Sand Queen Part 3

I jump. aGet the f.u.c.k away or Iall shoot!a My voice comes out a rasp.

aItas Jimmy Donnell. Let me in.a aI said get away!a aKate, Iam going to open the door now. Donat shoot. Iam coming in.a The sand edges across the floor. The wind groans. I stare at the door, heart kicking against my ribs.

The door creaks open slowly. Lifting the rifle to my shoulder, I squint through its sights. My bullets could go right through that flimsy plywood. I donat even need to see my target.

aIf anybodyas with you, Iam firing!a My voice is still a croak.

aNo, Iam by myself, I promise.a Jimmy eases his head inside. aCan I come in?a aSwear youare alone?a aI swear.a He steps through the door and closes it behind him without turning, watching me the whole time. I focus on his face through the crosshairs. His nose is bleeding, upper lip cut. And his gla.s.ses are cracked right across the left lens.

I lower my rifle to my knees. aWhat happened to you?a aMe and Kormick had a scuffle. I saw from the tower, saw hima did he hurt you?a aWhere is he?a aHeas gone. b.o.n.e.r too. Took off in the Humvee.a I pause while this sinks in. ab.o.n.e.ras the one who punched me, isnat he?a aYeah.a Jimmy looks at me, his face tight. aThe f.u.c.ker should be shot. Itas you he shouldave protected, not Kormick.a aIs this Kormickas rifle?a I nod at the weapon in my hands.

aYup. He left it here when I dragged him out. I think heas got yours.a Jimmy hasnat moved. Heas still standing with his back against the door, holding it closed behind him.

aTheyare gonna throw you in the brig for fighting an NCO like that,a I say then, each word a sc.r.a.pe in my throat. aIam sorry.a aYouare sorry?a Jimmy looks at me strangely. aDonat worry about it. If that s.h.i.thead reports me, I report him. Me and DJ both. He knows what we saw.a aDid you see me point my weapon at his b.a.l.l.s? He could get me for that.a aHe wouldnat dare. Itas you Iam worried about. Are you okay?a I place the rifle b.u.t.t on the ground by my foot, its barrel pointed at the ceiling. I donat want to stand up because the seat of my pants is torn wide open, I hurt all over, and because Iam trying not to cry. aIam fine.a Jimmy steps toward me. I shrink back. aI said Iam fine.a He stops. aAll right.a He takes a deep breath. aListen, we need to get out of here. You think you can get up? Youare driving back with my team, donat worry. Here.a He takes off his blouse and hands it to me. Itas damp and smells of his sweat but I put it on over mine anyway because itas long enough to cover the tear in my pants. Then I pull my flak jacket over it so n.o.body can see Jimmyas name tag.

aYou need help standing?a he says then.

I shake my head and drag myself to my feet, nauseated and dizzy, a sharp pain shooting again through my breast where b.o.n.e.r punched me. Jimmy turns and walks out of the shack. Moving stiff and slow, I follow him.

His teamas waiting in their Humvee right there, all guys I know well enough to kid around with, but not as friends.

Jimmy walks me over, close but not touching, while I concentrate on staying upright, one step at a time. My ears are ringing like Iam about to pa.s.s out and my legs feel like Jell- O. Next thing I know, Iam doubled over and puking.

Jimmy stands between me and the Humvee, trying to hide me. When Iam all emptied out, he guides me over, although I still wonat let him touch me. We crawl into the back. The men inside stare at usa"me dressed in Jimmyas uniform shirt, disheveled and splattered with puke; Jimmy with his smashed gla.s.ses, b.l.o.o.d.y nose and lip. I can smell their curiosity filling the car like a gas. None of them speaks, though.

I look down at my hands. Theyare still shaking.

Once the driver drops us off at the tents, Jimmy walks me to minea"he sleeps in a different one down the row. aYou going to be all right?a he asks quietly. We both know the tents have ears.

