What am I supposed to do? Cadets get jack shit for pay, and I blew my entire savings on one weekend in New York. Sure, Lindsey was more than willing to pay for some of it. She paid for her own hotel room and part of the food . . . but especially after yesterday afternoon, how can I fool myself any longer?
She's obviously not just a riding buddy anymore. Hell, this has been the happiest I've been my entire time at the Academy. But . . . twelve dollars and thirteen cents?
I sigh, working on shining my inspection shoes. We've got haircut inspection tomorrow, and I've been keeping my hair at the limits of what the TAC likes. I get the impression that Lindsey likes my hair a little bit longer, but my TAC doesn't. I've already seen him giving me looks, and I'm not a senior, where I could've earned some leeway.
My commanding officer likes the old-school soldier, the Ranger types who wear shaved sides and short, flat tops on their hair. While the regs say I can have hair up to two inches on top and a half-inch on the sides, there's no way in hell he'll let me get away with that. He starts making pointed comments when you can't see scalp anymore on the sides.
My polishing rag moves over the leather of my shoes in wide sweeps, the smell of the Kiwi filling the air. On my desk, I've got a candle burning. I'm one of those guys who thinks that melting the shoe polish helps you get a better gloss than just raw polish, and the scent mixes with the polish just enough to keep it from being nauseating.
“Attention all cadets! There are five minutes until area clean-up formation. The uniform is . . . Army Combat Uniform with belt and canteen! Formation will be held on the division steps. Five minutes remaining!”
Oh, shit. I totally lost track of time. I mean, I've already changed into my ACU pants, but the plebe outside in the hallway, I think it's Carroway, by the leather-lunged sound of him, still catches me by surprise. I've only got my brown t-shirt on, and I get up quickly, rushing over to my bed and pulling on my combat boots. I normally hate wearing my issued field jacket, but I don't have time to dig my warm weather undershirt out of my footlocker . . . to hell with it. I guess I'll wear the jacket and my gloves. For work details, they don't really care about little shit like that.
I get my belt clipped on and at least half a canteen of water, getting downstairs just as this semester's First Sergeant, Mel Riordan, calls everyone to attention. My squad leader glances down the line and we do a quick formation.
After getting the reports, Riordan turns it over to our company XO, Pete Lemmon. “Okay, Devils, you know the deal,” he says, relaxed. “The TACs want us to clean up some of the leaves and snow that hasn't melted away. Our company's been assigned the gap here from the barracks up the back of Bradley, toward the mess hall.”
“Great . . .” someone mutters. “Hey, who's got the shovels?”
“Vince is bringing those from Central Guard Room right now,” Pete says. “He should be here in two or three minutes. In the meantime, platoon leaders, break your people down into . . . hey, what the hell's that?”
There's a rumble as people look around, and I try to look as Pete points. Unfortunately, we're on the division’s steps and can't see shit because of the overhang that sticks out from the second floor to cover the walkway. “Hey, Simpson! You’ve got smoke in your room!”
Oh, shit. I turn and run up the stairs, and the smoke is already pouring out of my door. I go inside and see the problem. In my rush, I forgot to blow out the candle I was using for melting my shoe polish, and my World History report that I got back second period fell off my desk and caught on fire. I stamp it out, cursing the whole time, but the damage is minimal, just some charred ash on the floor. Breathing heavily, I grumble, looking down. I hear a cough behind me, and Mel Riordan's standing there, his face grim. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I just fucked up. No harm, no foul.”
“I wish,” Mel says, sighing. “Captain Campos saw the smoke. Sorry, Aaron, I’ve gotta write you up on this one. You know the rules. No candles or open flames in the barracks.”
I sigh, nodding. “Gimme two minutes to get this at least a little cleaned up before I come down and join everyone else?”
He nods, turning and walking away.
“Five hours?” Cho asks, handing the form back to me. “Damn. You didn't even cause any damage. Well, except to your history paper.”