Chapter 20
Age 15
“ Y ou’re late, cadet.”
“Yes, sir.” I stop just inside the mess hall. As the door closes behind me, I throw my hand up to my temple and come right to attention the way I’ve been trained to. “Sorry, sir.”
“What the hell happened to you?” Sergeant Armstrong marches through the rows of industrial racks filled with worn pots and pans. There are 400 cadets at Los Fresno Military Academy. Feeding them requires a lot of equipment and manpower.
“Nothing, sir.” I remain at attention as he stops in front of me, but my gaze slides to the side.
“Not nothing that got you that shiner and a busted lip, boy.”
“You should see the other guys.” Looking him straight in the eyes, I pop off, an old habit that three months in a military academy haven’t extinguished.
“Dan and his crew jump you again?” Armstrong asks, his eyes narrowing.
“Didn’t get a good look at who it was,” I lie, but he’s right. Nothing much is secret on a base with a bunch of guys who have nothing better to do than gossip and fuck around with local girls on the weekends.
“Bullshit, Cadet Jackson.” Armstrong narrows his gaze.
“I got nothing more to say. I’ll get to work.” I crank up my chin. “If you’re done busting my balls.”
“You’ll stay for cleanup to make up for being late.” His lips flatten with his displeasure. “And do two hundred push-ups and sit-ups for giving me lip. You got it?”
“Yes, sir,” I bark like a dog in a pack, a feral dog because I’m far from docile. But Armstrong is all right. One of the lesser evil superiors. He gives me a fair chance when I screw up, which is more than my old man ever did before dumping me here.
“Get to work then.” Armstrong executes a precise turn and marches away. In his absence, Carson Reed steps forward.
“Hey,” he greets without any military bullshit. Carson doesn’t attend the Academy. He’s a local short-order cook and the closest thing I have to a friend inside this hellhole. I don’t count Peace. She’s too far away to be anything more than a guilty indulgence for me, or at least that’s what I tell myself. No way can I admit how vital she is to me and how important our daily phone calls are for my sanity. “What really happened to you?” Carson raises an inquiring black brow.
“Not gonna rat on anyone.” I shake my head.
“Know you aren’t.” He nods, knowing I can’t talk here but that I’ll share what I can when we go behind the building for our smoke break.
Correction. I’ll downplay getting the shit kicked out of me by three guys who feel like they have something to prove by beating me up. Carson knows how these things go. He’s been in the foster care system since he was nine, and he’ll remain in it until he turns eighteen, just like me at this fucking school.
“You’d get knocked on your ass less if you didn’t pop off.” Placing his hand on my shoulder and looking me over, Carson shakes his head. “But you just couldn’t keep your mouth shut, huh?”
“Nope. Where’s the fun in that?” Holding my tongue is a skill I haven’t come close to mastering.
“One of these days, you’re going to take things too far.” He shakes his head sadly. “End up in the infirmary.”
“Maybe.” Maybe that’s what I want sometimes. But will my dad care? No way. Ditto with my mom. My parents are both relieved I’m out of the house. I heard them talking the night before they dumped me here. I’m a strain on their marriage. So I’m glad I’m gone. Another something I tell myself that I don’t really believe.
“What did they say to set you off this time?” he asks.
“Just some bs about my dad.” I shrug.
“Let ’em bash your old man.” Carson squeezes my shoulder, and I grimace. That’s where I got kicked when they wrestled me to the ground.
“Can’t.” I raise my chin. “It’s a matter of principle.”
“Fuck principles,” he spits. “You can’t afford ’em in this place. And Dan’s an asshole. Who cares what he and his buddies think?”
“Only I get to call Bryan an asshole.” I shove off his hand.
“Bo, man, you need to mellow,” he begins.
“What do you know about mellow?” I raise one brow.
“Got a year of wisdom on you, man.” He throws that one year older bullshit at me far too often.
“Reed! Jackson!” Armstrong bellows. “Get back to work! Hands washed and your aprons on.”
“Okay!” Carson yells into the kitchen void. Glancing my way, he rakes back his shoulder-length black hair, tucking it away inside a netted cap. “We’ll talk more on break, yeah?”
“Sure.” I head for the washing station.
“You calling your chick tonight?” Carson leans his shoulder against a beam while I take a turn at the sink first.
“Not my chick,” I deny.
“That the lie you tell yourself?” His ice-blue eyes narrow. “When the reality is you never miss a chance to talk to her every fucking night.”
“We’re just friends. I already told you.”
“Sure, sure.” He gives me a skeptical look that I ignore. I snap a few paper towels from the dispenser and dry my hands. “I might believe that bs if you showed me a photo and I saw she was a dog.”
“She’s no dog.” Peace is more beautiful than a rare edition Gibson. As important to me as music. If a person can be a place, she’s mine. The only place where I feel right.
“How do you know? Maybe she changed. You haven’t seen her in months.”
I shrug. There’s more than superficial shit between Peace and me.
“You should insist on FaceTime next time you chat.”
I shake my head. I know Peace. She’s shy. That would just push her away and pushing her away is the last thing I want because I care about her, and I need her to survive.