still.
The Corps had accepted our request to join together. They guaranteed us both an early promotion to Lance Corporal and that we would be stationed together. And after four years of service we could go to university on the G.I. Bill. Not a bad deal, especially for two kids of limited financial means.
Zoe’s mom had run off with some guy from France so my mom took over the role of mother in her life. My dad and I were still on good terms, but he was too caught up in making millions on Wall Street. A job first, family second, type-a personality. I spent a lot more time with Zoe’s dad, Zach, and considered him my father. He had taken us camping a lot when we were kids. Developing our love for the outdoors and showing us how to trust others, especially in extreme circumstances like downpours in the middle of the forest or when food was hard to come by. He showed us how to catch and clean fish. And why we must share our catch to keep our little camping teams strong. One for all and all for one he always said. No man left behind, to which of course Zoe would remind him, or woman left behind.
It was a great childhood. Zach, mom, Zoe, and I. Zoe and I were best friends as kids. She even played on my all-boys little league team. The only girl in the neighborhood to do so. She said if I could play baseball, then she sure could too. And she was right. She became our shortstop on days I pitched and pitched on days I played shortstop. Just like camping, we relied on each other on the ball field.
As we hit puberty and entered high school our relationship changed. I can’t really say the exact moment or how, but we both could just sense it. Something was different. We were becoming young adults now. Maybe that’s just the natural progression. I wasn’t really sure.
“You’re gonna pay for that one!” Zoe shouted the next afternoon back in my room.
“Well, if you punch as accurately as you shoot I won’t even have to dodge your punches.” It was first day of qualification at the rifle range. I heard the snap of her first shot. I pulled the target down. She hit bull’s-eye. Dead center. Impressive. I covered the original hole, stuck in the four-inch marker a foot to the right, and raised it back up so she could see where she hit. Or where I wanted her to think she hit. I counted the seconds as I knew she was making adjustments from her position 200 yards away. Snap. A second shot. Dead bull’s-eye again. She didn’t believe the mark. Smart girl. I covered the original hole again, marked a foot right again, and raised the target. At that point she doesn’t know if I’m messing with her or if she’s off. About 30 seconds go by. Snap. A third shot. She’s way left. Of course, just as I had guided her. This time I marked near the original hole, but low. This game continued the rest of the afternoon.
“Jerk!” She replied and stormed off.
“See you at the chow hall…if you can find it with any accuracy,” I said and walked off. She was angry, but she still couldn’t hold back a little smile. As much grief as we gave each other I always enjoyed it. Even on the receiving end. That just meant it was my turn to try and outfox her. These daily pranks and one-ups were all we had known. I wonder what it would be like with out it. Probably pretty boring.
“Did you figure out where your were shots were off?” I asked as I took another bite of my pork and beans.
“No,” she said.
“What are you going to do then?” I asked.
“I’m just going to have my spotter use higher powered binoculars tomorrow so I know where I hit. No matter where you mark it.” I liked her answer. It was non-combative. She was simply sure of herself and had found a solution. I like smart girls. Girls who don’t give up. Girls with a determination to figure
The Corps had accepted our request to join together. They guaranteed us both an early promotion to Lance Corporal and that we would be stationed together. And after four years of service we could go to university on the G.I. Bill. Not a bad deal, especially for two kids of limited financial means.
Zoe’s mom had run off with some guy from France so my mom took over the role of mother in her life. My dad and I were still on good terms, but he was too caught up in making millions on Wall Street. A job first, family second, type-a personality. I spent a lot more time with Zoe’s dad, Zach, and considered him my father. He had taken us camping a lot when we were kids. Developing our love for the outdoors and showing us how to trust others, especially in extreme circumstances like downpours in the middle of the forest or when food was hard to come by. He showed us how to catch and clean fish. And why we must share our catch to keep our little camping teams strong. One for all and all for one he always said. No man left behind, to which of course Zoe would remind him, or woman left behind.
It was a great childhood. Zach, mom, Zoe, and I. Zoe and I were best friends as kids. She even played on my all-boys little league team. The only girl in the neighborhood to do so. She said if I could play baseball, then she sure could too. And she was right. She became our shortstop on days I pitched and pitched on days I played shortstop. Just like camping, we relied on each other on the ball field.
As we hit puberty and entered high school our relationship changed. I can’t really say the exact moment or how, but we both could just sense it. Something was different. We were becoming young adults now. Maybe that’s just the natural progression. I wasn’t really sure.
“You’re gonna pay for that one!” Zoe shouted the next afternoon back in my room.
“Well, if you punch as accurately as you shoot I won’t even have to dodge your punches.” It was first day of qualification at the rifle range. I heard the snap of her first shot. I pulled the target down. She hit bull’s-eye. Dead center. Impressive. I covered the original hole, stuck in the four-inch marker a foot to the right, and raised it back up so she could see where she hit. Or where I wanted her to think she hit. I counted the seconds as I knew she was making adjustments from her position 200 yards away. Snap. A second shot. Dead bull’s-eye again. She didn’t believe the mark. Smart girl. I covered the original hole again, marked a foot right again, and raised the target. At that point she doesn’t know if I’m messing with her or if she’s off. About 30 seconds go by. Snap. A third shot. She’s way left. Of course, just as I had guided her. This time I marked near the original hole, but low. This game continued the rest of the afternoon.
“Jerk!” She replied and stormed off.
“See you at the chow hall…if you can find it with any accuracy,” I said and walked off. She was angry, but she still couldn’t hold back a little smile. As much grief as we gave each other I always enjoyed it. Even on the receiving end. That just meant it was my turn to try and outfox her. These daily pranks and one-ups were all we had known. I wonder what it would be like with out it. Probably pretty boring.
“Did you figure out where your were shots were off?” I asked as I took another bite of my pork and beans.
“No,” she said.
“What are you going to do then?” I asked.
“I’m just going to have my spotter use higher powered binoculars tomorrow so I know where I hit. No matter where you mark it.” I liked her answer. It was non-combative. She was simply sure of herself and had found a solution. I like smart girls. Girls who don’t give up. Girls with a determination to figure
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