Army Brats

by Daphne Benedis-Grab

  Rosie felt a surge of determination. “Don’t worry, Cupcake,” she reassured her dog. “We’ll find your friend again, I promise.”

  And she would: Rosie never made a promise she couldn’t keep.

  “Have a good day,” Dad called. Tom turned in time to see Dad nearly trip over Cupcake, who had come to the front door to see Tom and Charlotte off on their first day of school. Or to see if they’d dropped any crumbs from the banana muffins Dad had made for breakfast.

  “Thanks,” Tom said, giving Cupcake a reassuring pat.

  “You too, Dad,” Charlotte said. Her voice was strained, but that was normal for a first day of school. Tom knew his sister always worried about making friends, and this year, with Tom busy during lunch, Charlotte was particularly stressed about finding people to sit with in the cafeteria. Tom was sure it would all work out though, especially since here on post they were surrounded by kids just like them—army kids.

  Tom and Charlotte pulled on their backpacks (green for Tom, purple for Charlotte) while Dad headed back to the kitchen where Rosie was announcing plans to make a hamburger milk shake for Cupcake. Rosie would be going to the elementary school next to the Fort Patrick Middle School, but her day started fifteen minutes later than theirs, so Dad had fifteen minutes to try to talk her out of the milk shake idea.

  Tom and Charlotte headed down the front steps. The sun shone brightly and the slight breeze felt good.

  “Hey, Baileys,” Tash called. She was standing at the foot of their driveway. “Want to walk together?” she asked, tugging on the strap of her pink messenger bag. “I don’t start early band practice until next week.”

  “Sure,” Tom said. Maybe walking with a girl who’d been living on post a while would help his sister relax. “So what number school is this for you?” he asked as they started down Bingham Road. Fort Patrick Middle School was only four blocks away.

  Tash pursed her lips for a moment as she considered. “We spent two years in Germany and then Hawaii, then Texas, and last year we moved here from DC. So that’s five. What about you?”

  “We were in Hawaii too, for first and part of second grade,” Charlotte said. They stopped at the corner and waited for the crossing guard to wave them across the street. There were barely any cars, but the army clearly made sure the kids were super safe all the way to school. “We lived off post there though, and then we moved to Vermont to be near our grandparents while Mom served in Afghanistan.” That had been the hardest two years, barely seeing Mom and worrying every night about whether she would come home at all.

  Tash nodded knowingly. “Yeah, Dad was over there for a year, and it was tough,” she said.

  Again Tom felt the rush of pleasure at being with other kids who knew what army life was really like.

  They were almost to the school now and the sidewalk was getting crowded. Two boys shoved past, one of them jostling Tom’s arm. He was about to tell the kid to watch it when he realized who it was: Chase Hammond. Which made Tom close his mouth right up.

  “That guy really pushes things,” Tash said, shaking her head as they walked up the path to the small brick building. “There’s no bullying at post schools, but he comes as close to a bully as you get.”

  Tom would definitely be avoiding Chase, and he wanted to ask Tash why there was no bullying here—that was hard to imagine. But he was distracted by the way Charlotte’s face had gone pale as they walked through the metal doors and into the lobby of what looked like any other school: faded cream-colored walls with flyers stating times for band and soccer tryouts, scuffed linoleum floors, and groups of kids standing around and talking. If anything, it was less intimidating than other schools they’d attended because it was so small. Mom had told them there were only fifty sixth graders, which Tom figured would give the school a kind of family feeling. Maybe that was why there was no bullying.

  The three of them headed over to the sixth-grade locker alcove. Tom had to spin his combination twice, but then he was able to get it open. The locker smelled like moldy bread, so he quickly stowed his backpack inside and slammed it shut. He and Charlotte had compared schedules the night before and so he knew they were in different homerooms—in fact, they only had one class together all day.

  “Good luck, you guys,” Tash said, waving as she headed off.

  Charlotte was now blinking rapidly, a sure sign she was anxious.

  “Don’t worry,” Tom told her. Really, he didn’t get why she was so stressed-out. It was a small school with kids just like them.

  But Charlotte still looked pale. “See you later,” she said faintly, before heading down the hall to her homeroom.

  Sometimes girls were just weird, even his sisters.

