by Gary Soto
Richard backed away from the sink, not with the sharp military turn of a cadet but with the wariness of a boy watching out for his survival. He left the restroom and, for a moment, was startled by the hazy morning light that made him blink as his pupils struggled to adjust. He nearly ran into Desiree Sanchez, also a cadet but with the rank of sergeant. Desiree was in every class with Richard—except, of course, PE. But if she had been, she would have been the superior athlete, as she was tall, fast, and competitive. Her legs and shoulders were rocks. Running track, she would have left Richard in the dust. He was glad she was a girl.
"Hey! Watch where you're going—corporal!" Desiree scolded. "You almost stepped on my shoes."
"Oh, sorry, Desiree," Richard said. He glanced down at her polished shoes.
Desiree propped her hands on her hips. "Sergeant Sanchez. Not Desiree. That's just for when you and me are at the playground."
A surprised Richard gazed openmouthed at Desiree. She pulled rank on me! She didn't crack a smile that would have softened her eyes. In fact, her eyes darkened. Richard could not help but survey the two rows of ribbons and the red cord looped around one shoulder. He could only envy the dangling medal for marksmanship. His eyes were weak, but hers, he figured, were eagle sharp. After all, she was on the shooting team, while he was relegated to watching from the back wall of the downstairs armory.
"What are you looking at?" Desiree asked.
"Nothing." Richard knew she must be thinking that he was staring at her breasts. That wasn't the case, but he figured that he might insult her if he said he was admiring her ribbons and not her figure. Girls, he had concluded a long time ago, were weird. He didn't know what to say. "I was just—"
Desiree didn't allow him to finish. She turned away when she heard her name called.
He completed his thought in his mind: I was just looking at your ribbons, Desiree—really. He admitted to himself that he was envious of her rank and the display of hardware that went with it. He was also—he swallowed an unexplainable hurt—envious because she was a better athlete, and her family was nicer than his. Sure, she appeared hard, but her mother was sweet, not like—he swallowed again—his own mother.
His mother was moody. When she talked she never made eye contact. She was distant. She would ask the kitchen knife, "How was school?" She would ask the washing machine, "Did you return the videos on time?" She would ask the steering wheel, "Did you clean up your room?" His mother, he realized, suffered from something, and that something might be her husband, Richard's father, who had left them four years ago. His departure had been embarrassing for all of them. With the car unable to start, his father had ridden away on Richard's bike. His mother had called him a deadbeat, a no-good so-and-so, a shiftless rat. Richard was not proud to admit it, but he wished he had his bike, not his father, back.
Richard scanned the school campus, which was buzzing with students pouring out of two yellow buses that had just arrived. All of the students, it seemed to him, were dressed in loose sweatshirts and baggy pants, including the girls, whose lips were painted not rosy colors but earthy browns. He recognized a few other cadets. He suddenly felt a part of something meaningful. The first bell rang, and the cadets hurried up in a march, while the others—those in hooded sweatshirts and loose pants that revealed underwear—appeared to slow down. Richard even noticed that a few had turned around and started to leave the campus, absently dropping empty potato-chip bags and other debris. They had given up on school for the day. They had given up for good, for all Richard knew or cared. He wished they would go away, just like his father, and never be heard from again. The world would be a better place.
Richard went to English and then history. He had done his homework and volunteered answers to questions the teachers asked. His hand shot up like a spear, perhaps too eagerly because he heard someone snarl, "Teacher's pet cadet." He ignored the taunt. But by the time Richard was in social studies, he realized the activity of raising his hand had taken the ironed stiffness out of his sleeve. It was now pleated with wrinkles.
Finally, right before lunch, he had cadets, his favorite class. He was careful not to leave social studies in a hurry. He feared that someone might step on his shoes or that he might bump against others in the hallway, thus wrinkling his uniform. No, he intended to remain sharp for presentation. Only three weeks ago he had been promoted to squad leader, and he had an image to protect. He walked with his hands curled, as he anticipated falling into place with his squad.
