UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Advance Reader’s e-proof
courtesy of HarperCollins Publishers
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UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Dedication
dedication page t/k
Contents
Cover
Disclaimer
Title
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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ONE
I’M PHYSICALLY INCAPABLE OF SAYING NO TO A DARE—I’VE got the scars and broken bone count to prove it. And that fatal flaw, Bad Habit #1, is the reason I’m sitting in the car with my parents right now, listening to some small town radio DJ talk smack about me.
“So, stop me if you’ve heard this one: You know Lieutenant Colonel McKenna, right? Well, in case you’ve been living under a rock all summer, here’s a refresher: Commander of the Third Special Forces Group based out of Fort Bragg, North Carolina. One son was a Ranger; the other is the cadet colonel at our very own Denmark Military Academy this year. Well, now the McKenna family is taking their patriotism one step further.”
“Turn it off, Topher,” Mom pleads, waving her hand halfheartedly at the center console. I’m surprised she even came along. Since my oldest brother, Amos, died last year, she hasn’t done much of anything except pop pills. And, for someone who married into the service and has two kids who bleed camouflage, she hates the military with a fiery passion that rivals an inferno.
Dad sucks in air through his teeth, but otherwise says nothing; he doesn’t need to because the radio DJ continues. “That’s right. The Light Bird’s daughter, Sam, is set to start at the DMA today. Who knows? McKenna could very well ruin the finest military high school in this country with his own hands.”
My eyes jerk to see Dad’s reaction to his rank being disrespected like that. His jaw clenches. The Light Bird is not happy.
“That’s right. She’s joining four others to be the first class of females determined to do what only young men have done in the last hundred and twenty years: graduate from the Academy.” The DJ’s laugh is scratchy, like he’s smoked about fifty too many packs of cigarettes. “Hey, Sam!” The DJ yells into the car and I close my eyes, waiting. “It’s great that women can fight on the front lines now. If you want to go to the Middle East and get your head blown off, I won’t stop you. Equal rights and all that. But no one wants you here. Go back to Fayetteville and stay the hell out of our school!”
In the backseat, I shake my head. The DJ couldn’t be more condescending if he tried. But I’ve heard it all before. Emails and calls came all summer long from alumni, current students, and those too scared to give their names. All of them said the same thing: we’re not wanted at the DMA, and there will be trouble if we show up.
I shift my weight and stare out the car window, at the mountains that I’ll be calling home for the next three years. I’ve seen bigger, especially when we were stationed in Germany, but the Blue Ridge is still pretty impressive. The rolling hills go on for waves and waves of blue, stretching from here to the north. The Appalachians rise up to my left far into West Virginia.
Mom turns from staring at her own reflection in the visor mirror to peer into the backseat at me. Big watery tears fill her eyes and she begs. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I know you think you do, but you don’t.”
I thought maybe she’d finally given up, and I’m glad I’m sitting on my hands so she can’t see my fingernails—or lack thereof, thanks to Bad Habit #2. “Please. Can we not start this again?”
She doesn’t know about the dare, of course. After the epic hitchhike-to-Turkey dare three summers ago when we had to get a military escort back to Berlin with the Funkhauser boys, dares of any kind are strictly verboten in our house. No, the only “win” for her is if no one in our family ever has anything to do with the military again. After Amos, the last thing she wants to see is a uniform on any of us.
“I mean,” Mom continues, her words slow, “what will kids say to your children? They’ll get teased! ‘Your mom wears combat boots!’” She ends in the voice I used to use when I picked on Amos.
I let out a burst of air. “Is that really all you have left in the way of arguments?”
“Samantha Jane,” Dad barks. “You will not speak to your mother like that. Apologize now.”
“Yes, sir.” I cross my arms as the car creeps forward another inch. “Sorry, Momma.”
Mom gazes out the window. “Do you think we’ll see Jonathan when we get on campus?” She picks at her fingernails. The tick tick tick is enough to make me want to jump out of the car.
The line of traffic stretches up to the gates and inside the DMA, but we’re not even close. I wonder if they plan this—the long wait to get checked in—to let the anticipation build and build. I wonder if anyone drops out before they even get inside the gates.
“Even if we do see Jonathan, you and Sam are not to say a word to him,” Dad orders.
I resist the urge to salute. I got the same speech at breakfast this morning. No talking to Jonathan. No looking at Jonathan. No thinking about Jonathan. Definitely no embarrassing hugs for Jonathan.
Jonathan is the cadet colonel. You can’t be all female around him. As if being female is somehow a sickness Mom and I can get o
ver.
