I had to agree with her on that point. My dad wasn’t perfect. He was as self-absorbed as my mother was vicious. His glasses were as thick as ice cubes, and without them he was legally blind. But that was no excuse for him to miss who I was as a person. At least my mother knew me well enough to know which of my buttons to push to get a reaction out of me. He had no clue. None.
Like the night I announced to my family at dinner that I was going to apply to West Point. My dad didn’t even bother to lift his eyes from his lumpy mashed potatoes. “No daughter of mine is going into the military” was his only reply. “Only sluts and whores go into the service.” His words stung worse than when my mother smacked me across the mouth, so I never brought up West Point again.
But my mother did. She was never one to pass up a bargain, and West Point was a big one. A $350,000 education for nothing. And the only payback—five years in the Army after graduation. Armed with that information, my mother easily convinced my dad that maybe West Point, in spite of all its sluts and whores, would make a wonderful place for his daughter to get an education, after all.
That is, if we ever got there.
I sighed. “That’s beside the point, Mom. You wouldn’t let go of the steering wheel! What else was he supposed to do?”
“Oh, what good are you? You never take my side.” She gave me an ugly look. “If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t even be here. I don’t even know why we’re wasting our time. You don’t belong at West Point. You’re not smart enough. Why do you think they waited until the middle of May to accept you?”
I closed my eyes, wishing I could close my ears instead. Oh, Mom, don’t start. Please! But I knew that once she got going, I couldn’t stop her. Nobody could.
“You know why. We all do. You don’t need a Ph.D. to figure that one out.” She sneered at me. “Someone else turned them down. You were their last choice.” She turned her back to me. “You’ll never make it there.” She blew her nose into the soggy blue napkin she had clutched in her hand. “We should’ve just dumped you on a plane. This driving is the pits.”
I could feel the rage and hurt frothing up inside me. I didn’t ask you to take me. Do you think I’d ask for this? I turned away from her, toward the pasture, where a calf nuzzled up to its mother and began to nurse. “So, I’m going to look at the cows, okay?”
“I don’t care what you do.”
About ten minutes later we were ready to go. Mandie and my dad rescued the glasses from a muddy ditch about a hundred yards behind our car. Then Mandie went back to Danielle Steel, Randy tuned in to Metallica, and we got back on the road.
I closed my eyes. I can tolerate anything for a few days, I kept telling myself. Anything.
CHAPTER 2
MONDAY, JUNE 28 9:01 A.M.
The Corps, bareheaded, salute it
With eyes up, thanking our God—
That we of the Corps are treading
Where they of the Corps have trod—
—CHAPLAIN H. S. SHIPMAN, “THE CORPS”
MY WATCH SAID 9:01 as we climbed the bleachers of Michie Stadium. The morning was heating up; it was going to be a hot day. A tall cadet stood on a platform below, wearing a white hat, a white short-sleeved shirt, white gloves, gray pants, a red sash wrapped around his waist, a silver saber at his hip, and shiny black shoes.
He briefed the new cadet candidates and their families. I tried to listen to his motivating speech, but my mind was spinning. I can’t believe I’m really here.
My mother nudged me and said loud enough for the people all around us to hear, “It’s a good thing you dumped that ugly boyfriend of yours. Maybe now you can get a cute hunk like that one down there.”
What boyfriend? I glared at her. The “ugly boyfriend” she referred to was nothing more than a guy on my track team who had asked me to the movies. Twice. The second time, he got to experience one of my mother’s verbal assaults for dropping me off five minutes late. There wasn’t a third time.
“You now have a few minutes to take care of your farewells,” the cadet announced. “Afterward, all new cadet candidates will file down the steps, where they will be received by the cadet cadre. While the candidates are in-processing, friends and family are invited to participate in an orientation and a bus tour of West Point. And later this afternoon you will be able to see your candidates once again as they march onto the Plain for the Oath Ceremony. We encourage everyone to attend. Thank you and good luck.”
The people around us rose out of their seats. Arms wrapped around bodies. Hands squeezed tissues. Cameras flashed. I stood and looked for my red duffel bag.
My mother started crying. “She’s only seventeen, Ted,” she told my dad. “She’s not ready for this.”
My dad cleared his throat and began inspecting his stubby fingernails.
