Anne Greer

Chapter 1: Blake, Senior Year

Blake stared out the window as his girlfriend rambled on about the insanity of her Com-Sci professor’s inability to get through two sentences without using the word um.

“It is so distracting. And he never makes eye contact. Hello? It’s called communications!” Tucked into the corner of Blake’s bed, she cross-referenced the course catalog with her laptop. Her feet made nervous twirls in the folds of the sheets that swam with his soccer uniform and other clean laundry.

Blake didn’t so much enjoy her self-chatter as admire it. While he might sink into the floorboards and quietly redirect when faced with problems, she was a spot of oil in a hot pan, bouncing and sizzling her thoughts all over her next canvas. He rested his feet on the wall beside her and watched trees move beyond the sheer curtains overhead. If he scored two goals in the game, he would break the school record. At last practice, his teammates voiced full support to make it happen.

“I just don’t know if I can take him all quarter.” Grace read another course description aloud. “I could switch to History of Language. I wouldn’t be too far behind. It would count toward the communications credits I need for a double major.” Grace bit her lip and let her eyes fall on Blake. “Although, I could just forget the double major. I'd rather take all art classes this year then travel the world with you and paint.” She paused. "I mean if we committed to be together, I mean really together, I wouldn’t need any communications classes. People tell me I can make plenty money doing my commissioned portraits on-line.”

Blake knew a school record would go a long way to securing the nomination for the NROTC award for his graduating class. Lieutenant Commander Samuels said he would call him for a coffee sometime during homecoming week to discuss a letter of recommendation. He wondered if Samuels would be at the game. Blake knew for sure his mom and stepdad would not be. Never had been. Blake had managed to keep the three previous years of NROTC training a secret. If all went as planned, he would graduate as an officer in the Marines. Angus, or Buzzcut as Blake called the retired sergeant major, achieved the highest level for an enlisted man. But Blake learned all sergeant majors rank below an officer. After all his stepdad had done to him growing up, Blake would like nothing more than to find a public occasion where that asshole would have to salute him.

Hugo’s gravelly voice resonated from the other side of the wall. “Grace, you’ll be just fine. It’s an easy A. I took it sophomore year. Fair warning, she has a heavy German accent.”

“Everything is an easy A for you, but I appreciate the encouragement. Have any leftover tests I can sneak?”

Hugo laughed. “Not a chance, but I’ll help if you need it.”

Grace’s toes migrated under the sheets to Blake’s bum. “What do you think? Should I just follow you and paint portraits online?”

After having not seen Buzzcut in over three years, Blake imagined the satisfaction of looking down on the sadist bully, not only physically for the first time, but soon too professionally. Unbidden, Blake remembered when Buzzcut got his quiet little mother a doberman for companionship after he left for college. Of course, Angus kept the puppy on the dairy farm rather than let her take it to her apartment in Portland where she taught English. Halloween his freshman year, Blake sent chocolates and dog toys to the farmhouse. His mom called to thank him and talked about the upcoming costume parade in Tillamook.

Buzzcut called back. “You fucking moron. You put chocolate and dog treats in the same box? The poor dog ripped it open and ate it all before we knew what was happening. He died, Blake. The fucking dog had a heart attack and died. You know how much that hurt her? You are a god-damn halfwit who’ll never amount to anything. She has the decency to hide her feelings, but she has no desire to see you anytime soon.

The last three summers Blake didn’t go home. He had secured NROTC internships. The last two were at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. It had been hard to keep the python in his chest at bay during those weeks of intense scrutiny, but by his junior year, Blake was thirty pounds heavier in muscle mass and well-versed in the basics of weapons theory, design, and nonproliferation. He would never let that piece of shit torment him again.

Grace continued, “Is that what you want for us too? My counselor says a dual degree is an option. I don’t want to get caught without a plan. Dad keeps saying if I can't support myself I’ll be working in the family fish business.” Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “You said you didn’t want me to have to work for Dad. We have been exclusive for years now. I was thinking maybe I could just plan on being your artist for as long as we both shall live?”

Blake pictured staring down at Angus without blinking. He imagined the reversal of power. He could almost taste it. He would buy his mom another dog. A little one like she always wanted. A cool wind parted the trees allowing the afternoon sun to sear through the curtain and momentarily blind him. He winced. “Uh, yeah.” Blake stared at the wall as black patches swam in and out of focus. He closed his eyes. “You are an amazing artist, Grace. I think you're on the right track.”

She bounced up, placed both hands on his cheeks and kissed him. “I love you. I am glad you feel the same. I'm signing up for the encaustic class instead then. I am so excited.”

Blake blinked curiously at her enthusiasm as a knock came at the front door. Hugo, ever the illusive roommate, closed his bedroom door with a quiet whump.