I swallow, tasting blood and acid. Then I take my scarf, the one I use to filter out the moondust so I can breathe, and wrap it around my neck to hide the fingerprints.

aEveryoneas going to know about this, arenat they?a I croak.

aProbably. But not from me. Listen, if either of those f.u.c.kers or anybody else gives you any more trouble, you tell me. Promise? And if you want to report them or anything, Iall back you up.a I turn away, Kormickas rifle up against my chest like a shield. I donat want a protector, I donat want a fuss and I donat want to look like an even bigger loser than I already am. I want to look after myself. I am a soldier, after all.

n.o.body greets me when I step into the tent. The teams are all back by now, the guys sitting on their racks, chewing on tobacco or MREs. Third Eye and Yvette are there, too, doing the same. I can feel every one of them stare at me as I walk past. Feel them taking in Jimmyas blouse hanging down to my knees, the scarf around my neck. I freeze my face so it wonat show anything.

Sitting on my rack, I drag my duffle bag from under it and fish out my spare pants and mending kit. Macktruck snorts and rolls over on his side to face me, hairy gut hanging, his chew making a bulge in one blue cheek. aWhere you been, party girl?a I shake out a needle from its little metal coffin and try to thread it. I canat even get close. My hands are quivering too bad. I want to poke that needle right in Mackas eye.

n.o.body else speaks to me for the rest of the night. n.o.body at all.

[ NAEMA ].

WE ARE IN a painful time of suspension, Granny, Mama and I. Our manless house has grown oddly still, as if the very walls know we are waiting. Nothing we do seems to mattera"eat, drink, work, talk. We are unable to take pleasure in anything in the face of our fears for Papa and Zaki.

The news that Zaki is on the prison list does little to comfort us, for we do not know what it means. If it means that Zaki is alive, that, of course, is good. But what, then, does it mean that Papa is not on the list? Is it better to be on the list or no? We have no idea.

We try to alleviate our worries by making plans. aWhen your father and brother are freed, inshallah, we must leave this place,a Mama says to me in the kitchen, where we are gathered to sew and clean. aIam afraid a former colleague or neighbor, someone jealous of your fatheras position, perhaps, must have given his name to the Americans. Why else would they arrest him? I donat think your father will be safe if he returns here.a I nod in agreement. We are only too familiar with betrayal by friends and colleagues, with spying and denouncements, rivalry and revenge. We have been living with this corruptive poison for decades. It is what keeps the powerful secure.

aBut where will we go?a I ask. aAnd we have to take Granny with us. Sheas too sick to leave alone.a Granny shakes her head, her worn face stubborn beneath her heap of white hair. She is feeling better today, her mind restored to the present, at least for the time being, so has risen from bed to sit with us at the table, where she is sewing a torn and faded blouse with her quivering hands in the hope of making it last. aI will never leave my home,a she declares, her voice tremulous. aUmm Kareem left her house and immediately strangers moved in and took it over. In this war, everyone is a thief.a aBut Mother, itas not safe to stay,a Mama says. aNow that Halimas been arrested, we can trust no one, not even your neighbors.a aBah!a Granny exclaims, waving her old blouse for emphasis. aI refuse to believe it. These people are good and honest, especially dear Abu Mustafa and Huda next door. Weave helped each other survive for years. No, this canat be true.a Mama lays a hand on Grannyas arm. aDonat distress yourself, Mother. Perhaps weare wrong about the neighbors, perhaps it was one of Halimas colleagues who denounced him. Weare only guessing. What else can we do when we know nothing?a aBut where will we go?a I ask again. aAnd how are we to get across the border? Widow Fatima told me the Americans are blocking or arresting anyone who tries to leave.a Mama walks across the room to gaze through a small window into the courtyard where Granny keeps her few scrawny chickens. aYour father has cousins in Jordan.

Theyave offered to help us before. When heas released, Iam sure heall know what to do.a Yes, we talk like that. When Papa and Zaki are released, not if. Never if.

aIall ask Fatima for her advice tomorrow,a I say, for I am still set on going to the prison every morning. aSheas been through so much, she might know where we can go.a Mama turns from the window to face me, her dark eyes grave. aBe careful what you tell her, my love. Remember, trust no one, not even a friend who seems kind.a After that, we return to our tasks. Granny bends over her sewing. Mama puts the lentils in to soak and feeds the chickens pecking in the yard. I sweep the dust from the carpets and floors, then go to what is left of the local market for the few supplies that are available. Later, I will take a ration of the flour and sugar we brought with us from Baghdad to give to the village baker so she can bake for us our daily samoon, the flatbread which is all we have now to make bearable our wartime diet of watery soup and goat yogurt.

