“It’s good.”
She nods, then sits in her desk chair, watching me as I finish tying my laces. “You need to tell him. How about tonight? He’s coming for dinner, right?”
I nod. He is coming for dinner, though I’m not ready to tell him about the Air Force. The timing still doesn’t feel right. “I’ll think about it,” I say to end the conversation without committing to anything.
* * *
“Hey, Daddy,” I say, hugging him as I meet him in the parking lot later that evening.
“Hi, pumpkin. How was your week?” he asks as he lets me go.
“Good. I aced my two tests and got third place in the cross-country meet.” We start walking toward the mess hall for dinner. “And I went to the animal shelter with the community service club. We took some of the bigger dogs out for a run, then helped them assemble new cages in the cat room.”
“Third place? What happened?”
I knew he was going to call me out on the race. “The competition was tough. I went out too hard and ran out of steam at the end. I’ll place better this week.”
“Are you doing enough sprint training? I know you love your hill and distance workouts, but I think you should replace one or two of those with speed workouts.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll talk to your coach. Make sure he’s pushing you like he should.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, clenching my jaw. This is one reason I want to go to the Air Force Academy. My dad won’t be able to talk to my teachers and coaches as easily if I’m almost two thousand miles away.
“What about your CFA? Did you take it this week?”
My teeth clamp shut even harder. He’s not going to like what I have to say about my fitness assessment, either.
“What?” he asks, stopping and looking at me. “Don’t tell me you still haven’t taken it!”
“I’m not ready,” I reply, dropping my eyes to the ground.
“Yes, you are.”
With a shake of my head, I say, “I’m too slow on the shuttle run. I need a few more weeks of practice.”
“Hmpf,” he grunts. “This is another reason for speed training. I really do need to talk to Coach Carroll.” When we round the corner, he adds, “You’re running out of time for the CFA. Your application to the Navy should be completed by now.”
I gulp and nod. “I know.” This would be a great opening for me to mention I’m more interested in the Air Force, but he’s not in the best mood. I should wait until he’s more agreeable.
Definitely.
Maybe if I do well in my cross-country meet next week I could bring it up then.
That will give me another week to figure out the best way to word it. It seems like a reasonable plan.
Or maybe in two weeks.
“You said you’d have everything submitted by the end of October,” he says.
“That’s still a month away,” I reply quietly.
The muscles of his jaw twitch as he watches me.
“I’ll have it submitted by then. I promise.”
“Do I need to have Dale schedule the CFA for you?”
I shake my head. I hate when my dad abuses his friendship with the dean. I am perfectly capable of scheduling my own CFA. I’m just not ready. I can’t afford to submit a less than perfect score.
“Do I need to come up here and help you train?”
With another shake of my head, I say, “I need another week or two. I’m getting better. I just want to make sure I get an acceptable score.”
“You will. You’re a Durant. Failure is never an option for Durants.”
“Yes, sir.”
I’m relieved this is the last he’ll say on the topic for now, but he hasn’t eased my fears at all. Even though my application is almost perfect—a 4.0 GPA, a very high rank for a cadet, as many extracurricular activities as a cadet could be expected to fit in, and ample leadership opportunities—there’s still the fitness assessment. It’s a critical piece of my application. I don’t want to have any doubts when I submit my score. I need to know it’s in the top 10 percent.
Of course, if I do get in, I’ll still have to deal with my dad and his Navy dreams for me. That might be even worse than the shuttle run.
He continues toward the mess hall, so I scramble to catch up with him while I try to think of a better topic of discussion. Something he’ll actually be proud of me for. “I’ve got a new peer mentee,” I say.
“That’s right. Cadet … Eaves?”
“Evans.”
“How’s that going?” He opens the door to the mess hall, and we both enter. It’s substantially quieter than during the week since many of the upperclassman are having dinner in town or at their homes if they live close. I take a deep breath, enjoying the smell of garlic bread. It’s Italian night—my favorite.
“He’s got issues with respecting authority, but we’re working on it. He seems really bright, actually, though not very motivated.”
We’re quiet as we select food, then take seats at our usual table. Alex and Leah are already there, along with a couple of our other friends.
“Good evening, sir,” Alex says, sitting up a little straighter. He wants to be a Navy SEAL, so he’s always admired my dad and often looks to him for advice.
My dad greets him and the other students.
“It’s nice to have you back at our table,” Alex says, smiling in my direction. Ever since I was assigned to Evans, I’ve been eating all my meals with him. I glance over to his table, where he’s talking with Cadet Green. They’re laughing and appearing to have a much better time than when I’m with them.
“Yeah, sorry. There’s just so much to teach him and so little free time.”
My dad says, “Tell me more about your new mentee.”
I cut a piece of chicken Parmesan and shrug. “He’s a bit of a math whiz and seems to be good with computers.”
Alex scoffs. “He’s cocky. Thinks he’s better than us or something. Thinks he can get away with whatever he wants around here.”
His words cause me to frown. I don’t want my dad to think I’m allowing my DQ to get away with whatever he wants.
“Is he in your battalion?” my dad asks Alex.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m sure the combination of you and Paige will whip him into shape.”
“We’re certainly doing our best,” he replies with a smile. I’m sure Alex is loving the vote of confidence from my dad.
Before I can say anything, we’re interrupted by another voice. “Eric! I thought I saw you walk past my window.” The dean moves behind my dad and places one hand on his shoulder. “It’s nice to see you.”
My dad lowers his fork and stands before shaking the dean’s hand and then pulling him in for a one-armed hug. “What are you doing here on a Sunday evening?” he asks.
“Catching up on paperwork.” The dean runs his palm down his face. “Every year seems to bring more and more paperwork.”
“Take a break and join us for dinner,” my dad says, reaching for an empty chair at a nearby table.