beginning of their relationship—if you could even call it a relationship—they’d agreed to one rule. One rule! No one stays over; no one gets caught. How hard was that for him to understand?

  When she’d moved into
her Army quarters four weeks ago, she hadn’t considered that living across the street from another second lieutenant could make life so painfully awkward. Living on post meant that she was close to work, and could wake up at 0550 and still be at PT by 0600 every morning. But now, Avery deeply regretted her choice to live among her coworkers. As a part of the Signal Corps, she planned wartime communication strategies with her neighbor Lieutenant Erik Jenkins during the day, and waved to his twenty-three-year-old wife from the opposite kitchen window at night. There was no way Josh would leave undetected. Did he realize that her reputation was on the line? If someone saw her, an officer, with him, a first sergeant, it could mean the end of her career.

  People get court-martialed for this shit, Avery thought. But did they? Really? With all that was going on in the world, would the Army really prosecute her for a little fraternization? Surely not. Avery felt painfully stupid, but not just because her head was pounding. Two days ago, she’d been sitting across from a female soldier having a conversation about this exact same subject.

  On Friday afternoon, a girl with dark brown hair had appeared in Avery’s office, having just arrived at Fort Bragg from Advanced Individual Training. The girl wore tight jeans and an even tighter white T-shirt. Thick eyeliner encircled her blue eyes; a slick of gloss accentuated her lips. With curves and a slight tan, this new private had all the flair you’re supposed to have when you’ve just graduated from high school: dewy skin, bright teeth. She looked nothing like a soldier. Sitting in front of a woman in civilian clothes, Avery couldn’t help but think how unfeminine and ridiculous she must have looked in her Army combat uniform. Loose at the thighs and tapered at the ankles, her ACUs looked like a better fit for MC Hammer, and the jacket was a size too big, with a black nameplate on her right breast pocket. Instinctively, Avery had touched the patch of acne that had appeared on her jawline. Wasn’t she too old for zits?

  “Welcome to Fort Bragg, Private Bradley,” Avery had said, replacing the beginnings of jealousy with the voice of authority. “I’ll be your direct superior from this point forward. If you need anything at all, if you have any questions, you can bring them to me.”

  “Yes, sir.” The girl blushed. “Ma’am. Sorry.”

  As Avery thumbed through the girl’s file, the new soldier chewed her fingernails. Eyes wide and anxious, she appeared dazed and jittery, just like Avery had been back at West Point on those first days. Cleavage threatened to spill out of the private’s shirt, like she’d dressed for a job interview at a strip club, not the U.S. Army. Had this kid looked in the mirror before walking in here?

  “How old are you, Private Bradley?” asked Avery.

  “Eighteen. Nineteen next month.”

  Eighteen. The number flashed before Avery’s eyes. When Avery was eighteen, her civilian life had ended, too. Four years had passed since then, but somehow, seated at her own desk with West Point behind her, twenty-two felt ancient. In minutes, this new recruit would head back to the barracks, where an onslaught of twenty-something males would see her as their newest opportunity for conquest. Unfortunately, it was Avery’s job to keep that kind of drama to a minimum. Her boss had sent out a memo the week before, reminding his lieutenants that certain STDs disqualified soldiers from readiness for deployment. Apparently chlamydia was making a comeback.

  The girl had been sitting on her hands. Something about her oozing sexuality and ignorance had felt deeply embarrassing to Avery, like interacting with her former self. She refused to make eye contact, but instead kept looking at the items on Avery’s desk: a half-eaten paper pint of oatmeal, a green juice in a clear plastic container, a framed photo of three girls standing in the middle of New York City. Watching the private’s eyes widen with anxiety, Avery felt a sudden wave of compassion—a desire to keep this girl from making all the mistakes she’d made at eighteen, nineteen, and twenty. She wanted to tell her that even the nicest, most innocent-looking men could stab you in the back. In the heart.

  “You just finished high school?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Last spring.”

  “First time away from Mom and Dad?”

  The girl nodded, smiled.

  “There’s no easy way for me to say this.” She tapped the papers together into a stack, trying a firm and strict tone on for size. “It’s very important that you carry yourself professionally here. I can’t have you getting involved with anything that might distract you or your fellow soldiers from training. Because, to be completely honest, that training could save your life one day.”

  The girl sat up straight. Her eyes had a vacant and subtly terrified expression, like a deer on the verge of being flattened by an SUV.