All the while I work, though, I harbor secret plans. Once Papa and Zaki are home, I will not leave Iraq with them, whatever Mama says. I will go back to Baghdad, to my fianc, Khalil, and to medical school, for I am determined to qualify as a doctor and make something of my life.

I call Khalil my fianc, but in truth, matters between us are too uncertain for that to be entirely accurate. He is my closest friend, and I love him and yearn for him every moment here in our exile, but we are not yet officially engaged.

We met during our second year at Medical College, for we are the same age and at the same level of schooling. As soon as I saw him, my heart began to leap about in my chest like that little goat under Zakias shirt. His fine dark eyes, curly black hair, st.u.r.dy shoulders, these pulled me to him as the moon pulls the tides. And when I saw him looking at me, I knew he felt the same.

We began to talk whenever we could without attracting attentiona"between cla.s.ses, on our way to lecturesa"sidling up to each other shyly, clutching our books to our chests in excitement. Every day I awoke with a surge of pleasure at the idea of seeing him, and every evening I stared dreamily at my books, as foolish as any girl in love. We were awkward and slow, but I knew Khalil was a good man, a man who would not hurt or betray me.

The first time he kissed me was on my roof at night, my family safely out of sight inside the house. This was before the war, so we were not too afraid of bombs to be out after dark. Khalil looked about to make sure we were seen by n.o.body but the stars, then took my chin in his hand, his gentle eyes asking permission. His lips were so warm, little pillows of tenderness.

After nearly two years of courtship, just before I fled Baghdad, we were again on my roof, gazing sadly at the ruins of our poor city, when he asked me to marry him. aI have a dream about our future, my love,a he said. aI want us to be doctors together and set up a joint practice. And when, inshallah, the bombs and looting are over, I want us to open our own clinic. Look around, Naema.a He swept his arm over the bloodstained rubble below us. aThink of the wounded and sick who will need our help. Think of the good we can do.a The generosity of his vision moved me, as did his eagerness to include me in it. But I also felt afraid. Yes, Khalil is kind and intelligent, and yes, I love his warm eyes and kisses, his devotion to his career and belief in mine. And our parents approve of us, so there would be no objection from them. But I am wary of the yoke of marriage and all the expectations that go with it. I love Khalil, but I do not love the idea of being a wife and am not ready for children. I am only twenty-two. Like Zaki, I have most of my life ahead of me, and, like him, I have my own ideas for my future.

So I did not give Khalil the reply he expected. aKhalil,a I said, aI love you and Iam grateful for your proposal. But I need to wait. I need first to follow my own dreams.a My own dreams, yes. This is how they go: When the war is finally over and we are truly liberated from Saddam and his murderous sons, G.o.d willing, as well from the Americans and their armies of thugs, I will travel to London and Paris, to Istanbul and Rome, and there I will add more languages to my English and more skills to my medical practice so I can gain the tools with which to help my country. Then and only then will I be ready to return home, be married and open a clinic with Khalil. That is, if the war spares us both.

I know my dreams would probably seem absurdly romantic to an outsidera"to anyone who does not understand what we have suffered in Iraq. That girl soldier, Kate, for example, no doubt would find them foolish. Or perhaps the very idea of an Iraqi with dreams would be too foreign for her even to entertain. After all, donat Americans like her consider us all ainsurgentsa now, primitive Islamists and terroristsa"the sort of creatures who are not allowed dreams?

But no, I would say to hera"for I would need to arguea" n.o.body can live in Iraq and not dream of a better future.

All my life, I have watched one force after another crush my homeland. Our war with Iran started two years after I was born and lasted until I was ten. The ruthless deprivation that followeda"imposed by your fellow Americans, soldier Kate, and their Western friends under the name of asanctionsaa"ate at our infrastructure, our middle cla.s.s, our schools and hospitals the way termites eat at a house until it collapses. The Kuwait war, which began when I was twelve, slaughtered hundreds of thousands of our peoplea"again with your weapons. Saddam also used your weapons and your support to torture and murder us for decades. And now, Miss Kate, you bring us this new war, repeating the same lies as your predecessors, promising freedom only to bring occupation and terror, pushing us into poverty and illness, ignorance and hatred, and opening the way for violent fanatics to seize control and rule us.

What else do I have, oh comfortable, blind and selfish American? What else could any Iraqi have but dreams?

