Story: Pinehurst
Chapter 1: Romeo's First Day and Other Woes
Summary: Set right after Run Away Little Boy. Tristan heads to North Carolina, to military school. A look at his life as he makes the jump from troubled bad boy with a trust fund to military cadet in the midst of his reform. Not a Trory. OC, with the exception of the Dugreys and the occasional Gilmore reference. Tristan-centric.
Rating: T. For language for sure. Likely adult situations later on.
AN: This will be unlike most all of my other stories. On purpose, so hopefully it will be a nice change. It's definitely a fun one for me.
I awake to revelry playing outside my window.
Trumpets burst out the tune in sharp, staccato precision, a reminder to all not only to wake the hell up, but to do it efficiently. I have no idea what time it is, other than too early to rise or shine, given the fact it's still dark outside my tiny window. I have a clock, but I threw my shirt over it in the middle of the night, in a fit of insomnia as the red numbers glared at me in the dark. I let out a low guttural noise and yank the solitary standard-issue pillow over my head. The sheets I'm wrapped in have no discernible thread count. I squint so hard it becomes a grimace, but it does nothing to drown out the second and final refrain of the brassy tune that ends as abruptly as it began. I'm not in hell, but it feels like a close second. It's my first full day at Pinehurst Military Academy.
A sharp knocking sounds at my door not thirty seconds later. I toss the good-for-nothing pillow to the ground and swung my bare legs and feet to the cold tile floor of the small room, careful not to hit my head on the bottom of the empty top bunk. There is just a bare mattress above me, without bedding or any other signs of an otherwise absent roommate. I stretch my sore body and find I can nearly touch the walls opposite each other at the same time. Each boarding room is reminiscent of a sardine can, or jail cell. No one bothered to give me anything other than orders upon my arrival, and so I am clueless as to how I lucked out by being left in solitude. I am in no mood to deal with people, especially strangers in close quarters. I'm probably considered some kind of risk, to myself or others. I am at best a bad influence. I am positive there is already a file in the Quartermaster's Office with my name on it and a lengthy discussion on my inability to heed authority figures.
I'm also not in the mood for waking before dawn, and yet, here I am stumbling across my room in my boxers. I blink sleep out of my eyes and manage a questioning grunt by way of greeting as I open the door.
A man in casual fatigues stands before me in the narrow hallway. It's brightly lit, despite the fact the sun has yet to advance over the horizon. The contrasting glare hurts my eyes. His arms are crossed over the pressed khaki of his shirt. His forehead creases in displeasure at me in general, not unlike my father's had been the entire ten-hour drive down the day before. Ten hours is more time than I've spend with my father in the last six months. Ten hours trapped in a moving vehicle with him was a harsher punishment than being sent to military school in another state, exiled from everyone I know.
Everyone else back home was enjoying their Thanksgiving break. Instead of eating turkey and pie, I packed up a small suitcase of approved belongings and endured a torturous car ride featuring long stretches of bitter silence interspersed with long-winded lectures about a variety of topics from my disgracing my family, the realities of the criminal justice system, and the multitude of consequences that were set to rain down if I stepped one toe out of line from that point forward. It didn't come as news that my father considered me a disappointment, nor was it the first time he'd bandied about the idea of cutting me off. My headmaster's mantra in regard to me all semester long had been the words 'final warning.' Seems a shame he never got to throw me out. My father ripped me out of school before Headmaster Charleston had the pleasure. Before I got to play Romeo. Before I got to kiss my Juliet one last time.
"Cadet Dugrey."
I scratch at the back of my hair, feeling the odd sensation of the freshly buzzed hair. I normally keep it long enough to style by running gel through it with my fingers, and it feels oddly soft and severe at the same time to my touch. I take in a breath and only then notice the co-ed in uniform standing with perfect posture and her arms resting in a stiff fold behind her back as her eyes fix to some point on the wall next to my door while my very first lecture begins. I'm not in class yet, but I have already fucked up. With an audience.
This is how my life is going of late. I'm a first-class disappointment and a second-class citizen. Not allowed to choose my own hair style, clothing, or wake-up time, apparently. I offer an appraising smile at the uniformed female standing three feet to my left, but she never even attempts to make eye contact. My attention is drawn back sharply by the barking tone of the master general in my face.
"At Pinehurst we rise at zero five hundred and are dressed and have the bed made by zero five-fifteen. Calisthenics began at zero five thirty, followed by breakfast in the mess hall at zero six hundred sharp. Your regulation uniform is required in public at all times during school hours, and public indecency is punishable by military law, is that clear?"
"Yes, sir, but I'm still in my room," I say, adding some sign of respect while stifling a yawn. The man's expression does not improve.