“You’re going to be so far away,” my mother wailed.
Thank God!
She planted a wet kiss on my cheek and clung to me. Unaccustomed to her embrace, I pulled away. So instead, she began patting the top of my head like I was a five-year-old going off to school for the first time. “I’ll write you every day. You know I’ll do that, don’t you, Andi?”
I nodded and forced down the lump that was forming in my throat. Don’t start crying now, you idiot! Didn’t she say only a couple of days ago that she was glad to see you go? You want to leave!
Mandie hugged me. “Just think—you could be coming with us to Niagara Falls,” she whispered. I laughed. “I’ll miss you,” she said.
“Me too,” I whispered back. And I meant it. Out of all the members of my family, she was the only one I hated to leave.
Randy shoved my sister out of the way. “You can always come back home, you know,” he said, rolling his eyes. Then he gave me an obligatory hug and reattached his headphones to his ears.
I glanced at my dad. He was now engrossed in picking at a hangnail.
“New Cadet Candidates,” said the cadet, “please file down the steps at this time—”
I wiped my hands on my jeans, then picked up my duffel bag and took a long, slow breath. “Well, I guess I’d better go.” Dad? I bit the inside of my lip and hesitated a moment before turning toward the steps.
“Uh ... Andi?” my dad said. I turned around. He jiggled the change in his pockets, looking as uncomfortable as a new kid in the lunchroom. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“Good luck,” he said, and gave me an awkward hug. “Take care.”
“Thanks.” I jogged down the white cement steps. I didn’t look back.
I followed the other new cadet candidates into a dark tunnel beneath the stadium. A cadet pointed where to go. I looked at him. Our eyes met.
I smiled. “Hi!”
“DON’T SAY HI TO ME, MISS!” he shouted. “What do I look like, your boyfriend? Keep your head and eyes to the front and walk with a sense of purpose!”
I moved quickly past him. What’s his problem?
“FALL IN DIRECTLY BEHIND THE MAGGOT IN FRONT OF YOU!” bellowed another cadet farther ahead, the tunnel amplifying his already earsplitting volume.
All the new cadet candidates stopped for a second, unsure of what to do.
“MOVE IT!”
We quickly shuffled into a single-file line.
“NEW CADETS,” the cadet continued, “YOU WILL KEEP YOUR HEAD AND EYES TO THE FRONT. YOU WILL ADDRESS ALL MALE UPPERCLASS CADETS AS ‘SIR.’ YOU WILL ADDRESS ALL FEMALE UPPERCLASS CADETS AS ‘MA’AM.’ YOU WILL NOT SPEAK UNLESS SPOKEN TO! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
He was answered by a handful of mumbled yeses and yes, sirs.
“POP OFF!” he hollered.
Pop off? Nobody moved.
“YOU MAGGOTS ARE STUPIDER THAN SOAP SCUM! When you are asked a question, you will respond immediately and in a motivated manner. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?”
“YES, SIR!” we yelled in unison.
“You are no longer little boys and girls. You are new cadets—subhuman maggots, douche bags, grosser than pond water
. Not fit to lick the filth from under my grand-mother’s toenails! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“YES, SIR!”
“I say again, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“YES, SIR!” I was sure our response shook the stadium’s very foundation and that within seconds hundreds of hysterical parents would come rushing in to see what caused it.
The cadet yelled for us to follow him. The other subhuman maggots and I continued through the tunnel until we reached three more cadets seated at a table, spaced at equal distances from each other. The one in the middle barked, “State your name, Smack.”
I froze. Who, me? My eyes shot left, then right.
“Yes, you, Knucklehead. What is your name?”
I stumbled up to him. “Um, Andi. I mean Andrea. Andrea Davis.”
He leaned forward and glared at me, his eyes tiny slits. “YOU WILL ANSWER ALL QUESTIONS IN COMPLETE SENTENCES, DIRTBAG!” He leaned back in his chair. “Let’s try it again, shall we? What is your name?” He spoke softly, but there was no comfort in his tone.
I swallowed. My spit was thick. “My name is Andrea Davis.”
“Sir?” he said.
I hesitated. “Yes, sir. Sir, my name is Andrea Davis, sir.”
