Rites of Passage (23 page)

“Good. Now sit back and watch. Don't want you injuring yourselves, do we?”

I don't even wait until he's out of earshot to start in on Bekah. “Did you know about this? This is bullshit.” I kick the ground, wanting more than anything to pick up a rock and throw it at Jonathan.

“It's whatever, Sam. Don't worry about it.”

“You're kidding, right?” But her face is relaxed, like she's not even pissed off. “They're putting us there to separate us even more. If we don't go through PT with our recruit buddies, we lose company bonding time. They think we're weak and they're trying to get us to quit. You should be angry.”

“Well, I'm not, okay?” She sits on the ground, crossing her legs and leaning back against a tree to watch the guys on the obstacle course, enjoying her morning off. “They're just boys playing at being in control. So we run a little less, do fewer push-ups. It's not that big of a deal.”

It may not be a big deal to her, since she's suddenly got some kind of special pass with Matthews, but it is to me.

I'm too pissed off to sit. Just so Jonathan can see it, I put myself through a round of push-ups, sit-ups, and jumping jacks off to the side, obviously alone, while the rest of my company does the obstacle course together.

TWENTY-THREE

WHEN CHRISTMAS BREAK FINALLY COMES, I'M ON MY OWN
again, like freaking Harry Potter. Other than getting a cup of coffee with Jax, this vacation promises to be full of suck.

Jonathan didn't even bother coming to me this time to let me know we weren't hanging out. Mom's too busy staring at her phone to have me come home. She called once to let me know they found the soldiers who had been with him, but there's still been no word about Dad. I've found not thinking about it much less stressful than picturing the million horrible places he might be.

Three hours after the last cadets have disappeared from campus, I put on my dress blues and take my second trip off campus since coming in August.

The town is small, just four main streets and a few more stoplights. Uneven cobblestone sidewalks line narrow roads and even though it's only 1700, many of the shops are closing for the night. The sidewalks are busy, people bundled up, heads down against the wind, bags in hands. I shiver against the cold as I walk past stores where Christmas lights twinkle in the windows. The week before Christmas used to be my favorite time of year. This year, though, all alone with the anniversary of Amos's suicide looming overhead, I can understand why people decide to kill themselves during the holidays. They're downright depressing.

The coffee shop Jax wants to meet at sits on a corner of Main Street with window seats that are perfect for people-watching. It must be the only place not closing. A bell next to the door chimes as I walk in, and then again when I shut it tight against the wind.

“Do you want anything, dear?” The waitress rubs a wet rag over the counter next to me.

“No, thanks.” I'm the only customer, but I don't want to order on my own. I find a seat at the window. “I'm waiting for a frien—” But just then I see Jax outside. She tosses a cigarette on the ground and smashes it underfoot.

The door chimes, but she doesn't need any help announcing her presence. “Two coffees, black.” As the waitress walks past, Jax hands her a five-dollar bill. Her makeup is just as thick as it's always been, but her hair is down this time, almost white-blonde with streaks of green. She's wearing black skinny jeans with chains that clunk against the seat and not worried at all about the condescending look the server gives her as she surveys Jax's outfit.

“Hey, Jax. What's so important?”

She looks at me, her eyes scanning my face. “Shit. You look just as bad as Liam.”

“He's changed. He skips company training as much as Bekah now, but he won't tell me where he goes.” Not that I've talked to him since the remedial PT conversation. I'm still pissed about him not standing up for me.

“Hmm . . .” is all she says.

The waitress puts a cup of coffee in front of Jax and slides another cup in front of me. I pick it up to drink so I don't have to talk. The coffee burns the whole way down.

“Whatever the problem is, you're both feeling just as sorry for yourselves. Only he's doing it at home, in sweats.” She shakes her head and laughs. “But, believe me, drama follows Liam around like a sad little puppy dog. He wouldn't be himself if he weren't pissing someone off.”

I clear my throat. “So, your email . . . ?” I don't want to talk about Kelly right now. I need to talk about something I might have a chance to solve, as remote as that possibility might be.

