St. David’s, St, David’s. Now what can I say about St. David’s?

What I really mean, is what can I say about St. David’s that can be published here. Hmmm… Let me think on that one a minute.

Okay, for now let’s just stick with the basic 411. St. David’s was a private Catholic school founded in the year something or other for the expressed purpose of keeping good little Catholic boys and girls from being corrupted by the wickedness of the secular world around them. Using the current the crop of students I found myself thrown in with as a measure to judge the success of that goal, I’d have to give the holy fathers and reverend mothers who founded the school deserve a big, fat goose egg on that count.

Before going any further, let me make one thing perfectly clear. I’m no plaster saint, not by any stretch of the imagination. Granted, military brats like me live in a unique bubble, one apart from the very society our parents are charged with defending. That doesn’t mean we’re isolated from its influence or protected from the trials, tribulations and temptations all kids experience as they grow up. If anything, due to the nature of the beast we few, we happy few, we band of brothers, (and sisters), develop unique skills and street smarts at an early age. We have to if we’re going to survive the trauma of moving every two to three years and all that entails. On top of having to say goodbye to one group of friends and go about surrounding ourselves with an entirely new batch in a different state or country, kids who have a father like mine need to find a way of dealing with the ever present fear of hearing the phone ring in the middle of the night, a clarion call to arms men like the General answer without hesitation or reservations, at least none they ever shared with their families.

It was the ever present threat of seeing our father pack up his go to war kit and ship out more than the need to adapt to our new surrounds that left Steve, Craig and I little choice but to grow a thick hide, a quirky sense of humor and a mature outlook on life far in excess of our years, allowing us to deal with just about anything. I guess this is why I wasn’t as freaked out as I imagine I should have been as I sat in the parking lot of St. David’s in Craig’s vintage Subaru wearing a skirt I was beginning to wish was longer and a bra that was irritating a pair of newly discovered nipples that had sudden decided to burst onto the stage at the most inopportune time.

It goes without saying I did need to take a minute to muster up the courage I would have to call on in order to see me through this day. I was, after all, about to venture forth among strangers, kids like me, but not like me, teenagers who would become my friends, my rivals, my detractors, my bitterest enemies and my salvation until, once more, some twit in MILPERCEN whom I would never meet decided I was becoming way too comfortable with my surroundings and issued a new set of orders sending dear old Dad to a strange new place.

To use a phrase military aviators rely on to begin their stories in lieu of once upon a time, there I was, sitting in the Craig-mobile when out of the clear blue a voice cut through my mental fog. “Are you okay?”

I did not hit the ceiling of my brother’s car, although that would not have been all that difficult. My startled expression, however, must have amused the tall, blond haired, blue eyed Hitler Youth stunt double to whom the voice belonged, for he stood there staring down at me through the open window wearing a shit eating grin. It was the kind of smirk cute boys tend to sport when they’ve succeeded in shaking some poor girl’s tree.

Oh – my – God!

What am I thinking? Cute boys? (Note to editor; strike all after ‘shit eating grin’).

Okay, where was I? Yeah, right.

So there I was, sitting in the toasty warm Craig-mobile doing my damnedest to be as cool as I could be in the late summer heat but, based on the expression on The Voice’s face, not doing a very good job of it.

“Are you okay?” The Voice asked once more.

“Yes, fine, great,” I replied as convincingly as possible as I struggled mightily to keep myself from telling him what I was really thinking.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” the Voice asked.

The temptation to inform him of just how new I was did cross my mind, causing me to smirk. Fortunately, that thought was trumped by my wish to behave as normal as possible. (Cue ‘Mission Impossible’ theme). “Yes, I am,” I replied in an even tone, taking care to keep from doing anything that would allow him to think I was being taken in by his lame efforts to strike up a conversation. While he very well could have been interested in making sure I wasn’t a damsel in distress, having played for the other team and seen my brothers in action, this possibility was dismissed out of hand.

“Well if that’s the case, let me show you around,” The Voice volunteered in a tone that was far too eager and cheerful. Since I couldn’t think of a graceful way of turning down an otherwise innocent offer and my IFF, (Identify Friend or Foe), wasn’t up to speed at the moment, I nodded. “Sure,” again taking great care to keep from doing or saying anything that would encourage The Voice.

Of course, with him being a boy and me coming across at the moment as an easy mark, short of regaling him with my well hone repertoire of obscenities or fleeing like a hemophiliac at a vampire convention, I didn’t need to do a bloody damned thing to encourage him other than breathe.

“My name is Todd, Todd Lowe. I’m a senior here,” The Voice informed me once I’d gathered up my backpack and exited the car, taking care to ensure my skirt, (there it is again, ‘My Skirt’), didn’t ride up and give The Voice a show.

“Rachel Shaw,” I volunteered once I had collected my things and locked the car.

“I take it you’re a junior,” he ventured as we began to make our way across the parking lot, me with my head bowed slightly as he watched me like a ravenous hawk eyeing its next meal.

Knowing how seniors felt about freshman and sophomores, I allowed myself something of a grin. “A sophomore, actually.”