  Tom walked the other way, checking room numbers until he found 102. He headed inside where about ten other sixth graders were either sitting at desks or standing around talking. A few kids were sitting alone, and Tom wondered if they were new to the base just like him. He sat down next to one of them, a boy wearing an Avengers T-shirt. “Hey, I’m Tom Bailey. We just moved here last week,” he said. “Cool shirt.”

  “Thanks,” the boy said. “I’m Kenny Pham. My family’s only been here for about three months.”

  “So who’s your favorite Avenger?” Tom asked, ready to discuss one of his all-time favorite topics. But just then the warning bell rang, and someone slipped in right before the teacher shut the door. And when Tom saw who it was, his heart sank: Chase Hammond. Of course, in a school so small, it made sense they’d have some classes together. But it seemed like a bad way to start the day.

  “Good morning,” their teacher said crisply as he strode toward the front of the room. “I’m Mr. Yanetti, your homeroom teacher as well as your English teacher and social studies teacher. We run a tight ship here at Fort Patrick Middle School, and it starts right here, right now, in my class.”

  Tom tried not to sigh.

  “You raise your hand and you do not speak until you have been called on,” Mr. Yanetti said. He had reached the front of the room and was standing in front of the whiteboard, his back straight, his gaze piercing. “This means that if I do not call on you, you do not speak. Should you ignore this rule and speak out of turn, you go to the office. There is no discussion, there are no excuses, it’s simply you out the door on your way to chat with Principal Ramirez.”

  Yikes, this was probably why there was no bullying at a post school: They found the strictest teachers in the universe to teach here.

  Mr. Yanetti ran through more rules, did roll call, and then told the class to sit quietly until the bell rang. Tom was scared to breathe too loudly, and he could tell that everyone else felt the same way. Well, everyone except Chase: He was moving restlessly in his seat and yawning loudly enough to earn a look from Mr. Yanetti.

  Finally the bell rang, freeing Tom and his classmates. Tom nearly sprinted from the room, hoping that his next class—math with Ms. London—would be better.

  But when Tom was almost to the door, a shout in the hall outside made him jump. And when he did, his arm knocked into the boy right behind him.

  “Watch it,” the boy hissed, and Tom’s chest clenched up: Of all the boys he could have elbowed, Tom had elbowed Chase. And somehow when it happened, Chase had dropped something on the ground.

  “What’s that?” Mr. Yanetti snapped as he marched over to the boys.

  Both Tom and Chase took a step back, and there, on the floor, was a small metal object.

  “To whom does this belong?” Mr. Yanetti asked, carefully picking it up.

  “It’s his,” Tom said helpfully, pointing at Chase.

  He figured Mr. Yanetti would give whatever had fallen back to Chase and that would be the end of it. But instead Mr. Yanetti was scowling and Chase’s eyes were wide. And suddenly Tom’s heart began to beat just a little bit faster.

  “You brought a weapon into school,” Mr. Yanetti said to Chase, who sputtered for a moment before managing to speak.

  “No, sir, it’s not a we
apon,” Chase said, his voice high and squeaky. “It’s just a tiny pocketknife.”

  Chase and Tom both gazed hopefully at Mr. Yanetti, because this explanation had to make things better. A tiny pocketknife wasn’t dangerous after all.

  But Mr. Yanetti looked as though Chase had announced it was a microscopic grenade launcher.

  “I’ll need you to come with me,” he said shortly to Chase.

  Chase’s mouth twisted and he sent Tom a death glare before following their teacher out of the room. After a moment, the rest of the class began to file out. Tom joined them, feeling almost light-headed from all that had gone wrong in such a short amount of time.

  “That’s not good,” Kenny said, coming up to Tom as he headed blindly toward math class.

  “I know,” Tom said. “But it’s not a real weapon, so he won’t get in that much trouble, right?”

  Kenny’s gaze was pitying. “Any kind of weapon in school is bad,” he said. “It’s definitely big trouble.”

  Tom didn’t get why Kenny said this like it was a death sentence.

  “This is a post school,” Kenny explained. “And when you get in big trouble at a post school, they don’t call your parents.”

  Tom started to let out a sigh of relief.

  “They call your army parent’s commanding officer.”

