by Liza Palmer
GO!
We all burst off the line. I cut to the inside as fast as I can and draft off Pierre. My breathing is easy and my legs have never felt stronger. The chaos and madness fall away, and I find myself smiling and almost laughing as I burst out to the front of the pack. The measuring of the sheets and the folding of the towels within a millimeter and the reporting statements and all the rest fade into the background as I pull away. Of all the things I can’t control, everything that’s unknown, me running fastest around this track is not one of them. I don’t know who’s behind me or how close they are, but within three laps I can’t hear anything but my own rhythmic pace and my own steady exhalations. By the time I surge over the finish line, I can’t keep from smiling. I slow to a jog and then a full stop, bend over, and rest my hands on my knees as I catch my breath. It’s another two seconds before Maria comes across the finish line. Bianchi and Pierre finish a distant third and fourth. Both were an entire half lap behind the two of us. Maria walks over to me, hands on her hips.
“So you ran track a little, huh?” Maria says, laughing.
“Yeah, well, right back at’cha,” I say, straightening my posture.
“I don’t know what I loved more, watching the other flights see us finish first and second, or catching the exact moment Bianchi realized he lost,” Maria says haltingly as she catches her breath.
“You clocked him, too?” I ask, my voice dipping into a low whisper.
“Dudes like Bianchi are a dime a dozen,” Maria says. She mimes a giant yawn. “Boring.”
“He can be as boring as he wants, as long as he doesn’t get in the way of me being able to fly combat,” I say, my voice an unguarded lilt. And then it all happens so fast. I can see Maria’s face light up at my words and then immediately fall as her focus is pulled to something—or to be exact, someone—just behind me. It takes milliseconds for me to turn around and see that they’ve heard me. Bianchi, Pierre, and Del Orbe, who’s also finished his run, have heard me say something that I’ve never said out loud until this very moment.
“Women don’t fly combat, Danvers,” Bianchi says.
“Yet,” I counter.
“Is now really the time you want to be telling women what they can and can’t do?” Maria asks, stepping between Bianchi and me. “’Cause I could have sworn this morning you were talking a lot of mess about how women would be trailing…what was it?”
“A full lap behind him,” Pierre finishes. Bianchi shoots him a look.
“A full lap behind you,” Maria repeats.
“And who was it that was a full lap behind?” I ask, scratching my head dramatically for emphasis. Bianchi walks up to me. Close. I lift my chin in defiance and don’t flinch.
“You come in first all you want, Danvers. I still get to be a fighter pilot and you don’t.” Bianchi’s voice is a melodic whisper. He leans in closer. “Congratulations.”
“Danvers! Bianchi! Fall in!” Our entire group leaps to action, as OCs Chen and Resendiz gather our flight to go back to the dorms so we can take showers before breakfast and begin a day filled with briefings, classes, and being yelled at about things I thought I knew how to do, like putting my arms in the right place while walking.
My body is tight and hard as I await instruction. My jaw is bolted shut and my pulse is deafening as it pounds inside my head.
You come in first all you want, Danvers. I still get to be a fighter pilot and you don’t.
We march to breakfast in synchronized perfection. My own precision is being fueled by a barely tamped-down rage that’s verging on apocalyptic. As we reach Mitchell Hall, my eye line has pinholed to just the nape and shoulders of the person in front of me. By the time Maria and I are able to start eating, I’m seething.
“Did you really mean what you said?” Maria asks, her voice low as we move through the line, piling our trays with fruit and complex carbs to refuel for the day ahead.
“About what?”
“That you wanted to fly combat?”
“Yes.” My voice chokes out and I can hear both the desperation and frustration at the same time. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” I ball up my fists and feel the tension in my shoulders building and building and building. Maria’s eyes widen as though she can sense the impending storm, and she hands me a bread roll from her tray.
“Scream into it. Usually I use a pillow, but…desperate times. It’s what I do after encounters with guys like Bianchi.” I take Maria’s bread roll, lift it to my face, and take a giant bite out of it. She laughs.
