Combat Zone

by Patrick Jones

  The author wishes to thank Susan Olson, Professional Counselor, M.Ed., LPC, for her expertise on military families and thoughtful review of manuscripts in the Support and Defend series, and Judith Klein for her proofreading and copyediting wizardry.

  Copyright © 2015 by Patrick Jones

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  The images in this book are used with the permission of: © Catherine Lane/E+/Getty Images (teen guy); © iStockphoto.com/CollinsChin (background); © iStockphoto.com/mart_m (dog tags).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.5.

  Typeface provided by Adobe Systems.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jones, Patrick, 1961–

  Combat zone / by Patrick Jones.

  p. cm. — (Support and defend)

  Summary: Justin, a bully at his Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, high school, is confused and angry when his father, a career officer he admires, admits he is gay.

  ISBN 978-1-4677-8053-7 (lb : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978-1-4677-8094-0 (pb : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978-1-4677-8821-2 (eb pdf : alk. paper)

  [1. Fathers and sons—Fiction. 2. Soldiers—Fiction. 3. High schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Coming out (Sexual orientation)—Fiction. 6. Gays—Fiction. 7. Racially-mixed people—Fiction. 8. Pearl Harbor (Hawaii)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.J7242Com 2015

  [Fic]—dc23

  2015000596

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – SB – 7/15/15

  eISBN: 978-1-46778-821-2 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-46779-019-2 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-46779-018-5 (mobi)

  TO THE BRAVE MEN AND WOMEN IN THE US MILITARY AND THE FAMILIES THAT SUPPORT THEM

  —P.J.

  1

  “Man up, Justin!” Dad shouts, even though I’m standing next to him. He pats my butt hard and then pushes me into battle, into the combat zone of the mixed martial arts fight in our backyard.

  I inhale all the manly scents. Cigar smoke. Steaks on the grill. Embers from the fire pit.

  Pounding my chest like a hero from the Greek myths, I inhale the smells in the distance. Jet fuel. Diesel. The aroma of home: Pearl Harbor. Military might in a tropical paradise.

  “Go get ’em, Jimmy!” Jimmy Martin’s father shouts. He’s wasting his words. Jimmy can’t take me and everybody knows it, especially Jimmy. I’ve already beaten him without throwing a punch, taking a leg, or grabbing a hold. It’s not if I beat him, but when. And how badly.

  The ref, linebacker superman Mychal’s dad, Colonel Stewart, signals for us to start. I adjust my helmet and step forward. We tap gloves and assume our stance. I’d rather go bone on bone, but the dads make us wear MMA gear.

  Jimmy circles and throws kicks as the crowd of twenty fathers and sons, all military like my dad, make a human octagon to surround us and cheer. And they’re not just military; they’re the elite of elite. Navy Seals.

  “Come on Jimmy!” a voice shouts. I recognize it and it stings more than the right jab Jimmy lands. It’s Calvin Parker, the fourteen-year-old son of Colonel Parker, my dad’s best friend. The Parkers moved to Pearl last spring, about the time my parents split up for good. Dad wants Calvin to be my best friend. No way.

  After a flurry of punches, Jimmy tries a front kick. I snatch his right leg, trip his left leg, and we’re on the grass. I start to pound. Elbows and fists fly as fast as machine gun fire.

  “Waste him, Justin!” Mychal yells loud like he does when he’s calling the defense on the gridiron.

  Jimmy locks his legs around my torso so I’ve got full mount. Up close, it’s a manly fight, but from a distance and to the rednecks of the world, we probably look like two gay dudes doing it. But that’s something I wouldn’t get caught dead being around.

  “Take his back!” Dad yells, as if reading my mind.

  As Jimmy bucks like a bronco to escape, I position myself to grab side control. And that’s what this is all about anyway: control. Every year before school, Seal sons kick off our private season of MMA fighting to settle old scores and set the hierarchy for the upcoming year so there’s no trouble at Pearl High. Of course we’ve got regular sports at school, but our dads know we need something a little more real. This establishes who’s tough and who’s weak. Who rules but also who needs to be protected. At school, we stick together. The Seals are not just a branch of the military; we’re a family.