Instead, Richard winced. He could see in his mind Rafael Ortega, the squad clown, chewing gum or maybe belching seconds after Cadet Major Kamakura would call "Attennnnnnnnnntion!" What was worse was that he and Rafael shared the same last name. It was too embarrassing for him.
The three platoons formed like molecules into squads. The cadets' stance was at ease until Cadet Major Kamakura, eyes slicing left, then right, sucked in gobs of air and called out, "Attennnnnnnntion!" Indeed, there was a skirmish in the four squads that made up Platoon C. Rafael, true to form, had not only burped but had taken his nastiness to a new level: He farted.
The entire C platoon laughed. In his squad someone said, "Pheew" and another bawled, "¡Que cochino!" Richard, however, stared straight ahead, his ears tuned for a command. "Grow up," he remarked to himself. He considered doing an about-face and pulling Rafael from the squad, but Mr. Mitchell, the teacher, did that for him. He tugged on Rafael's arm, and Rafael, still jerking with laughter, was sent to the principal's office, but not before he burped loudly and perfumed the air with another blast.
Again the entire platoon—except Desiree Sanchez and himself, the cadets with a future—began to sway with laughter. But the laughter stopped when Mr. Mitchell, eyes stoked with an angry fire, turned and shouted, "Shuddup!" The four squads stiffened, though a few cadets still bore remnants of smiles. But quickly the cadets checked themselves completely, and not because of Mr. Mitchell's threatening voice but rather in response to the approach of two true army soldiers. The entire platoon had caught sight of them—and just in time.
Wow, Richard thought. It was not only Sergeant Moore but a real officer who had so much hardware on his chest that Richard wondered how he could walk straight up instead of bent over. The sergeant and the officer shook hands with Mr. Mitchell, who left in the direction of the principal's office—he was not through with Rafael Ortega.
Cadet Major Kamakura, all seriousness, saluted first the sergeant and then the officer. The major made a command that Richard couldn't pick up, and Cadet Major Kamakura yelled, "Sirrrrrr!" and saluted. He then turned left, and called out, "Attennnnntion." He paused dramatically before barking, "Today, along with Sergeant Moore, we have the honor of welcoming retired Major Charles Wilson of Battalion Forty-three to inspect platoons."
Major Kamakura cut his eyes left, then right. "Does he have our respect?" he barked.
"YES, SIR!" the battalion yelled.
"Do we have the appropriate respect for Sergeant Moore?"
"YES, SIR!"
It was announced that the inspecting officer would also award a few ribbons. Richard couldn't think of any that he deserved but still imagined the major pinning one on his shirt. He imagined that the major, a veteran of many conflicts, would give off the scent of gunpowder or maybe a hand grenade.
Richard stiffened as the color guard walked in front of them, flags waving in the slight breeze. He felt pride, an emotion he tried to conjure up daily, though his school was not an easy place to do it. The lawn was small and ragged, the buildings old with leaky roofs, and the gymnasium condemned because it had been constructed decades before of brick, an earthquake hazard. These days the students had to play basketball on bent hoops with no nets.
After the presentation of colors, Cadet Major Kamakura ordered loudly, "Left face!"
The four platoons turned with precision. Again, Richard felt pride. The cadets, even the dumpy ones, would finally prove themselves in front of a real officer. Their cadet major called out, "Forwar
d ... MARCH!"
Cadet Captain Clayton, who was directly under Cadet Major Kamakura, chanted, "Your left, your left, your left, right, left."
They paraded for fifteen minutes while Major Wilson and Sergeant Moore huddled together and talked, indifferent, it seemed to Richard, to the three platoons' complicated maneuvers. But he realized it was not his place to assume what they were talking about. Maybe they were talking about the Raiders' loss to Tampa Bay on Monday Night Football. Maybe they were discussing the off-season trade of a baseball player. Maybe they were discussing those who didn't laugh at Rafael Ortega. That would be Desiree Sanchez and himself.
