Upon reaching the fields everyone fanned out, formats separating into lines an arm’s width apart. Winslow told me to stand in front of him, something I did, but reluctantly. The instructors barked out, telling us what to do, though it seemed to be a routine everyone had already mastered. I followed along, a little behind, but for a moment I thought I might manage. I mean, I’d done hard labor for years, the result being a set of cables for arms when compared to Lizzie’s string bean softness. It wasn’t enough. I realized this when Instructor Shubert said stretches were over. We’d only been doing a warmup. Well, things just went downhill from there.
“Don’t bother trying. You can’t do it,” Winslow said from behind me. I’d done seven push-ups before collapsing to the ground. Around me the format continued, but I hadn’t the strength. Winslow’s harsh words cut into my lame attempts to lift myself up off the ground, and I knew he was right. For the next forty-five minutes he corrected my poor posture and gave me more manageable forms of training. After that we jogged, though it felt more like trotting, everyone’s feet drumming a beat. My breath came in great huffs, the noise reverberating in my ears. I had an ongoing dialogue in my head. Just a little while longer, I repeated, sometimes counting in hopes of making time hurry along. When we came to a straight stretch of paved walkway, Instructor Shubert called out for us to cool down and walk the rest. That was it. I couldn’t hold back any longer. I promptly lurched to the pretty grass and vomited.
Winslow squinted down at me, his face expressionless as ever. Roth bent over and slapped my back, saying, “We’re all used to it now, but most soldiers puked their guts out at some point during drills.”
Behind Winslow and Roth stood two other soldiers from our format. They looked similar, with golden skin, insolent eyes, and dark, shiny hair. They were a pair, both gazing down at me, one annoyed, the other smirking. Something changed hands before they lost interest and wandered away.
Vomiting did not dispel the nausea. The feeling followed, an uneasy churning in my gut. Luckily the second half of my day was much easier than the first. Roth explained that the two main subjects we learned were combat and field training, though there was no set schedule between lunch and dinner because our lessons could take place anywhere. Today we were in-classroom, something I could tell Roth and most of the other soldiers despised. But my body was ready for a rest. Lunch had been too uncomfortable to really relax, and after that I had to hurry and get my textbooks, literally running to my shed because it was so much farther from camp than the format huts. Sitting sounded nice, and if there was an instructor to shift attention from me, then that was even better.
* * *
I survived my first day as a fledge, but only just. What’s surprising is how much I enjoyed the classes. I guess it’s not that surprising, considering how much I enjoyed my father’s lessons. But then, I always knew I was lucky to have a teacher for a father with Little Red’s lax educational system. He’d told me that they don’t rely on parents to teach children in utopias, that they have schools. That may be what made me so curious about the utopias in the first place, and perhaps a little jealous as well. Who knew I’d have a classroom of my own one day, and I only had to become a soldier to get it...
This is hardly helping. I’m only spewing out my sour mood all over these pages. But I have nothing better to do. Dinner is over. Now it’s free time. Camp became a noisy mess, so I hurried here to my shed, though it’s not much of an escape. The Southeast Field is used for recreation and many of the soldiers are there playing some rough sport. I could watch if I cared to take a peek around the shed, but I don’t. I’ve spent the first few hours of free time examining the textbooks. Roth says they can’t teach combat classes too often because it is exhausting when coupled with physical training, so we’re to study weapons and language to offset the strain. Today was a weapons class with Instructor Bardzecki. He was just as brutally trenchant as our last encounter. I took notes, determined to both catch up and keep my head down. I’m not the only one afraid to catch his ire. The entire class was on eggshells. But I survived unscathed, and I’m looking forward to the language class. It’s an introductory course that teaches the basics of Shetheerie. Roth seemed uninterested in talking about it, let alone taking it. I gather most of the soldiers regard it as less than exciting. They enjoyed field training though, and so did I. Land navigation is fascinating, though my father already taught me how to use a compass. I’ve been reading over the chapters I missed, and truthfully, I don’t think it will take me long to catch up, six months behind or not. That is, if I’m not distracted. And there was one distraction during class I couldn’t ignore, a soldier. He wouldn’t stop staring at me. I’m not sure of his name, and I’m not about to ask Roth either. I don’t want him thinking I’m the least bit interested. But I should know who this member of my format is that won’t stop staring. I wish I could talk to Lizzie. She’d ask all of the unimportant details, such as how he looks... I miss her and her almost endearing overreactions. She’d squeal if I told her he had light hair and soft eyes. She’d be determined that we should fall in love. Ah! There is no point in having an imaginary conversation with my sister. I’ll write her soon enough. Winslow accepts letters to send home and hands out any he’s received right after dinner. It takes them a few days to get through the Triangle Patch, so I shouldn’t expect mail too soon. And I don’t. I don’t expect anything. If there is one thing that this whole debacle has taught me, it’s that expectations are a waste of time. One can plan for the future, but there is no use in predicting it. All you can do is guess and wonder.
Chapter 10
“Rot that! Dutton can beat anyone.”
