Hard Corps (2 page)

‘That bitch toad can’t even wrestle. What the fuck is she doing here, anyway?’

The derision, the disdain, made my blood boil. I would show him — and all the assholes who didn’t think women had what it took to make it here — that not only could I wrestle, I could beat the shit out of any cadet there. My bravado gave me just enough energy to put up a good fight. Mercifully, Sinclair called it quits just before I gave out completely.

On my way back to the barracks, I noticed Mr Cool again. He seemed to be watching me, which was disconcerting, but somehow exciting. I toyed for a moment with the daydream of walking over and saying ‘Hi’, but of course, as an underclassman, I wasn’t permitted to do that. When I looked up again, he was gone.

Back in the barracks, someone was already in one of the shower stalls, covered with soap. The whole bathroom was steamy. I pulled off my filthy fatigues, my whole body aching for that hot water.

‘How’d you make out?’ a voice called out, as she turned off her shower. Out stepped Jean Dillon from behind the plastic curtain. Her compact, little body was wrapped in a large, white towel, her thick, dark hair hanging wetly down her shoulders.

She smiled at me, but somehow it came out as a grimace. Jean seemed like a girl with a chip on her shoulder. From the moment we had arrived at school, she had been finding things to complain about and ways to insult the people around her. She always seemed to be looking for the worst in everyone. But then, I tended, and still do, to jump to conclusions about people, so I decided to try to be friendly, and to quell my own suspicions that she was trouble.

‘Great,’ I lied, never wanting to admit defeat. ‘I whipped his sorry little ass.’

‘Oh,’ Jean said, her mouth twisting into an unpleasant smile. ‘Well, you saw how I did. I think that asshole Graham broke my arm, for God’s sake. I don’t think it’s fair that they put us with the guys. They should put us with each other, even up the score a little.’

For the moment I forgot my well-intentioned plan to give her the benefit of the doubt. ‘Oh, grow up, Jean. This is Stewart Military Academy, not Miss Priss University. If you want to compete with other girls, go to a girls’ school. Be glad they’re treating us like equals.’ I was naked now, and standing under the luke-warm tap, trying to scrub the mud from hidden cracks and crevices in my body.

‘Fuck you,’ Jean hurled back at me, her voice changing from whine to snarl. ‘I’ve been watching you, Harris. You think you’re so tough because you can fight like a guy and do the drills like a guy. I think you’re just a big dyke, if you want to know. So do the other girls.’

I flushed at her remark. Not that it’s true. I’m not a lesbian, though I certainly have nothing against them. But the vehemence of her response caught me off guard. I turned away from her, with no smart response of my own to put her in her place. I don’t know why her remark stung so much. I’d been called a dyke, a lesbian, a pussy-lapper; every name in the book, ever since I’d hit puberty and failed to trade in the baseball for the hair ribbons. But I guess I didn’t expect it from her, an entering freshman woman in one of the most sexist institutions in the country. She knew what it took to get in here, and to stay in without going insane.

I felt anger start to overtake the hurt feelings. ‘Why don’t you go to hell,’ I shot back, finally. It was lame, I admit it. I couldn’t believe I was fighting with this girl over nothing.

‘Dyke bitch,’ she snarled back. I turned away and stuck my head under the shower. My first enemy and it was only the second week of school. This was going to be a long year.

I didn’t have much of an appetite that night: I had over-exerted and felt nauseated. When lights-out came, I thought I would have a hard time falling asleep on the thin, hard mattress, but all too soon we were being screamed at to rise and shine, as a trash-can lid was banged on the floor for emphasis.

At breakfast I realised that I was ravenous. I heaped my plate with scrambled eggs, stacks of pancakes, ham, bacon, grits, a cup of milk, a mug of hot cocoa, and some coffee. Along with the rest of the cadets, I hurried to the table and began to wolf down my meal. Brady, my mudwrestling partner, sat down next to me, his tray as laden as mine. He smiled at me and I smiled back. He crossed his wrists on the table for a moment and looked at me. It was almost as if he expected me to respond somehow. There was no talking in the dining room, so of course I didn’t.

What was that about? I wondered, as we jogged to the Yard for day two of hell. But I had no chance to ask. Students in green fatigues and orange caps poured on to the concrete. Sinclair was there, whistle in hand.