She moves right on. “Matthews and Evers email all the time, but they only talk about your roommate and Bekah. They're eerily silent about you. Like they don't talk about you.
Ever.
”

“Is that weird?”

She shrugs. “It is if it means you're being talked about somewhere else.”

“Well, that's not comforting.”

She pulls out a piece of paper. “Different subject. Do you know what blood wings are?”

“Of course I do. Everyone does.”

“Remember I don't go there and am not wrapped up in all the ridiculous rites of passage. Enlighten me.”

I think of Matthews drilling his fist into Kelly's chest, how much it must have hurt. Does she know about it? Did he tell her? “It's kind of a trial by fire, a way to test how strong you are,” I say when I'm done explaining the basic idea. Kelly hadn't even winced. Wilson had gotten them, too. “Why?”

She sighs. “I don't have it all figured out yet, but from what I understand there's a group of cadets that uses them as a way to mark the freshmen they want to recruit for some disciplinary committee.”

“What?” I wrap my hands around the coffee mug, willing my fingers to warm.

“Look,” she says, tapping the paper in her hands. It's a photocopy of a handwritten letter. “Blood wings are only to be used by the committee.”

I scan the paper, but it still doesn't make sense. Is this the Society? Is that why Kelly's distancing himself? He and Wilson are joining them? “I can't believe it. There's got to be other people who use blood wings on campus. They do it all through the military. . . .”

She shakes her head, handing me a second letter, dated 1897. “No, see? Whatever this committee is—”

“The Society.” I force the words out. Suddenly it's not just a name anymore. Talking about them with Jax makes them all too real. “They call themselves the Society.”

“Okay,” she says, though she doesn't press me for how I know this. “The Society has been around a while. Sometimes secret, sometimes not. You know, they'd make themselves known back when it was more acceptable to exclude people based on race or class or whatever. This letter gives the Society sole permission to use blood wings at the DMA. Blood wings are specifically banned for hazing cadets other than by Society members. Any cadets found using that form of hazing on freshmen without authorization from the Society will be drummed out of the Corps.” She points at a specific sentence.

It takes me a minute to read it. The old-timey writing is full of curlicues that don't need to be there. “You're talking about a secret society.” I want to tell her it's ridiculous—that the DMA wouldn't have secret societies—but they're rife throughout military schools and the military itself. The thought that one would make itself known the year that females start participating in the Corps isn't too shocking, I guess. “Where are you getting your information?”

“I'm good, right? It's amazing what you can find when you know your way around the internet.”

There's no way Jonathan would let a secret society have control over the Corps. They'd be higher than he is and he wouldn't want that to happen at all.

She must read my doubt. “Look, this paper is proof they were working a hundred years ago. There's nothing I've found that shows beyond a shadow of a doubt that they are active now. But everything you've told me points to it.”

I think about my KB, about how worried Rev and Tim seemed.

“You want proof? I'll find it.” She takes another sip of coffee.

But I don't want proof. I don't want it to be true. The thought of having to go back for another semester of what I've just gone through is almost too much to take right now. Jonathan said we'd lose some recruits after the holidays and I can see why. Secret society chasing them or not, why would a normal kid want to go back and go through it for another semester?

“If we're going to go down this path, let's start with Matthews. Maybe I can figure out who he spends all his time with. That might clue us in,” I say, though the thought of spending any more time around Matthews does not sound pleasant at all.

“It's a start. I'll keep digging, too.”

I drain the last of my coffee. “Thanks, Jax. I don't know what I've done to deserve you. . . . ”

“It's not a problem. I told you I owed it to you guys when I bailed on you at the beginning of the year. You're sticking it out. The least I can do is help.”

“Thanks, anyway. I mean it.”

“Forget it. Oh, I was going to invite you over for New Year's, but Liam says you guys have a weird recruit meeting at midnight. What's going on?”

“What? We don't have a meeting. . . .”

“Liam said it was really important. He isn't allowed to miss it.”

