He's got blonde curls that they haven't shaved off yet. His army green uniform doesn't hide the fact that he's a bit thin, barely even an adult. But they'll shave his head, and they'll build him up a bit.
She's got a uniform on, too, but it's white and black to match the diner. She's thin, too, because she's young and being around diner food all day ruins her appetite.
"Waitin' for the bus?" the girl says as she hands him his change.
He looks up at her. She looks familiar, though maybe she just has one of those faces. She's pretty, but not the kind of pretty that's really apparent unless you actually see her.
He nods in response.
"Off to 'Nam?" she asks.
"That's the plan," he answers, biting down on his lip.
"You got a while then. That bus won't come till almost midnight."
She smiles at him, and he feels his cheeks grow about as red as the bow that's tied her messy hair back. The blood traveling to his face makes him feel bold, so he asks her, "You think we could talk? You know, while I wait?"
He doesn't expect her to say yes, but instead her smile gets a bit bigger. "I gotta work, but I'm off in an hour. We can go down to the pier, it's not that far off. Go on, sit down, I'll come get you when I'm done."
Fifty-seven minutes later (not that he was checking), she's standing at the corner of his table. "Say, don't I know you? I mean, from before today," the girl says. She squints her eyes and tilts her head, and the tip of her tongue pokes out of the corner of her mouth.
"I think we went to the same school," he says, because everyone that lives in this town goes to the same school, so it would make sense. He thinks she's only about a year younger than him, and he's pretty sure he's seen her in the marching band.
Her eyes widen with the realization. "That's right!" she squeals. "You always hung out with that same group of boys. What happened to 'em?"
"All of them enlisted."
"All?"
"Yes, well, it's better than gettin' drafted, I suppose."
"But maybe you wouldn't 've been."
"Maybe not, but I s'pose fighting for your country s'not so bad, anyway."
"I guess so. Come on, let's go down to the pier. It's a Friday, after all, and I can't stay here all night long."
They walk toward the pier, and no-one even gives them a second glance. There's nothing startling about men in army green, not anymore.
She immediately begins to tell him about his day, as if they've been friends for years. His favorite part is when she describes her usual customers who come every day, always at the same time. She tells them about the old man with the beard who always flirts with her, but is completely harmless, and tips her extra because he likes her dimples. She tells him about the young mom who comes in every day at noon with her baby. She used to be grumpy and short-tempered with Éponine, till about a month ago when the baby started sleeping through the night.
They finally arrive at the pier, and Éponine immediately sits down on a bench. Enjolras joins her, and he's a bit uncomfortable because his uniform is so hot, but he doesn't complain or even undo a button.
"You never told me your name," she says.
"It's Enjolras."
"Enjolras?" she says, trying it out. It feels a bit funny on her tongue, but she thinks she can get used to it. "Sounds French."
"It is."
"Well if you're French, why are you fighting for America?"
"My name's French, I was born here. Besides, the French got done fighting a long time ago."
"I know," she says, and she smiles again at him. "I was only teasing."
"What about you?" he asks.
"What?"
"Your name, what is it?" he clarifies.
"Éponine."
"That sounds kinda French, too."
"Maybe."
Enjolras takes a deep breath. "I was thinking… my parents don't really support the war, and so they're not very happy with me, and all my friends are gone, and I was thinking—"
"Yes," she cuts him off.
"What?"
"Yes, I'd love it if you wrote to me."
Enjolras decides he really loves her smile.
They stay at the pier till well after sunset, and they walk back to the café, where she gets a napkin and writes down her address for him. They wait at the bus stop; it's already half an hour late. Enjolras is tapping his foot, whether out of impatience or nervousness Éponine isn't sure. But she figures this is her chance, so she grabs his hand. She can feel him relax just a bit, and his foot stops tapping.
Finally the bus comes, and Enjolras slides his hand out from hers. "I'll write to you," he promises, halfway onto the bus already.
"Until you come back, okay?" her smile is gone. He already misses it.
He just nods and goes to find a seat.
It's way past her curfew when she finally gets home. Her parents are, obviously, very unhappy.
"Where you been?" her dad growls, marching up to her as soon as the door clicks shut.
