The fact that accepting this bitter reality practically made my psyche split in two is indicative of my trademark inability to work or play well with others. I missed the good old days, when I was just supposed to save the world. That was so much easier to stomach than having to save my mom.
After a minute, I nodded tensely. "They have to take us as soon as we pass the course," I snapped at John. "Even if it's less than a week."
He nodded. My jaw tight, chest aching, I turned to follow the ensign, who was waiting for us.
"Is there a mess hall?" Gazzy asked him. "Can we see your weapons? Can I drive a tank? Do you have a lot of explosives?"
The ensign looked besieged. "Yes, mess hall. No to the weapons. Major no to the tank. The explosives are nothing you'll get close to. Okay, kid?"
Gazzy looked disappointed.
Welcome to the khaki wonderland.
32
GIVEN OUR BACKGROUND, you need to know that having our lives take huge, bizarre nightmarish turns for the worse is kind of a regular thing. And yet when the alarm went off at five a.m. the next morning, I felt like we were exploring a whole new level of bad.
We had spent the night in an overturned metal half-pipe. John said it was called a Quonset hut. It was like a long, low hotel room with a hobbity roof. At one end were eight narrow cots. Total had instantly claimed one for himself and Akila. I looked away. Nudge wouldn't need hers now.
We had just barely rolled out of our cots when we heard a bang on the metal door. "Ensign Chad Workman reporting for duty!" someone yelled.
I opened the door. "What," I said coldly.
The young crew-cut guy looked startled. He double-checked the number on our door. "Uh, Ensign Workman reporting for duty. I'm supposed to lead some temporary recruits to mess, kit, and then the BSSTC grounds."
I looked back into the dark hut. "Time for the BS, guys!" I glanced at Ensign Workman. "I think we've got the 'mess' thing under our belts. The BS is gonna be up to you."
Ensign Workman was taken aback. "Um, are you hungry? The mess hall is open."
The rest of the flock staggered toward the door and stood in a ruffled, sleepy group behind me. Brigid and John, with their quaint notion of not sleeping in their clothes, were taking longer to get ready.
"We'll bring you some food, Total," I said as he trotted out the door.
"Yeah. This ain't exactly France," Total muttered, heading off to find a good potty spot. He had loved how many French restaurants allowed dogs.
Ensign Workman stared at him, then looked back at me, chuckling nervously. "And after breakfast, we'll get you set up in some uniforms."
Iggy fingered the khaki cloth of his uniform pants. "This is not a good color for me. I'm really more of a 'winter.' "
Frankly, it wasn't a good color on any of us. And it was downright odd on Fang, who normally wore only dark clothes. I was glad, though, that Nudge wasn't here asking if her uniform came in cute pink camo or had a matching headband.
Ensign Workman gasped audibly when I pulled out a pocketknife and started slashing long slits in the backs of our new shirts.
"You're defacing property of the United States Navy!" he said, shocked.
"Gotta let the wings out, man," said Iggy.
Gazzy took no pity on Ensign Workman and proceeded to snap his wings out, right there. Ten feet of authority-defying feathers and bones, attached to a grinning mutant bird kid.
Ensign Workman turned white, which, as you can imagine, only made his uniform look even worse.
The BS grounds were separated from the rest of the base by a seven-foot chain-link fence. A tall, chisel-faced man stood at the entrance, holding a clipboard and wearing a frown. Ensign Workman silently turned us over to him, then slunk away, no doubt hoping never to see us again. It's weird how many people feel that way about us.
"The classroom is aft of those trees!" the guy barked. "March!"
I know this will surprise you, but we're not good marchers. We're not even good at staying in line. And if you've skimmed any of my previous adventures, you've already figured out how well we respond to orders.
Of any kind.