“Thank you,” I say, my mouth full.
“Feel better?”
“No.”
“Because he’s right?”
“Yeah.”
Maria and I stare off into the middle distance.
“Maybe not, though,” I say. Maria looks over. “Pilots are ranked on flying skills, leadership, and adaptability. The top pilots get the best assignments. We get to pick between bombers, tankers, transport, trash haulers, helicopters—”
“And fighter jets.”
I nod. “If we’re the top two in our class and we get into the airmanship program…I don’t know…maybe we have a shot.”
“The Flying Falcons,” Maria pronounces, slurping up a spoonful of oatmeal.
“What are the Flying Falc—”
Our conversation grinds to a halt as one of the cadet cadre materializes over Maria, yelling about table manners and too much chewing. We all understand why they’re so harsh in these beginning weeks of Basic. It’s not about whatever tiny infraction has gotten you singled out, it’s about discipline and performing under pressure and keeping a level head while you follow orders. If you can keep your cool when someone’s telling you your salute needs to pop from here, not there, and to do it again and again and again, then you’ll probably be better equipped to accomplish what needs to be done when lives are at stake. There’s always a bigger picture.
It’s only at the end of the day, when we finally return to our dorm room, that Maria and I can pick our conversation back up. The door closes behind us and Maria hurries over and starts sifting through all the orientation paperwork neatly organized on her desk. She pulls a pamphlet out with a victorious flourish.
“The Flying Falcons.” Maria shoves the paper toward me and triumphantly slams her hands onto her hips as I read.
“‘The Flying Falcons are an elite nine-member flying squadron based out of the United States Air Force Academy. Founded in 1963, the Flying Falcons compete with other intercollegiate squadrons to further the Air Force’s legacy of greatness and demonstrate that the sky is no limit. Aim high!’”
“Anyone can apply,” Maria says, taking back the pamphlet.
“Even women?”
“Yeah.” Maria flips through the pages. “I mean, at least…it doesn’t say we can’t.”
“And you think—”
“If we’re the top two in our class and we get into the airmanship program AND we make it onto the Flying Falcons?” Maria finishes my train of thought as she counts off each of the items on what is fast becoming our shared to-do list for the year. Her three raised fingers hang in the air between us.
“How can they say no?” I wonder.
“They can’t.”
“They’ll try,” I say.
Maria’s eyes sparkle. “Let them.”
COUNTLESS HOURS OF LATRINE DETAIL.
An untold number of push-ups.
Limitless write-ups and yelled orders.
Morning after morning of making my bed with the same ruler.
Days spent cursing that one speck of dust way up on the top shelf that got me a stern reprimand on my first dorm inspection.
Memorizing every detail of Chen’s and Resendiz’s faces so we can figure out whether that eye twitch is a good or a bad thing.*
Maria and I continue to run in the dark early morning hours. And even though Pierre has joined us now and then, Bianchi’s campaign against Maria and me rages on.
His cru
sade comes to a head during week three in our Introduction to Air Force Combatives class when Bianchi and I are paired off. The match ends when he stomps off after being forced to concede I won. As we sit along the wall once he returns to the gym, I try to reason with him. I figure if we could just talk—one on one—he’ll see how much energy he’s wasting on making enemies out of Maria and me. I think he’ll come around for sure.
“We’re all on the same side here,” I say, offering Bianchi a towel.
“I don’t need a pep talk from you,” he seethes.
“Then what do you need?” I really want to know. He shakes his head. “You think this will get better if I let you win?”
“No one lets me win.”
“No kidding.”
“I win on my own.” I arch an eyebrow. He grits his teeth. “Not here specifically, but I have, in the past….You know what I mean.”
“Why does it matter so much to you?”
“Why does it matter so much to you?” Bianchi shoots back.