[ PART TWO ].

TOWER.

[ KATE ].

THE FIRST MORNING of my new job, Jimmy comes right to the entrance of my tent to pick me up. He pretends heas just here to take back his blouse, but I know heas really trying to protect me and I donat like it any better than I did last night. I donat want him escorting me to the Humvee like a prisoner, and I donat want him causing a lot of gossip, either. I want to walk around free, prove that no s.h.i.tbag on earth, not Kormick, not b.o.n.e.ra"not the whole frickina Armya"can stop me from being a soldier.

It isnat even dawn by the time I clamber into the Humvee with my new team, so other than saying hi, n.o.bodyas awake enough to feel like talking, thank G.o.d. But I lean my head back and pretend to sleep in case they try. My scarfas still around my neck to cover the bruises, the sweat gathering underneath it. My right b.o.o.b throbs, and my throat feels so crushed and raw it hurts even to turn my head. As for the rest of mea"my soul or whatever you want to call ita"thatas still flapping away in the sky.

My new team consists of three guys and me: Jimmy, whoas been promoted to E5 sergeant and team leader. Our driver, a big muscled blond called Ned Creeley, with a b.u.t.ton-nosed face that makes him look fourteen. And Tony Mosca, a.k.a. Mosquito, a hairy little Italian from New Jersey with twinkly brown eyes and a mouth as filthy as Yvetteas. I know they must have heard about last nighta"me covered in puke and Jimmy in blooda"but n.o.body says anything. It might be tact, embarra.s.sment or just laziness, I donat know, but itas fine with me. Far as Iam concerned, it never f.u.c.king happened at all.

Our a.s.signment is to guard a prison compound near the rear of the camp. A compound is what we call a block of forty or so rectangular tents, lined up in rows to make a square. Each tent is twelve feet long and holds about twenty-two prisoners. And each compound is surrounded by a corral of sand and a fence made of three giant coils of razor wire stacked in a pyramid, two on the bottom and one on top. Typically, one soldier guards each side of the block, either on the ground or in a guard tower, while a few extra, like Jimmy, are stationed at the entrance.

My post turns out to be a tower on the west side, so after b.u.t.ton-nose Creeley drops me off, I climb up its ladder to look around. The toweras about as high as a streetlight, just a platform on a wobbly scaffold made of plywood and twoby-fours, with a flat roof no bigger than a beach umbrella. Iam only ten feet away from the rolls of wire, so the prisoners can come up pretty close if they want. But not another soldieras in sight.

This is what I have with me for the job: My rifle. Two MREs. Three one-liter bottles of water. A pack of cigarettes. A walkie-talkie that crackles but doesnat work. A radio that doesnat work either. A chair. And a headache.

I play with the walkie-talkie a while to see if I can get it to do something, but it really is a piece of c.r.a.p. It looks exactly like the toy one Tyler gave April for her seventh birthday, except that one worked better than this. We let her bring it once when she came camping with us, and we had a lot of fun hiding in the woods where we couldnat see each other and being able to talk anyhow. When she lost hers and cried, because in our family that would have got her spanked, Tyler crouched down beside her and said, aHey there, everybody loses things sometimes. Iall get you another. So no April showers, okay?a aI hate that joke,a April said between sobs, but she was smiling a little, too.

Tyleras often kind like that. His whole family is. His mom and dad take things easy, like he did with the lost walkie-talkie, even though theyave got five kids and not much money. They could hardly be more different from my parents. Dad runs us like weare part of his sheriffas department. Rules here, rules therea"not just about saying grace before we talk and locking the gun in the sideboard, but all day long. He even puts lists of our daily schedules up on the fridge. I think head make April and me call him asira if Mom let him. He likes posting mottos around the house, too. Take responsibility for your actions. Donat blame others for your mistakes. If you dig your own grave, you must lie in it.

Guess thatas what Iave done. Dug my own grave.

It only takes the prisoners about ten minutes to realize that their new guard is a female. At first they ignore me and wander around in their man-dresses, some of them in head rags, most not, smoking the cheap cigarettes we give them for free and kicking the bits of dried shrub that grow out of the sand. But when one of them comes up close enough to see my face, all h.e.l.l breaks loose. He laughs and beckons some others over. They point. They jeer. They gesture at me over and over to take off my helmet and show them my hair. And then one guy swaggers up, pulls out his d.i.c.k and jerks off right in front of me.