"I am your superior, Cadet. This is not your precious prep school. We are not your parents. We are here to educate you in the manner fitting the military of this country. To that end, there will be no leaving this room, under any circumstances, in your goddamn underwear. This is not a frat house. You've already overslept, you're about to be late for morning warm-ups, and you're showing signs of insubordination. Is that how you want to start off this new appointment?"
"No, Sir," I answer, standing up a little straighter, which sets off a cramp in my shoulder. My father droned on about rules and my need for structure and discipline and being taken down a few (thousand) pegs on our car ride. My dear old dad seemed oddly pleased that the military academy would be a rude awakening for me. This morning definitely qualifies for that title. Back home I would be rolling out of bed in another two hours, and making a stop for coffee before driving my Boxster to school. That is, if I didn't feel like blowing off first period altogether.
"Get dressed and meet us downstairs in three minutes or you'll become acquainted with our demerit system."
"Yes, Sir." My door closes with a slam. My heart jolts hard, like a part of my life is shutting down. I have no idea who has just chastised me, other than a superior, but who isn't considered my superior at Pinehurst Military Academy? The janitor probably has a higher military standing. Freshman know more about the rules and regulations, being that they'd been here two months, topping my twelve hours. I've been here long enough to get sheared, fitted for and assigned two uniforms, and handed a very thick book about the expectations of the Academy. I'd thumbed through it briefly after letting my father leave without a goodbye. I turned off my light hours before lights out, staring up at my ceiling and thinking about my last day at Chilton. Or rather, my last night. I wrestled with consciousness and dreamed of azure eyes and the death scene from Romeo and Juliet and small town dance studios. It was a fitful night spent repeatedly waking up in a cold sweat, and I don't feel rested.
I dress at top speed. It isn't the first time I've had to race to dress in a crunch. There have been multiple occasions in the past couple of years, in inappropriate places as well as inappropriate people, where I found myself disrobed and compromised. I've nearly been found by fathers and brothers and boyfriends of my paramours. I've been known to taunt other guys while making plays for their girlfriends. There was only one time I didn't act as I pleased, denying myself a last kiss from a girl that had driven me to distraction for over a year, solely because her boyfriend was watching us. The only person I said goodbye to when I left Hartford. The Juliet to my Romeo. We'll never get our final kiss. And I'm sure she's as relieved as I am tortured by the thought.
I feel stiff in my clothes, which were prepared with starch. I look down at my shoes, which gleam up at me, shiny black patent leather. I am expected to keep them as pristine as they are now, along with my uniforms. I've never done laundry a day in my life, nor any other chore for that matter. That's why my parents have staff. There will be drill clothes, which I can pick up at the end of the week, along with a dress uniform, which I'll need for ceremonies and other special occasions. I had more choices with the stupid Chilton uniform, even with its limited blue plaid. Gone are my choices of appearance.
Fitting, as most of my other choices in life were just stripped away from me as well. Nothing about my new surroundings feels comfortable. Everything feels sterile and rigid. I'm not just starting over. I've been stripped of everything remotely familiar.
I am downstairs in my allotted time, and this time the pissed off early riser introduces himself. He is Lieutenant Briggs, and he's in charge of transfer students. He reviews the topics I was quickly introduced to yesterday when I checked in with my father, though I was hardly paying attention at the time. I was far too busy being pissed off and ignoring my father. Briggs points out the buildings where my classes will be and the mess hall and various yards. He walks briskly and I fall into step with him as we cross the quad toward where people are gathering, I assume for calisthenics. He then launches into a short lecture about the waiting list of kids who want a spot at this institution for learning, and how he looks down on people pulling in favors to game the system. He looks at me sharply as he says this, with all his distaste, as if it had been my idea to enroll here.
My father. Of course my father pulled in favors to get me shipped here. It's how he goes about life at large. He's not a man to be patient or wait his turn. Though he's quick to punish my own impatience or attempt to elicit favored treatment. I haven't earned it, as if he has. He was born to the Dugrey name, just like me.
I assure Briggs I don't expect special treatment with as much humility as I can muster.
"Good. Because you won't get it here. This is Cadet Williams. She'll be your peer mentor for the first week. She'll show you the ins and outs, and the behavior we expect of our students."
I take note of the girl that saw me in my underwear not ten minutes before, a silent shadow that trailed us all the way to the yard. She gives Lieutenant Briggs a salute, holding the pose until he returns the gesture. He heads back toward the main administration building, leaving us to finish the walk, no longer at a march, to join the other cadets for morning warm-ups.
"You aren't hung over, are you?" she asks me, giving me a squinting side-eye.
"What? No. Just not used to getting up before dawn."