“NO SANDWICH SIRS!” he screamed. “For morons like you, that means only one ‘sir’ per sentence!” He rifled through a pile of papers, slammed a tag down in front of me, and roared, “Fill out that tag and attach it to your bag!” I grabbed the pen in front of him and scrawled my name in the appropriate places, but I was shaking so much, I didn’t think anyone would be able to read it. Then he dismissed me. I hurried with my bag back into line.
“NEW CADETS!” boomed a voice from my right. My eyes jerked immediately in his direction. “You will have exactly two minutes to relieve yourselves. The female latrine is directly to your rear, and the male latrine is directly to your front. I highly suggest you take this opportunity. Two minutes. MOVE OUT!”
We sprinted in those two directions as if we were fleeing from a burning building. One thousand one, one thousand two ... I sprang into a stall, fumbling with my jeans zipper, my heart pounding and hands shaking. One thousand thirty-three, one thousand thirty-four . . . I pulled down my underpants and stared at them in disbelief. Not today!
“ONE MINUTE REMAINING!” boomed the cadet.
I started rummaging through my duffel bag. Underwear ... bras ... makeup ... hairbrush ... alarm clock ... Oh, where are they?
“FORTY-FIVE SECONDS!”
Running shoes ... toothbrush ... Tampons!
I ripped open the box and grabbed two....
“THIRTY SECONDS!”
The sound of toilets flushing echoed in the tunnel. I added mine to the chorus, jammed the remaining tampon into my pocket, grabbed my bag, and flew out of the bathroom, adrenaline charging through my veins.
“IF YOU’RE NOT BACK IN MY LINE, NEW CADETS, YOU’RE WRONG!” A couple of miserable souls straggled to the end of the line. Three white hats descended on them like pigeons on popcorn.
I followed the other new cadets out of the bowels of the stadium and onto a bus. I sank onto a wide, soft seat beside a cute, blond-haired guy wearing a football jersey. Any other time I would have smiled at him. But as the bus pulled away from Michie Stadium, he looked out the window, and I stared at the floor. The bus was so quiet, you could almost hear the sweat squeezing out of our pores.
The bus stopped in front of a huge, brown brick building. Another cadet was waiting there.
“At this time you will in-process.” His voice was loud and confident but lacked the fierceness of the cadets at the stadium. He ordered us to form a single-file line and enter the building.
My eyes took their time adjusting to the dimness as I followed the others down a dark, quiet hallway. Then we entered a huge gym filled with other new cadet candidates and rows and rows of tables. I filled out forms and signed paperwork. I opened an account at the Pentagon Federal Credit Union. I turned in my medical files from my doctor back home. I got my chest, waist, hips, and inseam measured. Then I received my first uniform and was sent into a dingy, but clean, locker room to shed my jeans and T-shirt and don the uniform. A chubby, middle-aged woman guarded the locker-room door.
“Leave your bag after you change,” she said.
I didn’t talk to the only other girl in the room as I pulled off my clothes and shoved them into my bag. She finished tying her shoes at the same time that I did, and as we stood, I looked at her, and she looked at me. Even though she was about four inches shorter than I, we were mirror images of each other. A white crew-neck undershirt. Long, black athletic shorts with a white “ARMY” emblazoned on the left thigh. Black knee socks. Black shoes. We giggled.
“If my friends could see me now,” she said, rolling her eyes.
The woman shook her head and motioned for us to pull the knee socks up to our knees. Then she placed a tiny-beaded metal chain with a card around my neck and pinned two tags, one green and one yellow, connected by a string, to the elastic waistband of my shorts. The tags hung nearly to my knees.
What are these for? I didn’t have a chance to ask.
“Go on out the door now, Hon,” she said, “and get in the line to get weighed.”
A soldier in an Army uniform took my height (67 inches) and weight (121 pounds) and sent me into another line to do pull-ups. More like pull-up. One. Then I got into more lines. I picked up a pair of prescription glasses with brown plastic frames, I got stabbed with syringes, I filled out more forms, and each time, the card around my neck was scanned and a check mark was added to one of my tags. Finally I ended up in another, smaller gym with wooden bleachers lining both sides. A cadet inspected my tags and told me to find my bag and wait in the section of bleachers marked “H.”
