Excerpt from Warrior's Daughter

And finally I twist my heart round again,
so that the bad is on the outside and the good is on the inside,
and keep on trying to find a way of becoming what I would so like to be,
and could be, if there weren't any other people living in the world.
-Anne Frank
 
 
Chapter One
 
           After climbing Heartbreak Hill with Dad, I thought I’d be ready for eighth grade. All the way up, he yelled, “Atta girl, Annie, you can do it. Get tough.”
           He put twenty pounds of rocks in my pack to get me in shape for softball and soccer, but what I wanted was to be tough enough to face Jessica Johnson. She stole my best friend, Carly Lopez, talked behind my back, and made my life just plain miserable. I knew she was up to no good when she rode her bike down my street the week before school started.
           “Hi, Anne Marie. Like my hair?” She smiled that wicked smile and that meant trouble. Instead of her regular hair, she had a head full of long, skinny braids that zigzagged like lightning bolts. 
           “Your Mom do it?” I asked.    
           “You’re kidding, right? Black and Blue did it. Cost a hundred bucks.” She fingered one of her synthetic braids and wrinkled her nose. “What’d you do with your hair?”
           Then she dropped her bomb. “I hear your dad’s going back to Iraq!” Her words struck like shrapnel. “What’s the matter? You look all freaked out.” Another smile, another wound, neatly placed. “Bought your school clothes yet? Carly and I are so totally ready for eighth grade. We got identical animal print puffer jackets. What about you?”
           “I’ve got to go,” I said.
           “Whatever.” She took off down the street, her new weaves whipping the air. 
           I raced into the house. Only Charley the cat was home, and he darted out of my way. I slammed through the kitchen, opening cupboards until I found Mom’s stash of bottles under the sink. That meant Mom knew. I paced until Dad’s truck pulled into the driveway. Then I ran outside. “You’re going to Iraq! Thanks for letting me be the last to know!”
           “Glad to see you, too!”
           “You could have told me.”
           “What’s the big deal?”
           Right away, he started packing. I sat on a half-filled duffle as he put maps and cammies into his ruck. Canvas bags fit into other canvas bags. He buckled, snapped, tied. He tucked in nail clippers, sunscreen, and antibacterial solution. A warrior must be organized going to war. It could mean life or death.
           He packed toilet paper for the straddle trench, a book about the Spartans, a bar of soap, and trail mix. The stencil on his ruck read: Gunnery Sergeant Alexander Hayden. Everyone called him Gunny.
           “What about Mom?”
           “She’ll be fine.”
           Whenever Dad got deployed, Mom and I couldn’t act normal. We hung around as he got ready to leave. I didn’t have the right words, and Mom put out clean towels, changed the sheets, and made meatloaf with scalloped potatoes.
           “I guess I’ll quit soccer.”
           “Why?”
           “I’m no good.”    
           He put a hand on my shoulder. “Look, Annie, somebody has to fight this war.”
           “Why you?”
           “Not my call.”
           It was his second tour in a place he called the “sandbox.” He’d get sand in his eyes, his nose would peel, and his lips would get parched.
           “But eighth grade’s starting.”
           He pulled me to my feet and gave me a hug. “I knew you’d be upset. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
           “I still can’t catch fly balls.”
           “Your luck will change.”
            He tugged on his ring, twisting it to get it past his knuckle. “Here, take my lucky ring.” He held it out, but I shook my head. The ring had come from his father and his father before him, all soldiers. Without his ring, anything could happen.
           “No, you keep it.” He shrugged, and then slid the ring back on his finger. “You promised you’d teach me to shoot a gun,” I said. 
           “Later.”
           “You said I did pretty good at paint ball.”         
           “Tell you what...I’ll survive the war, and you try to survive eighth grade. Deal?”
           Mom came into the room carrying a glass of wine, tripped, and almost fell into Dad. He reached out to steady her. “You hittin’ the booze, babe?”
           She kissed him on the mouth. “Just wine.”
           With his arm around Mom, he looked at me. “Call Carly. I’m takin’ my girls out.” 
           “Forget Carly.”
           “You two still on the outs?”
           Mom wrapped her arms around Dad, making him look at her. “Anne Marie thinks everyone’s ganging up on her,” she said.
           “It’s true.”
           Dad took a sip of Mom’s wine, and then did an imitation of a little girl’s voice. “Ohhh! Everyone’s against me. What am I gonna do?”
           I felt five instead of thirteen. “You don’t understand!”
           He laughed. Mom pulled him close and kissed him again. He tickled her, and they started acting silly. I stomped out of their room and into my own. Even though I slammed the door, no one came to scold me. I heard them talking late into the night, laughing even. I wanted to laugh, too, but the door to their room was closed. They stayed up most of the night watching war movies to get Dad into a killing, kick-butt, gung-ho frame of mind. Every time he went to war, bombs dropped, buildings blew up, and people screamed. Dad shouted “Ooo-rah!” and “Semper Fi” a couple of times in my dreams.
           Charley’s loud purring woke me. I threw back my comforter and rushed into the hall. Dad’s ruck, duffel, and everything set by the front door were gone. On the kitchen table, shoved halfway under the pepper mill, was an index card. I recognized his handwriting scrawled with a thin black marker.
            Goodbye Annie. Didn’t want to wake you. Remember you’re a warrior’s daughter and you’re tougher than you look. Give it your best shot. Love you. Dad
 
