mad.â
They all laughed.
Julian flipped them the finger and walked out.
ELEVEN
From the heavy odor of tobacco, Julian knew his father was waiting for him as soon as he stepped into his quarters. The den and kitchen were dark, the only illumination coming from a dim light in the stoveâs ventilation hood. Light seeped out from under his bedroomâs closed door. He considered going back to Fireteam Bravoâs room, see if he could convince them to put on a movie. But his dad would wait until Julian showed, stinking up his room with that smoke. Or heâd have him paged. One way or another, Dad would not be denied whatever lesson it was he wanted to bestow on Julian this time.
He opened the door and stepped into a gray cloud. He coughed and waved it away from his face. His father was standing at his dresser, a pistol in his hands. It was the replica Springfield Custom Professional Model 1911A1 semiautomatic his father had given him. Apparently it was a copy of the pistol Page had used when he was a Special Ops officer in Vietnam. Dropped plenty of gooks , his father had said of the original.
âHey, kid,â his dad said, putting the pistol back into its stand.
âHey.â Julian spun onto the bed, fluffed his pillow, and lay down. He began fingering the peyote root bracelet his brother had given him. It was supposed to make him brave. He didnât have any problems rappelling, riding the zip line, stuff like that. But the thing was worth spit when it came to helping him stand up to his father.
âWhatâve you been up to?â
âYou should know.â
His dad sat on the bed beside him. He blew out a plume of smoke. âLike the way this cigar smells?â
âNot really.â
His father puffed on the thing, filling the space between them with nauseating fumes.
Julian coughed. He waved a hand in front of his face. As the cloud cleared, his fatherâs cold stare emerged, like a specter from graveyard fog.
His dad said, âSergeant Wilson tells me you couldnât finish the allterrain course.â
Julian shrugged.
âYou have to try harder. Youâre only hurting yourself.â
âWhat happened to Michael?â Julian said.
âWhat do you mean? Nothing, as far as I know.â
âHeâs acting funny, sad. The others are picking on him.â
âPicking on him how?â His dad shifted to see him better.
âI donât know. Calling him names, punching him.â
His dad laughed. âSounds like theyâre in fifth grade. Boys being boys.â
âIt just seems like . . . something happened to him the other night, on that mission they went on.â
His dad made a dismissive face. âHe didnât do so well, let his team down. Thatâs why I push you so hard. You donât want to be like him.â
âYouâre right,â Julian said. He scooted himself up and pressed his back against the wall. âI donât want to be a soldier at all.â
His father scowled. He turned his face away and puffed on the cigar. He pulled it from his mouth to examine it. He said, âJulie,â and stopped.
Julian bit his bottom lip. His father knew he hated being called that. Julian used the silence to add, âI want to go home. I want to go to my old school. I donât want to teach myself from homeschool books. I donât want . . .â His hand stirred the air. âI donât want any of this.â
His emotions rolled up from his chest, made his lip quiver, threatened to pour out of his eyes. He tried pushing it back. He told himself to be strong. It was the only thing his father respected . . . and expected.
His father used his free hand to smooth back his hair. âThis is the best thing for you.â
âWhy?â
His dad squinted at him. He said, âBecause of this. Youâre on the brink of tears. Thatâs no good, Julie, youâve got to toughen up.â
Julian turned