Higher, Further, Faster

by Liza Palmer

  “You carry them with you for good luck,” Bonnie says, her eyes flicking skyward.

  Jack pulls his own silver dollar from his pocket, as does Bonnie. They pass them around.

  “They’re rubbed smooth,” Del Orbe says, brushing his thumb along the flattened surface of Bonnie’s coin.

  “Well, that year we needed a whole lot of good luck,” Bonnie says, pulling Jack in close.

  “Think it was more than good luck,” Maria says.

  “No, darlin’. Sometimes luck was all it was,” Jack says.

  “A lot of good men and women didn’t make it home,” Bonnie says. The table falls silent.

  “Thank you,” Bianchi says, holding his coin with pure wonder. Del Orbe and Pierre offer their own choked thanks, pocketing their coins with newfound reverence.

  “For everything,” I add on.

  “For so much,” Maria says, almost to herself.

  “Whatever happens next, you must always remember who you are. Not what they say you are,” Bonnie says.

  “Now before you softies drown in your own tears, let’s eat this cherry pie,” Jack says gruffly. I could have sworn I saw him wipe something out of the corner of his eye, but pressing the issue would be pointless—if I called him out, he’d promise it was a bug, or a speck of dirt.

  Good old Jack.

  “Who wants à la mode?” Bonnie asks.

  All of our hands shoot up.

  WE FIND OUT WHO MADE THE FLYING FALCONS this Friday, but standing between here and there is one thing: Recognition.

  When I first heard about Recognition, I thought it would be like a graduation ceremony. An end-of-the-year event highlighting our achievements that concludes with the Recognition dinner, where we’re finally given our prop and wings.

  And I was technically right.

  Recognition is an end-of-the-year event that highlights our achievements, but instead of an afternoon filled with frilly dresses, droning renditions of “Pomp and Circumstance” and long, boring speeches, it’s three packed days of physical and mental exertion that makes Basic look like summer camp.

  Finals are over, classes have ended, and now, back in our squadrons, day one of Recognition begins. And there’s Chen and Resendiz waiting for us, and suddenly, I’m back at Basic and it feels like it was yesterday and eternities ago all at the same time.

  We quickly fall into our retreat formation along with the other squadrons. As I stand there—shoulders back, eyes forward—today slides down over me like an old T-shirt recovered from the bottom of my closet after months of thinking it was long gone.

  I’ve spent this year putting everything I thought I knew under a microscope only to discover that, up close, nothing was as it appeared to be. The who, what, where, when, why, and how of my life became one big huh?

  But this? Standing in retreat formation shoulder to shoulder with Maria and Del Orbe with Bianchi and Pierre just one row back feels so good. So comfortable and familiar and right. I can do this. With all the endless questions this year has raised, it feels incredible to sink into the simplicity of a learned routine, to turn off my brain for a moment and let my muscle memory do the hard work. You want me to march in formation and salute and be yelled at and drill and left-face and right-face and present arms and consistently hit that perfect twelve inches between my feet at parade rest? I would be happy to, as I’m pretty sure no one is going to pop out from behind Resendiz and question whether or not me lining up my thumb with the seam of my pants has any deeper meaning than just me lining up my thumb with the seam of my pants.

  These next three days are about following orders and working as a team with the rest of my squadron, plain and simple. And I am very excited to do both of those things to the best of my ability.

  “Squadron, tench-hut,” Chen yells. And it’s music to my ears.

  Chen and Resendiz move us through day one of Recognition about as delicately as they ran us through First and Second Basic. With each day getting harder and harder, day one just wets our whistles more than knocks us into the ground.

  I catch glimpses of our group throughout the day and marvel at what a difference a year makes. Our morning runs, our study sessions, every time we’ve been put through our paces—I can see the effects of all of it as we move seamlessly around the field.

  I feel like a completely new person since that very first day as a “rainbow,” save one very important thing: I still want to look around and squeal, Can you believe we’re finally here?! Isn’t it great?!

  I love that through all of it—even though sometimes it can be a bit elusive—I retained that joy.

