Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  your mind, unless you’ve been a soldier

  outside the wire in a country where

  no one native is really your friend,

  and anyone might be your enemy.

  You don’t know till you’re ducking

  bullets. The only person you dare rely

  on is the buddy who looks a lot like

  you—too young for this, leaking bravado,

  and wearing the same uniform.

  Even people who love soldiers—

  people like me—can only know these

  things tangentially, and not so much

  because of what our beloveds tell us

  as what they’ll never be able to.

  LOVING ANY SOLDIER

  Is extremely hard. Loving a Marine

  who’s an aggressive frontline marksman

  is almost impossible, especially when

  he’s deployed. That’s not now. Currently,

  Cole is on base in Kaneohe, awaiting

  orders. The good thing about that is

  I get to talk to him pretty much every

  day. The bad thing is, we both know

  he’ll go back to the Middle East as soon

  as some Pentagon strategist decides

  the time is right, again. Cole’s battalion

  has already deployed twice to Iraq

  and once to Afghanistan. Draw-down

  be damned, Helmand Province and beyond

  looks likely for his fourth go-round.

  You’d think it would get easier. But ask

  me, three scratch-free homecomings

  make another less likely in the future.

  OF COURSE, IF YOU ASK

  Me about falling in love

  with a guy in the military,

  I’d tell you to about-face

  and double-time toward

  a decent, sensible civilian.

  Someone with a fat bank

  account and solid future,

  built on dreams entirely

  his own. I’d advise you

  to detour widely around

  any man who prefers fatigues

  to a well-worn pair of jeans;

  whose romantic getaways

  are defined by three-day

  leaves; who, at age twenty-

  six has drunk more liquor

  than most people manage

  in a lifetime. He and his

  fellow grunts would claim

  it’s just for fun. A way to let

  their hair down, if they had

  much hair to speak of. But

  those they leave behind,

  devoted shadows, understand

  that each booze-soaked

  night is a short-lived

  retrieve from uncertain

  tomorrows, unspeakable

  yesterdays. Service. Sacrifice.

  The problem with that being,

  everyone attached to those

  soldiers must sacrifice, too.

  So, as some Afghani warlord

  might say, put that in your

  pipe and smoke it. Okay, that

  was actually my grandpa’s saying.

  But it works, and what I mean

  is, think long and hard before

  offering your heart to someone

  who can only accept it part-time.

  TOO LATE FOR ME

  I didn’t go looking for some dude

  with crewed yellow hair and piercing

  golden eyes. It just happened.

  So here I am, in the second year

  of my MSW program at San Diego

  State, while he brushes up his sniper

  skills twenty-six hundred miles away.

  Some people consider Hawaii paradise,

  an odd place for a Marine base. Except,

  if you consider war in the Pacific Theater.

  Except, why not? I’m elbow-deep in

  Chaucer when his call, expected, comes.

  Hey, babe. His voice is a slow burn,

  melting all hint of chill inside me.

  Word came down today. Two weeks.

  How fast can you get here? I need

  serious Ash time. And, I’ve got a surprise

  for you. Something . . . really special.

  “Sounds intriguing. No hints?”

  He refuses and I consider what

  it will take to reach him. “I’ll look

  into flights and let you know. Probably

  next weekend.” It will be a pricey ticket.

  But I have no choice. Cole Gleason is my heart.

  WE TALK FOR AN HOUR

  About nothing, really, at all.

  Finally, we exchange love-

  soaked good-byes and I do my best

  to go back to Chaucer. I’ve got

  a paper due on Friday. But it’s hard

  to concentrate. The couple next door

  is having one of their regular

  shouting matches, and the thin walls

  of this apartment do little to dampen

  the noise. Every time they go off

  on each other, it plunges me straight

  back into my childhood. My parents

  argued regularly, in clear earshot

  of the neighbors or their friends

  or even at family gatherings. And

  they always made up the same

  way, so everyone could hear, taking

  special care to let my little brother,

  Troy, and me understand that

  no matter how much they had grown

  to dislike each other, that paper

  they signed in front of the priest

  was a forever contract and meant

  more than personal happiness.

  Their own brand of sacrifice.

  I grew up equating public displays

  of affection with private problems

  and, when I found out about Dad’s

  affairs, with covert actions. Hmm.

  Maybe that’s why I’m so attracted

  to someone who specializes in

  ferreting out the truth. Ha, and

  maybe my parents don’t like him

  for the same reason. Mom claims

  it’s because anyone who signs up

  to kill innocent people right along

  with the bad guys must be either

  brainwashed or brain-dead.

  Of course, she has a personal

  relationship with the military

  through her father, a Viet Nam vet

  who came home irreparably damaged.