She smirks. "There's coffee, in the mess. It's not good, but it's effective. It's strong enough to peel the paint off the walls."
"Sounds like a decent science experiment."
"It's been done, trust me." A whistle blows, three sharp hits, and people start to fall into lines. She points to where I should stand and she takes her place beside me. We're part of a greater formation. "So, what'd you do, to get sent here?"
Thoughts fill my head. My asshole father. My emotionally unavailable mother. The best friends who ratted me out before I could say a damn word once the police showed up. The one girl I ever really loved who cried when I kissed her. It's amazing that it took so long for me to be banished from the state of Connecticut, really.
"I was a dumbass."
"That could cover a whole host of sins," she said, prompting me for specifics.
I hesitate, remembering the event that escalated into the final straw. It all comes rushing back with vivid clarity, given that I was lucid despite the drunken state of my so-called cohorts. The flashlights, pressing the cold metal keys with the code, hearing the lock pop open. "I … broke into a safe."
She nods once. "Wow. Stupid."
I nod back. "Yeah. I know."
She smiles and then there's more official-type shouting. We're doing jumping jacks and push-ups and sit-ups. Not even the lousy half-assed ones from P.E., where someone sits on a partner's feet and people pretend to do a few before giving up. These people are moving as if their lives depend on it. When the drill instructor shouts, they shout responses back, and my ears are ringing from the group's sheer volume.
I'm in decent shape and I run to blow off steam, but I'm not in training like these people. I remember an off-handed mention during my rushed orientation of obstacle courses and wilderness training. I hope these come much later. I am not prepared, not for so many aspects of this place. By the time it's over, I'm not warmed up, I'm worn out. All I want is to go back to bed, but instead I follow my guide to our first class.
The feeling of unease doesn't leave me. I spend the day shadowing Jessica, who finally offered her first name to me after our third class, which was Beginning French. I took Spanish at Chilton, but it was full already, so I was put into French. Jessica took Latin for two years, but two years is all they offer, so she's switched to French this term. She's already fluent in Spanish and knows passable Portuguese. I know enough Spanish to get drunk in bars in Mexico and pick up girls. That's really more of a confidence thing, anyway. Not in my language skills, but with body language. I've never had problems getting girls, with one notable exception. Keeping them was another story, but I never put any effort into that. I might have with Rory Gilmore, but now I'll never know.
Jessica is also my lab partner, in Advanced Chemistry. She, like all the other students, pays attention, acts with respect to the instructors, all of whom are ex- or current military. I get a quick introduction in each new classroom. She does her best in between classes to explain the protocol that confuse me or take me off guard. I am not good at hiding my displaced shock as we move from class to class. I feel shaky and slightly nauseated, and only partially from the unforgiving coffee and lack of sleep. I vaguely wonder if this is what Rory felt like last year, when she started Chilton after the semester had started.
It isn't until lunch that I realize that Jessica isn't all work and no play. She motions for me to join her once we enter the mess hall, and she beelines to a table with four other people already at it. Three guys and a girl. The girl is reading, too engrossed in the pages to focus on whatever the guys are talking about around her, but oddly she doesn't seem separate from the group despite her lack of interaction. I'm the only outsider among the ranks. I walk up casually, if hesitantly. Jessica hasn't asked much about my personal life, save for what got me here, and I am glad to keep personal info private. I wish I had a book in which to lose myself. Again I think of Rory, always lost in a book when given the chance. I thought if there was one place I'd be able to keep her out of my mind, it would be at military school. I am so far miserably wrong.
I watch as one of the guys wraps an arm around Jessica's shoulders and she leans in to kiss him. It's not a simple gesture of greeting. I can see their tongues meet and I look away. The rest of the table offer groans and the girl blows a wrapper at them from the end of her straw before going back to her book.
"Get a room," one of the guys adds. He wears glasses, his dark hair is buzzed like mine and every other male on the premises, and he looks like he wakes up early to do extra weightlifting before our warm up. Where my uniform fits and falls in straight planes, his upper body reshapes his clothes. He looks to be the embodiment of the few and the proud. The guy next to him is just as fit as his friends, and he gives the impression he'd have a crew cut even if he were in a public high school. I certainly wouldn't want to start any shit if any of them were on the other side of the fight.
"I wish," the guy that is now finished kissing her says with enough desire in his voice to make most girls blush. Jessica does not. "Where have you been all day?"
Jessica points at me. "I told you, I'm on transfer student duty. Guys, this is Tristan Dugrey, fresh from Connecticut. Tristan, this is Charlie," she pats an open palm against her boyfriend's chest and holds there, "and that's Jack and Rob, and that is Bailey."
