“Who was the ice cream for?” I ask as he steps through the door.
“Me.”
“Sorry.” I bite my lip. He should’ve told me his dessert wouldn’t last.
“Whatever,” he replies with a shrug. He moves the plate with the cake onto the floor, then picks up the tray and starts walking for the outside door.
“Wait,” I say.
He pauses but doesn’t turn around.
“We can share the cake,” I offer.
“I’m not hungry.” He continues to the door but stops after opening it. Turning back around to face me, he says, “Thanks for not punishing me for being late.”
I nod. “Thanks for the cake.”
* * *
The next day, we meet again to start on the second coat of wax. We’re halfway done and our time is halfway up, so we’re right on schedule.
Evans grabs a five-gallon pail of wax and starts to head for his side of the gym but stops midway there, lowers the container, and pops off the lid. I know the issue before he says anything. It’s the pail I was using for the last coat, and it was just about empty. The one he had was brand-new and is still about three-quarters full.
“We can both use this one,” I offer, lifting the other pail and walking toward him.
“Okay,” he replies, sliding the empty container out of our way. I settle onto the floor next to him, and we silently begin working side by side.
Two hours into our task, we’ve exceeded my expectations. We’re both getting faster, him even more so than me.
He stands and stretches his hands over head before twisting his back to the left and then the right. “May I take a quick bathroom break?” he asks.
“You don’t need to ask my permission to use the restroom.”
Once he’s gone, I stand and stretch as well. This is backbreaking work, crawling around on our hands and knees. Since we’re well ahead of where I wanted to be at this time, I also take a break and head to the water fountain in the hallway.
While I’m getting a drink, he exits the bathroom and steps behind me, waiting.
After finishing, I start toward the gym, but stop and watch Evans instead. Something has changed. Over the past week, he hasn’t been nearly as disagreeable. He still says rude things occasionally, but it’s not as bad as it was.
It almost feels like he’s starting to accept Wallingford.
Have I done it? Have I transformed him into a respectable cadet?
He stops drinking and straightens up.
“What?” he asks after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You’re coming around,” I say. “I like it.”
“You mean you like that I’ve given up? After days of constantly being ordered around and ridiculed and made to feel like a third-class citizen, it was bound to happen sooner or later.”
His words cause my self-congratulatory back patting to stop. Yes, he’s supposed to be ordered around, but not be ridiculed. As a mentor, I’m supposed to build up his confidence and show him he can succeed here. If he thinks I’m demeaning, then … I’m not doing a good job at all.
“You think I’ve ridiculed you?”
He shrugs and waves off the comment as he steps back inside the gym. “I know it’s your job. Tear me down to build me up, right? You can’t fix us until we’re at rock bottom. The good news is I’m about there. Any day now I should be a crying mess, lying in the fetal position on the floor of my room.”
I give him an intense stare. Is he serious? Or trying to be funny? I wish I could read him better. He certainly doesn’t look like he’s on the verge of a complete mental breakdown. We had one cadet reach that point, and he was not rocking the guitar at band practice or rolling around on the ground as puppies licked him during our community service. Of course, I still don’t know what Evans did to be sent here. It’s serious, that much I know, so could the combination of those troubles along with Wallingford be enough to push him over the edge?
“I can’t read you,” I say bluntly. “Are you serious or joking?”
He cracks a smile and laughs, which makes me lean toward joking.
“That,” he says, pointing his finger at me, “may be the only thing we have in common. I can’t read you, either.”
“I’m confused right now,” I say so there will be no ambiguity. “If you’re serious about reaching rock bottom, we should go to the nurse. If you’re joking … well, that’s not something to joke about.”
“I’m joking,” he says before leaning against the wall with his foot propped up on it. “I would never melt down on the floor—it’s much too uncomfortable. I’d at least do it in my bed … or maybe that big blue mat they use for high jump. That looks nice and comfy.”
I continue watching him, feeling unsure of myself. It’s an unfamiliar and uncomfortable feeling I don’t much care for. “I need you to be absolutely, one hundred percent, serious with me right now.”
He laughs again. “I’m good,” he says.
“Your problems from home aren’t getting you down?”
He shrugs.
“Am I being too tough on you?”
He shrugs again.
“Okay, come on,” I say, waving my arm. “We’re visiting the nurse.”
He smiles and shakes his head. “I was trying to be funny. I’m not going to off myself if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Mental health is not a joking matter.”
His face becomes more serious. “You’re right. Sorry.”
“There’s usually some truth to what people say when they’re trying to be funny.”
He looks out the doorway, takes a deep breath, and then meets my gaze. “You want the truth? The truth is I’m homesick,” he says. “I miss my mom. My cat, Coconut. My girlfriend. My friends. My body is exhausted from our ridiculously long days and all the push-ups and pull-ups and lunges and running and everything else I have to do, when I’m used to being a couch potato. My mind is exhausted from having to learn how to change everything about myself. I’m tired of constantly being on guard whenever Jernigan is within ten feet of me, I’m tired of fighting with you, and I’m tired of wondering when my girlfriend is going to break up with me.”
He starts to run his hand through his nonexistent hair but stops when he seems to realize it’s been shaved off. “I’d love to have my hair back,” he says, confirming my suspicions. “I’d love to escape these prison walls for ten minutes for something other than community service. I’d love to be able to take a shower again without forty other naked guys walking around, and I’d love to be able to sleep in until even eight o’clock at least one day. And would it kill the school to have a vending machine? Do you have any idea what I’d give for a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup right about now?”
I shake my head.
“Like fifty bucks! I’m worn out and angry and frustrated and sad and lonely and have a serious chocolate deficiency.” His shoulders slump, and he takes a deep breath. “But I’ll make it because I have no other choice. I just need to do my best to keep my head above water as I tread from one day to the next, making as few ripples as possible.”