  I NEVER MET HIM

  Nor my grandmother. Both died when

  Mom was eleven. She was raised

  by her dad’s mother, “crazy Grandma

  Gen,” as she calls her. I don’t know if

  Genevieve was really crazy, or if that’s just

  how she seemed to Mom. But I do think

  losing both parents in the same accident

  plowed deep into Mom’s psyche. To a stranger,

  she’d seem standoffish. To her friends,

  a challenge to know. To Troy and me,

  she is a river of devotion beneath a thick

  veneer of ice. To Dad . . . I’m not sure.

  Sometimes, when she giggles at one

  of his ridiculous jokes, or when he looks

  at her in a certain way, I see a ghost

  of what they once meant to each other.

  What I do know is when I truly need support,

  she always comes through, at least once

  we make it past her counseling sessions.

  But, hey. She’s my mother. It’s her job

  to assail me with advice. As her daughter,

  it’s my prerogative to take it or leave it.

  When it comes to Cole, I mostly ignore

  what she has to say, and completely shun

  Dad’s sage wisdom—I don’t understand

  why you want to commit to s
omeone

  whose entire life is following orders.

  Dad doesn’t care much for rules, except

  for the ones he makes. He’s brilliant,

  but hated school, and could never

  have worked for someone else. He never

  had to. In college, he became obsessed

  with technology, way down to nano

  level. His crazy scientist inventions

  have kept us living well, especially out

  in the country, a very long commute

  to the Silicon Valley. Dad is impatient

  with conventions, or silly things like

  my longstanding desire to teach.

  Stupid is actually what he called it.

  Too little pay, and even less respect.

  My liberal arts BA, according to Dad,

  was, A serious squander of time and

  money. I figured it gave me options.

  Dad says it just proves I’m wishy-washy,

  and maybe he’s right. I chose an MSW

  over an MFA. Social work seemed like

  the right direction at the time. But writing

  and teaching call to me, too. Which explains

  why I’m taking poetry as an elective.

  “Creative expression as therapy” was

  the explanation I gave to my advisor.

  I have, in fact, encouraged the veterans

  I’ve worked with at the VA Hospital

  to write as a means of sorting through

  the scrambled thoughts inside their heads.

  A few showed me their ramblings. I could

  fix their grammar. But not their memories.

  STILL, TO A POINT

  The writing seemed cathartic.

  I might use that as my thesis,

  if I get that far next year. I went

  for a three-year program, hoping

  to give myself a little breathing

  room. I talked Dad into paying

  for it, so I guess it’s fair he’s a bit

  pissy, especially because he also

  agreed to let me quit my part-time job.

  I loved working at the preschool, but

  it didn’t pay very well, and it crowded

  my days. And a couple of incidents

  made me question why some people

  have children. A certain mother made

  me a little crazy. Jacked up my stress

  factor, not to mention blood pressure.

  Parents like her are why the world

  needs social workers. Poor, little Soleil

  deserves better. Every kid does. Dad

  says I can’t change the world. Maybe

  not. But I’m damn sure going to try.

  IN THE MEANTIME

  I suck it up, put distraction away,

  and try to jump into writing my paper.

  I kind of love most poetry, though

  I do prefer writing it to dissecting

  some of it, especially Chaucer. He is not,

  as the English (Old, new, or anywhere

  in between) might say, my cup of Earl

  Grey. Still, I manage almost three pages

  on his contributions to the Oxford English

  Dictionary when my cell signals

  a new text message. Happy for

  the interruption, I go ahead and

  investigate, discover it’s from Darian.

  HEY, GIRL. A BUNCH OF US ARE GOING

  OUT ON SATURDAY NIGHT. WANT TO

  COME WITH? Some best friend.

  Zero communication for weeks at a time,

  then she invites me out with a “bunch”

  of her new pals. Military wives, none

  of whom I know. The ones she hangs

  out with. Works out with. Goes out

  with, more often, obviously, than

  she does with me anymore. I suppose

  I should be grateful she thought about

  me at all. Part of me is. And part

  of me wishes I had a valid excuse

  to say no. But I really don’t, and how

  would saying no make me a better

  friend than she’s been to me lately?

  Anyway, I could use a few hours away

  from here. Out of this apartment,

  and into the land of drunk living.

  I text back: SOUNDS FUN, BUT I HAVE

  TO BE CAREFUL OF MY CASH. LOOKS LIKE

  I’M FLYING TO HAWAII NEXT WEEK.

