Carly Page 5

  Again, no one moved. Carly’s heart pounded in her ears and a cold sweat covered her. She stiffened her quaking knees.

  “The army is all about the team, all about becoming a unit. Now, for the last time, whoever spit into 89236108’s food, step forward!”

  No one moved. Carly stared straight da>, willing herself deeper into self-control.

  “All right, then,” the DI said in a voice pregnant with malice. “We were going to take just a short eight-mile hike this morning, but I think this refusal to speak up means that you’re all ready for a ten-mile. About-face!”

  Carly wondered if she would last for a ten-mile hike. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem. And as problems went, the main one before her was not merely how to survive today; she had an unexpected enemy. Why was this stranger, Alex-somebody, targeting her? What did Alex-somebody think she could gain? What was she trying to prove?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In the dark and quiet night, a thread of sweat trickled down Carly’s back as she struggled to keep her eyes open. Exhausted didn’t even come close to describing how she felt. And she wasn’t alone. Nearly three weeks of basic had pretty much mowed down all of the recruits. That night they’d been awakened after about an hour’s exhausted slumber to do perimeter duty. They’d been ordered to don full combat gear within ten minutes—all to guard baked dirt and rocks. Or that’s what it seemed to Carly. After an hour’s duty, they’d been marched back to their barracks, where they undressed and climbed back into their beds, ready to sleep the night through.

  But within an hour, they’d been yelled awake for a second hour of perimeter duty. Carly trembled with fatigue. The 8.8-pound M-16 she clutched had never felt heavier. The breezeless, muggy night pressed close and wrapped around her like warm, wet papier-mâché. How long would this torment last?

  Carly felt herself sway as her knees tried to fall asleep on their own. A bead of sweat slid down her nose and dripped to the ground. She made no move to wipe it away.

  Not just her platoon, her whole company had been called out for this ridiculous, mind-numbing torture. In the ranks across from her, Carly could just see the top of Lorelle’s helmet under a yard light. She tried to make herself recall everything she could about Lorelle’s family—a mental exercise she hoped would keep her awake. It failed.

  Someone nearby cleared her throat. Carly knew everyone in her barracks so well that she easily recognized the sound. It was Alex Reseda—the girl who hated her for no discernible reason. Alex’s pursuit of her and vendetta had continued. With all the trouble Alex had caused Carly, she couldn’t collapse now, couldn’t call more attention to herself.

  In one of their few free moments, Carly had discussed Alex with Francie Rains, the petite blonde who had told the DI about Alex’s spitting in her breakfast. Francie hadn’t been able to come up with a reason for Alex’s nastiness either. Ever since that morning, whenever possible, Carly made sure to put as much distance as she could between her and “Crazy Woman,” her private name for Alex.

  Over the intervening days after the memorable first breakfast, Francie stuck protectively close to Carly, which was a little funny since Francie didn’t look as if she could do more than shout for help. Now, in the hushed darkness filled with human silence and the clicking and droning of insects, Carly’s mind brought up Francie. A country girl from Kentucky, she possessed an endearing cheerfulness that made her stick out. So far those precautions—keeping away from Alex and Francie’s hovering as a witness—had worked. There hadn’t been another incident between her and Alex. The DI still watched both her and Crazy Woman more closely than the other recruits. But so far the sergeant had had no reason to punish them more than the others. She dished out plenty of that for everyone.

  Carly figured she could do a hundred push-ups now without much sweat. What an accomplishment. She’d written a paper in high school about treatment of POWs in the Vietnam War, and she had noticed an unpleasant correlation between the methods used by the Vietcong—intimidation, sleep deprivation, public humiliation, total loss of control—and those of her drill instructor.

  Carly’s eyes slid shut of their own volition. She took in a deep breath and forced them open again. How much longer, how much longer? Dear God, don’t let me fall asleep and collapse. Her M-16 started to lower, and she straightened her spine. Don’t give in. Don’t give in.