  As day one comes to an end, we grunt our good-byes to Bianchi, Del Orbe, and Pierre after dinner, and Maria and I crawl under our covers before completely conking out. Even the bone-deep exhaustion feels good. Being too tired to think about whatever Maria and my “new there” is, is just the respite I need.

  I sleep like the dead, and when the alarm sounds for our morning run, I’m positive it’s still the middle of the night. My eyes flutter open and I see Maria stirring in her bed. And it hits me that this is almost over. The number of days that I’ll be in this dorm rooming with Maria can be counted on one hand.

  “Why are you creepily staring at me?” Maria says, her voice still froggy with sleep, sitting up and setting her feet on the floor.

  “Okay, yes I was staring at you, but I would argue that it wasn’t creepy so much as wistful,” I reason, crossing the room to turn on the light. Maria shrinks away from the harsh fluorescence that floods our little room.

  “Wistful,” she repeats, blinking her eyes and adjusting to the artificial brightness.

  “Wistful. Because it just hit me that we’re not going to be roommates for that much longer,” I say, pulling my running clothes out from my drawers and picking up my sneakers.

  “I’ve been sad about that for weeks, and you’re telling me it just hit you right now?” Maria rubs her eyes and opens her mouth wide in an epically long yawn.

  “No, I mean—”

  “I’m a better friend than you, Danvers,” she says, grabbing her toiletry bag. She goes to open our dorm room door.

  “You’re a better everything than me, Rambeau,” I say. She turns back around and smiles, but before either of us can crumble into a fit of hysterics, Maria disappears out the door.

  I finish getting dressed just as Maria returns from the bathroom and I’m sitting on my bed with one shoe on and one shoe listlessly drooping in my other hand, literally frozen in thought.

  “Oh no,” Maria says automatically.

  “I’m going to give a speech,” I pronounce, standing. My one shoe is still in my hand.

  “A short speech or a Danvers speech?” Maria asks, unable to keep from smiling.

  I solemnly hold up one hand for silence. “I know we started out as roommates and then became friends, but I would be honored if—” Nope. Painted myself into a bit of a speech corner there.

  I try again. “I think of you as my sister.” My voice is loud and robotic, as if I somehow shattered one of my eardrums while Maria was in the bathroom. I’m now inexplicably holding up my one shoe like it’s a scroll overflowing with a list of our inalienable rights. Maria is quiet. I clear my throat. “That’s it. That’s my speech.” And then I bow. I have no idea why. I plop down onto my bed and start putting on my other shoe.

  “I think we got stuck with each other for life the first day we flew Mr. Goodnight. Do you remember that?” Maria walks over and sits down next to me on my bed.

  “Every second,” I say.

  “You’d just flown him for the first time, and I was standing outside of hangar thirty-nine with Bonnie, reliving every moment of our hop as we waited for you,” Maria says.

  I nod. “I remember.”

  “You jumped down out of that cockpit and ran over to me and—”

  “I hugged you,” I say. Maria shrugs. A stream of tears traces down my cheeks.

  “I’ve considered you my sister from
that moment on,” Maria says, but her casual tone belies her eyes that are welling with tears.

  I swallow, hard. “I have no idea what I did to deserve a friend like you.”

  “You don’t just deserve a friend like me. You’ve earned a friend like me,” she says.

  I press my lips together in an attempt to control my emotions. It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t work. I should know that by now.

  “A side hug would be weird, right?” I ask.

  “We crossed the Weird Rubicon months ago, Danvers,” Maria says, leaning over and pulling me in close.

  “I’ve been stuck in the Weird Rubicon for years,” I whisper in her ear, and Maria barks out a laugh.

  Several minutes later, Maria and I run onto the field.

  “You’re late,” Bianchi remarks.

  “We were crying and hugging,” I say with a grin.

  “I knew that’s what girls do in their rooms when we aren’t around,” Del Orbe mutters, almost to himself.

  “I think we should take today easy. The second day of Recognition is the hardest, and then we have the Run to the Rock tomorrow,” Maria says.

  “Which is five miles,” I add.

  We all begin stretching out our tight calves and arms, still sore from yesterday’s exertions. “So are you guys going to tell us why you were crying and hugging?” Bianchi asks.