That seemed to do the trick, for he blinked as the wheels behind those blues eyes of his began to spin, trying to piece together how a kid in her second year of high school could be driving, not to mention the need to assess whether the stigma of being seen with a sophomore was worth whatever gain he was hoping to derive by striking up a friendship with a social untermenchen such as me. Unfortunately, he quickly overcame whatever reservations he had and pressed on. “Where are you coming from?” was his next question, one I could have answered in any number of ways, some of which were quite creative. But instead of being a smart ass as was my wont, I chose to keep it simple and straightforward. “Wyoming.”

“Wyoming? What were you doing in Wyoming?”

The temptation to answer that question truthfully by telling him I’d been busy becoming a girl was countered by my wish to keep from coming across as ‘T’ Girl, the transgendered caped crusader whose mission was to enlighten my fellow students as to the joys and wonders of pole vaulting across the gender line. Everyone would know what I was soon enough. My hope was they would see me as a person first and accept me as such before ‘That’ came up, no pun intended.

“I was staying with my grandmother while my father got settled in here,” in informed The Voice.

“I see. What does your father do?”

Once more I needed to check myself, least I respond with a snappy comeback that would alienate the boy. Though I had no great desire to befriend The Voice, I knew if I came across as being unfriendly, in no time flat I would have a reputation. While I expected the fact that I was something of a smart ass would eventually become common knowledge, like the gender thing, I had no wish to rush things. So once more I rendered an honest, straightforward answer. “He’s in the Army.”

“I see.” Again a pause as The Voice processed this information. “My father is with State,” he offered.

Not being the sort of kid who felt the need to use their father’s rank or position in order to define who they were, I found The Voice’s need to resort to such a ploy in order to either impress me or, heaven forbid, keep this stilted dialogue going as we made our way along to be a wee bit annoying. This time I made no effort to check my tongue. “How interesting,” I chirped brightly. “What state?”

As expected, by question caused The Voice to blink. “Excuse me?”

“What state is your father with? No, don’t tell me,” I quickly added before he could answer. “I’ll bet he’s with Virginia.”

Not sure if I was being serious or if I was having some fun with him, The Voice regarded me with furrowed brow for a moment before replying. “He’s with the State Department.”

A flat, nondescript ‘Oh,’ served to inform him I was not impressed, causing him to scramble about in an effort to come up with a new line of attack. Fortunately, we reached the building where we parted, but not before he stepped out in front of me, causing me to come to a full dead stop and look up into those blue eyes of his. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you around,” The Voice volunteered.

The temptation to reply. ‘Thanks for the warning,’ was checked once more by my desire to keep from alienating him. That, I suspected, would happen soon enough.

No first day of a new school year would be complete without a welcoming assembly during which the principal, assistant principal, the assistant to the assistant principal and all the usual suspects proclaimed how much they were sooo looking forward to making this the most successful and challenging year of our young lives, how important our time here would be to our future, how eager our teachers were to help us navigate our way through the long, long, long, zzzzzz….

Oh, sorry. Where was I?

Yeah, right. Immediately following a small scale reenactment of the Bore War, everyone scattered to their homerooms where individual teachers would once more welcome us, call the roll and go over some of the more salient rules of engagement with which they would govern our time in homeroom. In the process of moving from the school’s auditorium to our assigned homerooms, returning students clustered together, creating jabbering little knots of friends newcomers and social outcasts binged off of like free electrons. At the moment I was quite happy to be one of the former, a condition I wished to cling to as long as possible before I was reclassified into latter.

It wasn’t until I entered the classroom which would serve as my academic forward operating base that I found myself having to make my first major decision of the school year; where do I sit? Sitting up front was ruled out. I mean, duh! Who in their right mind would willingly allow a potentially hostile force to occupy their six. Sitting in the middle was almost as bad. That location offered no tactical advantage whatsoever. To the front would be the nerds and the kiss asses. Behind me would be the academically impaired and the smart asses, which also lead to my decision to avoid taking a seat there as well.

That left the flanks. I was in the process of trying to decide if it would be best to grab a seat close to the door or one near the window when a red haired girl who was also sizing up the room as well sidled up next to me. “It’s always a tough call picking you seat, isn’t it?” she said as her eyes took in lay of the land.

Turning, I gazed into the girl’s eyes as she flashed a quick smile. “I’m new here as well,” she informed me without my having to say a word.

Whether it was her English accent or the way she was able to peg me as another lost soul, I knew without having to give the matter the sort of thought such things often demanded this girl and I were destined to become fast friends. “Over there, by the windows,” I blurted. “There’s two seats we can take if we hurry.” The smile on Red’s face and twinkle in her eye told me she agreed with my assessment, both as to where we should sit and the matter of friendship.

As former friends used the chaos settling in entailed to catch up on things, Red introduced herself. “I’m Katie, Katie Lyttle with a ‘Y’, not an ‘I’” she declared merrily in a light, lyrical voice I envied. “It’s a quirk my Welsh ancestors insisted on clinging to.”

After tucking my backpack under my seat, I thrust my hand out. “Rachel Shaw.”