  Again, she turned her mind back to the one who hated her. What would Nate tell her to do in this situation? What would Nate do about Crazy Woman? She asked him in her mind, and she heard his answer loud and clear. Don’t make waves—whatever you do. And that seemed to sum up her total lack of control. She was no longer in the ordinary world; she was in the army, a GI, government issue.

  “Atten-tion!”

  Carly, along with all two hundred of their company, snapped to attention.

  “About-face!”

  Salvation had come. They could go back to bed—for at least another hour’s sleep. Dear God, don’t let them make us do another hour out here. Please make them let us sleep.

  Two afternoons later, Carly sat at one desk in one row of desks in a crowded classroom, staring da> at the most boring film ever made and trying to stay awake. Failing to do so was a fate not to be contemplated. And to make matters worse, though she’d tried to maneuver herself away from Crazy Woman, Alex sat right in front of her. But then Alex hadn’t looked very pleased to have Carly at her back. Good. Let Crazy Woman feel exposed.

  Carly’s mind wandered to another unpleasant shock that had come just before dawn that morning. She’d wakened before the DI and since everyone was still snoring, she’d counted the buttons on her mattress and pulled up the one over her earrings. Since that first night in the barracks, she’d been so busy, and never alone, that she hadn’t checked on them. So, just making sure, she’d felt around in the predawn gray for the tiny diamond earrings. They had not been there.

  Then the DI had shouted them all awake and she’d popped the button back into the mattress and leaped to her feet. Had someone come in and switched their mattresses around? Why? Had someone seen her put the earrings into the mattress? That didn’t seem possible.

  Carly’s eyelids slipped down and shut. She blinked rapidly, fighting her body’s deep fatigue. Once again, she was fighting the sleep demon. Two nights in a row, she’d been allowed around four hours of sleep, but not four consecutive hours. An hour here. An hour there. How could sleep become such a huge thing in a life?

  On the screen, the nondescript man with a mesmerizing voice in the ancient black-and-white 1950s film droned on about how to read a topographical map. Map! Just set me free, and I don’t need a map to lead me to my bed!

  Carly glanced sideways at Francie, who sat at the desk just to her left. Her head was nodding, nodding. Carly slid her boot sideways. As soundlessly as possible, she tapped the side of Francie’s combat boot—once, twice. The DI was walking around the room, looking, looking.

  Carly bumped Francie’s boot hard. Wake up, Francie! Francie’s chin snapped up, her eyes blinked open.

  The man in the film began discussing what could happen to a soldier who misread a map. This was slightly more interesting because it actually talked about something that sounded as if it might be important someday. When a squad of ten soldiers was out on its own during a battle, bad stuff could happen if no one knew how to read the map—

  especially with night maneuvers. Soldiers could die. Carly listened with interest to the experiences of soldiers in World War II and Korea.

  Then she heard it—nearby incoherent mumbling. She glanced around, then realized the sound was coming from right in front of her. Crazy Woman must have fallen asleep and was having a dream. Fear for Alex zinged through Carly. But why do I care? Crazy Woman hates my guts.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught Francie nodding her head toward Alex. No, no way am I waking her up. Francie gave that little nod again. Not a mean bone in her body. Not a brain in her head. Carly gave the slightest shake of her
head. When she saw Francie lift her hand as if she were going to actually lean over to prod Alex, Carly poked Crazy Woman’s back once, hard.

  “No!” Alex shouted, jumping in her desk. “Don’t touch me!”

  The lights snapped on, but the gray, nearly invisible man droned on. The DI glared at Alex. “What in the heck?”

  “She poked me!” Alex accused, spinning around to face Carly.

  Carly glared at Alex, hoping that Francie wouldn’t speak up in her defense.

  “You two separate!” the sergeant roared.

  Carly leaped up and hustled to the front of the room where a vacant seat remained. She waited for the punishment to come. But the lights clicked out and the film hummed on. Was this over or was punishment just delayed? For a moment Carly pondered Alex’s nightmare and the fact that her own bad dreams had become few and far between. Was it because of sheer exhaustion or something else?