  “I’m just going to miss this, is all,” I say, looking around at everyone and spreading my arms wide, as though I can gather the whole group close with one swoop of my arms.

  “Oh no,” Pierre says, resting his hands on his hips and looking up to the sky as he blinks rapidly. “I’ve been dreading this moment.” He paces around the field, pressing his lips together and shaking his head. “Knew I was going to get emotional.” Our little softie.

  “Danvers made a speech,” Maria says, sitting on the field and starting her stretches.

  “We’ve got another three years, Danvers. This”—Bianchi gestures to all of us—“isn’t going anywhere.”

  “I know that up here.” I put my finger to the side of my head. And then I bring my hand down to rest on my heart. “But not here.” I look around at everyone. “Too cheesy?” Maria beams over at me and shakes her head no. Pierre is a wreck at this point, and Del Orbe has brought the collar of his shirt up over his face to hide his tears.

  “No, definitely not cheesy,” Bianchi says, his mouth pressed into a hard line. “I get it.” We all look at the ever-steely Bianchi, waiting for him to crack. Not a flicker.

  “What?” he barks at us. We wait.

  “I’m not going—” Bianchi’s face flushes. “Let me just get through the next two days. I can’t…It’s too much. I have to put a pin in”—he brings his hand to his heart—“all this. Just for the next two days and then”—his voice cracks “—maybe I’ll start to be able to come to terms with how much each of you has meant to me.”

  “Two days,” Pierre says, sniffling.

  “When we get to the top of Cathedral Rock tomorrow, I promise to be the emotional mess that you weirdos apparently require of your friends,” Bianchi says with an exhausted laugh.

  “We need a group photo,” Maria proclaims.

  “Of all of us bawling our eyes out? No, thank you,” Bianchi says.

  “I’m getting that group photo,” Maria insists, standing. Discussion closed. We pull ourselves together and start our daily run around the track.

  Day two of Recognition is a series of four of the most grueling, brutal courses any human being has ever thought up. It’s the Course to End All Courses. We start at 7:00 a.m. and go nonstop until 4:00 p.m. I remember very few details except being yelled at while I carry one of my fellow cadets on my back throughout one course. Being yelled at as I hold my weapon over my head for what feels like hours. And being yelled at as I run up and down bleachers, around the field, up the field, and down the field. We take a tour of the Academy, and at each memorial perform innumerable sit-ups, pull-ups, and push-ups. I’m going to have counting nightmares tonight for sure, before being startled awake by an otherworldly Tench-hut! At some point after lunch I discover a new level of exhaustion deep within myself, and as I’m being yelled at while I’m lifting and flipping a giant tire across the field over and over again, I find a new reservoir of strength I didn’t know was within me. And that’s saying something, after the year I’ve had.

  Limping away from the mess hall after dinner, my legs and arms are so beyond sore that it’s easier to pinpoint where I’m not aching, rather than where I am: The good news is, my earlobes appear to be utterly pain-free at the moment.

  As our group walks toward our dorms, I realize what day it is.

  Friday.

  I’m shocked that it took all day for me to realize, but at the same time I understand my brain’s need to compartmentalize so I could get through today’s activities. But now, with full stomachs and drooping eyelids, I know we can’t avoid it—we have to go see who Jenks let onto the Flying Falcons.

  I don’t know what I’m expecting to see. I’ve been waiting for this moment all year. What was once such a clear bull’s-eye of a goal has expanded so far beyond just getting onto the Flying Falcons. In fact, that original objective seems almost too small now. And I’m not delusional enough to think that Jenks will ever allow Maria or me on the team anyway. But maybe there’s still the tiniest sliver of hope way down underneath that someone else was watching. Someone higher up who’d confront Jenks and challenge him about his reasons for not letting the two best fliers onto the team. I don’t know. Maybe I am delusional.

  “You guys.” I stop in my tracks, bringing Del Orbe up short behind me with a surprised oof. “The Flying Falcons. The list should be posted by now.”

