Front Lines (Front Lines 1)

Rio stares daggers at Jenou, who laughs gaily and says, “My goodness, Rio, did you really think I wouldn’t hear about it? Me? I’ve heard three different accounts, all from reliable sources.”

“You mean gossips.”

“Only the most reliable gossips.” She play-slaps Rio’s arm. “I cannot believe you are holding out on me. On me! Me, your best friend! I demand details. Later, not now, but you owe me the complete skinny.”

“And you wonder why I didn’t tell you. We’re quite busy ruining our lives here; the gossip can wait.”

“For now I just have one question: have you written your name and his surrounded by a heart in your journal?”

Rio has done exactly this. And she has written Rio Braxton several times as well.

“No, I wrote Jenou Castain with snakes crawling all around.”

They’re in a crowded hallway where a harassed-looking woman with a clipboard directs traffic.

“Where do we go to sign up?” Jenou asks.

They are directed to a side room that still has a sign reading Postmaster above the open, glass-paneled door. The furnishings inside are minimal: three stiff-backed chairs, a metal filing cabinet, a hatstand, and a wooden desk, behind which sits a doleful-looking man in a crisp khaki uniform. There are four stripes on his shoulders, but for the life of her Rio cannot remember what they signify.

“I’m Sergeant Tell. Can I help you girls?”

“We’re here to enlist,” both say at once, though one voice sounds cocksure and the other tentative.

Rio stands at a sort of civilian’s version of attention and sidles close to Jenou, who slouches nonchalantly.

The sergeant shakes his head slowly, side to side. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Sir?” Rio asks.

“Girls in the army. Never thought I’d see . . .” He shrugs it off and in a stern tone says, “Look, ladies, it’s not sir. Sir is for officers. I work for a living. You call me sergeant.”

“Yes, sir, Sergeant,” Rio says.

The sergeant seems unsure of whether she’s being a smart-aleck, but it’s getting on toward lunchtime and there will be many other NCOs down the line to instruct these two in military etiquette. He sighs and produces two flimsy sheets and one pen. “You both eighteen or over as of this date? Fill in your names and addresses. Read it, sign it.”

He has not even paused for them to answer. Rio is relieved but also a bit disappointed—she has a whole convoluted lie worked out about her age.

They sign, first Jenou then Rio. The sergeant has a stamp that he pounds first on the ink pad and then bam, bam, on each sheet.

“Through that door,” he says.

“Through that door” brings them together with the draftees who’d been processed in a different queue. Rio glances around nervously and sees to her great relief that Strand is far toward the back of the line. She is all out of conversation with Strand, and she’s terrified of being revealed as a shallow, empty-headed ninny with nothing to say.

Stop thinking about how big his hand was.

There were four tables, each manned by a corporal or sergeant and each apparently required to produce a piece of paper and bang a stamp down onto it.

Paper: bang! Paper: bang! Paper: bang!

Stop thinking about that single gunshot.

Then, “Are you now or have you ever been a member of any organization devoted to the overthrow of the American government?”

“What?”

“I’ll take that as a no.” Paper: bang!

Thus far Rio is certain that not one of the soldiers has actually made eye contact with her. That changes at the last stop where yet another aged, bored-looking sergeant does not at first look up as he says, “Do you like girls?”