"I was out. I met a boy today," she says, and the smile is in her voice but not on her face.
Her mom joins them, half-dressed and very disheveled. "A boy? What's his name?" her face is a bit brighter than her husband's, giddy at the idea that her daughter might not die alone.
"Enjolras. It's French, but he's not. He's a soldier."
Her mother's expression now matches her father's. "He's not right for you."
"Yeah? Why not?"
"Because, he's a soldier. He's too old for you."
"He's only a year above me!"
"Don't matter, he's not good for you."
"Mom, please!" Éponine begins to protest.
"Off to bed, Éponine," her father barks. "Now!"
It's about five weeks later, and Éponine still hasn't got a letter. Needless to say, she's disappointed, but she does her best to remain optimistic, because maybe the mail takes longer to travel than she originally thought. As the sixth week rapidly approached, it finally came.
The envelope is an ugly off-white, but it's addressed to her and she's thrilled. It's not as thick as she had hoped, but with a month and a half of waiting, she tries not to care about that. She tears it open hungrily.
Éponine,
I've been here a week now. By the time this gets to you, I'll probably have been here a month. It's hot here, a lot hotter than they told us it would be. And it's humid, and it seems like it's always about to rain.
I met a lot of brave men here, a lot braver than me. There was one that went by Prouvaire, French like me. He managed to love everything and everyone, and never went a day without pointing out the beauty of the world, or at least what he could find of it. And when the enemy took him, he died bravely, more bravely than any other man could hope for.
Prouvaire made me realize something. It's not death that I'm scared of. I've been told that to die for your country is a good way to die. But Prouvaire died for his friends, and he died for love, the love he felt for people he didn't know. And I think that love might be the scariest thing out there. It's a lot easier to die with hate than with love.
Sometimes it gets pretty bad over here. Night is the worst, because you can't see anything, but you still try. So I close my eyes tight and I think about the day I met you, and the way you talked to me like you've known me for years. I miss your smile.
I think I might be coming home soon. They keep telling us we're close to winning. In the meantime, I might not be able to write, but don't worry.
Yours,
Enjolras
A month later, and Éponine hadn't gotten another letter. Okay, so he said he might not get to write again for a while, but still, she kept hoping he would find a way.
She was upstairs in her room, getting ready for another shift at work. She heard a car pull up, and the doors slam shut. Out of curiosity, she ran to answer the door. Her father had beaten her to it, but he stepped aside when he saw Éponine, because apparently the person was there for her.
The woman is tall and stands up straight, and she has blonde curls tugged into a hairband and a very set mouth. Éponine instantly knows whose mother it is.
"You look like him," she says.
"You're different than I imagined. Thinner," she retorts.
"Can I help you?" Éponine asks sweetly, because although she doesn't particularly care for this woman, she's Enjolras's mom, and she doesn't want to make her dislike her.
The woman rummages through her purse and pulls something out, offering it to Éponine. The younger girl holds out her hands, and a chain with a little metal plate attached clink in her hands. She holds it between her fingers. His name, his ranking, his social security number, his blood type, his religion. All but the first one are things they never talked about that night on the pier. Maybe the only things they didn't talk about.
"He wrote to me, about a month ago. He said that if anything happened, you got that. He didn't care what happened to the rest of his stuff, but you got that."
Éponine went to the funeral. It was small, only about a dozen people there, half of them in military uniforms. They probably didn't even know his name. They were probably just required to go.
They didn't open the casket before they dropped it into the ground. Éponine wondered if his body was even in there. If there was anything left at all.
It's Friday a week later, and Éponine is at the football game. She's required to be there because she plays in the marching band, but they aren't playing till half-time, so for now she hides out under the bleachers.
The announcer calls out his name. He can't even pronounce it correctly, but he tries.
The war isn't over soon, like Enjolras told her it would be. It takes another five years, and more soldiers are sent home in boxes, and more women weep alone. Éponine makes a point of going to as many funerals as possible, even though she doesn't know any of these men. She's not entirely sure why she does this, but she thinks it's because she likes to make sure that someone cares, that their death didn't go unnoticed.