My mind works overtime. There's no Corps-wide or even recruit-wide meeting, but if what Jax said about the Society using blood wings is true, and Kelly is being initiated, maybe
they
have a meeting. “Look, I know you and Kelly have history, but . . . does Matthews ever email Evers about
him
?”

“Liam? No. Why? What are you thinking?”

“It's just a theory, okay? I don't have anything solid, but Matthews gave Kelly and Wilson blood wings at a smoke show before Thanksgiving. He's been acting really weird since then . . . pulling away from me, you know?”

She shakes her head. “God, could he be any stupider? I'll look into it.”

I let out a breath. “I'm glad you're not mad at me for telling you.”

“Liam's sweet, but he's stupid. I'll kick his ass six ways to Sunday if he gets involved with them. I reached out to help
you
, Sam. If Liam's gotten himself wrapped up in something like this, then he'll just have to unwrap himself from it.”

After we take our empty mugs up to the counter, we walk back to campus. Jax tells me stories of the civilian high school here. Their Drive-Your-Tractor-to-School Day and the bonfires they have on the weekends when the weather is nice. She's known Kelly since they were in kindergarten together and I'm jealous—not just of their friendship, but of being grounded somewhere. She may not belong at the DMA, but she belongs here.

In sixteen years, the only place I ever belonged was with Amos.

 

Two days later, when I haven't seen anyone on campus, and Jonathan doesn't answer his door no matter how long I pound on it, Rev demands I go see Tim. The ghost of Amos won't let me rest and since it's nearly been a year since he died, Rev takes it upon himself to force my hand. He thinks I'm spending too much time alone. Tim had offered his house as a place to go when I first saw him this year, and Rev thinks it'll be no problem to show up on his doorstep. So, with the piece of paper he'd written his address on, I head into town to find Amos's old roommate.

Past Stonewall Jackson Memorial Cemetery and the old houses that have been around town since the DMA was founded, I find Tim's house. It's near the hospital and in the newer, poorer part of town, but he's got a fenced-in front yard and a nice porch. Music blares from inside, the wood beneath my feet bouncing with the bass. At least I won't be waking anyone up.

A simple knock won't be heard, so I ball my hand into a fist and pound on the door. When no one answers after a minute, I bang on it again. Inside the music stops and my heart starts thudding. I haven't seen Tim since the day in Rev's office, and before that at Amos's funeral. Neither of us was in any shape to talk to each other that day. He should be stationed somewhere, but Mom said after Amos died, he came back here to work for a landscaping company. Quite a drop down for someone who had such military promise.

Tim opens the door and squints at me like he can't see me even though I'm standing right in front of him. Dark circles hang under his eyes; he looks like he hasn't slept in days, hasn't shaved for weeks. He's wearing gray sweatpants and an old DMA T-shirt.

“Sam?” He sounds unsure as he blows a cloud of cigarette smoke out the front door. His eyes are glazed over. Who the hell gets drunk in the middle of the day?

“Hey, Tim. You . . . you said I could come over if I ever needed to. . . .” Suddenly I think this is a bad idea. Retreating would be the best option but I can't make myself move.

He stands in the doorway, just looking at me like I'm some sort of alien with ten eyes or something. More footsteps thunk on the floor inside and someone behind Tim clears his throat.

“Get out of the way, Tim,” Drill says. “Let her in.”

TWENTY-FOUR

HIS IS THE LAST VOICE I EXPECT TO HEAR AND I MOVE
backward, stumbling down a step before catching myself. “Ouch. Shit!” Wincing, I keep all my weight on the ankle that didn't just betray me and try to ignore the heat in my face. “Drill Sergeant, this recruit didn't know that the drill sergeant would be here. This recruit will leave, Drill Sergeant.” The third person thing sounds lame out here, but I can't make my brain work.

He's wearing a soccer jacket with three white stripes down the arm, zipped up high to keep the cold off his neck. His jeans fit exactly right where they rest, low on his hips, and he wears soccer shoes, too. He leans against the door frame, looking so relaxed and gorgeous in his civvies that I want to scream about the unfairness of it all. “Don't be ridiculous. Stay, it's fine. Right, Tim?”