  “I’m just saying, be on your guard,” Avery continued, trying a softer approach. “As far as any of these men are concerned, there’s only one woman in uniform . . . and it’s you.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” she’d said.

  “What you do reflects on all of us, Private Bradley.”

  Avery had known, seated there on Friday afternoon, that she was engaging in a losing battle. But she had to try.

  DOWNSTAIRS IN THE kitchen, Avery pulled a carton of eggs from the refrigerator and a skillet from the cabinet. As a single second lieutenant, she had plenty of storage space that she didn’t need and didn’t use. Most of the cabinets were hollow and empty. She hadn’t had the luxury of registering for everyday china after graduation like Hannah and Tim. Shouldn’t girls have an I’m single but I still want to cook registry? Or an I may never get married so someone buy me sheets shower? Avery thought so.

  And yet, all the Pottery Barn linens that Hannah and Tim had received as wedding presents were still in boxes. Avery knew, because she was the one tasked with collecting any delivered packages while Hannah was at Sapper School in Missouri and Tim was at Ranger School in Georgia. Three sets of perfectly good five-hundred-thread-count sheets sat in boxes in the Nesmiths’ house, while Avery suffered under itchy cotton bedding that deserved to be in a Motel 6 Dumpster. It would have been easy to steal—no, borrow—the newlyweds’ new goose-down comforter, but Avery hadn’t resorted to theft. At least not yet.

  She still couldn’t believe one of her friends was married. Even the word sounded odd when it came out of her mouth. Marriage. Total commitment to one person, for the rest of your life, until you died or they did—whichever came sooner. It seemed like the worst possible contract you could ever sign. And Avery still couldn’t believe that Hannah and Tim had decided to do it. They were only twenty-two years old, and both facing long-term deployments. Avery couldn’t understand the rush.

  But then again, Avery didn’t understand any of their relationship. The summer after their sophomore year of college, while Hannah and Dani attended Airborne School, Avery had stayed at West Point to complete Air Assault training. She’d been grateful to learn that Tim Nesmith was in her company, but for some reason, he’d avoided her all summer. And when she heard that he’d kissed another girl in their training class, Avery went ballistic.

  “Is it true?” she’d snapped at him one night, pushing him hard with both of her hands. She had tracked him down in a small tunnel that ran underneath Washington Road. The Beat Navy tunnel featured placards from the years Army had defeated Navy in football, and was echoey, a place where people shouted and cheered for their team. It was odd to stand in that tunnel and remain so silent. Tim stepped away from her, and though she didn’t want to see his emotion, it was plastered all over his face: shame, fear, regret. The rims of his eyes turned red.

  “It was a huge mistake,” he’d said. “I’m going to tell her, Avery. Please. Just let me tell her first.”

  Avery had spent the better part of junior year telling Hannah not to take Tim back. Not after what he’d done. Not even after his apology. By the time they were Firsties, Dani had to stage an intervention of her own.

  “You realize he’s going to propose, don’t you?” she’d said to Avery one night their senior year. It was after Tim’s accident. Af
ter his radical conversion and Hannah’s unconvincing speech to Avery that he’d changed. “You’ve got to forgive him, Avery,” Dani had told her. “He’s one of us now. He’s in the cult.”

  After that, Avery had tried her best to swallow her pride. She’d even helped Dani coordinate Tim’s ridiculous proposal—Avery was the one who’d scattered rose petals across the floor of Cullum Hall. She’d lit the candles. She’d sketched the ring: a full-carat diamond, princess cut, perched on a delicate gold band—the style Hannah had let drop to her friends in casual conversation, knowing Tim would ask for their input.

  In June, three hundred guests had gathered at Hannah’s grandfather’s ranch in Austin, Texas, under Chinese lanterns hanging from trees, cows lowing in the distance. A dance floor and a ten-piece band set up outside, under the stars, and played loud into the night for Hannah, Tim, and all of their friends. Instead of cake, they’d served ten different types of pie—Hannah’s grandmother had baked them all from scratch. Hannah wore a lace dress and her mother’s old veil, and when she’d walked down the grassy aisle between the guests, Tim had cried. Hell, everyone had cried. It was all so soul-crushingly meaningful.

  “I don’t know if it’ll ever happen for me,” Avery had said to Dani, seated on the Speer’s porch swing.

  “Of course it will.”

  “Not like that,” Avery had retorted, pointing her beer toward the outdoor dance floor. Hannah and Tim were swaying in each other’s arms.

  “Well of course not like that.”

  “There won’t be pies,” said Avery.