  Tom’s breath caught in his chest. That was why there was no bullying. Nothing would be worse than a parent getting scolded by a commanding officer. Nothing.

  Well, nothing except Tom’s life at Fort Patrick Middle School, now that he had made Chase Hammond his enemy.

  The morning had been fine, but the moment of truth was here: It was lunch, and Charlotte was about to walk into the cafeteria. Alone. She took a deep breath as she entered the small buffet area, then instantly regretted it, because the room reeked of overcooked broccoli and greasy burgers, a scent so strong it made her eyes water. Based on that, Charlotte decided to skip the hot lunch line and head over to the sandwich area instead. She debated between turkey and ham but in the end went with cheese and tomato, which would be the easiest on her queasy stomach. She set the cellophane-wrapped sandwich on her tray, then went to the cooler stocked with drinks. She was poking her head in to see if they had any grapefruit juice when a girl came up next to her and reached for a bottle of seltzer.

  “I love your nails,” the girl said. She had a warm Southern drawl and Charlotte recognized her from both her English and math classes—she was the kind of girl who sparkled a little, radiating confidence, the kind of girl the others crowded around and tried to imitate. The kind of girl who never noticed someone like Charlotte.

  Charlotte looked down at her nails, which were painted a minty blue with perfect silver polka dots dancing across them, and smiled shyly. “Thanks,” she said.

  “I’m Sophia—and you’re Charlotte, right?” the girl asked as she headed for the registers to pay. Charlotte followed, surprised Sophia had remembered her name.

  “Yeah. My family just moved here last week,” Charlotte said. She fumbled for her lunch card.

  “Well, welcome,” Sophia said, setting her tray on the table by the register and running her fingers through her thick chestnut hair so that her glittery earrings shimmered. Charlotte noticed that she was wearing bronze eye shadow that made her big brown eyes luminous. “And, seriously, your nails are fabulous. Where did you get them done?”

  “I did them myself,” Charlotte said. She wished she had worn glittery earrings instead of the tiny heart studs she’d put in that morning.

  “No way.” Sophia grabbed Charlotte’s hand to take a closer look.

  Charlotte felt her cheeks warm with pleasure. “Yeah, it’s kind of a hobby,” she said.

  “Or a gift,” Sophia said, dropping Charlotte’s hand and picking up her tray. “Come sit with me and my friend and tell us your tricks.”

  “Um, okay,” Charlotte said, not quite sure how this had happened so easily. Because now she was not walking alone across the cafeteria, humiliated and scared. Instead she was strolling with Sophia, possibly the most popular girl in the class based on the way everyone was greeting her, to sit at her table with her friend. It almost seemed too good to be true.

  Sophia led Charlotte to a table that was clearly one of the best: next to a window with a good view of the rest of the large room. Instead of long tables and benches, Fort Patrick Middle School had small square and rectangular Formica tables with seats attached. Charlotte’s sneakers squeaked slightly on the scuffed linoleum floor. The smell here was even worse than in the buffet line—it was as though old gym socks had been added to the mix. But Charlotte didn’t care about any of that, not when she was being ushered into a seat by Sophia.

  “Charlotte, meet Mari,” Sophia said, settling down in the chair across from her.

  “Hi,” Mari said with a friendly smile. Charlotte knew from homeroom that her full name was Mariposa, the Spanish word for butterfly. It fit delicate Mari perfectly, with her long black hair and big brown eyes.

  “Welcome to the base,” Mari said, spearing some lettuce in her salad. “Where was your family last posted?”

  Again Charlotte felt the comfort of being with kids who got army life. “Pennsylvania,” she said. “And Vermont before that. But this is our first time living on post.”

  “Oh, you’ll like it,” Sophia said. She had a salad too and was drizzling a packet of dressing over it. “You can go shopping without having to wait for your parents to drive you to the mall.” Since all three grades ate lunch at the same time, the room rang with voices and laughter so Charlotte had to lean in to hear.

  “The PX has everything,” Mari affirmed.

  “Don’t bother buying makeup, though,” Sophia said darkly.

  “Ms. Ramirez told her there’s no makeup in school,” Mari said, giving Sophia’s arm a sympathetic squeeze.

  “Not even lip gloss,” Sophia said with a sigh.