  She, of course, knows why. Which reminds

  me: HOW’S SPENCE? Her husband,

  and Cole’s good buddy, has been

  in country for several months. Behind

  the wire, at some uber-protected

  Afghanistan airfield—wherever they

  keep the helicopters that need a little

  tweaking. Spencer is a self-proclaimed

  master copter mechanic. Darian’s answer

  is slow to come. In fact, I’m just

  about ready to believe she has put

  away her phone when: OKAY, I GUESS.

  WE HAVEN’T TALKED IN A FEW DAYS.

  STRANGE

  Spencer should have fairly easy access

  to a computer, if not a phone. E-mails

  and even Facebook are rarely prohibited

  when a soldier is safely behind the wire.

  Communication, the brass believe,

  is the key to harmonious long-distance

  relationships. You’re not supposed

  to give away any really important

  information, of course. Nothing

  the enemy could use to his advantage.

  But discussing family or work or school

  (on this end) and what to put into care

  packages (on the other) are encouraged.

  Connection to home and loved ones

  helps keep a warrior grounded in

  a reality that doesn’t revolve around

  war. Except when the current battle

  happens to involve someone at home.

  When I ask Darian what’s up with Spence

  and her, she responds: WE HAD A FIGHT

  LAST TIME WE TALKED. SAME OLD BULLSHIT.

  MEANING IMAGINED CHEATING

  Wish I could jump straight to her defense.

  But there’s a lot I don’t know about her

  at this point. And a lot more that I suspect

  myself. Once, I could have come right out

  and asked her if she was sleeping around.

  Darian and I have been best friends since

  the fourth grade. We used to tell each other

  everything—confessed big secrets and little

  lies. San Diego State was a shared dream,

  mostly because, growing up in Lodi, the idea

  of moving south and living near the ocean

  seemed akin to heaven. We were stem-to-stern

  California girls. Funny we fell in love with

  heartland guys. Spencer is a corn-fed Kansan.

  And Cole’s a Wyoming boy. Both were raised

  gun-toting, critter-hunting, Fox News–loving patriots.

  They met in basic training at Camp Pendleton,

  became instant friends. We connected with them soon after.

  Rewind

  JANUARY 2007

  Darian and I were roomies then,

  sharing an off-campus apartment.

  She grumbled a lot about school.

  About feeling shackled. About men—

  the ones she’d been dumped by,

  the ones she couldn’t seem to find.

  One Friday she seemed ready to lose

  it, so I suggested a night of drunken

  revelry. “Who knows?” I prodded.

  “Maybe you’ll find Mr. Wonderful.”

  We chose an Oceanside hotspot, too busy

  for the bartender to give our fake IDs more

  than a quick glance. We ordered margaritas, />
  found two seats at a table not too close to

  the speakers pounding base-infused music.

  I didn’t notice Cole and Spencer walk

  in. But Darian did. She nudged me.

  Hard. Check it out. Hot Marines.

  Military issue was not my type,

  at least I didn’t think so then. I did

  have to admit, however, that whatever

  hoops they’d been jumping through

  had left them buff and bronzed.

  Which one do you want? she asked,

  as if hooking up with them was in

  the bag. I kind of like the dark one.

  Spencer swaggered. That’s the only

  word I can think of to describe the way

  he moved. “Cock-sure,” my grandpa

  would have called it. Definitely more

  Darian’s overhyped style than mine.

  Cole, I wasn’t sure about. He carried

  himself straight up and down, stiff

  as a log. He looked deadly serious,

  until he smiled, revealing a hint

  of something soft—almost childlike—

  beneath his tough infantryman veneer.

  Some things are meant to be, it seems.

  I mean, we weren’t the only women

  in the club. There were way too many

  vampires—girls hoping to hook up

  with a military sugar daddy. Someone

  whose paycheck would see them

  through when he was sent away.

  I didn’t know about them then,

  but it didn’t take long. That night,

  they prepared to swoop in on Cole

  and Spence. Except, there was Darian.

  I’VE NEVER BEEN MUCH OF A FLIRT

  Darian, though, is flirt enough for

  two. Not to mention, bold enough

  to move in before the vampires

  could reconnoiter. I’ll be right back.

  She walked straight up to the bar,

  insinuated herself between Spencer

  and Cole, ordered drinks, even

  though the ones we had were barely

  half gone. Then she turned and

  looked Spencer square in the eye.

  My friend and I want to thank you

  for your service. Next round’s on us.

  It wasn’t a question, and one minute

  later, I found myself thigh to thigh

  next to this quiet guy with intense

  topaz eyes. It wasn’t love at first sight

  or touch or whatever. If it had just

  been the two of us there, he would

  have been vampire bait. But our

  BFFs hit it off immediately. I was more