“I don’t know. This guy from the twenty-ninth is pretty good. I watched him grapple Huston, he had him pinned in under a minute.”
“Huston is nothing. Dutton’s beat him too, and more than once.”
“What do you think, Dut? Should we put money on it?”
The male sex had always been a mystery to me, but it seemed less so by the hour. The two dark soldiers who’d watched me puke the day before stood just behind the husky soldier, Dutton, and tried to coax him into conversation. He ignored them, more inclined to focus on his breakfast tray, shoveling a forkful of potatoes down his thick throat. It seemed to me that food was his greatest passion, though from overhearing talk at mealtimes, I’d learned that he was rather gifted when it came to wrestling, an odd thing considering his size. The two behind him, Martinez and Ramirez, mixed often with other formats. They were social creatures, always crowing about someone’s triumph or failure. Winslow watched them like a hawk, and I figured them for troublemakers.
Beside me, Roth stood up, moving around the bench to empty his tray. I followed after, averse, yet resigned to the end of breakfast which meant PT (physical training) next. After tapping the tray’s contents into the trash, I handed it off to a bored looking woman before returning to my format’s table. Only I didn’t quite make it.
A soldier stepped into my path, not unintentionally, so I was forced to stop, unable to ignore him. He wasn’t intimidating in size, having an average height and build, but he had a fluid way about him, seeming to appear from nowhere smooth as a snake. I’ll admit I didn’t like the look of him. His only attractive feature was a nicely rounded cleft chin, but it was ruined when he spoke, revealing tiny teeth lined beneath a showy set of red gums. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Going to my table,” I said before trying to pivot around him. He was quick, shifting his shoulder to block my path, the action communicating without words that he wasn’t done with me yet. I didn’t like it, didn’t like him standing so close, his face inches from my ear. Feeling uneasy, I glanced over his shoulder toward my table, but no one had noticed my absence. Roth had his back turned to us, unaware that I’d failed to follow. Winslow was deep in conversation with two lanky soldiers from my forma
t, partners in crime who required much of his attention.
“No, I mean what are you doing here,” the repellant soldier gestured, “at camp?”
“I don’t know.” I tried to move back, but he only pressed himself closer, eyes intense.
“Are you being difficult on purpose?” he questioned. His voice became a soft, pillowy whisper, unfamiliar to me, but dangerous sounding nonetheless. I recognized that I should tread carefully, only I didn’t know how. Our conversation was a dance of sorts, and I didn’t know the steps, didn’t know what to say to make him go away.
“First Gridleigh,” Winslow cut in, saving me from my indecision, “I see you’ve met Soldier Frost, the newest member of my format.”
Gridleigh set his pretty, and oddly familiar, jaw, eyes narrowing for an instant before he turned to address Winslow. “I heard the rumors, but thought I’d see for myself.” He tacked on an affected laugh before continuing. “A girl. I must say that’s bad luck for you. Now your format doesn’t stand a chance, not that I ever saw you as a threat. So how did this come about?”
“You’d have to ask Bardzecki.”
For some reason, for which I couldn’t fathom, Winslow’s comment displeased Gridleigh. I could see it in the profile of his face, a tightening that was quickly smothered as he tried to be a rock like Winslow, cool and aloof. They stared at each other, their history thick in the air, yet unknown to me. Finally Gridleigh said, “Bardzecki, eh? Well, enjoy babysitting.” He strode off, cutting through the crowd with ease.
Winslow and I both stared after, watching him move away. “Avoid him,” Winslow said quietly, and then he was gone as well. I was left standing alone, a creeping sense of unease my only companion. Suddenly I recalled my da’s parting advice. He’d told me that I should do whatever was necessary to take care of myself. His words seemed ominous now, the real meaning fleshed out as I recognized a threat. First Gridleigh was no friend of mine.
* * *
It’s been exactly one week since I wrote my family a letter. Well, it was hardly a letter, more like a few brief lines. I wasn’t sure what to say. In the end, I said very little, only enough to reassure them that I was alright and settling in. I’ve tried to write a second, more detailed letter since then, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. At first I was waiting for their reply, a reaction to these events, but it hasn’t come, and until I know their feelings, I hesitate to share mine. But now I hesitate for another reason. I messed up, gave up, trusted the wrong people... and now, though I argue with myself about the stupidity of it, I feel guilty for what I’ve done. I ask myself, why should I feel guilty? I never wanted this! But it doesn’t matter. I still feel as if I’ve let someone down. I’m just not sure who.
Yesterday things were, well, not good, but alright. For the past week I’d done nothing but study. I refused to let being half a year behind hold me back, and it didn’t. You may very well doubt my ability to learn so much material in such a short amount of time, and rightly so, but when it came to learning, I could be quite stubborn.
At the age of nine I was introduced to the word ambidextrous. Da was teaching me, an evening ritual at the kitchen table. Mum moved around us like a hen, preoccupied with her nose down while she put the dishes up. I could remember with odd clarity her chapped hands as they slid the ceramic plates together, stubbed fingers steadily stacking away. This image was tied to the moment when I’d thought how much I might like to be ambidextrous. Would I stack plates differently then? I’d wondered.