  The June Sunday afternoon sun shone clear and sizzling. At the end of week four, Carly and her platoon had been given a blessed three-hour break. So she hefted her duffel, filled to bursting with every piece of clothing she wasn’t wearing. With the letter in her pocket, Carly took one last longing look at her bunk and then staggered out of the barracks and down the few steps on her way to the laundry. Having to wash her own clothes had been an unpleasant surprise.

  There was a centralized laundry where they could turn in their clothing, pay, and then later pick up their clothes. But the laundry was sent off base to a contracted laundry service, and the DI had suggested they keep their clothing on base. The service was famous for sending back single socks without partners and for losing laundry. It wasn’t as if Carly didn’t know how to do laundry, but this chore seemed just one more thing the army hadn’t included in its attractive, glossy enlistment brochures. She headed off for the laundry.

  Arriving there, Carly saw two of the eight heavy-duty washing machines were empty and raced to them. She stuffed her whites in one and her colors in the other, poured in powdered detergent, and slid quarters in. She sighed happily as the warm water gushed in. She shut the lids with contentment. She planned to go and sit in the corner and read the letter again. But she turned to see a special surprise walking in the door. “Lorelle!”

  They met in the center of the long narrow room and in spite of the other recruits looking on, the two hugged. “How are you?” Carly asked.

  “The same as you.” Lorelle, with her creamy tan complexion and her short curly hair, grinned back. “I figure it will probably take us one full week of sound, uninterrupted sleep to make up for all the hours we’ve lost in the past four weeks.”

  “Oh,” Carly moaned, “let’s not talk about it. Talking about sleep makes me tired.”

  Grinning, Lorelle led her outside onto the shaded top steps. Carly sat down beside her friend and sighed deeply. It felt so good to have a little time off and to talk to Lorelle, someone she’d known all her life and who would understand what she was going through. “Four weeks down and four to go.”

  Lorelle nodded. “We’ll make it. I hear you have some ditz in your platoon that’s always on your case.”

  Carly made a face. “Let’s not waste any time talking about Crazy Woman.” The unexpected letter in her pocket seemed to call to her. “Who wrote you?” Carly asked nonchalantly, referring to the first permitted mail delivery the previous week.

  “Dad, Mom, Great-Grandma Minnie, my brothers and sisters. Even my Grandma Lila, who is still marching for peace.” Lorelle shrugged. “I think my dad made everyone write me.”

  Tension clicked through Carly. Should she tell Lorelle about his letter? Could she? “I heard from everyone, too.” She gazed down at her feet. The desire to tell someone who would understand clutched at her, squeezing her until she couldn’t bear the tension. “And I mean everyone.”

  “You sound strange,” Lorelle prompted. “What do you mean by ‘everyone’?”

  She knew Lorelle from family occasions over their lifetimes and the summer weeks they’d spent together at Ivy Manor, whispering to each other in the room with the trundle bed. They were friends, but this topic felt touchy. Still, she had to tell someone. And Lorelle was the closest thing to family there and then. Carly drew in breath and said, “My father wrote me.”

  “Nate? What did he say?”

  “Not Nate. My . . . birth father.” Carly suddenly was breathing hard.

  Lorelle sat up straighter and turned to fully face Carly. “No.”

  Unable to speak, Carly nodded. Yes, Lorelle understood.

  “Wow.” Lorelle stared at Carly, openmouthed.

  Carly looked away, trying to hide all the emotion that was flowing up from inside her like some uncapped geyser.

  “What did he say? Did he tell you who he is? Give you his address?”

  Lorelle’s rapid questions made Carly feel a bit nauseated. She drew the letter out of her pocket. Her hand trembled sharply as she said, “Here. Read it.” Her voice sounded thick and unnatural.

  With wary eyes on Carly, Lorelle took the envelope as if it might explode. She slowly slid out the one crisp sheet of vellum. After reading the brief note, she looked at Carly and then back down at the page. “Weird. Sounds like he’s been keeping track of you.”

  “I know.” Carly had memorized the brief note:

  Dear Carly,

  I have waited until you graduated from high school to write you. I am your father. I’m hoping that someday soon we will be able to meet face-to-face. However, I will understand if you don’t want to. I am the guilty party and your mother had every right to keep you from me. But don’t ever think that I didn’t care or want to see you, be a part of your life.

