Khaki boots stand firm to the floor, trained to be perfectly glued in place. Inside the boot, toes tap incessantly, unseen by cruel eyes. Josh keeps his gaze straight ahead, tender neck intimately aware of the consequence for a wandering eye. His mind, though, was free to wander, and did, until finally reaching the same image that always greeted him: her. Beautiful lips curled up in a knowing smirk, brown eyes softened yet taunting, the exact look she’s always give him when he made yet another stupid joke. His heart sighed, longing for the achingly familiar.
Sharp thumps and a quick hand reminded him of his task; he straightened his posture and snapped his hand to attention.
“No daydreaming at my bootcamp, soldier!”
“Yes sir, sorry sir!”
Another laser-fast firm strike to the back of the head. Teeth clenched, body rigid. A mind ready for molding.
“Drop and give me twenty for daydreaming, Peck!”
Josh, the forgotten name, was replaced with Peck when he’d arrived. No longer sheltered by high school, but exposed to the hellish barracks. Peck obeys instantly, palms greeting the dusty floor like an old unwelcome friend. He presses his face closer to it, bringing his elbows to a sharp ninety degree angle before allowing them to rise and fall again and again. His mind goes back to the image and he holds it there through the pain.
Blonde hair tossed into an easy ponytail, barely. Loose strands fall from her face to frame her cheeks. She stares intently at a page, pen in hand. A tear falls onto the page, drips down the crease and falls. She swipes at her eyes, pushes her hair behind her small ear, no visible signs of pain except the shadow of her frown.
Cheap metal spoons clink against cheaper metal bowls filled with watered down tomato soup. As he slurps down the meager food like a robot on autopilot, a shoulder slams into him from behind. He grunts, spilling drops of the thin red liquid onto the table. Josh turns, eyebrows furrowed into an angry point. They slide down into their natural straight form and an easy grin replaces it. Hands clasps, shoulders bump, and the other young man sits next to him on the hard bench with a laugh. First, the conversation is all easy-going hushed complaints about their current situation. The three AM sprints through freezing rivers, the unheated beds, the shortage of unsoiled socks. The mood shifts when Stevens asks Peck about her. He hangs his head, saying it all by saying nothing (at all). Stevens claps him on the back suddenly, breaking through the somber silence.
Tight knuckles clutch too-long sleeves, covering dry hands shoved into grey pockets. Her eyes flick to couples holding hands as they walk down the hallway, but with each passing pair, she stares straight ahead.
The day he receives her return letter, Peck was breathing heavily from helping his dad rake and bag leaves in the yard. He’d told her to send it to his house, but hadn’t expected her to respond at all. When his mom calls from the deck, he blinks slowly, leaves falling from his full hands. It registers, and he drops them all, tripping over himself and the piles of clear bags at his feet before racing up the maroon-painted steps.
As she aims the new camera at his squirrel-reminiscent features, she can’t help but grin. It feels the same as it did a year ago: relaxed, fun, normal. The night progresses. She regrets bringing him home after bowling. They kiss. He doesn’t see the hesitation on her lips. She drives him home.
Victory! His eyes yell when his best friend opens the door. They share an infrequent hug and a frequent beer, laughing about how long it took to get here as they clink cans.
Outside, tears spill out of her broken eyes, but she gathers up her shattered spirit enough to create a kaleidoscope view of the road back home.
Kasey Roper 