And this is just my first hour.

Iam shocked and disgusted, but Iam not about to show it. I look away, glad my eyes are hidden behind my shades, chew my gum and try to act like he and the other men are no more important to me than ants. All right, I tell myself, this must be a test from G.o.d, having to endure one piece of c.r.a.p after another like this. Iall handle it, pray when I need to, suck it up like the soldier I am. Anyhow, I donat really blame the prisoners for being angry. I mean, look at the poor f.u.c.kers, stuck in overcrowded, stinking hot tents for reasons they probably donat understand. I know most of them are innocent because weave been told as much. Some are criminals who escaped in the wara"you can tell which ones are thieves because they have a hand cut off. A lot are Saddamas soldiers who deserted soon as the war began and turned themselves in to us, skinny and ragged and desperate for food and protection. Some are real bad guys, of course, Saddam loyalists or insurgents. But most are just ordinary people who got caught by mistake. Like Naemaas little brothera"perhaps.

So I try to be Jesus-like and forgiving about it, the way Mom and Father Slattery would want. Remember those who are in prison, as though in prison with thema"isnat that how the verse in Hebrews goes? It isnat me they hate, I tell myself, itas what I represent. The power behind those bombs, the foreigners who arrested them and put those hoods on their heads. And from what Iave heard, all Arab men think Western women are wh.o.r.es anyhow.

These are the things I think about during my first few hours as a prison guard, sitting up here on my tower in a fold-up metal chair, cooking in the heat like an egg on a skillet. These, and how much I long for Tyler, for his soft singing, his eyes so full of lovea"for the days when I could trust people. The one thing I donat let myself think about is what happened with Kormick.

aKate?a A voice floats up from the ground.

I peer over the edge of my platform. Jimmyas looking up at me from behind a new pair of prescription shades. They suit him a lot better than his basic combat gla.s.sesa"a.k.a. BCGs. Those make you so ugly we call them Birth Control Gla.s.ses, acause no one will sleep with you when youare wearing them. aWhatare you doing here?a I call down to him.

aI got a break. Thereas a bunch of HHC guys working the entrance with me and weare spelling each other.a He holds out a paper cup. aIce. Can I come up?a Ice is like gold around here, so I tell him heas more than welcome. Slinging his rifle strap over his shoulder, he climbs the ladder and offers me the cup.

aAll for me?a Iam still croaking, throat raw and sore.

aNo way, weare sharing.a He looks at me with concern. aYou sound terriblea"sure youare okay?a aYup. Donat worry about it.a We dig out an ice chip each and stand there sucking it in bliss, staring out at the sand. Ice chips in the desert: the best ice cream in the world. It helps my throat feel a little better, too.

aCan I ask you something?a Jimmy says then. He has this soothing voice, low and calm. Perhaps thatas why Iam letting him talk to me.

aDepends.a aWell, no pressure, but I was wonderinga"now youave had time to sleep on it, are you going to report Kormick?a I keep my gaze on the sand. aWhy would I want to do that? To win myself more friends?a aWell, in case, you know, he tries to hurt somebody else.a Jimmy sounds embarra.s.sed, but he forges ahead anyhow. aI meant it when I said Iall back you up if you do. So will DJ. We talked about it. That s.h.i.tbag should be thrown in the brig, have his big-a.s.s career ended. b.o.n.e.r, too.a aWhat did DJ have to do with it?a aHe took care of b.o.n.e.r while I was busy with Kormick.a I shake my head. If Jimmy or DJ stick their necks out for me like this, their careers will be f.u.c.ked. I canat ask them to do that. And if I report Kormick, heall only make my life even more fun-and-games than it already is. Anyhow, it isnat like he actually raped me, only tried to, so whatas there to report? That he attacked me and I failed to be a soldier and fight him off? No, anything I say will only make me sound like one of those whiny p.u.s.s.ies all the guys think we females are anyway.

aIall think about it,a I tell Jimmy finally.

aYouare pretty tough, arenat you? Were you always like this?a aWho, me?a I look at him in surprise. Heas smiling at me teasingly. aNo way. I was little Miss Innocent at home. Served the pie at church picnics. You know the type.a aYou werenat so innocent. You had that boyfriend you told me about.a aI have that boyfriend. Fianc, in fact.a We fish out another ice chip each.