A few minutes later Richard discovered they were not talking about him at all. But he had gotten half of it right. They had been talking about Desiree Sanchez, who was awarded a medal for her marksmanship and was promoted to staff sergeant. She's pulling away from me, he thought. I've been a corporal for more than five months. When will it be my turn?
As Richard stood right behind Desiree, he could hear every piece of praise they offered her. He heard Major Wilson applaud her skills, her demeanor, her dedication. He saw him shake hands with Desiree before he saluted her. She saluted in return with a sharp snap of a starched sleeve. He felt envious. She was leaving him even further behind. I'm never going to catch up, he whined in his mind.
From the corner of his eye, he made out a landlocked sea gull watching Desiree's promotion before it turned its attention to an empty potato-chip bag. The bird fit its huge head inside the bag and was eating the flakes of someone else's cheap meal.
After school Richard left with three other cadets and passed Tyrone and Jared, who were leaning against the chain-link fence, smoking.
"Here come the janitors," Jared snarled. He flicked a burnt match at them.
Tyrone laughed. Smoke flowed from his mouth in one huge, dirty cloud.
The cadets ignored them, and within a block the three cadets—all corporals and squad leaders—were walking in step. Richard wanted to bring up Desiree Sanchez's promotion. But he gnawed his lip and swallowed the words that would have been something like the cheap argument "It's because she's a girl—that's why she got promoted!"
The three cadets walked in silence and then peeled away. Even alone, Richard marched with cadet-sharp steps as he turned up his street. Two kids on trikes stopped and watched him. He felt a glow of pride that showed in a smile. He nearly volunteered, "I'm a corporal," but he knew they wouldn't understand. Instead, he said, "Don't ride in the street."
Richard paused in front of his house. Through the front window, he could see his mother coiling up the cord of the vacuum cleaner. He could tell she was in one of her moods—her face was dark, her eyes deep and full of sorrow. A loopy curl fell in front of her face. Her movements and body language all said: I'm sad.
"Hey, Mom," Richard said lightly when he entered the front door, wiping his shoes loudly. He felt he had to assure his mother that he wasn't about to dirty the house with whatever stuck to the soles. He felt he had to turn her mood into something cheerful.
"Hi, Richard," she said to the vacuum cleaner she was lifting.
"I'll put it away, Mom." He hurriedly took the vacuum cleaner from her. He sniffed the air. "What are you cooking, Mom?" He forced up a smile.
"Soup," she answered. "Someone called today and hung up."
Richard swiveled his attention to the telephone in the living room.
"It was probably nobody," Richard argued.
"How come it rang, then?"
Richard offered no answer. He thought he should do his simple task and leave her alone until dinner. He headed down the hallway toward the closet. He placed the vacuum cleaner in the back, where his father's shoes still sat, dark and worn and nothing like his own shoes. He paused there for a moment. His mood seemed to grow sad. He listened to the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing, then the hard thud of what could be frozen hamburger on the kitchen counter. They were going to have hamburgers with their soup.
Richard was familiar with the closet. Once, when he and his cousin played hide-and-go-seek, while he was standing there in the dark, he discovered his father's army uniform. He was surprised because his father had never mentioned that he had served in the armed forces. His father had been a corporal, or so Richard gauged from the two stripes that ran along both sleeves. Two ribbons over the left breast pocket were evidence his father had also done something good. The ribbons were frayed from years of moth attacks. How he had earned them, Richard would never know. All because Father had ridden off on his bicycle.
Richard returned to the kitchen. He was right after all. They were going to have hamburgers in addition to soup. A big frozen block of ground round was on the counter. In an hour the meat would begin to defrost and shed its gray tears.