  “My mom doesn’t let me wear makeup,” Charlotte said, unwrapping her sandwich, the cellophane crinkling.

  “Mine either,” Mari said, rolling her eyes. “She still thinks I’m seven. I have to sneak it out of the house in my purse and put it on outside.”

  “Once she forgot to wash it off before going home,” Sophia said, shaking her head. “That was a bad day.”

  “I bet,” Charlotte said. Not that she’d ever snuck out wearing makeup. When your mom was military intelligence, you didn’t try to sneak anything. But then something occurred to her. “Wait, is nail polish okay?”

  Sophia perked up at that. “Yes, that’s okay. Mari, check out Charlotte’s nails. They’re incredible.”

  Charlotte’s cheeks warmed pleasantly again as she set down her sandwich and held out her hands for Mari to inspect.

  “Oh, I love that shade of blue,” Mari said, grabbing one of Charlotte’s hands to take a closer look. “And those dots are darling. I did stripes on mine.” She held out a hand with purple-and-black-striped nails. The stripes were a bit crooked, and Mari frowned at them. “They’re nowhere near as good as yours, though. What’s your secret?”

  Charlotte grinned. “A bobby pin.”

  “Brilliant,” Sophia proclaimed. The way she said it made Charlotte feel as though she had accomplished something important.

  “Hi, Sophia, hi, Mari,” a girl said. Charlotte recognized her from science class, though she wasn’t sure what her name was. She had shaggy blond hair that she tucked behind one ear as she looked eagerly at Sophia and then at the one empty chair at their table.

  “Hi,” Sophia said, her voice frosting over slightly as she casually moved her tray so that it blocked the spot. “How’s it going?”

  The girl took a step back. “Um, good. How was your summer?”

  “Nice, thanks,” Sophia said. “Maybe we’ll see you in class this afternoon.”

  “Great,” the girl said. She held her smile, though the corners of her mouth sagged the littlest bit. “See you.”

  “Give me a break,” S
ophia said, rolling her eyes as the girl headed off toward the empty seats where Charlotte had imagined she’d be sitting, the ones near the garbage cans.

  Mari was shaking her head. “I can’t believe she thought she could sit with us.” She turned to Charlotte. “That’s Jen Sebastian and she has the worst breath ever.”

  Charlotte couldn’t help snickering at that, though she instantly felt bad.

  “And don’t get stuck working with her in a small group,” Sophia warned. “She just chats the whole time and never does any of the work.”

  Charlotte knew that talking about people behind their backs wasn’t nice. Mom dismissed gossip as small-minded and cruel, while Dad said it was important to remember that one offhand comment could really hurt feelings. But this felt different. First of all, if Jen had bad breath it was a fact, so that shouldn’t count as gossip. And second of all, getting advice on who to work with in class was an important part of getting good grades—and good grades mattered in the Bailey home. Plus it wasn’t like Jen heard them or knew they were talking about her: She was all the way across the room, at the table by the garbage cans, now chatting with two other girls, no doubt completely happy and oblivious that anyone was saying anything about her. So Charlotte figured it was what Dad called a no harm, no foul situation. And that meant it was okay that she laughed and that she’d probably avoid Jen Sebastian altogether. After all, she wanted to do well at middle school.

  “So what are your other manicure tricks?” Sophia asked, smiling at Charlotte like she was the most interesting person in the room.

  Charlotte smiled back and leaned forward, ready to talk nails and unable to believe her luck.

  “Can we go now?” Rosie asked, and not for the first time.

  “I know you’re eager to get to the commissary,” Dad said, not even looking up from his computer screen. “But like I said before, I need to finish up this project for work first.”

  “But if we don’t go soon we won’t have time to get everything ready for the feast,” Rosie said anxiously. The Baileys’ first day of school feast was an important annual tradition: Dad made his famous spaghetti and meatballs plus buttery garlic bread, they lit candles so everything was fancy, and everyone went around the table saying their goal for the year. Rosie had already put a lot of thought into hers and was ready. And she was also more than ready for her very important job: This year, Dad said she was old enough to be his number-one assistant cooking the feast, which Rosie had been excited about for weeks. But if they didn’t get to the commissary soon to buy groceries, the whole thing could be ruined.