The next day I tried to strengthen my weaker left arm by using it to do the bulk of my chores. I caught myself forgetting, relying on my dominant right arm more often than not. So, using a handkerchief, I tied my wrist behind my back, securing it to my belt. And for precision I switched to using only my left hand to write with. It was slow going and often frustrating, my letters turning out large and skewed. Mum discouraged me often, saying it was a useless skill. I knew she was right, but I also knew what she really meant was that it was a useless skill for a wife. But I didn’t stop, and as the weeks passed by my childish writing became less blocky, slowly shrinking in on itself until it matched my normal script. My father noted that I was the only ambidextrous person he knew, high praise, or at least that was how I was determined to take it. And that was really all I ever needed for anything—determination.
The most challenging subject I currently faced was Shetheerie. While my fellow soldiers were now stringing together sentences, I had a whole new lexicon to learn. I spent the first few days memorizing words, then sentence structure. After that I tackled Shetheerie the same way I’d tackled becoming ambidextrous. For every sentence that passed through my brain, every thought, I repeated it back in Shetheerie. I had to carry my book everywhere, constantly opening it up to check a word or phrase that I couldn’t recall. I was saying yal shut shilnoss in my sleep, Shetheerie for: I can’t remember.
The other subjects were easy when compared with language class. I read through my textbooks, memorizing various weapons and facts. But there were some things for which I remained hopeless, physical training for one. While we ran through drills, I silently reviewed the chapters I’d read the night before. I was so overwhelmingly inept at PT, I doubted if Winslow even noticed my distraction.
But I knew my strengths and weaknesses. During physical training, surrounded by soldiers dropping to crunches, springing right and left, lunging, jumping... well, it was glaringly obvious that they were superior in strength and size. But that didn’t give them an edge on intelligence, no, in that arena I could excel. And that was just what I set out to do, though my efforts didn’t reap the rewards I had imagined. But it didn’t start with Bardzecki’s petty revenge, before that it was the incident at the latrine yesterday morning, just after breakfast.
On the southwestern tip of camp there was a private restroom attached behind the formats’ shared latrine. It had been intended for instructors, but when their living quarters were moved to the northern part of camp some years before, the restroom was locked up. Winslow must have lost patience standing guard, because soon after my arrival he found it for me. And while I was grateful for the added privacy, it was hardly convenient. If I wasn’t running to the far side of camp to fetch my books, then I was running there to use the bathroom. It was on one such occasion that I overheard two soldiers talking.
“The first from sixth said he talked to a guy who knew her from back home.”
“Does he know why she’s here?”
I was hidden from view, the private restroom situated at the back of the latrine. They stood just around the corner at its entrance. My hand was on the knob. I should go in and ignore them, I thought to myself. Apparently I wasn’t listening, because I didn’t move.
“He said she was strange, did man’s work. Figured her parents sent her to camp since they couldn’t marry her off.”
“Strange is right, I ain’t never seen no girl in trous before.”
“I don’t mind the sight,” the other replied, his tone conveying a less than polite meaning. They both began to laugh.
I yanked the bathroom door open and lurched inside, my cheeks burning hot. I stood there for a while, turning their words over in my mind. I knew my parents hadn’t sent me away. They’d been opposed to the idea. But it was the truth, not the lies, that bothered me. I was strange, an outcast, and everyone knew it. It seemed speculation would never cease to follow me, an exhausting thought. What surprised me was their reference to my body. I had never been an object of admiration, well, not that I knew of. But I suppose that was to be expected. It was a well known fact that soldiers returned home girl-crazy after serving a year in male isolation. I was just a momentary distraction of sorts. I continued to rehash their conversation in my mind, so preoccupied that when I remembered the time I had to run off to PT, never getting a chance to use the restroom.
What a mistake.
Chapter 11
The soldier to my left, one of the tall and lanky ones that had mischievous eyes, Swanson or Steward (I wasn’t yet able to tell them apart) shuffled too close, his leg sweeping behind my ankle just as I displaced my weight. I went tumbling back, arms stretched out behind me in a lame attempt to break my fall. But the soldier who’d caused me to fall also caught me at the last second. I would be grateful, but this was the third time during PT that this had happened.
“Swanson,” growled Winslow from behind us.
“Sorry, sorry,” replied the wretched troublemaker, pretending to be chastened. This format mate of mine and his companion were puzzling, they seemed to find the strangest things amusing. Take for example, PT. I’d just arrived, flustered from overhearing the latest gossip, nearly late, only to be repeatedly harassed. Swanson never once laughed, but he seemed to find great pleasure in tripping or bumping into me, and then he would catch me at the last moment. Like I was a game of jacks and he would scoop me up to win.
I huffed out a breath, casting my gaze toward Instructor Shubert who oversaw our PT training, but he was unaware of my plight. Swanson’s antics usually went unnoticed, it was uncanny. I was just inching away from him when things got worse. There was a slight rushing, slipping sensation that I knew all too well. If there was one thing that proved I was undoubtedly female, it had just arrived.
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