“Because unlike you, some of us have a lot to prove.” We both watch as Maria pins Pierre, her legs wrapping around his neck as the match is called. “I’m not saying you’re handed things, I see how hard you work. But now imagine what it’d be like to work that hard and do that well and still not be considered for combat.”
Bianchi sits back against the wall, heaving a sigh. “It’s not personal, Danvers.”
“Sure feels personal.”
As Bianchi gets quiet, I think of a million better comebacks. Intelligent, layered, illuminating arguments that’ll make him get what it’s like to be excluded from doing something that others take for granted. In the end, Bianchi and I just sit there in silence until it’s time to leave. And then we never speak about it again.
But even with the run-ins with Bianchi, and the latrine detail and the push-ups and the cursed speck of dust and the reprimands and the laps around the track and the cold judgments from the other men in our flight who, while not quite Bianchi-level, aren’t exactly welcoming, Maria and I end every day talking about a life spent in the clouds as fighter pilots in the United States Air Force. It keeps us going, keeps us strong and focused.
Most important, it keeps us dreaming.
At breakfast, Maria sets down her tray across from me. The rest of the flight is deep in conversation as she takes her first sip of coffee. I swirl my now-lukewarm tea around in my mug and wait to bombard her with everything I’ve learned. Maria peels the wrapper off a muffin, takes a bite, and closes her eyes in ecstasy. I stifle a laugh. It’s incredible how delicious normally average mess hall food becomes when your body is constantly craving calories thanks to endless physical exertion.
It’s the final day of First Beast. Tomorrow we leave for Jacks Valley. The three weeks we’ll endure out there in the wild will make these first four weeks of Basic look like kindergarten.
I can’t wait.
But today? Today is Field Day.
Today is the day when our flight joins forces with the upperclassmen and finally forms our full squadron. After that, all the squadrons compete against one another in events ranging from classic tugs-of-war, steeplechases, and relay races, all the way to log carries and long-distance runs. With the bleachers full of the cadets’ families and the top USAFA brass, it’s a day to blow off some steam, have some fun, and show everyone what we’re made of.
“I’m going to miss these muffins when we go,” Maria laments. I am able to wait three more whole seconds. And, yes, I do deserve a medal.
“Jenks is in charge of the Flying Falcons,” I say, blurting out the information that took me weeks to gather.
“The ‘they’ll let anyone in these days’ guy?”
“Yep.”
She snorts. “Well, that’s inconvenient.”
“Yes, but what if we come in first at Field Day? We’d get Honor Squadron and—”
“Us winning Honor Squadron isn’t going to change this guy’s mind,” Maria cuts me off. She sets down her muffin and brushes the crumbs off her fingertips.
“It might sway him? Just mooooove him over a little bit?” But Maria is already shaking her head.
“If we set out to win Honor Squadron, then we need to be doing it for ourselves,” Maria says.
“And maybe…like twenty percent to rub Jenks’s nose in it,” I wheedle.
“Twenty percent?”
“Just twenty percent for nose rubbing,” I confirm. Maria nods her head as she takes a swig of orange juice.
“So, Jenks walks over to congratulate us on our big win through gritted teeth and we say, ‘Hello, hi, yes, Captain Jenks. We, members of this Honor Squadron and numbers one and two in this cadet class, respectively—’”
“‘Respectively,’” I echo.
“‘—would like very much like to apply for your Flying Falcons elite nine-member squad, and in so doing mayhap become the first women to fly combat.’”
“‘Mayhap’?”
“I’m being swept away, can you just…let me live?”
There is a beat.
“Mayhap,” I confirm.
“But to win Honor Squadron we’ve got to rally the troops.” My eyes flick over toward Bianchi, Pierre, and Del Orbe. Maria polishes off the last bite of her beloved muffin.
“They’ll come around. Winning is winning.”
Our squadron is the Aggressors. We’ve donned light blue shirts for today’s festivities, assigned to our group by the powers that be. All around us the other squadrons get ready for the opening ceremonies: The Barbarians in orange, the Cobras in purple, the Demons in green, the Executioners in navy, the Flying Tigers in red, the Guts in maroon, and then Hellcats in yellow.