‘Oh, God,’ Brady moaned softly, next to me. As the veins bulged in Sinclair’s neck from blowing so hard on the damn whistle, down we went. Day Two had begun.

Time became meaningless as we stretched ourselves to our physical and emotional limits. My entire goal became to make it through without collapsing. I didn’t care if I finished with honours, or even with dignity. I just wanted to get through it alive.

*   *   *

It was now midnight on the final night of Hell Week, and the whole lot of dishevelled, exhausted freshmen sat slumped on benches in the mess hall, nursing hot cocoa and eating cookies. Except for those who didn’t make it through the programme. Several had been disqualified as a result of broken bones or sprained joints. They would be allowed to return to classes, of course, but there was a certain honour inherent in completing the week that they would never know. One fellow really lost it; he sat down smack in the middle of an obstacle course on the fourth day and just started crying. Nothing, not the sergeant’s threats, or cajoling, or the encouragement or scorn of his classmates could stop the poor guy from sobbing. He was assisted off the field and was never seen again. Notably, not one of the dropouts was a woman.

We’d just finished a two-hour forced march with full gear. Hell Week was over and thank God for that. Brady was next to me again; I’d begun to notice that he always seemed to be near me. About five-feet nine, with a wiry, though muscular frame, Sam Brady wasn’t really my type. He had carrot-red hair and pale skin scattered with freckles. He wore glasses that were forever slipping down the bridge of his nose. We walked out of the dining room together and he turned to me.

‘So, Harris. We did it. We’re full-fledged toadies now.’ He grinned happily and I grinned back at him. A lot of the freshmen boys had taken their cue from the upperclassmen, and treated us girls as if we were intruders who didn’t belong. At least Brady treated me as an equal.

‘Yep. Now we get the honour of being treated like shit for the rest of the year by a bunch of asshole upperclassmen. But at least we get to sleep all day tomorrow.’

‘Yeah, well, not me. I’ve got more important things to do.’ Without further explanation, he said ‘good night’ and headed toward his dorm. I did the same, wondering what could be so important for a toad to do during his one Sunday off since we’d arrived.

Despite my best intentions, I couldn’t sleep the day away. I did sleep in until 10.00, rising slowly, feeling the ache in every muscle from the gruelling week that had passed. I stood in the shower until there was no more hot water; that took about seven minutes. Towelling off, I thought about how to spend my first free day. It was a perfect, breezy day, slightly overcast: just right for a bike ride. And I figured that would stretch my sore muscles, too. We had been given the whole day off, and that was not likely to happen again for a long time. We were even permitted to wear ‘civvies’ for the day, and go about on our own, rather than marching in tight, little groups of two or four, as we did on our way to classes and drills. So, donning my favourite faded T-shirt and bike shorts, I headed for the bike racks.

I decided on a ride through the park near the school. There was a long, winding bicycle path through the tall pine trees. Even though it was September, autumn had yet to arrive in Georgia that day. I rode slowly, watching the path, not thinking about much of anything. After about 45 minutes, I stopped to rest near a little stream. I sat against a tall pine and leaned back, closing my eyes.

‘A cyclist. That explains those long, perfect legs.’

My eyes flew open. There he was, right in front of me. Mr Cool, also dressed in civvies: a white, button-down shirt and black slacks. He still looked rather formal, but it was certainly better than olive drab. I noticed he was holding a bottle of Coke, which made me realise I was thirsty.

‘Oh! Excuse me. I didn’t realise there was anyone here.’ I started to get up; toads aren’t supposed to sit in the presence of upperclassmen without express permission.

‘Oh, please. Sit down. It’s Sunday and we’re not even on the campus. Take it easy.’ As he spoke, he eased himself down next to me. I wrapped my arms around my knees, waiting to see what came next.

‘So, how’s it going?’ he asked, his voice low and pleasing. ‘You survived Hell Week, I see. No permanent scars?’

Mr Cool looked at me then, his eyes raking my body, making me feel very self-conscious. I huddled to myself even more as I mumbled something about still being intact. I blushed then, as his grin made me conscious of the double meaning of my remark.

What was going on here? I’m usually very self-assured around guys, even older ones, mainly because I don’t give a damn. My tastes at the time, at least in theory, ran to older men, men who had been around a bit, who had experienced something of life. I looked for someone who could take control, someone who wasn’t too easy to wrap around your finger. Even upperclassmen like Mr Cool usually left me indifferent.

