Rites of Passage (21 page)

I close up the cereal box—it's the second one I've gone through since everyone disappeared—and stretch. I promised myself I would go for a run after my afternoon pity party and the light is fading fast.

A big crash outside my door makes me jump. I wish there was a peephole, but there's not. I grab my rifle from the rack. It's not loaded, but I could still leave a mark if someone's sneaking around.

When I open the door, though, Drill is standing outside my door. “Sorry,” he says.

I've got to keep my smile at bay and my heart calm. “Drill Sergeant Stamm, this recruit—”

“We're on break, Mac. Quit with the third person.” He smiles and I feel my face go red. “And don't you dare sandwich my name.”

“Thanks, Drill. But . . . how did you know I was here?” I let out a relieved breath and slip the rifle back into its place against my wall. He notices, though, and laughs.

“Rev might have mentioned you'd be here all alone over the break.” He gestures at the broken glass on the floor. “This was a plate of dinner for you.”

My heart almost stops. He thought about me and brought me Thanksgiving dinner? That's not something a drill sergeant would normally do . . . is it? “Oh.”

“But it's obviously not anymore. At least the pie didn't get ruined. I'll run out to my car and get it.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and starts to walk away.

“Wait. You brought me pie?”

He stops and turns back. The grin on his face is the most amazing thing I've ever seen. “I come from a military family, too. I know what it's like to not have family around at the holidays.”

I let him think that everyone is just away—not that they don't want to spend time with me. It's nicer than the truth. “Thanks.”

“I'll go get the pie.”

“I'll clean this up.”

By the time Drill is back, I've swept the remains of the broken plate into the trash and mopped up around the spill. He stands in the doorway, looking strikingly different in civilian clothes. It's just jeans and a green T-shirt with an old-school video game character on it, but tonight he looks like he's just a guy coming to visit, not someone I'm not allowed to be friends with.

“I can just leave the pie here,” he says, though he's holding two plates, and the words come out slowly. Had he brought dinner for both of us, too?

“Stay. I can't promise to be good company, but you're more than welcome to hang around.”

He comes in and hands me a plate with whipped-cream-covered pumpkin pie wrapped in Saran Wrap, the smile back. I'm glad I invited him in. My mouth waters and I sit down at my desk, ready to dive in. “Did you make this?”

“If you count taking it out of the box and slicing it, then yeah. I did.” He pulls Katie's desk chair out and slides it over in front of mine.

I pull the wrapping off and hold it up to my mouth, licking off the whipped cream. “God, just this little bit is better than anything I've had since I got here.”

He laughs again. “That's pretty sad. . . .”

I like the way he laughs, solid and strong, like he's not worried about anything, least of all the fact that my knee is touching his or that my hair is piled in a ridiculously unsexy bun on top of my head. “Yeah, well, you know what the mess hall food is like.”

He hands me a fork, his eyes on the wrapper that I'm still cleaning off. “For when you're done licking the plastic.” He meets my gaze, his cheeks blushing a beautiful shade of red. “I mean, the pie itself is probably pretty good, too.”

“So, pie,” I say, stabbing a forkful, reminding myself that Drill is totally off-limits, even in his civvies.

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “Pie.”

We eat in silence for a few minutes. It's the most comfortable I've been on campus since Dad dropped me off months ago. I don't want it to end, but it does, too quickly. “Why didn't you tell me about your KB?” He sounds hurt, like I've betrayed him somehow.

I'm guessing Matthews told him. “Gee, let me see,” I say around a mouthful of pumpkin pie. “You're my drill sergeant. I screwed up and didn't want you to know how bad.”

His fingernails are white where they press against his fork. “I told you to come to me with problems.”

“It's fixed now. It's fine.”

“So you can totally read through all the words marked in black?”

“I don't want to cause waves, okay? You've already done too much to keep Matthews away. I just want to get through this year and—”

“You shouldn't have to stay quiet to survive the year. This shouldn't be happening.”

