Beyond the Point(19)
But sure enough, once the academic year began, her schedule grew so hectic, she didn’t have time to worry about West Point’s outdated rules of decorum and chastity. The Corps of Cadets reported every morning at 0630 for formation, standing at attention in silence, watching their breath enter the freezing morning air, four thousand miniature clouds. West Point required plebes to take at least twenty-two hours of classes, meaning that Avery had eight courses to keep up with, including chemistry, Spanish, calculus, and a class in the Department of Military Instruction. Plebes weren’t allowed to talk as they crossed campus between classes, and she had to address every upperclassman she passed with the proper rank and greeting. Her head moved on a constant swivel.
“Beat Rutgers, ma’am,” Avery said to a Firstie who passed her way, naming Army’s next opponent, as required.
An upperclassman who happened to be in her company, G-4, whose mascot was a gator, walked by her, and she quickly stammered, “Go gators, Sergeant.” She moved past him in case she’d used the wrong rank. Was he a sergeant? Or a sir?
In high school, Avery had regularly worn blush and foundation, but West Point prohibited her from hiding her flaws, even the ones on the surface. Female plebes could wear light tinted moisturizer, but the standard for what constituted too much makeup was subjective and judged mainly by men. She’d risked concealing the pimples on her chin and the dark circles under her eyes only once. On that same day, she’d watched an upperclassman force a plebe who’d denied having makeup on her face to wipe her eyes on a towel. Smudges of beige and black streaked across the white fibers, and the upperclassman shook his head three times. Rumor had it, he’d reported the girl to the Honor Committee for lying. Avery had immediately rushed to the nearest bathroom and washed her face with harsh hand soap, wiping her eyes with a rough paper towel. If she was going to leave West Point, it was going to be on her own terms. Not because she’d used a little Maybelline.
That afternoon, Avery’s turn had come up to be the “minute caller”—a job she’d been dreading since her first day at West Point. Ten minutes before lunch formation, she’d taken her place alone in the hallway announcing a list of memorized information, speaking loudly, slowly, and in a low monotone, like a man, so every cadet on the hall could hear her. Any slip-up or stumble would draw unwanted attention, and so Avery had studied the script for nearly an hour before stepping into the hallway and beginning.
“Attention all cadets . . . there are . . . five minutes . . . until assembly . . . for lunch formation.”
“Don’t mess up, Adams,” an upperclassman had taunted, prowling around her like a predator.
“The uniform is . . . as for class . . .”
“Oh. I see you smiling. Don’t slip up. I’ll make you start over.”
“For lunch we are having . . . lemon pepper chicken . . . pierogies . . . and Gatorade . . . I repeat . . . Five minutes remaining . . .”
Cadets underwent daily inspections for shined shoes and polished brass buckles. Upperclassmen could stop and check that her uniform was properly “dressed off,” meaning tucked into her wool pants at a perfect forty-five-degree angle. At random intervals during the week, plebes were required to sort, fold, and deliver laundry to the upperclassmen in their company. In addition to all of her coursework, Avery had to memorize the names and room numbers of more than one hundred people, in order to properly deliver laundry and avoid hours of unnecessary hazing.
“Do I LOOK like a female, Cadet Darby?” she’d heard a Cow shouting at a plebe last night. He’d held up a gray skirt. “This isn’t even my SIZE!”
To complete all of her military duties and not neglect her homework, Avery had taken to staying up far past taps. When her roommate, a girl from California named Nadine, complained that the light was going to get them in trouble, Avery had started using a small flashlight instead.
Streaming through the darkness, the small spotlight shined on chemistry equations while Nadine snored on top of her cot. Avery’s notebooks filled with little lists, outlining her days in fifteen-minute increments, as if, by scheduling each minute, all the tasks she’d been assigned could possibly be completed. Meanwhile, she found herself daydreaming about her friends back home, friends who were probably sleeping late, skipping class, and attending parties on the weekends just because they could.
When Avery considered adding practices, games, and a hectic basketball travel schedule to her already-packed daily itinerary, it made her want to be sick. Last week, the team’s captain, Sarah Goodrich, had sent out an e-mail inviting all the new recruits to an “optional” practice that clearly wasn’t optional, since she’d couched optional in quotation marks. And when Avery wrote the practice on her calendar, she realized that something was going to have to give. What, she hadn’t decided. Perhaps she’d have to stop sleeping altogether.
Her decision to come to West Point was beginning to feel like an exercise in pride that had bitten her harshly in the ass. Who chooses to enroll in a prison? It was a cruel bait and switch, to tell prospective students West Point was prestigious, only to treat them like shit once they got there.
The mess hall filled with a cacophony of sliding chairs, stacked plates, heavy feet leaving for class. Avery looked at her plate, still full of food. How had fifteen minutes already passed?
“That’s it, plebes,” her table leader, John Collins, said. He checked his watch, then put his fork down on his plate and gave Avery a wink. “Time to get your ass to class.”