            I put the note in my jewelry box with all my valuable things. After that, Mom and I rattled around the house trying to avoid each other.         
           “I’ve gotta go shopping,” I said.                       
           “What for?”
           “Clothes.”
           At the last minute, she finally went to the ATM for fast cash to go with my babysitting money, and then dropped me at the mall. I spent the money in twenty minutes.
 
           On the first day of school, I hauled my book bag past the Support Our Troops sign to eighth grade homeroom. The minute I got to the quad, I noticed new kids. Just the way they struck poses, hips thrown out, belly rings sparkling, I knew they were transfers from the other side of base. One girl stood in the shadows by herself. Her stringy hair streaked pink, she looked as if she’d just crawled out of the lost and found box.   
           Then I saw Carly, my best friend since first grade. Her hair was longer and slightly
bleached after the summer. She stood with Preppies dressed in designer jeans and triple-layered tops so new that fold creases showed. I took a deep breath and headed straight for her. Before I could open my mouth, Jessica laughed. “What’s so funny?” I asked.
           “Oh, Anne Marie, your outfit’s so totally last year!”
           As if invited, the pink-haired transfer came over and pointed at the picture on the front of my shirt. “Monet’s bridge, right? Okay, listen, I saw the real one...in case you’re interested.”
           I examined the buckle of my studded belt as if it might be something important.
            “Who’s your new friend?” Jessica could hardly wait to link me with the pinkie loser and, naturally, she did it in front of the whole eighth grade.
           The door to homeroom opened and, to my amazement, Mrs. Spencer, my old first grade teacher, stepped out. “Good morning, students. I’m your language arts teacher this year.” She jangled her keys in front of our faces to prove it official. A fake rose bloomed on her sweater and a yellow ribbon decorated her sleeve in support of the troops. She shaded her eyes against the September sun, squinting past the school grounds and the nuclear power plant and, finally, to the sea. Then she took a deep breath and zeroed in on me. “Hello, Anne Marie. How are you?”           
           I plunged through the door, expecting the same boring classroom from seventh grade, but everything had changed. Bookcases stood against every wall, and books lined all the shelves. The front of the room resembled a little stage. A tiny red and gold USMC flag stood alongside a bonsai plant on Mrs. Spencer’s desk. A half-dozen animal print cushions were stacked in a corner near a little fountain surrounded by ferns where water trickled over volcanic rocks.             
           Atop one bookcase, I spied the Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy dolls Mrs. Spencer gave
me to hold when I fell off the first grade slide.              
           Being new to middle school, Mrs. Spencer allowed us to sit anywhere. Jessica, Carly, and the rest of the Preppies found seats in front on one side of the room. The transfers grabbed places on the opposite side. Boys climbed into rows in back. That left me stuck in a double side row near the open door with all the leftovers.
           A boy dressed in black and wearing silver chains entered the room. He had ballpoint tattoos on his arms and gelled black hair in Statue of Liberty spikes four inches high. On his wrists were woven leather bands, and a permanent dark shadow on his upper lip made him seem too old for eighth grade. Heavy silver crosses dangled from chains around his neck, and a big loopy chain swung at his side. He had so many chains, he clanked as he walked.  
           “Tony Sanchez?” Mrs. Spencer checked his late slip with the stack of cards in her hands.          Jessica gazed with interest at Tony as he slid into the seat next to me. He pulled an art pad from his book bag and began sketching a really cool falcon.
           Mrs. Spencer checked the enrollment cards against her attendance sheet. “Let’s see...Jessica Johnson?”                  
           Swanlike, Jessica straightened, swiveled around to see if anyone noticed, and then raised her hand. Mrs. Spencer nodded and continued to call roll. Dawna Browne. Carly Lopez. Waylon Jones. Leticia Hawkins. Finally, she got to me. “Anne Marie Hayden?” She peered over her rimless glasses as I lifted a hand. “You’re the one named after your two grandmothers. Isn’t that right, Anne Marie?” I chewed a hangnail as I memorized the chipped edge of my desk. She waited a minute, and then called another name. “Is Jill Baker here?”