  And a family that fights together, stays together. So I stick Jimmy with a hard elbow over the right eye that busts him open. I can’t smell the blood, but I can almost taste it in my mouth. Two more quick sharp elbows and it’s like I hit red oil as the crimson spurts upward.

  Jimmy panics—which is why, unlike me, he’ll never make it in the Navy—and that gives me the opening I need. To escape elbows to his face, Jimmy gives me his back. I take his neck.

  My right arm slips around his chin, pressed against his throat. With my left parallel to his sweaty and bloody head, I cinch the hold tight. Tighter. Tightest. Rear naked choke. Don’t get the wrong idea from the name—there’s nothing gay about this fight.

  Jimmy quickly taps my arm to signal his surrender. I release the hold and stand in victory. Jimmy rises, wipes the blood from his brow, and hugs me tight. “Great fight, Justin.”

  “Get a room, lover boys!” Mychal shouts as Jimmy and me hug. Mychal cackles at his words.

  I thank Jimmy for the battle, but he’s not my concern. It doesn’t matter what he thinks, what Calvin or Mychal think, what anybody thinks except one man: Colonel Edwin Ladd. Dad.

  My eyes scan the crowd and it takes a second to find him, just as it took years for us to finally find ourselves in the same home. Same blood, same drive, same warrior heart.

  “How did you like that, Colonel Ladd?” I shout over the roar of a jet fighter overhead.

  Dad whispers something to Colonel Parker, his buddy, and they laugh. They raise their beer bottles toward me as a sign of respect as I walk, head held high, out of the combat zone as the winner.

  2

  “Come on, Justin, ten more!” Dad yells as I bench press the heavy metal off my chest.

  The weight room at school is better than this makeshift gym in our dank basement—nothing but state of the art for the Spartan athletes of Pearl High. But the weight room’s missing one thing: Dad. Given how much he’s been in and out of my life, I’d rather spend time here at home than at school’s well-lit weight-lifting heaven.

  Dad gives so much of himself—for me, for country, for uniform—so I try to give him what he wants. And more. He yells for five reps, I give him ten until it feels like my arms are live grenades with the pin pulled. “That’s the way, Justin, that’s the way!”

  Dad does curls in the corner, not breaking a sweat, but I’m drenched. Moisture drips from my shaved head down onto my workout shorts. I’ve lived half of my almost eighteen years in Hawaii, yet my body still battles the heat and humidity. “Great fight last night, Justin.”

  “I feel cheated. It didn’t last long enough.”

  “Now you know how I feel.” Dad laughs but that laugh’s a fake. While he saw combat in both
Iraq and Afghanistan—and has the scars to prove it—Dad’s valued more as a trainer and leader. So he’s spent most of his career teaching skills, not carrying out missions. I let the comment pass. Dad doesn’t talk about the past—either the wars overseas or those stateside with Mom.

  “I want you to work with Calvin Parker,” Dad says, as he starts curls with his left arm. He’ll do fifty reps without taking a deep breath. “Teach him how to fight.”

  Calvin lasted even less time in his fight with me than Jimmy did. One punch knockout. The first punch. “That’s his dad’s job, isn’t it?” I ask.

  “I taught you self-defense younger than most kids, but those were special circumstances,” Dad says. “Larry didn’t get a chance to teach Calvin.”

  I push the bar off my chest like it’s on fire. It jars me to hear Dad refer to his fellow officers by their first names. He’s Colonel Parker, not Larry. Larry is the name of a limp-wrist civilian who works in a drab office at a computer. Colonel Parker is the name of a warrior.

  “Dad, I’m so busy with football, school—just everything.”

  I wait for him to respond, but there’s just the whooshing of the barbell in the windowless basement. He makes the sound I hate most of all: none. Total silence. His greatest weapon.

  “It’s not my job to teach him fighting.” The words “not” and “no” are rare from my lips.

  Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

  “Besides he’s just a filthy freshman,” I say, almost shouting to make up for Dad’s silence. “Why don’t I just watch out for him? If anybody picks on him, they’ll know I have his back.”

  Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

  “Nobody’s gonna pick on him like I got picked on. He’s not different like me.”

  Clang. The barbell hits the floor. It rolls over toward me, but still no words. When we lived before at Pearl and in California, the fact I looked even the smallest bit different—American dad, Japanese mom—wasn’t a big deal. But then in junior high we were stationed in Virginia and it was a different story. Dad taught me how to defend myself. After that, some kids tried me. No redneck pig lover ever insulted me again.

  Dad picks up the barbell. “Justin, I’m not asking. It might not be your job, but it is your . . .”

  He lets me finish the sentence using the world’s most powerful four-letter word. “Duty.”

  3

  “Carpe diem, Justin!” Dad yells out on his way out the side door. He’s off to another day at the office—one of the few offices where the job is to teach people how to kill others—while I’m getting ready for the first day of my senior year where I will, as Dad says, seize the day.

  Once he’s out the door, I text Eric, my best bro. Dad’s not a fan of Eric, because he’s got no dad and his mom’s a drunk, so I keep our friendship on the QT. I confirm the time I’m picking him up. He replies full of four-letter words. He’s ying to my yang; red-headed rebel to my Seal son.

  I rinse out my bowl and coffee cup and clear the table with military precision. Then I head into my room and check out the closet full of clothes but go straight for one thing. Even though it’s not game day, I like to wear my jersey the first day of school, just to remind people who’s in and who’s out. It’s the second-best uniform in the house. Then I realize with Dad gone, I’ve got a chance to try on the best.

  Just like the rest of our house, everything in Dad’s bedroom is in perfect order. The sheets are pulled so tight, I could bounce a quarter off the bed and it would hit the ceiling. Deep in his closet, wrapped in plastic, is his dress uniform which is used for special occasions like weddings and funerals.

  I carefully remove the hand-pressed uniform and slip the jacket on over my clothes. I’m about an inch shorter than Dad, which I blame on my short Japanese mom. The hat sits on my head, too big, but no matter. According to some teachers at school, my head’s too big, but they’re just jealous, like most civilians, of what I’ll become.

  The bright morning light makes the room almost glow as I stand in front of the mirror. Gazing at my reflection, I see myself after the Academy, after my tours of duty, wearing this uniform to my special occasion—my wedding—with my bride-to-be by my side. “Do you, Colonel Ladd…?” I imagine the words. I don’t want to be an admiral; I don’t want to be a rank lower or higher than my dad. I want to be exactly the same, except unlike Dad, I’ll marry right.

  ***

  “Looking good, Just Man!” Eric says, as he climbs in the back seat of my red convertible Shelby Mustang. It was my seventeenth birthday present from Dad (who got himself a blue one a few months ago for his fortieth).

  Dad never spent a dime on himself—saved everything he earned—until he landed for good on the island. His making light with the green is the surest sign we’re staying put. Also he’s throwing money at me to cover up the guilt of being gone most of my life.

  Mychal, Eric’s next door neighbor, leaps in the front seat. If Eric’s my yang, then Mychal’s my brother from a different mother: mixed race kids with mad football skills run amok.

  “So, you got Double D for English?” Eric asks. Mychal laughs so loud he snorts.

  “You know it.” A bump followed by a laugh. Double D—the estimated bra size of Mrs. Barbara McFadden, Language Arts teacher at Pearl High for the past four years. I thought about failing ninth grade English just to take it over with her. Now, she’s teaching AP and I hope I can focus on the books, not just her boobs.

  “I’d like to shake those spheres,” Eric says. “And tame her shrew.”

  We all laugh as Eric turns the Shakespeare McFadden teaches into something dirty. “I wonder who will fail the test?” Mychal asks.

  “Some homo,” I crack. We know anyone who doesn’t check out Double D is definitely gay.

  “I wonder sometimes about Jimmy,” Mychal adds. “He’s a pecker checker, I know that.”