“Hey guys, coming to Sigma Ki tonight? Beers will be flowing if you lay down those two goals.”

“Hey, Dude. Doubt it. Hopefully, I'll have a meeting with a career counselor tonight.”

Blake saw Grace nod approvingly at the mention of a night without alcohol. She air-kissed him and let the screen door bounce behind her.

“Ok then, catch you later. I just wanted to wish you good luck tonight.”

Blake’s phone vibrated. Caller ID showed a university prefix.

“Blake, I am glad I caught you. It’s Professor Jackson. We need to talk. Do you have time to come by my office?”

“Oh, hey Professor. Actually, I’m kind of tied up today with Coach’s prep before the game. Can we just talk over the phone or maybe get together next week?”

A weighty sigh sat on the line like a big fat bird pulling them both in. “I think you will want to get on this right away.” Jackson cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, we have a problem with your summer transcripts.”

“We do?” Blake smiled through his question, knowing the sea of paperwork his internships required had been confusing.

“I see here you tested out of the class we planned. You leapfrogged to an entirely different class category.”

“Yeah. The commander was stoked. I even got six credits instead of four.”

“Yes, I understand. But while the Weapons History and Theory course you were able to test out of allowed you to get into the Gun Design and Engineering class, the credits do not translate into what you need. Your decision to switch classes without approval left a problem in your transcript. The University cannot count the advanced science class as credit toward graduation unless you are a science major.”

Blake saw his reflection in the window. His defensive smile began to strain as his heart stuttered. “But sir, it was a 400-level class.”

“Agreed, but unfortunately, the class you took does not count as a credit to fulfill a humanities major. Sadly, it can’t count as an elective either. In effect, the effort was wasted. The class you tested out of was a prerequisite to the class in which you are currently enrolled. You cannot get credit for either now. And… they are both part of your graduation requirements. I hate to say this Blake, but as it stands now, I don’t see any offerings that will fill the void.”

“Wait, what does that mean?” Blake knew very well what that meant. He had screwed up.

Memories of Angus’s form grew before him. “You’re such a fuck up, Private! You’re made of the wrong god-damned stuff. No one will ever be able to rely on you.”

“Well, you’ll be looking at summer school or you need to find a professor who will oversee an independent study class that will give you eight credit hours on top of the acceptable curriculum we have you signed up for.”

Money for summer school after his senior year was not going to come from the soccer scholarship nor from the NROTC program. Blake felt is throat tighten. The python was awake. “Professor, wait. How come they didn’t tell me?”

“It’s apparently not their job to plan your future, Blake.”

“And you’re saying there are no courses I can substitute?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“But, I have no idea how to do…independent study? Study of what…what does that mean?”

“Let’s meet as soon as you can. Don’t think me trite, but the road to success is not always a straight line. Some problems spawn opportunities. You know, closed door, open window kind of thing…” Professor Jackson cleared his throat with more authority, seeming to slip behind a curtain that read ‘this is not my responsibility nor my fault’.

But for Blake it was as if Jackson were a doctor delivering a terminal message. He was glad he missed lunch; otherwise, it would be destined for the floor.

“Good luck on your game and all that. We will tackle this afterwards. You go find a thesis subject and a willing professor, and I will help with your paperwork. I'm sure you can figure out a viable solution, you’re a smart kid.”

A weak good-bye closed the door, but there was no open window in sight. Problems in Blake’s past had never birthed opportunities, real or in hindsight. His problem only spawned more problems. Complying and hiding had always been his mode to escape the problems that found him. Those days were over.

Chapter 2: Slaying a Python

Blake closed his door and gently upended his futon. Dozens of premeasured vodka portions lined the saggy slatted channels of his mattress base. He threw one back and tossed the empty back in its hidey-hole. NROTC candidates weren’t supposed to drink, but for almost a decade, he was unable to manage his life without the release it offered. A long history of petty theft was probably against the handbook too, but hell, who would give a twelve-year-old booze?

The NROTC academic scholarship he'd earned was based on merit and a code of ethics, not financial need, although he couldn’t afford to lose his soccer scholarship. He had earned his UW tuition with soccer skills, academics, and a habit of volunteering at the Boys and Girls club to get off the farm. The military scholarship kicked in his freshman year.

Everything seemed so solid just moments ago. Had he been a fool to entertain this mission behind his mom and Angus’s back? Did he really want to be an officer in the Marines or was it just a vain attempt to trump the monster who stole his mother away when he was just a kid? At least the plan had given him purpose. That purpose would fly out the window without a proper transcript. What then?

The stricture in his throat moved down and began to tighten his chest. He had never played after two, but if it got much worse, he wouldn’t be able to swallow his own spit. He downed a second and third bottle before letting the mattress fall back in place.

