Help Wanted Read Free Page B

the sweat from the lenses, and put them back on. He gazed at his surroundings. He knew that most of his squad was down, even Squirrel, who was sitting with his arms around his knees. He was pulling foxtails from his cotton gloves. An empty water bottle lay at his feet.
    Silence.
    Michael could hear a car start up in the parking lot. He could hear a single-engine airplane. His senses were keen. He could even smell barbecue potato chips—someone was snacking on junk food before the next round of combat. His stomach rumbled. His ear twitched when he heard the flag snap. He was
only twenty feet away. Three leaping steps, and it could be his!
    Silence.
    Sweat dripped down the sides of his nose. He tasted salt and something close to blood.
    "I'm going to try," he told himself. He scanned the valley. There was no movement, except two hawks were circling above. He envisioned his cadet uniform to give himself strength. He saw a row of ribbons on his chest and a single medal for marksmanship.
Nah, make that bravery.
    He scrambled to his feet, finger on the trigger, and scurried to a tree, where he crouched, waiting for his breathing to calm and the pulse in his wrist to slow. He
was
tasting blood—the sun had caused his nose to bleed. He held his nose to his shirtsleeve until the blood flow stopped. He ran his index finger under his nostril—just crusted blood.
    "You can do it," he told himself. "Win it for your squad!"
    He stood up, mumbled, "You can do it," and shooed away the gnats that circled his face. He licked his lips, counted to ten, said, "Now," and dashed toward the flag.
    A burst of fire from two directions hit him on all sides.
    He let go of his gun, stung, and fell next to Trung,
who had rolled over onto his belly. His eyes were open, motionless.
    "It hurts," Michael groaned.
    Trung's eyes wouldn't move. He was playing dead for his friend.
    Michael squirmed from the pain and then forced his body to be still, even as the nosebleed started again and rolled down the side of his cheek. If Trung could play dead, so could he. He pictured a vulture on his back and winced when he imagined the beak piercing his flesh. The pain was nothing, and his mom's crying next to nothing. He was a cadet. He pictured himself being lowered into the ground, a bivouac ribbon on his chest after all.

Sorry, Wrong Family
    Carolina Wrinkled her nose when her little brother, David, tipped a liter bottle of Dr Pepper into his mouth, swigged a little, and then sent the flavorful backwash of soft drink flowing back into the bottle.
    "It's mine now," he claimed with a laugh that resembled a bark. He smacked his lips and burped. "But if you want some, you can have some." He pushed the bottle toward her.
    "That ... is ... dirty," she said as she set her fork on the edge of her dinner plate. "Dad, did you see what David did?"
    Her father's face was hidden behind the sports page. "The Dodgers lost three in a row," he mumbled.
    "Dad, David spit in the Dr Pepper."
    "David, don't do that no more." He showed his stubbly face from behind the newspaper, wagged a finger at David, and returned to the newspaper.
    Carolina fumed at her father and her little brother.
We have no manners,
she concluded. She had intended to pour herself a glassful of Dr Pepper, but now she could only get herself a glass of water. She sighed. She lowered her head and surveyed her dinner of enchiladas, beans, rice, and salad. The salad, she saw, was scooted to the side of the plate. She had learned that salads required their own plate and recalled hinting at her mother that salads were served that way. Her mother, a bank teller who plied out money all day, had responded in a surly voice, "Not in this house. I'm not going to wash extra dishes."
    Carolina stabbed at a wedge of tomato and fit it into her mouth as her mother returned from the kitchen, licking her fingers—a no-no in Carolina's book. It was a no-no in Miss Manners's book as well.
    "Who was that on the phone?"