  That’s another test for a guy on your team or in gym class. If he doesn’t have his eyes on the shower but instead is looking at places his pupils don’t belong, he’s gay. Jimmy’s got a hot girlfriend, but I think that’s just camouflage. “He looks at my junk and I’ll choke him out,” I say.

  “Justin, you gotta be careful,” Eric shouts over the music.

  “All the anti-bullying bull,” Mychal adds. “They should let us sort it out ourselves.”

  “I’ll put the moves on Erin and see if she can handle a real man,” I say. Erin Winter is Jimmy Martin’s girlfriend but like most girls at Pearl, she could be mine if I wanted her.

  “Erin’s fine but not as fine as . . .” Eric starts and for the rest of the drive to school, we’re off to the races comparing the finer points, profiles, and posteriors of various Pearl High fillies.

  4

  “Justin, this is the cool of the evening,” Dad says as he motions for me to take off my helmet. We’re at the peak of Tantalus Mountain, looking down on Honolulu. The lights glow, but the sounds and smells don’t make their way this high. In a few hours, the mountain roads won’t be trekked by motorcyclists like Dad and me but by stupid drifters who think they’re so cool.

  I remove my helmet and feel the ocean breeze on my clean-shaven face even at this altitude.

  “You played a good game tonight, and that’s the cool of the evening,” Dad says. “You’ve done your job. You should enjoy the rewards of your labor, soaking up the world around you.”

  I wish he’d said great game, but he’s right, it was just good. While we won the game easily, I didn’t get any sacks and just a few stuffs, but I was double-teamed all night. That was easy for the other team to do since the right tackle next to me, a civilian transfer named Anton, plays too soft. Luckily, I have Mychal behind us, watching our backs and saving our bacon. He’s a defensive demon.

  “What are you doing this weekend?” Dad asks.

  “Don’t you mean who am I doing?” Dad doesn’t laugh; Mychal would’ve snorted.

  “C’mon, you know being a real man doesn’t mean being disrespectful to women.” Da
d looks at me. I look away—sometimes I forget Dad isn’t one of my boys. “Anyway, I thought maybe we’d take a long ride on Sunday,” he says, letting it go.

  “Just us?”

  “I thought maybe Larry and his son Calvin could come with us,” Dad says.

  “He’s too young to drive,” I remind Dad. I remind myself to ask Calvin what he thought about his freshman English teacher, Mrs. McFadden. See if he passes the gay test.

  “We’ll make it work.” I don’t say anything because I’ve heard that before from Dad, and I think it’s the only time he’s ever lied to me. When I was little, I’d ask him about him and Mom since they almost never got along, and he’d say, “We’ll make it work.” It never did, but what can you expect when half of a machine is made of strong metal and the rest of weak fiber.

  “Do you miss Mom?” I ask Dad. I noticed he’s staring not down at the city, but far off, over the ocean, toward Japan. After the divorce and he got custody, Mom moved back home.

  Dad’s silent again. Is he punishing me for asking? Or doesn’t he have an answer?

  I start to talk again, but he puts his helmet on and motions for me to do the same. He revs the mighty engine of the Harley; I respond in kind. Dad zips up his jacket and gives me a thumbs-up sign. I do the same and now we’re off, seeing who can be first down the mountain. He wins, but only because I let him. The turns are sharp and scary, and adrenaline pumps through my body like it does when I’m fighting, wrestling, or crushing some helpless quarterback who’s trying to make a pass.

  As we cruise down the hill, the cool of the evening gives way to the warmth of the gray pavement and body heat of a million-plus people crammed on this little island. But it could be worse. I could be back in Virginia—or worse yet, in Japan with my mom. All the way down the mountain, we talk to each other about nothing much, using the Bluetooth headsets clipped under our helmets.

  At the bottom of the mountain, Dad pulls off to the side of the road. I fall in line just a few seconds behind. He takes off his helmet, and the setting sun seems to bounce off his crew cut. My helmet stays on but I cut the engine so I can hear. “So, Sunday with Larry and Calvin.”