to the boss’s daughter. Doesn’t look like she likes that show either. You’re nearly as white as the driven snow, Penna.” Caitlin slings her arm around my shoulder. “Come on, now. They’re there. We’re here. It’s okay. Look. It’s not even us hurt. Those are them .”
Now there’s another clip playing across the TV screen. U.S. soldiers are moving through rubble that was a marketplace, the reporter is saying. One of the soldiers carries a limp, black-haired boy. The rest carry guns.
The boy makes me think of a young David or Ravi.
“Help me out here, Tom. She looks like she might faint or something. Don’t hurl, kid, okay?” Caitlin gives me a brisk pat. “Just another day in Baghdad. Come on now.”
“An IED is an improvised explosive device.” I hear myself saying this. My voice is flat and dull. “A homemade bomb.”
“That’s right.” Tom considers me.
Caitlin claps her hands together, falsely enthusiastic. “Aren’t you the G.I. Jane!”
“I took Current Events.” I shiver. What I don’t say is that before OSUT, David talked about stuff like this. He liked gaming, and a lot of times the games he played were about war. Sometimes I sat down with him at his computer and watched him go at it. I took a few shots myself, popped off a few of the virtual bad guys. I learned some things that way—lots more than I ever learned in Current Events.
Once David and I even shot paintballs at an Iraqi artist through his website. “Shoot the Kaffiyeh,” the website was called. It was anti-war, I know. But David and I didn’t talk about that. We just thought the site was interesting. Cool. At first. The artist was wearing one of those patterned, fringed scarves a lot of Muslim men wear—a kaffiyeh. He was sitting on a low couch in front of a coffee table in what looked like a simple little living room—other than the fact that everything, including the artist, was splattered with red paint, and there was a paintball gun mounted in one corner.
As we watched, the artist picked up a newspaper and started to read. The newspaper was printed in strange script. The artist took a drink from a glass of water. Then David clicked on something and, wham , fired a paintball. The paintball struck the edge of the newspaper, ripped the newspaper from the artist’s hands, and exploded in red against a wall.
“Holy crap,” David said. He laughed nervously. He said it was my turn. “Come on,” David said. “Just think about 9/11. Shoot him.”
The artist was bent over, collecting the messy shreds of newspaper when I took my shot. I aimed off to the side, but even when the paintball just burst bloodily against the floor, I practically hyperventilated.
“I don’t like this,” I said.
David stuttered around for a little bit—9/11 this, 9/11 that. Finally he said he didn’t really like this either. Not really. The guy reminded him too much of Ravi. David rolled his eyes then. “Total stereotyping, right? Seen one, you seen ’em all. God. I sound like my worst enemy.” We left that site then and went somewhere else where we shot droids, not humans.
“You kids learn a little history then, over at the high school?” Tom is asking. “You got something out of that class. What did you call it?”
“Current Events. I didn’t really like it, just took it for the credit.”
There’s a commercial on the TV now. A butterfly flits across the screen, advertising a sleep aid. Check with your doctor for possible side effects.
Caitlin points her straw at the door. “First customers. Or as Linda likes to say, ‘guests.’”
A family has entered Red Earth—four bickering kids, probably under the age of ten, and a mom and dad who look less than happy.
“Good luck.” Caitlin gnaws at her straw as she watches the kids barrel toward a table. “It’s a war out there.”
•••
Two hours later I’m hiding in a stall. The bathroom is the only place that’s halfway quiet. Red Earth is
Now there’s another clip playing across the TV screen. U.S. soldiers are moving through rubble that was a marketplace, the reporter is saying. One of the soldiers carries a limp, black-haired boy. The rest carry guns.
The boy makes me think of a young David or Ravi.
“Help me out here, Tom. She looks like she might faint or something. Don’t hurl, kid, okay?” Caitlin gives me a brisk pat. “Just another day in Baghdad. Come on now.”
“An IED is an improvised explosive device.” I hear myself saying this. My voice is flat and dull. “A homemade bomb.”
“That’s right.” Tom considers me.
Caitlin claps her hands together, falsely enthusiastic. “Aren’t you the G.I. Jane!”
“I took Current Events.” I shiver. What I don’t say is that before OSUT, David talked about stuff like this. He liked gaming, and a lot of times the games he played were about war. Sometimes I sat down with him at his computer and watched him go at it. I took a few shots myself, popped off a few of the virtual bad guys. I learned some things that way—lots more than I ever learned in Current Events.
Once David and I even shot paintballs at an Iraqi artist through his website. “Shoot the Kaffiyeh,” the website was called. It was anti-war, I know. But David and I didn’t talk about that. We just thought the site was interesting. Cool. At first. The artist was wearing one of those patterned, fringed scarves a lot of Muslim men wear—a kaffiyeh. He was sitting on a low couch in front of a coffee table in what looked like a simple little living room—other than the fact that everything, including the artist, was splattered with red paint, and there was a paintball gun mounted in one corner.
As we watched, the artist picked up a newspaper and started to read. The newspaper was printed in strange script. The artist took a drink from a glass of water. Then David clicked on something and, wham , fired a paintball. The paintball struck the edge of the newspaper, ripped the newspaper from the artist’s hands, and exploded in red against a wall.
“Holy crap,” David said. He laughed nervously. He said it was my turn. “Come on,” David said. “Just think about 9/11. Shoot him.”
The artist was bent over, collecting the messy shreds of newspaper when I took my shot. I aimed off to the side, but even when the paintball just burst bloodily against the floor, I practically hyperventilated.
“I don’t like this,” I said.
David stuttered around for a little bit—9/11 this, 9/11 that. Finally he said he didn’t really like this either. Not really. The guy reminded him too much of Ravi. David rolled his eyes then. “Total stereotyping, right? Seen one, you seen ’em all. God. I sound like my worst enemy.” We left that site then and went somewhere else where we shot droids, not humans.
“You kids learn a little history then, over at the high school?” Tom is asking. “You got something out of that class. What did you call it?”
“Current Events. I didn’t really like it, just took it for the credit.”
There’s a commercial on the TV now. A butterfly flits across the screen, advertising a sleep aid. Check with your doctor for possible side effects.
Caitlin points her straw at the door. “First customers. Or as Linda likes to say, ‘guests.’”
A family has entered Red Earth—four bickering kids, probably under the age of ten, and a mom and dad who look less than happy.
“Good luck.” Caitlin gnaws at her straw as she watches the kids barrel toward a table. “It’s a war out there.”
•••
Two hours later I’m hiding in a stall. The bathroom is the only place that’s halfway quiet. Red Earth is
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