I eventually spotted my duffel bag and carried it to the bleachers. Three guys were already there, lounging and laughing about three rows up, but I sat down in the first row, alone.
I checked my watch: 10:27. Had only one and a half hours passed since I was sitting in the stadium with my family? Unbelievable. I took a deep breath. Just relax. I think the worst is over. The past hour hadn’t been anything like those first ten minutes. That must’ve just been the initiation. I closed my eyes.
“WHERE DO YOU BOYS THINK YOU ARE, SUMMER CAMP?” bellowed a deep voice, jarring me like a telephone call in the middle of the night. “I WILL NOT TOLERATE ANY SMOKING AND JOKING IN MY BLEACHERS!” His voice reverberated through the gym, making me feel like he was standing inside my brain. I didn’t dare look at the guys in the third row. I didn’t have to. I knew they were no longer lounging. Or laughing.
The cadet’s eyes slowly rolled over the “H” section bleachers and locked with mine. They were blue-gray, the exact color of Lake Michigan on a cloudy day.
“ON YOUR FEET!” he roared. We sprang up like jack-in-the-boxes. “Pick up your bags and follow me.”
Since I had no bleachers to scramble down, I was the first in line. The cadet was tall and lean and looked like he could have easily stepped off the set of a Hollywood war flick. His uniform shirt was crisp and bright, as was everything else about him.
The Hollywood Hero led us out of the gym and across a huge quadrangle that rang with the sounds of battle—roaring voices and the BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! of a beating drum—resounding from the gray granite walls enclosing it. The cadet walked effortlessly, but I had to run to keep up with him.
Once he looked over his shoulder at me and hissed, “Carry yourself in a military manner, Miss. No double-timing in my formation.”
Double-timing?
“This is North Area!” he yelled at us as we scampered behind him. “Remember it!”
The Hollywood Hero finally stopped us near a tunnel that went through a building several stories high. I could see green grass on the other side.
“You will enter this sally port,” he said, gesturing toward the tunnel, “and report to the Cadet in the Red Sash. You will present arms—salute him.” He eyed the fou
r of us with disgust and asked, “Do any of you maggots know which hand to salute with?”
The guy to my left raised his hand and cried out, “I do!”
The cadet lunged toward him and snarled, “YOU ARE NO LONGER IN KINDERGARTEN, MORON! YOU HAVE FOUR RESPONSES, AND FOUR RESPONSES ONLY: ‘YES, SIR’; ‘NO, SIR’; ‘NO EXCUSE, SIR’; AND ‘SIR, I DO NOT UNDERSTAND.’” Then he stepped back and yelled, “DO YOU PEA-BRAINED, SCUM-SUCKING, LOW-LIFE GRUB BALLS UNDERSTAND?”
“YES, SIR!”
“Then let’s hear it! What are your Four Responses?”
It took us about half a dozen tries to memorize our Four Responses correctly and in order, but when we did, the cadet actually smiled. A Close-Up toothpaste smile. His snow-white, black-visored cap gleamed in the sun and looked like a halo on his head. I smiled back. I couldn’t help myself.
I regretted it immediately.
“SMIRK OFF, SMACK!” His spit sprinkled my face, and it suddenly occurred to me that he hadn’t used his Close-Up anytime recently. “I’m not your boyfriend, Chucklehead, and I’m not your friend. I’m not your momma, or daddy, or big brother. Save your smiles for the mirror, ’cause that’s the only place where they’ll be welcome here!”
I could feel my throat tighten and my mouth go dry.
He turned from me and addressed the four of us. “YOU MAGGOTS MAKE ME WANT TO PUKE! MY OLD GRANNY IS MORE TOGETHER THAN YOU WORTHLESS SCUMBAGS! AND SHE’S DEAD!”
We all started to shake like a washer on the spin cycle with an uneven load.
“Now, you will report to the Cadet in the Red Sash. You will salute like this.” He placed his right hand at the brim of his hat and said, “You will sound off and say, ‘Sir, New Cadet X reports to the Cadet in the Red Sash as ordered.’ Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
“POST!” he barked.
No one moved.
The cadet blinked. “What are you, a gaggle of half-wits? Post means to move with a sense of purpose to your appointed destination. You got that, idiots?”