“Like the playwright?” Katie asked.

Her question caused me to chuckle. “Not even close.” Unfortunately, before I could explain, a quick series of sharp cracks silenced the room.

“Okay people, summers over,” a booming voice declared in a tone that reminded me of the way the General spoke when he was in no mood to be trifled with. “Settle down and take your seats.”

This voice belonged to Mr. Keith Halverson, a very tall man with a linebacker’s build. In time I would come to learn he had played football at the University of Virginia. At the moment, however, I, as well as everyone else in the room was only interested complying with his dictate.

When everyone was settled and he had our undivided attention, Halverson wasted little time with the preliminaries, skipping over the ‘Great to see you all back’ blather. Instead, he took to ticking off the rules governing his classroom in a manner that would have brought a smile to the General’s face. Everything about the man told me he was not the sort of person you screwed about with. As if to confirm this supposition, I noticed how all the returning students sat upright in their seats with their eyes riveted on him as he slowly paced back and forth in the front of the room as he spoke. Not even the back of the room crowd did anything that smacked of ridicule or derision.

When he was finished posting his orders for the day, delivered in a crisp, no nonsense monotone, Halverson stopped, turned to where Katie and I were sitting and fashioned what I assumed passed as a smile for him. In that instant I realized my well crafted strategy of maintaining a low profile, of letting people get to know me before they got to know about me was about to be undone by a man who thought he was doing me a favor. Closing my eyes, I slumped down in my seat, bracing myself as best I could for the verbal hammer blow coming my way.

“We have a rather unique addition to our class this year,” Halverson declared. While unique wasn’t exactly the way I would describe my current status, I imagine it was far better than some of the words he could have used.

“The young lady’s father, and I do mean lady, is newly assigned to the Pentagon.” Unable to help myself, I cringed.

“Miss Lyttle, would you please stand up.”

Wait a minute! Did he say Lyttle?

Opening my eyes, I glanced over at a very red faced girl who was, at the moment, doing her best to be as calm and gracious as she could. Naturally she was failing miserably, almost as badly as I expect I would have had Halverson outted me.

“The Honourable Katherine Diana St John Lyttle Fairfax is the daughter of the Viscount Sir Jeffery Lyttle, an officer of the Queen who is currently the Chief Defense Staff Liaison Officer for the United Kingdom to the US Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” Halverson continued as he blissfully ignored the way the poor girl stood next to her seat, eyes downcast as if searching for a hole in the floor she could crawl into. “As this is her first time in the U.S. I hope the rest of you will take the time to welcome her as well as help her navigate her way about what passes as culture here in the former colonies.” If this last comment was meant to be funny, the humor was lost on Katie.

Mercifully, the bell alerting us homeroom period was over brought a quick end to Katie’s suffering. Gathering up her things, she darted for the door as gracefully as she could, ignoring the gawking stares and whispered comments from our fellow students. Following, I managed to catch up to her in the hall. “That was mean,” I snapped when I saw she was aware of my presence.

Flashing me a wan little smile, she dismissed the entire incident as best she could. “I should have expected something like that,” she sighed. “My mother warned me my plan to simply blend in was a foolish notion.”

Struck by the fact she had been hoping to do the same thing I was attempting, I hastened to express my empathy for her plight. “If it’s any comfort to you, I know exactly how you feel,” I opined. “My father’s in the Army as well, a general no less.”

As expected, this revelation caused Katie to perk up. Upon seeing this, I shared a few quick stories of how awkward things had been for me in the past when I’d been singled out as she had been. Unfortunately, I was way too eager to do so, allowing my tongue to seriously outpace my brain’s ability to properly prescreen what I was saying. “It’s not easy being one of the crowd when everywhere you go people point at you and whispers there goes the general’s son.”

Totally unaware of the fact I’d just inserted both of my size nine wide paten leather Mary Janes in my mouth, I continued to blissfully babble on, sharing with Katie a few of the more embarrassing moments of my young life. If she had been thrown by my accidental revelation, she didn’t show it. Quite the opposite turned out to be true, for in our next class she steered me toward a pair of seats next to the windows. “It might be best if we kept things simple,” she advised as we were settling in. “I expect we’ve both had more than our fair share of changes in our lives as of late without having to remember which seats we’re suppose to take in which class.”

Flashing her a smile, I replied with a southern drawl you could have cut with a knife. “Honey child, you’ve said a mouth full.”

Fortune seemed to with me that day, for Katie’s schedule was a mirror image of mine. The only deviation came toward the end of the day when she turned to head to the gym and I started off for the library. At the time it didn’t strike me in the least bit odd she didn’t ask me why I wasn’t joining her. Instead, I merrily trooped off on my own, satisfied for the moment that the fabric of the universe had not unraveled because of my decision to abandon the SS Testosterone. Even more important, I had found a friend. Just how good a friend she would turn out to be was something I would find out far faster than I could have ever imagined.

Nancy Cole
a.k.a. HW Coyle

P.S. I have finally finished 'Caitlin,' a story about a young Irish officer during the First World War. It will be available on Amazon Kindle sometime before St. Patrick's Day.