Not like he’d give me a hug even if I begged for one. Not anymore.
“Now, Sam,” Dad says, eyeing me in the rearview mirror. “I made sure Reverend Cook is your faculty mentor. He and I go way back. He lives off campus, but he’s at the chapel every day. You’ll meet with him weekly, at first, to make sure you’re assimilating well. Then the meetings will spread out.”
“I know, Dad.” I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice—it’ll only make things worse—but he’s told me this three times today already.
“You promised me she’d be fine.” Mom sounds like one of those little cartoon chipmunks. I wonder if they have medics on campus to resuscitate her if she keels over. “She’s not a delinquent like most of the kids here. She also doesn’t need to be an ROTC cadet like your sons, either. And she shouldn’t have to go through training since she’s not a freshman.”
“She’s a McKenna. That name comes with certain privileges around here. But she’ll go through hell just like all the others. Every new student goes through freshman training, even if they are a year older. And it’s not like they’re going to let a female skip out on all the rites of passage. It’s not going to be easy. It’s not meant to be easy.”
“Well, then maybe you should tell her not to do it. She’s only doing this because of you. You can be proud of her even if she doesn’t wear camouflage.”
Dad’s eyes get dark. Mom never pushes back, especially not where I’m concerned. Not anymore. I push open the car door. “I’m going to walk. I can’t have this argument again. I’ll see you guys at the gate.” I slam the door shut before the commander of Platoon McKenna can order me back.
The humidity of Virginia in August has me sweating before I take five steps. I might as well be swimming up to the gate with the air as thick as it is here. I glance into cars as I pass wide-eyed freshmen dressed in what we all have to report in—khaki pants, white button-down, black tie. Yes, a tie, even for the females. No special treatment for the first girls at the DMA.
I don’t know the four other females who signed up to do this with me. We’re either incredibly brave, or stupid. “Stupid,” I say to myself. “Definitely stupid.”
If Amos hadn’t used my weakness of needing to please Dad to goad me into the dare, I wouldn’t be here. I could have easily enlisted after high school just like he did. I kick a rock as I move toward the entrance to campus. Thinking about Amos through this whole process is not going to help at all.
The DMA sits on top of a hill overlooking the town. The walls are tall, making the campus look like a castle or a prison, depending on the reason you’re there. It’s weird that it’s here, in Middle of Nowhere, Virginia, but if I get the chance to stay in the same place for three whole years and make an actual home for myself, I’ll take it. Bed, place to eat, place to shower—that’s all a home is to any military brat. It would be nice to add friends into the mix for once.
At the gate, a tanned and toned upperclassman sneers at me, but I don’t miss how his eyes slide down to my chest and linger just a second too long. I haven’t been issued a name tag yet, so he can’t know I’m a McKenna or the sister of his cadet leader. I give him my sweetest smile when he slowly brings his gaze back up to my face.
“Can I help you, miss?”
I let my eyes slide suggestively down. He’s got incorrect folds in the front, probably a loose shirt stay. Wrinkles in the trousers. Shoe shine needs a bit of work. It’s like a disease. I couldn’t turn off my military bearing if I wanted. That’s what you get when you’re raised by Lieutenant Colonel McKenna and live in a house full of military-obsessed males. Once I’ve taken it all in, including the last name on his uniform, I meet his gaze straight on. “Not at all, Cadet Evers. Just waiting for my dad to come check me in.”
Beads of sweat line his forehead under his garrison cover and he wipes at it. “You’re with the incoming class?” He takes a step toward me, a little too close for comfort.
I know the type—I’ve dealt with them my whole life. He thinks he looks good in the uniform and any girl will melt into a puddle at his feet. But not me. I laugh instead. “No, I just wear this outfit because I think it looks good.”
He glares and turns away to help the next car in line.
But I’ve got to watch it. No matter what I think of this cadet, I’ve got to keep my mouth in check. Who knows who this guy might end up being? If he’s my drill sergeant—the drill sergeants here are always juniors, always seventeen—I’m in trouble already and Hell Week hasn’t even started.
Two cadets pass to my left and Evers brings his hand up to his eyes, saluting. “Good afternoon, Colonel.”
“What’s up, Evers?”
I’d know that cocky-ass voice anywhere, but I turn toward Cadet Colonel McKenna anyway. My brother doesn’t even bother glancing in my direction.
“Just guarding the gate, passing the time ’til we get to see what these Worms are made of.”