aWhat about you?a I say then, happy to keep off the topic of Kormick. aYou got anyone waiting for you at home?a The age-old question. The stuff soldiers have been talking about since war was invented.

aNope,a Jimmy says, looking away from me. aI had this girlfriend, but when she found out I was coming herea well, you know.a aYou mean she dumped you? What happened to standing by your man while he serves his country and all that s.h.i.t?a He shrugs.

aWell, that sucks. Sounds like she didnat deserve you. Youall find someone better. Youave got plenty of time.a He glances at me, then gazes over the concertina wire at the prisoners.

aWeare in a war, Kate. What f.u.c.king time?a On my second morning of guard duty I get up even earlier than usual, determined to fit in a run. My throatas still bruised and aching but at least my b.o.o.b feels a little better. If I put on my tightest sports bra, I think I can run without it hurting too much. But the idea of being trapped up in my tower, facing another long day of masturbating perverts without even having had my precious morning exercise is more than I can stand.

Third Eye wonat come, which surprises me. She just rolls over, growls, aLeave me the f.u.c.k alone,a and goes back to sleep. But Yvetteas ready. Iam still p.i.s.sed at both of them for not speaking to me the night after Kormick, but since I canat go running by myselfa"too dangerous and against the rulesa"I appreciate her company, at least.

The air feels thicker than usual, even though the sun hasnat risen yet, and a light windas already stirring up the moondust, making it hard to breathe. aLooks like weare in for another frickina sandstorm,a I say while we jog down the road.

as.h.i.t. Itall suck to have to drive in this.a Yvetteas been going out on convoys for weeks now, often at night, which is way more dangerous than anything I have to do. Her MOS is convoy security, which means she rides in the pa.s.senger seat of a convoy truck with her weapon out the window, scanning the desert for danger. Iam still a fob-goblin, a soldier whoas never left base.

We run in silence for a time, sinking into the rhythm of it. The sand roadas a pretty good running track as long as you keep your eye out for stones, but one step off it into the soft stuff on either side can twist your ankle in a flash. Ahead of us the road stretches straight as a plank till it disappears in a haze. I swear the Iraq desert must be the flattest d.a.m.n place on the planet.

aYou okay?a Yvette says after a while, her voice strained. aI heard some s.h.i.t went down the other day.a aWhat did you hear?a aOh, the usual BS. f.u.c.k, this moondustas hard to breathe.a We run for a while without saying anything.

aWell?a she says eventually. aYou ainat answered me yet.a aOh. Yeah, Iam okay thanks.a aYou sure? Your voice sounds funny.a aItas nothing. Just a sore throat.a aIs that why youare wearing a scarf in one hundred and forty-f.u.c.king degree weather?a aYep.a She eyes me skeptically. aIf you say so. But talk to me anytime you need to, all right, babe? I mean it.a I glance over at her bony little face and for a moment I feel a flash of love for her. Or maybe itas just abject grat.i.tude. She knows something happened to me and sheas acknowledged it, which is more than anyone else in my frigging unit has done, aside from Jimmy. We never confide how we really feela"weare much too busy keeping up a front. Specially Third Eye, with that tough-guy act of hers. Some days it seems like all we do is brag, tease or lie to each other. Whatever happened to the band of brothers and sisters weare supposed to be at war, I donat know. In my company weare more like a band of snakes.

By the time we get back to the tent, the horizonas turned a dark streaky orange and the airas clogged with dust. I rinse off with a bottle shower the best I can, although it only makes the dust stick to me worse than ever, then go inside to change into my uniform. Third Eyeas sitting on her rack giving me the strangest look. aWhatas the matter with you?a I say, squeezing my hair carefully with a towel. I have to be careful since so much of itas been falling out lately. aYouare looking at me like I turned green or something.a aYou been to the c.r.a.pper yet?a aWhat kind of a question is that?a aYou better go look. Come on, Iall go with you.a She has this heavily serious expression on her face, so I guess she isnat kidding, although you can never be sure with Third Eye.

aOkay. Whatever.a I slip into my fart sack to change (no need to give the guys any more eye candy than they take already), pick up my gear and trudge out after her, the men following our a.s.ses with their eyes, like always. She doesnat say anything more.