But there was something about this guy. It wasn’t just that he was very handsome, with dark, wavy hair and blue, almost violet eyes. There was something about his expression, his bearing, that I couldn’t quite pinpoint. Something intriguing; something dangerous.

‘What’s your name, toad?’ His tone was suddenly formal, demanding. I sat up straighter, reminded again of his status.

‘Harris, sir. Remy Harris.’

‘Remy, huh? Unusual name.’ He relaxed back into informality, stretching his long, lean form out on the grass.

‘My mother is a Francophile. She loves everything French. It’s a French name.’

‘I know. It’s derived from the town of Reims. I’ve been there. My dad was stationed in France when I was in high school.’ No one had ever heard of the name before, much less known its derivation. I was suitably impressed, but said nothing. He smiled again and held out the bottle.

‘Like a swig?’ he offered.

I started to say no but, for some reason, held out my hand and took it. As I drank the cold soda, I was reminded that I hadn’t eaten since the midnight rations of the night before.

‘Hey. Don’t drink it all.’

I stopped at once, looking over to see if he was angry, but he was still grinning. Mr Cool looked at his watch and said, ‘It’s about lunch time. Wanna come with me to the pub for a bite to eat?’ The pub was for seniors only, unless by invitation. It was a place for them to meet for lunch or dinner, or just to hang out.

I was surprised at his invitation. I didn’t dare refuse. Not that I wanted to. ‘Well, thanks! That would be great, I guess. Maybe I should know your name first?’

He stood, his smile like a sunburst across his features, and said, ‘Jacob. Jacob Stewart, at your service.’ He held out his hand to help me up but, of course, I didn’t take it. Jacob had ridden his bike too, which I now saw leaning against a nearby tree. He retrieved it and together we rode back to the campus.

Over a lunch of cheeseburgers and onion rings, I finally asked the question that had popped into my head the minute he had introduced himself. ‘So, are you related to “old cannonball Stewart” himself?’

He laughed, throwing back his head as he did so as if the question were hilarious to him. ‘I admit it, though I had nothing to do with it. He was my great-great uncle. Real whacko, so the family lore has it. Stone-cold crazy. But I hope to follow in his hallowed footsteps, or at least make it through graduation at this damn place. Then my army stint, and I am a free man.’

‘Sounds like you aren’t really into this, then. Did your family force you along the military path?’

‘You could put it like that. Let’s just say that I chose the lesser of two evils. Or so I thought at the time.’ He grinned at me, but said nothing else. Of course, I was dying to ask more, but I didn’t dare. As friendly as he was, he was still a senior and, as such, my superior officer.

‘Well, well, well.’ Another upperclassman sauntered over to our table. He was a short, heavy-set guy, with dark, curly hair and a jutting browline that was positively Neanderthal in proportion. There was a sneer on his face and I was at once on my guard. ‘What have we here, Stewart? Slumming for toadies again?’ I looked down, controlling my impulse to slap him.

He focused directly on me then. ‘Stand up, toad! You are before two senior upperclassmen! Where are your manners, cadet?’

I jumped up, my hand automatically finding my forehead for a quick salute, my eyes straight ahead. I was cursing myself for having dropped my guard around Jacob. He had seemed so friendly and relaxed that I had forgotten my position as a toad in senior territory.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ I mumbled. I stood a good two inches taller than the Neanderthal as he edged in close to me. He pressed in so that my breasts were touching his chest. I resisted my urge to pull back.

‘No. I won’t excuse you. Hit the floor and give me thirty, bitch toad.’

I thought of appealing to Jacob, but I didn’t dare look at him. There was nothing he could do anyway: to question the orders of another senior would be decidedly bad form. I hit the floor. Technically I could report the Neanderthal for using foul language, but I wasn’t about to make trouble. As I rose from the floor, palms flat and body straight, I felt his shoe against my ass. He pushed down and I lowered myself to the floor. Each time I rose to complete a push-up, his foot was there to press me back. I was flushed with exertion and fury by the time I completed the thirty.

When I stood up, breathing hard, the Neanderthal laughed cruelly. ‘Not bad, bitch toad. Not bad for a stupid bitch.’ He turned to Jacob. ‘At least you picked one that can pass muster this time, Stewart.’ His eyes were small and close together. He reminded me of a police artist’s recreation of a criminal. He was bad news.