Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(37)

She takes a single deep breath before striding directly into the men’s latrine.

The shrieks and cries have a strangely nonmasculine sound. Naked men twist away or cover themselves with whatever comes easily to hand, sometimes pulling a still-clothed buddy in front of them in a soapy, steamy panic.

“Where is Private Geer?” Rio demands. “I am here for his apology.”

A dozen pairs of appalled, scandalized, and frankly frightened eyes turn toward the far end of the room, silently betraying an oblivious Geer singing in the shower.

It’s not the cries but the sudden silence that alerts Geer, who sticks his face into the shower jet, rinses soap from his hair and forehead, and says, “What’s going . . .” His eyes widen, a rivulet of soap runs down into his left eye, which blinks madly all on its own. His mouth opens and moves, but no sound comes out. He looks like a large, pink catfish that has just landed in the bottom of a fisherman’s cooler.

“I would like your apology,” Rio says, pleased that her voice is at least somewhat steady and holds her gaze rigidly on Geer’s face.

Geer does not answer. He reaches with a fumbling hand for his towel and holds it in front of himself. He swallows convulsively and his eyes inscribe a panicky circuit from left to right, looking for salvation.

An older man, maybe as old as some of Rio’s teachers, and blessedly still wearing at least the most vital parts of his clothing, says in a laconic voice, “I think maybe you’d best apologize to Private Richlin, Geer, so all these boys can breathe again.”

Luther says, “Ksh . . . Mf . . . Shuh . . .” and various other monosyllables before finally discovering his voice and vocabulary. “I didn’t mean . . . anything. I was just . . . But I apologize.”

“I accept,” Rio says.

She executes a military about-face, only slightly spoiled by the fact that on the wet tile she over-rotates a little, and marches back out of the room.

Jenou followed her in and now follows her out.

“Well, that was an education,” Jenou says.

“Much to think about,” Rio agrees solemnly.

Halfway back to the women’s bathroom stands Sergeant Mackie.

“Richlin. Castain. The men’s latrine is off-limits. Report to the mess sergeant for KP.”

KP—kitchen patrol—involves peeling a great many potatoes, brewing vats of coffee, and washing pots and pans. It’s a lot of work for two tired, sore girls.

But it’s less work when Cat comes sauntering in. “I am in the mood to peel me some taters,” she says in an exaggeratedly rustic accent.

This is perhaps not too great a surprise, though Cat is the only female to join in. Then Jack appears in the doorway. “Hot, soapy water, just my cup of tea. Stick has other duty or he’d be here.”

And then the appearance that stops them all in mid-laugh: Tilo Suarez.

Tilo shrugs irritably. “What? All the pretty girls are here. I’m not leaving them to this foreigner.” Jack tosses him a towel.

Upon returning to barracks they find a somewhat changed atmosphere. For one thing, people have come up with several names for Rio’s stunt. It is now Private Richlin’s Raid. Or Richlin’s Surprise Inspection. Or more crudely the Rio Richlin Short-Arm Showdown. Even Private Richlin’s Willie Hunt.

And Rio herself is treated differently. About half the men find the whole thing entertaining and grudgingly admire her courage. The other half (most of whom were in the showers at the time) are not at all amused. Not at all. Some are angry. Some seem almost wounded.

In a single day, with twenty-five push-ups and a brief foray into the men’s latrine, Rio goes from being a sort of appendage to the more outgoing Jenou to being an object of curiosity, admiration, fear, and resentment.

The same array of attitudes is evident among the other women, some of whom see her as a champion, while others are annoyed at her sudden elevation in status.

She begins a letter to Strand, thinking she will tell him all about it, but then, after contemplating various descriptive passages, decides not to. How on earth is she supposed to tell him that she’s gone storming into the men’s latrine?

Even the push-ups . . . What if Strand can’t do twenty-five? Does she want to seem to be bragging? Does she want him to think of her as some muscle-bound girl? Men don’t like muscular girls, everyone knows that. No man likes a girl who is stronger or bolder than he is.

No, best not to talk about it with Strand. But Jack—who was not in the shower at the historic moment—cannot stop grinning. So maybe Strand will find it funny too. Someday.

“Lights out in five,” Sergeant Mackie calls from her room.

Jenou is already in her bunk. She’s tugging her hair forward to look at split ends. “I think I may get a Mackie cut,” she said.

“Cut your hair that short?”

“I’ll still have all of this.” Jenou waves a languid hand, indicating her body. “And honestly, when we dry-fired our rifles I lost a hairpin and my hair ended up getting in the way.”

“How short?”

Jenou holds up two fingers like scissors and pretends to cut at about the three-inch mark.

“You’ll look cute,” Rio says.

“Cute? How dare you? I’ll look stunning,” Jenou corrects her.

Rio rolls onto her side and pushes closer, lessening the gap between them so she can lower her voice. Jenou mirrors her movement.