           The room fell silent as everyone watched the pink-haired girl who had been to Monet’s Bridge peel herself off the back wall and walk to a solitary place behind the copy machine.          
           To my surprise, Mrs. Spencer gave out scented markers so we could make nameplates to put on our desks. Soon orange, lime, and grape flavors smothered the putrid odors of Jessica’s cologne and Waylon’s sneakers. Tony set his falcon aside to design his name in block letters. I couldn’t resist stealing glances at him since Jessica kept turning around to take a look.   
           After awhile, I heard a droning sound. Mrs. Spencer was reading poetry about how much youth hurts. She perched on a tall stool below the American flag and in front of quotations she’d taped to the white board, an open book on her lap. She could have been reading to herself since no one was really getting the poetry, if it was something we were supposed to get. After awhile, the commotion in the room subsided, and I started to listen.
           “Wonderful poem, don’t you think? Youth hurts. Something to think about.” She slid off the stool to announce she was starting the Sandstone Cliff Poets, some kind of club she invented. “To become a founding member, you must write 100 poems.”
           “One hundred poems!”
           “That’s a whole book!”
           “We never had to do poems last year!”
           “And not in sixth grade either.” 
           She read another poem anyway. It was about love, and Jessica turned around and smiled at Tony even though he was too busy with his markers to notice.                      
           “Anne Marie, will you collect the nameplates so we can save them for tomorrow?” The last thing I wanted to do was walk around the room in front of the new transfers. I didn’t move until I heard my name called again. “Anne Marie?”
           When I stood up, I felt 32 pairs of staring eyes. Right away, transfer Darla Sutton knew I didn’t own a bra and Tony Sanchez could see I had no butt. Slumping as much as I could, I snatched up nameplates. Jill hadn’t finished the “J” in her name. She sat low in her scoop chair, chin almost on the desktop as she twisted a strand of hair and she didn’t look up when I yanked away her slice of poster board. I shoved the stack of nameplates at Mrs. Spencer even though her hands were full of poetry books and scented markers. As I went past Jessica, she stuck out a foot, but I caught myself in time.
           When the minute hand on the wall clock jumped, the unofficial signal for the end of the period, Jill suddenly came to life. “Wait! I’ve got something to say!”
           Boys already had book bags over their shoulders.
           Mrs. Spencer held up a hand “One moment, class. Yes, Jill?”
           Jill gulped air as she got to her feet. “My best friend’s brother killed himself last year! He was in eighth grade, like us, in case anyone cares...which I doubt. And he was my boyfriend, and you oughta know cuz it’d be really dumb to do something like that, you know, and people shouldn’t do that kinda stuff, not ever.”
           Transfers glowered at Jill.  Eyes of Preppies burned bright with rumor. Boys snickered and punched each other. Mrs. Spencer walked over to Jill. “Please, you mustn’t think no one cares.”  She glanced at the wall clock and nodded. Everyone rushed for the door, feet crunching lunches and book bags.
           Jessica towed Carly past me. “Ohmigosh, I can’t believe that weird pink-haired girl so totally freaked out!”       
           Mrs. Spencer hovered near Jill “Would you like to see the school counselor?”  
           Jill shook her head and strands of hair fell into her eyes. I scrambled for my book bag. Papers and books spilled everywhere, giving Mrs. Spencer a chance to snag me. “Anne Marie, will you go along with Jill to next period? She’s new, and it might be nice if she had some company.“
           “I’m kinda in a hurry.”  
           “Please...if you don’t mind.”
           Of course, I minded, but Jill followed me past the poetry sign and down the ramp. I felt weighted down like when I carried rocks up Heartbreak Hill.
           As she stood with Preppies, the quick sweep of Carly’s eyes told me all I needed to know.                  

Want to read more of Warrior's Daughter?

AVAILABLE MARCH 26 AT PUBLISHAMERICA.COM

HOME | Workshops | Books | Email

Copyright © 2001-2007 MaryAnnEasley.com