  “Do you need us to go with you, please say no,” Pierre says, looking like he’s about to curl up right where he is and go to sleep.

  “We’re so tired,” Del Orbe adds. His voice is a childlike whimper.

  “Go to bed, you sissies,” Bianchi says with a light laugh.

  “You’re so meeeeean,” Pierre says. But nonetheless he and Del Orbe continue toward the dorms, holding each other up in the process.

  And then there were three.

  “Let’s go look at this list before all my muscles seize up,” Bianchi says with a slight hitch in his step. We wend our way through the hallways, toward the most hidden office on campus. This time, it’s so much easier to find, since it’s been burned into my memory. We come to a stop about a foot away from the little room.

  “I’m nervous,” I say.

  “What if none of us got on?” Bianchi asks.

  “I was just thinking that,” Maria says.

  “How did that possibility just slip right through all our elaborately planned scenarios?” Bianchi asks, laughing.

  “We really do need to work on that,” I agree.

  We are quiet. And then as if we all feel it at the same time, we walk the few steps it takes to view the list of two names posted outside the office.

  FLYING FALCONS

  Bianchi, Tom

  Johnson, Bret

  “Bret Johnson?” Bianchi asks in disbelief, skipping over any joy at all at his own name being up there as well.

  “There were way better upperclassmen than Johnson,” Maria says, crossing her arms across her chest.

  “I would say it doesn’t make sense, but…” I trail off.

  “Yeah, but this is a giant overcorrection,” Bianchi finishes.

  “Even for Jenks,” Maria says.

  “Well, it’s sending a very clear message,” I say.

  “That he’s completely out of touch and on his way out?” Maria asks, her voice clipped and frustrated.

  “Fingers crossed,” I say.

  We stand in stunned silence.

  “I know it’s dumb, but a part of me still thought…” Maria says, before trailing off, as though her pride can’t bear for her to complete the sentence. But we know what she wants to say.

 
“Me too,” Bianchi says.

  “Me too,” I say.

  “He could have changed the world,” Bianchi says. And just like that our bigger goal comes into focus.

  Find a new there.

  “I guess we’ll just have to do it ourselves, then,” I say. Bianchi and Maria nod, and the frustration melts away. Newly focused. Newly committed. A new goal. A new purpose. After several minutes, Maria finally breaks the intense silence.

  “Congratulations,” Maria says to Bianchi.

  “Thank you,” he says. But his voice is flat.

  “You’re going to do so great,” I say, my tone almost cajoling. I am genuinely happy for Bianchi in this moment—he earned it. And I want him to feel it, too.

  “Thanks,” he says. An easygoing, wan smile, not even close to what the situation warrants. I narrow my eyes.

  “You’re putting a pin in this too, aren’t you?” I ask.

  “Oh, one hundred percent,” Bianchi says.

  “Saving it for the top of the rock?” Maria asks.

  Bianchi grins. “Might as well.”

  IT’S THE FINAL DAY OF OUR FIRST YEAR AT USAFA.

  Maria and I stand at attention in the center of our dorm room, dressed in our blues. This last Saturday morning inspection is excruciating, but mercifully brief. And in under five minutes, we’re getting re-dressed and rushing out to meet everyone else before the Run to the Rock. My body is on autopilot, numbed by the physical challenges it’s endured. Even my earlobes have succumbed at this point.

  As we fall into formation, a brand-new feeling is infusing all of us. It’s a very controlled, barely tamped-down exhilaration. We’re like bubbles being blown out of a little plastic wand, whizzing and darting throughout the USAFA campus.

  As we stand and wait under a pennant emblazoned with our squadron number, the rumblings and the butterflies and the energy builds and builds and builds as the minutes tick away until we can start our five-mile run to the top of Cathedral Rock.

  I look over at Maria, and I can tell she feels it. A smile plays at the corners of Pierre’s mouth, and Del Orbe sways ever so slightly back and forth to music that only he can hear. I scan the crowd for Bianchi. I find him. He’s so still, it’s as if he’s spellbound. His face is aggressively dispassionate. He won’t look at me. I see him take a long breath, shake something off, and then clench his jaw tight as he resituates himself.