When we get to the Porta-Johns, panting from trying to breathe through the whirling sand and pizza-oven air, she points at one. Through the dust I can just make out some writing on it in big black letters. I walk up to see.

t.i.tS BRADY IS A c.o.c.k-SUCKIN SAND QUEEN.

SIGN IF YOUaVE f.u.c.kED HER.

Under it are fourteen names: b.o.n.e.r. Rickman. Mack. And close to half the guys in my tent. At least DJas name isnat there. Nor is Kormickasa"doesnat want to draw attention to himself, I guess. But Jimmyas is.

Third Eye comes up beside me and stares at the list. aAll I can say, kiddo, is I warned you.a Without looking at her, I turn and walk back alone.

aMom?a Iam behind the tent, my cell phone crackling in my ear. aI know itas late for you, did I wake you up?a My words echo back at me.

aKatie, is that you?a Her voice is delayed by the distance, so itas overlapping the echo of mine, tangling up our sentences.

aYeah, itas me. Did I wakea"a aItas so good to hear your voice, sweetie! You know you can call any hour you want. You okay? Not hurt or anything?a aNo, no, Iam fine. But Mom?a My voice is trembling. I can hear it echoing in a pathetic whine. Mom, Moma aIt isnat going so good out herea"a aThank the Lord.a aNoa did you hear me? I donat know if I can hack ita"a aWhat? Oh yes, I can hear you now. Iam sorry you feel that way, honey, but donat give up. Youare just adjusting, Iam sure. Itall get easier. And if you just pray to the Lord Jesus, He will help you. Heall help you be strong.a aI am being strong. Thatas not what Ia"a aKatie?a Dadas on the other extension but I can hardly hear his voice between the echoes of mine and Momas. aDonat worry, little girl. Just hang in there. Everyone has a rough time in the Army sometimes. It was hard for me, too, when I first entered the Force. But I know you can do it. We have faith in you, sweetheart.a aButa"a aBe brave, my girl. Remember, we love you. G.o.d loves you. Make us proud.a A few minutes later, Iam in my teamas Humvee again, on our way to the compound. Jimmyas in the front, as usual, next to baby-faced Creeley, and hairy little Mosquito is squashed into the back with me, cracking obscene jokes with the guys. I stare blindly through the yellow plastic side window, my arms crossed tightly over my chest. I can feel their eyes raking over mea"I know theyave all seen the latrine. They were probably snickering about it on their way to pick me upa"the Sand Queen, the list of names, everything. Sand Queen is one of the worst things a female can get called in the Army. It means an ugly-a.s.s chick whoas being treated like a queen by the hundreds of h.o.r.n.y guys around her because thereas such a shortage of females. But she grows so swellheaded over their attention that she lets herself be pa.s.sed around like a wh.o.r.e at a frat party, never realizing that back home those same guys wouldnat look at her twice.

In other words, sheas a pathetic s.l.u.t too desperate and dumb to know sheas nothing but a mattress.

Iam trying to hang in there, like Dad said. Iam trying hard. But in a way, that graffiti is worse than Kormick.

When the Humvee stops on my side of the compound, I climb out without looking at anybody and set off for my tower. The sandstormas blowing stronger by the minute, so I pull my scarf over my mouth to keep out the grit. Right now, I wouldnat care if the sand just buried me forever.

aWait!a Jimmy calls. Normally he drives on with the others, but this time he jumps out, sends Creeley off without him and runs after me. The whole frickina base is going to hear about that in a flash.

I ignore him and keep walking.

aListen, can I explain something?a he says.

I speed up.

aIt wasnat me put my name there. Youave got to believe me. Some other f.u.c.ker did it. You know I wouldnat do that!a I keep going.

aKate!a He reaches out for my arm. I shake him off.

aListen to me!a aGo f.u.c.k yourself.a I walk even faster.

aKate, come on! Donat be like this.a I climb the ladder to my tower, refusing to answer. He stands there in the wind for a long time looking up at me. But I wonat look back at him.

Only after he gives up and leaves do I drop my head onto my arms. Whatever made me think Jimmy would be any better than the other guys in this c.r.a.phole? Itas a boyas club and itas never going to be anything else. Bros before hos, as they like to say.