Deadlock by Robert Liparulo Page A

mad.”
    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 stove’s ventilation hood. Light seeped out from under his bedroom’s closed door. He considered going back to Fireteam Bravo’s 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 he’d 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.
    â€œHey, kid,” his dad said, putting the pistol back into its stand.
    â€œHey.” 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 didn’t 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.
    â€œWhat’ve you been up to?”
    â€œYou should know.”
    His dad sat on the bed beside him. He blew out a plume of smoke. “Like the way this cigar smells?”
    â€œNot really.”
    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 father’s cold stare emerged, like a specter from graveyard fog.
    His dad said, “Sergeant Wilson tells me you couldn’t finish the allterrain course.”
    Julian shrugged.
    â€œYou have to try harder. You’re only hurting yourself.”
    â€œWhat happened to Michael?” Julian said.
    â€œWhat do you mean? Nothing, as far as I know.”
    â€œHe’s acting funny, sad. The others are picking on him.”
    â€œPicking on him how?” His dad shifted to see him better.
    â€œI don’t know. Calling him names, punching him.”
    His dad laughed. “Sounds like they’re in fifth grade. Boys being boys.”
    â€œIt just seems like . . . something happened to him the other night, on that mission they went on.”
    His dad made a dismissive face. “He didn’t do so well, let his team down. That’s why I push you so hard. You don’t want to be like him.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Julian said. He scooted himself up and pressed his back against the wall. “I don’t want to be a soldier at all.”
    His father scowled. He turned his face away and puffed on the cigar. He pulled it from his mouth to examine it. He said, “Julie,” and stopped.
    Julian bit his bottom lip. His father knew he hated being called that. Julian used the silence to add, “I want to go home. I want to go to my old school. I don’t want to teach myself from homeschool books. I don’t want . . .” His hand stirred the air. “I don’t want any of this.”
    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. “This is the best thing for you.”
    â€œWhy?”
    His dad squinted at him. He said, “Because of this. You’re on the brink of tears. That’s no good, Julie, you’ve got to toughen up.”
    Julian turned