Making Faces(22)

“I hear you signed up for the guard. You know you'll get called up, don't you? You'll be shipped out faster than you can say Saddam Hussein. Do you realize that?” Mr. Hildy asked, his arms folded, his bushy, grey brows lifted in question.

“I know.”

“Why you goin'?”

“Why did you go?”

“I was drafted,” Mr. Hildy said bluntly.

“So you wouldn't have gone if you had a choice?”

“No. But I wouldn't change it either. The things I fought for, I'd fight for again. I'd fight for my family, my freedom to say whatever the hell I want, and for the guys I fought beside. That, most of all. You fight for the guys you serve with. In the middle of a firefight, that's all you think about.”

Ambrose nodded as if he understood.

“But I'm just telling you right now. The lucky ones are the ones who don't come back. You hear me?”

Ambrose nodded again, shocked. Without another word, Mr. Hildy walked away, but he left doubt behind, and Ambrose experienced his first qualms. Maybe he was making a huge mistake. The doubt made him angry and restless. He was committed. And he wasn't turning back.

The US and her allies were in Afghanistan. Iraq was next. Everyone knew it. Ambrose and his friends would enter basic training in September. Ambrose wished it was tomorrow. But that was what they'd all agreed to.

That summer was hell. Beans seemed intent on drinking himself to death, and Jesse might as well be married for as much time as he spent with his friends. Grant was farming, Paulie, writing endless songs about leaving home, working himself up into a blubbering mess. Ambrose spent all his time at the bakery or lifting weights. And summer dragged by.

Now, here they were, Saturday night, two days before they left for Camp Sill in Oklahoma, and they were all at the lake celebrating with every kid in the county. There was soda and beer, balloons, trucks with tailgates lowered, and food at every turn. Some kids swam, some kids danced at the water's edge, but the majority just talked and laughed and sat around the bonfire, reminiscing and trying to pack in one last summer memory to see them through the years ahead.

Bailey Sheen was there. Ambrose had helped Jesse hoist his chair and carry him down to the lake where he could mix and mingle. Fern was with him, as usual. She wasn't wearing her glasses and her curly hair was tamed into a braid with a few tendrils curling around her face. She didn't hold a candle to Rita, but she was cute, Ambrose had to admit that much. She had on a flowery sundress and flip flops, and try as he might, he found himself looking at her throughout the evening. He didn't know what it was about her. He could have started something with any number of girls he called friends who might like to send him off with a little something special. But sloppy coupling had never been his thing, and he didn't want to start now. And he kept looking at Fern.

He ended up drinking more beer than he should, getting pulled into the lake by a bunch of guys from the wrestling team, and missing the moment when Fern left. He saw the Sheen's old blue van pull away, crunching across the gravel, and he felt a twist of regret slice through him.

He was wet and mad and a little drunk–and not enjoying himself at all. He stood next to the fire trying to squeeze the water from his clothes, and he wondered if the regret he felt over Fern was just his way of digging in his heels at the last moment, grabbing for something to hold onto as his old life slipped away and the future dawned, scary and new.

He let the fire dry the worst of the wet from his jeans and T-shirt and let the conversation flow around him. The flames looked like Fern's hair. He cursed aloud, causing Beans to pause in the middle of introducing a new game. He stood up abruptly, knocking the flimsy lawn chair over, and walked away from the fire, knowing he should just leave, knowing he wasn't himself. He was such an idiot. He'd twiddled his thumbs all summer long with not a damn thing to do. Now here he was, the night before his last day in town, and he was just discovering that he might like a girl who had all but thrown herself at him more than six months before.

He was parked at the top of the hill, and the cars that were nestled close to his were empty. Good. He could just sneak away. He was miserable, his crotch was wet, his shirt was stiff, and he was all partied out. He headed up the hill only to stop in his tracks. Fern was picking her way down the path to the lake. She was back. She smiled as she approached him and fingered a strand of her hair that had come loose and was curling against her neck.

“Bailey left his ball cap, and I offered to come back for it after I dropped him off. And I wanted to say goodbye. I got to talk to Paulie and Grant, but I didn't get to talk to you. I hope it's okay if I write you sometimes. I would want people to write me . . . if I were leaving . . . which I probably never will, but you know,” she was growing more nervous as she spoke, and Ambrose realized he hadn't said a word. He'd just stared at her.

“Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that,” he rushed to put her at ease. He ran his fingers through his long damp hair. Tomorrow the hair would go. His dad said he'd shave it off for him. No use waiting until Monday. He hadn't had short hair since Bailey Sheen told him he looked like Hercules.

“You're all wet.” She smiled. “You should probably go back by the fire.”

“You wanna stick around, maybe talk for a minute?” Ambrose asked. He smiled like it was no big deal, but his heart pounded like she was the first girl he had ever talked to. He wished suddenly that he'd had a few more beers to take the edge off.