The Military Academy
She glanced at the classroom door. Mo was still inside, and she must be exhausted—she’d arrived on time for breakfast, but with her eyes barely open. Given the pace since then, she probably felt dead on her feet, and the day wasn’t over yet. Supper was next on the agenda. After that, a workshop. The itinerary offered no details beyond the workshop title: Group Dynamics. Forcing everyone to work together at the end of a long, busy day was almost cruel, but they were all there to be evaluated, after all. Fortunately the workshop would end at nine, and nothing was scheduled afterward. Lesley knew what she’d do—go straight to the barracks and get into bed. Tomorrow’s agenda was as packed as today’s.
The classroom door opened. She hoped to see Mo, but a short, slender young man with cropped brown hair stepped into the corridor. He caught her eye and walked toward her. “Taking a short break before heading to the mess hall?” he asked.
“I’m waiting for someone.”
“Oh, right, your friend. With the black hair. You always sit together.”
She was surprised someone had noticed.
“I’m David. David Bryson.”
“Lesley Thompson.”
He sat in the chair closest to hers. “I’ve hardly had time to breathe all day.”
“I know what you mean,” she said, trying to look past him without being obvious.
“At least we finish up at nine.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll need to wind down before trying to sleep,” he said, leaning forward. “I was thinking of walking around the academy grounds. Maybe you’d like to go for a quiet stroll, just me and you? I’m sure your friend can find something else to do.”
She stifled an angry retort. “I’m same-oriented.”
He flushed and drew back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I mean, I should have—I guess you and your friend, you’re, um . . . ”
Lesley nodded.
“I’m usually not this dense or rude—honest!—but I’m operating on four hours of sleep.”
“Only four?”
“I don’t sleep well in strange beds. Look, I really am sorry. I should have realized.”
“You couldn’t have known we were more than close friends,” she said, feeling some sympathy for him. He seemed genuinely contrite.
“Maybe not, but I could have asked before making a fool of myself.”
“I guess it’s safe to assume you’re diff-oriented.”
David chuckled.
The classroom door opened again. Mo, this time. Lesley waved; Mo immediately came over, shaking her head. “That was completely unfair, giving an exam like that. I hope I didn’t write anything stupid. Oh, hi,” she said, noticing David.
“Mo, this is David Bryson,” Lesley said. “David, Mo Middleton.”
They nodded to each other. “Mo must be short for something,” David said.
“Ramona. But nobody ever calls me that.”
Lesley inwardly smiled. If the stories were true, she was responsible for Mo’s nickname. When you started talking, you couldn’t pronounce Ramona. You called her Mo. And that’s what everyone else started calling her, too. For some reason, it stuck, Mama had said, an explanation Mo’s parents had corroborated.
David stood. “Well, I’d better get something to eat. We seem to be in the same group, so I guess I’ll see you at the workshop later. Nice meeting both of you.”
“If you’re going to the mess hall, we might as well go together,” Lesley said. He seemed pleasant enough, and it wasn’t as if she and Mo would have had a quiet, romantic supper in the crowded, noisy mess hall. Everyone sat at long tables, with very little elbow room and zero privacy. On top of that, getting to know some of the other candidates was probably a good idea. Perhaps the military was evaluating everyone’s behaviour between sessions, too. She and Mo wouldn’t want to appear unsociable.
“Yeah, why not?” Mo said. “If we’re all accepted, we could end up seeing a lot of each other.” She paused. “I hope I did okay on the exam. I wasn’t sure about question six.”
David nodded. “That was a tricky one.”
“What did you both put?” Mo asked.
They compared answers on their way to the mess hall and while they pushed their trays along the rail, adding dishes to them. By the time they sat down at a table occupied by other Rymellans in jumpsuits, Mo seemed more confident that she’d passed the exam. “Most of my answers match yours,” she said. “And I’m pretty good at, um, making it sound like I know more about something than I do.”
Lesley opened her mouth to tease Mo, but Mo forestalled her with a quick, “And no comment from you.”
David grinned. “So where are you from?” he asked as he spread butter on a bread roll. “I’m from B8.”
“C3,” Lesley said.
His eyebrows drew together. “C3? What are you doing here?”
Lesley’s jaw clenched. Not him, too. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re probably both from old families with connections. You could do anything.”
“What’s wrong with the military?” Mo asked. She bit into a vegetable pie and made a face. “Military food,” she muttered, as if offering an answer to her question.
“Nothing. I’m just surprised it’s your first choice.”
“Isn’t it your first choice?” Lesley said. “There’s nothing stopping you from doing anything else.”
“I guess not. But I’m still surprised about you two. I haven’t met many military from C3.”
“You know a lot of military?” Lesley asked.
David took his time chewing a mouthful of food before replying. “My papa’s a lieutenant commander.” He smiled sheepishly.
Lesley snorted. “You’re better connected than we are.” She picked up her knife and fork and glanced at the large clock over the entrance to the hall. They had to be at the workshop in twenty-five minutes and she hadn’t touched her food. Mo could do the talking from now on.