OCs Chen and Resendiz walk us through how today will go and remind us which events we’ll be taking part in. I’ve been put on the steeplechase, a race that involves lots of hurdles and water jumps, and Maria is on the long-distance run. She’s also taking part in the tug-of-war. Pierre and Del Orbe are part of the team doing the log carry, and Bianchi and I are part of the relay race. We’re a big squadron, and it’s a testament to our abilities that Maria and I got assigned such plum events.
As we line up for opening ceremonies, Maria and I pull Bianchi, Pierre, and Del Orbe aside.
“What’s up?” Bianchi asks.
“We want to win today,” I say.
“So do we,” Del Orbe says.
“Yes, but we have a bit of a teamwork problem,” I say.
“Do you see where we’re going with this?” Maria asks.
“You want us to play nice,” Pierre says.
“We win, we all win. We lose…”
“You don’t have to dramatically trail off,” Bianchi says as I dramatically trail off. “We get it.”
“Truce?” Maria asks. Bianchi, Pierre, and Del Orbe look to one another.
“Yeah, all right,” Bianchi says, as Pierre and Del Orbe nod in agreement.
“Good,” I say, but my eyes stay locked on Bianchi.
There’s a moment of pause. Then: “You want me to say it, don’t you?” Bianchi asks.
“A little,” I admit.
“Just say it, man,” Pierre says to Bianchi.
Bianchi extends his hand to Maria. “Truce,” he says. They shake hands.
“Truce,” Maria says.
“Now me,” I say, extending my hand. Bianchi can only shake his head. He takes my hand in his.
“Truce,” he says.
“Truce,” I say.
“Truce,” Del Orbe says to Maria.
“Truce,” Maria says.
“Truce,” I say to Pierre.
“Enough. That’s…This is ridiculous,” Bianchi says, even as a small smile plays around his mouth.
“FALL IN!” Chen yells, and we scatter.
Our squadron begins to stand out almost right away. Wherever I look, a light blue shirt is surging past and over and beyond all the other competitors. It’s not just our speed—there’s a synergy to our team. The unspoken ebbs
and flows, the catches and releases, and understanding how we fit together as opposed to how we can win separately. We are at last egoless as we drive our team higher, farther, and faster than the others.
Now that I’ve come to know Bianchi, Pierre, and Del Orbe a little better, I understand why they’re friends. This is a tough place to be on your own, and it makes sense that they bonded over competing with—and taking jabs at—Maria and me. But just as my history teacher said, their bond over a shared hatred was a weak one. Pierre had already been distancing himself from their group by week four. But now it feels like there’s a lightness to us. Instead of allowing our differences to divide us and prompt distrust, we’re stronger for putting aside our squabbles and uniting in a shared love of the game, and a desire to win.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, I see Johnson barking out orders to the rest of his Demon squadron, micromanaging, then deciding that he may as well do it himself, thereby cutting the spirit of the day off at the knees. That squadron progressively falls behind, weighted down with the heaviness of his animosity.
As we come to the final events, our squadron is in the lead. By a lot. Apparently, this turn of events has unhinged Johnson even more. If that’s even possible.
As Bianchi and I are walking over to the track for the relay, Johnson can no longer stand to stay quiet about all the many injustices in his life that have led him to today.
“Shouldn’t you be playing softball?” He sneers at me as he catches up to us. “Figure skating, maybe?”
“Why? Do you want to get beat at those, too?” I hear Bianchi snort a laugh just behind me. We pick up our pace and continue on toward the starting line.
“Is that what I sounded like?” Bianchi asks, as we near the start.
“As if it’s so far in your past,” I joke. Bianchi goes quiet. “Oh, you’re really asking?”
“I’m really asking.”
“I used to waitress part-time in this little diner back home—”
“I can’t figure out if you’d be an awful waitress or a great one,” Bianchi interjects.