Richard double bagged canned goods—soups, pinto beans, SPAM, and fruit cocktail mostly—and handed them to a mother whose coat was too large for her. It was Saturday morning, and he was volunteering at a Presbyterian church. That kind of service was required if he wanted to earn a community service ribbon.
"Thank you," the woman said. Her smile was jagged.
Richard smiled. He tried to build up some light in his eyes. He tried to be kind and concerned, though those emotions were not with him right at that moment. Especially not after he noticed that her overly bright lipstick overran her mouth. She had the features of an unhappy clown.
Earlier in the morning, when his breath still hung in the cold air, he had been assigned to lug groceries from a truck into the church. He followed orders from a woman pastor who, like his mother, hardly looked at him when she spoke. Her inattention, however, gave him a chance to look at her: He noticed that the roots of her dyed hair showed white. And a portion of her left pinkie was gone.
"You can put the boxes there," she would say to the floor. "Could you get the broom?" she would ask the window, where a pair of pigeons peered in.
Richard was behind a wobbly table, bagging groceries and handing them over to families in need. To him most of the families suffered in other ways. Their noses ran, their clothes were dirty, and their jowls had the hound-dog look of sorrow. He caught himself swallowing sobs for them. He prayed that he would get a good job when he grew up and that he wouldn't have to descend the stairs of a church basement and open his arms for free food.
But that mood changed when he saw Rafael Ortega, the troublemaker cadet, come down the steps to the basement. He was leading his mother and three other children.
"Aw, man," Richard muttered as he gripped a dented can of pork and beans.
Rafael stopped, too. He looked back nervously at his mother and said something to her. She responded in Spanish, a language Richard should have known (everyone reminded him) but didn't. But he could tell that Rafael's mother was mad at him. Her Spanish was rapid-fire, her eyes smoldering. And what was that? A flat hand ready to rise up in a punishing slap?
Rafael turned and faced Richard.
"He's embarrassed," Richard whispered, and observed that Rafael was wearing his cadet pants. To Richard it didn't seem right for him to wear a part of his uniform on a Saturday. Then Richard had a revelation: Maybe he doesn't have any other pants except his ca det pants. That's why he's embarrassed. But, no, Richard thought. His embarrassment has to do with his family having to ask for food. Still, he was confused because Rafael's mother was fat. It appeared she ate a lot.
The family approached the table in one slow-moving herd. Richard snapped open a bag and was all ready to fill it with goods. He told himself, "Don't look up. Just fill the bag and get it over with." His hands worked quickly as he added soups, bags of pinto beans, boxes of Jell-O, cans of tuna, and instant coffee.
He handed the first bag to Rafael, who took it but refused to gaze up and meet Richard's eyes. Rafael turned away without a word, and his mother said something in Spanish, something not nice, because her words had the two other children stepping away from her apparent anger. They didn't want to get in the way if sh
e started hitting Rafael. The mother then turned back and faced Richard, who was plying a new bag with goods. He didn't dare raise his eyes.
"Gracias," the woman said without a smile and not much movement of her mouth. She waddled away. Her children, including Rafael, were standing by the entrance that would take them from the basement and back up the stairs.
Richard was glad when they left. He worked until two in the afternoon, bagging groceries and applying to his face a smile that he—and maybe others—could tell was not always sincere. He felt bad about that, his insincerity, and tried to make up for it by helping a grandmotherly woman with her groceries. She needed someone to lug them home for her. Home, she said, was only three blocks away.
"Watch your step," Richard warned as they climbed the steps of the basement. He couldn't hold her arm to help because he was carrying two heavy bags of groceries.
To Richard the world seemed full of too much light. He had to squint his eyes shut until the pupils adjusted. When he opened them, he was surprised to find the woman fitting a cigarette in her mouth. She lit it and took three quick puffs, followed by a long pull that collapsed her cheeks. When she released the smoke, it took the shape of a noose. She next licked her thumb and put the cigarette out with its wetness. The woman carefully cupped the cigarette into her hand and placed it back into her coat pocket.