  With love, T.L.K.

  Masking her confusion, Carly rubbed one moist palm on her thigh and looked off into the distance. A heat mirage floated on a far-removed post street. “It feels really strange,” she said. “He knows where I am, right down to my boot-camp address. But I don’t know anything about him.” The old, restless curiosity curled inside her.

  “Do you think your mother told him?”

  “No.” Carly’s denial came swift and strong. “She hates him—or she must. Whenever my birth father has been mentioned or I’ve asked about him, her face just freezes in anger.”

  Lorelle gently touched her shoulder.

  Carly took back the note and slipped it into her pocket.

  “I overheard my mom and dad talking about your natural dad once.” Lorelle paused as if asking permission to go on.

  Suddenly alert, Carly nodded encouragement.

  “It wasn’t much. Just that it was a shame that Leigh had made such a . . . big . . .” Lorelle hazarded a glance at Carly. “Mistake, but they were happy that your mom had married Nate. And they said something about your dad being involved in . . .” Lorelle cast her another worried glance. “Your kidnapping.”

  Jolted, Carly shoved her spine back against the step. Her pulse raced. “Can you remember exactly what they said?”

  “Just that the man was trouble and he’d better stay away or my dad would do . . . something.” Lorelle’s voice dropped. “About him.”

  It couldn’t be true. Why would her birth dad . . . ? Carly’s face twisted with a frown. “Did they think my dad kidnapped me or paid someone to?”

  Lorelle shrugged. “I’ve told you all I heard. But if he had, don’t you think he would have come to where you were being held and told you who he was?” Her friend’s voice trailed off, thin with uncertainty.

  Carly breathed in and out, holding off tears. Thinking about it, trying to remember every detail of those two horrible days always gushed fresh terror inside her. “I wouldn’t think that my father . . . any father would treat his child . . . like the kidnappers did. They didn’t abuse me, but it was cold and scary.” Carly rubbed her eyes and her fingers trembled.

  “Sorry I brought it up.”

  Carly looked into Lorelle’s pretty, brown, very concerned eyes, taking strength from her sympathetic reacti
on to the topic. I’m not overreacting. And maybe my dad was the one who helped me get home. “No, you did right. Someday, I will meet T.L.K.”

  “No return address, right?”

  Carly shook her head. “Yeah, evidently he can only handle one-way communication now. Or maybe he thinks my mom would do something if she found out he had contacted me without her permission.” Did T.L.K. know how much Carly wanted to see him? Did he expect her to be angry at him? Is that why he’d not included his name and address? Or was he still keeping his distance from her because of her mother? “At least I know that Mom told him to stay away from me.” He’d said he’d wanted to be with me. Hope sprang to life—followed by the same old bitter disappointment. How would I feel if I saw him for the first time?

  Lorelle shrugged and looked down.

  “Well, if it isn’t Ebony and Ivory,” said the sarcastic voice of Crazy Woman.

  Carly looked up at Alex, who had her duffel over one shoulder. She had just run out of patience with Crazy Woman. Get a life.

  “Come on, Carly.” Lorelle rose, obviously wanting to put distance between them and Alex. “Your stuff should be ready for the dryer, and I can get mine started in your washers.”

  Carly didn’t hesitate. She went inside. Pointedly ignoring Alex, she emptied her wet clothing from the two washers into a large wheeled cart, and then Lorelle quickly stuffed the washers with her clothing. No dryer was free, so Lorelle and Carly sat along the wall opposite the dryers, watching Carly’s cart and waiting to see someone’s clothes spin to a stop behind the large, round glass doors. They didn’t dare leave; they’d been warned that people might steal uniforms to replace those they hadn’t laundered. Alex hovered in the doorway with her bag of laundry.

  Lorelle leaned over and whispered in Carly’s ear, “Everyone’s trying to figure out why she’s on your case.”

  Carly cocked her head. “How come you have the time to gossip?”

  “Because you’re one of the main topics of conversation in our company. I, on the other hand, keep a low profile.”