I stop the fork halfway to my mouth, my eyes snapping to his face. “It's nothing worse than what I expected. I knew things weren't going to be easy.” He's obviously angry and I'm scared that it's directed at me. “I'm sorry I'm not better—”

“And now you're apologizing. You haven't done anything wrong, Mac. You're . . . you . . .” His eyes rake over my face, searching for something. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, and when he opens them again, he seems calmer, the Drill I trust completely. “You have some whipped cream . . .” His eyes are on my lip again and my heart speeds up, galloping along at a dangerous pace.

Reaching up, I wipe the edge of my mouth.

“No. You missed.” He leans in, his face a breath away from mine. His thumb grazes the corner of my mouth, the rest of his fingers reaching out and brushing the hair at the nape of my neck.

I'm frozen in place, unable to breathe because his hand feels so strong, so right. My jaw fits perfectly in his palm. If he asked, I'd stay like this forever. Forget family drama, forget the Corps and their rules about fraternization, and just stay right here, hovering over pie, linked by whipped cream and losing myself in his crystal blue eyes.

He clears his throat. “Sorry,” he whispers, dropping his hand like I've burned him. “I shouldn't have touched you.”

It's hard to speak with my heart pounding so fast, but I try anyway. “I didn't mind. . . .” My face gets warm.

He laughs, but it's a disgusted humorless sound. “I'm in charge of you. I can't put you in that position.” He scoots back. “Also, I'm kinda scared your dad would kill me.”

A smile tugs at my lips. He's thought about me—about what kissing me would mean, about how Dad would react. I slide forward on my chair, closing the space between us that doesn't feel like it should be there in the first place.

Slowly, like I'm a hummingbird that would flit away with the smallest movement, he reaches out, his fingers brushing mine, just slightly. Doing this is wrong. So incredibly wrong. But I don't stop him and I don't pull away.

Then his phone rings.

I jump, and he jerks his hand away from mine. “Saved by the bell,” he laughs nervously. He stands up and clears his throat, pulling the phone from his jeans pocket. “Yeah?” His voice is rough, scratchy, and he won't look at me. He rubs a hand over his head.

I can't take my eyes off him. The way his T-shirt stretches across his shoulders and wraps tightly around his biceps. When he turns back around, I drop my eyes, but then look away completely because staring at my drill sergeant's crotch is definitely not a way to ease the tension in the room. My face is on fire. I close my eyes and take three deep breaths.

“I can get her a message. What is it?”

His eyes meet mine, turning from sultry to sorry in zero point two seconds. The room is suddenly cold. Who would be calling him about me? I try to read something, anything, in his face, but I can't.

“I'll get the message to her tonight. Yes, sir. Happy Thanksgiving to you, too, sir.” He ends the call and stands still, not turning to look at me.

“What is it? What's wrong?”

He moves toward me awkwardly, like he's not sure where he should be. He keeps meeting my gaze and looking away, almost like he's nervous, though that's ridiculous. Drill doesn't seem like he could be nervous about anything.

I move to my desk, organized to military regulations, notes written in small regimented handwriting. I focus on that so I don't have to meet his eyes.

“Sam.” He looks frustrated, his forehead crinkled like what he's got to tell me is too much.

I try to swallow but can't make myself. I don't know if he's ever called me Sam before, but the way he says it now makes me scared. “What . . . ?” I have to clear my throat and start again. I'd give anything to be five minutes in the past, where we were about to cross a completely forbidden line.

He hands me his cell phone. “Call your mom. She needs to talk to you.”

A call like this could only mean one thing: something's wrong with Dad. I try to push the phone back into his hand. Clenching my teeth, I shake my head just slightly—it's all I can do without falling apart. “It's Thanksgiving. You should get back to your family. . . . I've got some studying to do. I'll call my mom over the weekend. . . .”

“You need to call home, Sam.”

My hands vibrate with energy I can't contain. I take a deep breath, not wanting to know what she's got to say. “Can't you just tell me?”