The other cadet with my brother looks my way, and then whispers something in Jonathan’s ear. They crack up and a trio of birds startles in the nearest tree. The other cadet is Lyons, Jonathan’s second in command. I’ve never met him, but I’ve seen pictures and heard lots of stories.
“Stop by after the Worms meet their cadre tonight, okay?” Jonathan says to Evers. “We’re having a party.”
“I’ll be there. Thank you, sir,” Evers says, bumping fists with Jonathan.
Lyons is already a few steps ahead. Jonathan moves on, ignoring me like he has all summer. It wasn’t always this way. Back in Germany we’d been thick as thieves—the three McKenna amigos. But all that changed when Amos hung himself and I decided to come here.
It’s another ten minutes of awkward silence with Evers until Dad’s car pulls up.
“Can I help you, sir?” Cadet Evers’s voice pulls me back to the here and now. “Oh, Colonel. I didn’t realize. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” He brings his hand eye-level and salutes my father. “I’m a friend of your son.”
Dad salutes back. “Well, then, the Colonel should have taught you how to dress your shirt properly and iron your trousers. You’re representing your school, today, Cadet Evers.” Dad looks my way. “Get in, Sam.”
Evers’s eyes get just a hint wider as he realizes who I am. There’s no way to miss the embarrassment and anger on his face. He quickly fixes his shirt, though it’s still not up to regs, and checks his clipboard. Then he looks at me once more before turning toward Dad. “Pull on through, sir. You’ll want Stonewall Hall, third building on your right. Cadets will meet you there with further instructions.”
Dad nods but doesn’t take his foot off the brake yet. “When you get a break, take a rag over those shoes, too. I should be able to see myself in them.”
“Yes, sir.” On his walkie-talkie before we’ve even pulled through the gate, Evers is probably telling someone at Stonewall Hall to roll out the red carpet.
I can’t help grinning as we pass by.
The rest of the day is exactly what Dad warned me about: a lot of boring standing around doing nothing. Cadets carry my footlocker up to the top deck of the barracks and even put it in my room for me. Dad helps me unpack undershirts and underwear, rolling them to regulation length and putting them into drawers, and we hang up the few white shirts I’ve brought along. There’s nothing else to set up; we’re not allowed to have TVs, phones, or anything, really.
The cadets make friendly—or at least not awkward—conversation with Dad as we walk around campus, but they don’t even glance at me. Once I passed through those gates I became nothing. Less than nothing. I’m a recruit—a Worm (the “friendly” word recruits are known as until we’re recognized as cadets sometime around Christmas) at the DMA. That’s it.
We find the laundry and get my standard issue uniforms to carry back to the barracks. At least I don’t have to walk in the gutters yet. It’s the only place recruits are allowed to walk on campus, right where the rain washes away into the drains, where the leave
s will collect when the seasons start to change. Walking on the sidewalk is something to be earned, like everything else around here. Like getting to live on the first floor of a building, being able to walk across the grass or leave campus whenever we want, having a television in our room, and wearing civilian clothes. Everything’s earned here. And I’m determined to get every little privilege I can.
The whole time, Mom stays in the car.
“Attention, recruits.” The voice over the loudspeaker echoes across the parade ground. “You have five minutes to say good-bye to your families. When your time is up, you are officially recruits at the DMA and you must abide by all rules forthwith. Any recruit caught not walking in the gutters will be given demerits. Any recruit caught not saluting or properly addressing members of the Corps of Cadets will receive demerits. Dinner will commence at seventeen hundred hours. There will be no talking in the mess hall, in accordance with Fourth Class rules and regulations. After mess, you are to report to the armory for your swearing in.”
There is a pause before the voice continues, giving some of the less focused recruits a chance to freak out. “You now have three minutes. Family members, we look forward to seeing you during Parents’ Weekend in October. Thank you for coming.”
I turn to Dad, ignoring the stinging in my eyes. My arms ache to reach out and hug him, to feel his arms around me, supportive and loving. But he’s in uniform. You don’t hug the LTC when he’s in uniform. “Tell Mom bye for me. Tell her I love her.”
Dad looks at me, lips tight, sizing me up. Then he nods. “Make me proud, Sam.”
He’s said it now. The one thing I’ve been telling myself it’s not about since I agreed to this stupid dare in the first place.
Because of course this is for him.
It’s always for him.
After all, when you’re a girl and your Dad’s pretty much the most badass lieutenant colonel there ever was, there’s no way you’re ever going to be able to make him proud.
Unless you do something stupid.
Like agree to be one of the first girls to enroll at a previously all-boys military academy.
Rites of Passage Page 1