In a weak moment, Blake tried to describe the pain to a high school teammate. He referenced a child trying not to cry, like his Adam’s apple might burst through his skin. It didn’t simply pass with yoga breathing or ‘happy thoughts’ as his mom suggested. His stepdad argued Blake’s whining was all in his head and refused to allow medical intervention. So, from the age of ten, Blake suffered in silence to avoid the further harassment. He hid until he discovered the tiny bottles at the Seven-Eleven that could ease the grip when the python struck.

A knock interrupted Blake as he packed his gear. Hugo’s bad side peered in. “You going to be okay tonight?” The sight of Hugo’s skin stretched like melted wax slapped Blake’s sensibilities. Nothing in his life was as bad as what Hugo had endured.

Blake sucked up his weakness and croaked, “Yeah, big night. Go Dawgs.”

“Yeah…um, Go Dawgs.” Hugo slid away and Blake could hear the squeak of his roommate’s leather office chair returning to the comfort zone.

The stadium was already starting to fill as Blake entered the locker room. Teammates punched him and whooped as he approached the big “2” balloon on his locker. No doubt instigated by Grace instead of a bunch of sweaty jocks.

The game against Seattle U always drew a crowd and unmatched intensity in the pregame meeting. Coach hopped up on the bench right in front of Blake’s face and dove into his pep talk. Blake loved the enthusiasm in his teammates’ eyes. After a rousing word of support for Blake’s impending record opportunity, Coach delivered his speech with anticipated conviction. Coach’s train of taco flatulence was less expected. Determined faces began to twitch and noses wrinkled. Blake recoiled. The team thought it was him. He immediately examined his shoes to control his expression.

“Go Dawgs!” Coach’s arms shot up. A song of farts followed.

Eyes darted, but claps grew like oncoming thunder. Blake turned, put his head in his locker, and tried to stop the vodka’s disrespectful giggles. The harder he tried, the worse it got. Blake realized that third bottle was probably a mistake.

Chapter 3: Later, Across Campus

As he slept, Babu Ali strained to reach another flower for his twin through the wrought iron gate. Sneaking over the fence had been easier, but she was too weak for that now. Despite being unhealthy her entire life, she had kept up until recently. As he flicked thorns off the stems, blotches of red blossomed and dropped onto his ironed shirt. The stains would be worth it. Roses fetched quite a sum at the market. He assumed some member of the ruling party owned the garden property, but he wasn’t sure. The distant house was always dark. The flowers would be dead soon anyway; someone might as well benefit from them.

He heard the familiar ringing and realized how far away they were. Once the headmaster closed that door, they would be stuck on the streets, no food, no water, no protection all day. But it was their father who would be punished most for their disrespect. Papa said school was their only way out. Babu clutched her hand and ran.

The ringing grew louder as he pulled her along. He heard her hand-me-down shoes catch on the cobblestone before he felt her stumble. He lifted her up by the arm to right her, but within the next few steps he realized his only option was to drag her through the dirt. Three children stared from the schoolhouse door. Concern painted their faces, panic their familiar bond. His hope caught as a friend pushed the door wide, but the door did not stick.

Babu jumped to the top step and slid his soft shoe in the doorway, but his sweaty hand lost its grip on her arm. He felt her catch his sleeve and held his breath. Wrestling the weight of the door off his smushed foot, he shoved his shoulder inside. He bucked to inch more of his body through and caught a glimpse of her exhausted face. Just before he squeezed his head through, their eyes connected. Apology bloomed beneath her raised brows before she collapsed and fell out of sight. He blindly reached deeper outside the heavy door as it crushed his forearm. The bell blasted its final time as he grasped what he hoped was her wrist, but it felt cold and hard like plastic. He watched in horror as the door began to cut through his flesh. He screamed her name, but in his heart, he knew saving her would damn them both. He opened his eyes and realized it was only the phone receiver he clutched in his hand.

A distant voice barked, “Doctor Ali? Are you there?”

“What?” Babu's voice ping-ponged off the walls of the barren studio they had given him to live in. The bedside table clock blinked four A.M. The old-school phone that came with the unit needed him again. He swallowed the sickening adrenaline. “Hello?”

“Last minute change. We have five more than planned, all under ten. I trust you found a secondary facility?”

Babu processed the request as memories of Aza escaped like a ghost through the crack in the window and the fog did its best to conceal the unthinkable choice his family was forced to make years before. The breeze goose-pimpled his limbs.

“The ship leaves the University of Washington dock near the hospital in two hours, if you can’t accommodate the request, you must tell me now.”

“Yes,” he panted. “I will…make it work.” But how? “Sir, you have only ever asked me to source and store pharmaceuticals, why this…change?”

“Your family’s needs have increased, haven’t they? It's reasonable that our needs from you have increased as well.”