“I don't know what it is for sure. Your brother just said you need to call.”

“Wait. That was Jonathan?” Tears sting my eyes knowing I was that close to talking to him on Thanksgiving and one slides down my cheek as I realize he didn't care enough to tell me this news himself.

Drill pushes the cell phone back at me and reaches out to hold my free hand in his. There's no fire this time, only warm strength. “Come sit down and call. I'm right here.” He sits down on Katie's chair and I sit on mine. Drill rests our linked hands on my leg.

I hit the green button and hold the phone up to my ear, though I can barely hear the ringing over the pounding in my head. “Please don't let her answer. Please don't let her answer.” I whisper the words over and over. As long as she doesn't answer, nothing's really happened. If she doesn't tell me, I can pretend that everything's normal.

It's something we're always waiting for as military brats: the knock at the door or a call that tells us our parents are dead. That we're going to be orphans. And there's no one who would understand that better than another brat. I squeeze Drill's hand when Mom picks up.

“Hello?” Her voice is shaky and I can tell she's been crying.

“Mom?”

“Oh, God, Sammy.” She breaks down, sobbing on the phone. The sound cuts through me, ripping holes in the fragile existence I'm living here. I pull my hand from Drill's and punch my leg, digging my fingernails into my palm.

“Mom? What is it?”

“It's going to be okay, baby. It's going to be okay.”

I'm not sure if she's comforting herself or trying to convince me, but either way she's doing a piss-poor job. I stand and start pacing, waiting for her to get herself together. My stomach heaves and I know I'm going to lose it if she doesn't say something soon. “Mom . . . What the hell is going on?”

“It's your father. He's MIA, Sammy.”

I double over, leaning against my desk. Drill is next to me in a second, one hand on my back, another on my shoulder. His touch is just enough to calm my breathing.

“Tell me what you know.” I try to sound unconcerned, like Dad goes missing in action all the time.

“They're not saying much . . . not even where he was to begin with. But he's been out of contact for three days.” She chokes off another sob and I hear her take a drag on a cigarette. She only lets herself smoke when Dad's gone and I can't imagine how many she's gone through since she heard the news. “They're looking for him and two other soldiers in his company.”

I don't know what to say. I don't have anything but questions. When I move to start pacing again, Drill pulls me against him and wraps his arms around me. If I'd had any strength before this, it's gone now. I close my eyes and tuck my head against his neck. His heart races in his chest but his arms are still, a wall of strength holding me together. “So what happens now? Do you want me to come home? Stay with you 'til they find Dad?” I hold my breath, not knowing what answer I want her to give. Drill freezes against me.

“No, baby, of course not. You need to stay. There's nothing you can do here and I'm climbing the walls—no reason for you to see this.”

“Call me if you need me.” I lean away from Drill and wipe my hands across my eyes to bring him into focus.
This number?
I mouth to him, and he nods. “Use this number, okay? Drill can probably get to me faster than Jonathan.” I try not to let her hear the anger I'm feeling toward Jonathan right now.

“Okay,” she says, taking another drag on her cigarette. At this point, I kind of wish I had one. “I love you, Sammy.”

“I love you, too, Mom.” I choke the words out, refusing to break down again until I get off the phone. The phone beeps when she hangs up but I hold it in my hand, unwilling to break even the small connection I still have with her.

“Are you okay?” Drill's voice is quiet, hesitant. He takes a step back, putting distance between us. He's an arm's length away and looks like he's in pain, standing on the verge of reaching out to me.

But we've crossed a line neither of us meant to cross. I still feel him against me, the safety I felt even when there's no chance of any comfort at all right now. It felt right. And that's the last thing I have the strength to deal with right now.

I nod. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—” I gesture toward the tear stains up by his shoulder.

He shrugs it off. “Don't be ridiculous, Sam.”

“No. You're my drill sergeant.” I'm suffocating in here, so close to him and this whirlwind of thoughts and fears and revelations that I can't deal with.