Operation Yes Read Free

rang.
    â€œI’ll be right there!” his mom called out. “You can walk over to the BX and get pizza,” she said to Bo. “Don’t forget to feed Indy. I’ll be home by nine.”
    She grabbed a large white binder labeled Scholarship Planning Committee and headed for the door.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said to the woman waiting for her. “My sister-in-law called, and … oh … I’ll tell you in the car. Things are always a mile a minute around here. Sometimes, I …” She looked back at Bo.
    â€œThanks,” she said.
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œHanging in there,” she said. She stepped back a few paces and grabbed her cell phone off the hall table. She whispered to Bo, “It’s not a skull and crossbones, is it?”
    Bo shook his head. He pointed to his left side. “A bird. Tiny.” He was used to his mom finishing conversations with him minutes after he’d started them. She didn’t forget or miss much; she just didn’t always catch the ball right when he threw it.
    Bo didn’t walk to the Base Exchange to get pizza. The Command Post call turned out to be the weather station, notifying his dad that there was “lightning within five” — a thunderstorm within five miles of the base. Bo could have told you that from the still, heavy air. And because his dog, Indy, had settled into her spot in front of the double doors to the deck. In August, in North Carolina, a storm rolled through two or three times a week. It was a miracle, his dad said, that the maintainers ever fixed any airplanes on the flight line at night at all.
    His dad made scrambled eggs with pickles and toast. Theyate at the kitchen counter and watched a dark tarp of clouds unroll over the sky.
    â€œSchool good?” asked his dad. “Your teacher okay?”
    Bo shrugged. Miss Loupe looked different from any other teacher he’d ever had. She’d put on an entertaining show for a few minutes before going on to be a regular teacher for the rest of the day. But if Mrs. Heard had hired her … yeah, AND taught her …
    â€œShe’s okay,” he said. “Better than Mr. Nix. But school still stinks.”
    â€œAs bad as a marine’s feet?” his dad teased.
    â€œAt least grunts do something all day. We just sit there. I hate school.” Bo popped a pickle into his mouth and savored its crunchy sourness.
    â€œHate it or not, I expect better this year.”
    Bo didn’t say anything. Every time he messed up, he not only went to the principal, but his dad also had WORK for him to complete. Scrubbing the driveway. Pruning back the wild, thorny bushes at the edge of their backyard. Cleaning the tops of doors and the back inside corners of kitchen cabinets. “You are a Work In Progress,” his parents liked to say. “You work. You make progress.”
    â€œNo imitating Mrs. Heard,” his dad clarified.
    He’d only shown those sitting near him how he could mouth along with her words during the morning announcements. If he hadn’t stuffed his down jacket under his shirt to look more authentic, Mr. Nix wouldn’t have noticed.
    â€œNo somersaulting.”
    He had wanted to show Trey how it was possible to jump over a lunch table in a single bound. Wasn’t it more responsible to have gently somersaulted over it instead?
    â€œNo Private Mishaps, Major Shenanigans …” His dad picked up a triangular piece of toast and pretended to make it enter a downward spin in midair.
    â€œâ€¦ or General Tomfoolery,” Bo finished, grabbing the toast before it crashed into his eggs. “I know.”
    You try it , he wanted to tell his dad. Try being as good as everyone thinks the commander’s son should be without seeming like you’re better than anyone else. He didn’t know if he could be good all the way until next summer, when his dad would get a new assignment from the Air