Battle Dress by Amy Efaw Page B

in front of New Cadet Boguslavsky, then turned back to me. “This afternoon, during Mass Athletics, what did you sign up for, Davis?”
    “Sir, I signed up for softball.” I remembered how yesterday afternoon I had surprised myself, hitting a double. That hit had made my day, but I would’ve traded that play in a second for my running shoes, a long path in the woods, and a big chunk of time—alone.
    “Well, I’ll make sure you get hooked up with the Women’s Cross Country Team. The captain of the team’s a personal friend of mine. And tryouts for Corps Squad—” He eyed the faces around the room. “Here’s a new vocabulary word for you, Smack Heads. At Woo Poo U, Corps Squad means varsity, N C double A, Divison One.” He redirected his attention to me. “Tryouts for Corps Squad are in a couple of weeks.”
    I might be able to run here! I could’ve hugged him right there—Speedo suit and all. But, of course, I didn’t. “Thank you, sir,” I croaked.
    “Yeah, well, don’t embarrass me, Davis. I better not see you falling out on any runs.” He switched his focus onto New Cadet Boguslavsky. “All right, Boguslavsky. You’re up.”
    “Yes, sir. I’m Christopher Scott Boguslavsky, but I go by ‘Kit.’ And I come from Monongalia County, West Virginia.”
    “Mono—whatever you said— County , Bogus?” Cadet Daily snarled. “We want a city, not a county, Bonehead.”
    “Yes, sir. I come from a town called Crossroads, close to Morgantown—that’s the home of WVU—and down a stretch from Efaw’s Knob in Monongalia”—he emphasized every syllable—“County, West Virginia.” He had a slight southern accent, one that wove around his words but never quite settled in. “Back home, I’m famous for being the preacher’s kid, and I came here because I heard the hunting’s good.” He smiled. “And, of course, I wanted the challenge.”
    Cadet Daily crossed his arms and smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Good answer there, Bogus . But guess what?” The top of Cadet Daily’s head only reached the bottom of Boguslavsky’s chin, so he had to take a step back to get good eye contact. “The hunting’s only good for the hunters, Wise Guy. And I’ve got my sights set on you !” He moved along the sloppy line of new cadets, boots, shoes, and saddle soap that stretched across the room. “Mr. Hickman, you’re next.”
    When Hickman opened his mouth, a thick drawl crawled out. “Well, my name is Tommy Hickman from Birmingham, Alabama.” He put down his scrubbed boot and picked up the fresh one. “I’m famous for my fastball that got me a 1.02 ERA during my senior year.” He paused dramatically, a smug expression on his face. “I’m here because Army Baseball recruited me, and because my dad’s a Citadel grad.” He stood a little straighter. “ I want to do better.”
    There are some people you like immediately. Hickman wasn’t one of them.
    “You think pretty highly of yourself, Hickman, for being nothing more than a scum-sucking maggot.” The smug look on Hickman’s face instantly vanished. Cadet Daily moved on. “Okay, Bonehead Bonanno, you’re up.”
    “Yes, sir. My name’s Frank Bonanno, and—”
    “Whoa, Nellie!” Cadet Daily leaned closer to Bonanno, whose nose nearly touched Cadet Daily between the eyes. “Bonanno, did you shave this morning?”
    Bonanno swallowed. “Yes, sir!”
    Cadet Daily frowned and closely eyed the condition of Bonanno’s face. “I think you need to step a little closer to that razor, Fur Face.”
    Fur face? From where I stood, two people away, Bonanno’s face appeared to have a light haze of stubble in places, but it looked okay to me.
    Bonanno swallowed again. “Yes, sir.”
    “And while you’re at it, shave your back. No telling what kind of vermin is hiding in that jungle.”
    The look on Bonanno’s face was one of pure shock. “Y-y-yes, sir,” he stammered. The rest of us were staring hard at our boots, trying to keep from laughing out