"Hey," I say, eyeing the seat next to Bailey. She looks up at the mention of her name. She's in the same uniform as the rest of us, and her blonde hair is pulled back in a tight French braid. It shows off the graceful lines of her neck, and her delicate chin. Even so, she seems to radiate a quiet fury. I see her eyes, which are soft and hazel but intense all the same. I look around the room and notice none of the girls have their hair down or loose at all. Jessica wears hers in a tight bun. All the girls here have their hair pulled back, in a manner that seems severe. Rory usually wore hers down, or with loose braids pulling back a section from her face. It always seemed to damn touchable, soft and shiny, like she belonged in shampoo commercials. She was more skittish in her reserve than hostile. She was the epitome of unrequited longing, making for some pretty damn good fantasies. I've been accused of having an overactive imagination on multiple occasions, but with her, all I had was my own resourcefulness.
"Take a seat," Jessica says, as if giving an order. I can tell she's been in charge of other students. She could definitely command a group. She's handled me all morning, steering me and prompting me with professional disinterest, while still maintaining what I guess is southern hospitality. We are south of the Mason-Dixon line, I remind myself yet again. I have zero interest in making friends, but Jessica takes her job seriously. She's not letting me out of her sight. It's not her fault I hate my circumstances right now. I do as I'm instructed. I sit down in the empty seat next to Bailey, who edges away from me with a nearly imperceptible shift in her seat. I notice, even if no one else does. She doesn't look at me again, delving right back into the pages open in front of her, though the other guys ask about my classes and offering opinions on the instructors and making random small talk.
"Connecticut, huh? You a trust-fund kid?" Rob asks.
"I was," I respond. I have no idea if I'm even in my parents will at this point, let alone the status of my trust fund. I know I have no access to my usual sources of money. He confiscated my cell phone and took my credit cards before I left, and I'm sure my Porsche's been sold for parts, just for kicks. Mom slipped me a couple hundred in cash before I left, giving me a stern, if Botoxed, warning not to tell my dad she'd been so generous. Because he'd already done so much by not letting me go to jail. Her words, not mine. I had no words. I just took the money and left.
"Do you have your mentor yet?" Charlie asks.
"Um, my what?" I ask. "Is that you?" I ask Jessica.
Jessica snorts, and Charlie shoots me a look. As if somehow I have illusions of cutting in on his territory, he's ready to defend her honor. I almost wish I had the faintest attraction. Jessica is smart and I'm sure if her auburn hair was ever down and she wasn't wearing the same clothes I was, she'd be a knockout. But honestly, my thoughts are still on the one that got away. I've been trying to get over Rory Gilmore for a year now. Even if the guys Jessica's surrounded by couldn't put me in traction, which they could, I have no interest in her past her help in surviving my first week here. I can't blame him, though, as I'm the unknown factor here, even though all I'm really feeling is lost.
"Everyone at Pinehurst is assigned a mentor, a member of the military. Someone that works on campus or someone from the base over at Fort Bragg."
Bailey has broken her silence. I turn and look at her, and she meets my eyes, briefly, before looking down at her tray. I'm momentarily frozen by a flash of hazel and a voice as soft and sweet as spring flowers. It's what I imagine any Southern Belle worth her salt would sound like. If Jessica's authoritative, Bailey's a mix of soothing and mysterious. I wish she'd say more, but she's done. She picks up an apple, takes a bite, and returns to her book.
I clear my throat. There's a group dynamic here, but I've disrupted it. Especially for Bailey. I don't think she likes the addition. "No one's told me anything about a mentor. I just got here last night."
"He slept in," Jessica told the rest of the gang, which makes the guys laugh. Bailey turns a page.
"On the shit list on your first day? Briggs will be on your case 'til they play Army Blue," Rob says, still laughing.
I barely have to raise my eyebrows in Jessica's direction before she offers a perfunctory explanation. "They play it at graduation. Briggs is a hardass with a long memory."
"Stellar."
"It's fine. The upper brass in Admin love me, so stick with us and stay out of trouble and you'll figure it out. The mentors do help you get your bearings, if you're having trouble adapting. They're meant to help you figure out what comes next, after graduation. You'll probably have a meeting set up before the end of the week. It takes some time, with mid-year transfers. Pinehurst runs on punctuality and structure. Tradition. Doing things on the fly rubs the old timers the wrong way."
"I noticed," I say. I feel like the classic cliché, a troubled youth being shipped off to military school. But I can't be the only one. Clichés are tired for a reason. "What did you all do, to get sent here?"
Jessica's posture changes, and I notice she shakes her head a little at me, a silent warning. Her eyes dart briefly to Bailey, but she refocuses on me and speaks up before anyone else can put me in my place. "This is one of the top military boarding schools in the country. It's incredibly hard to get into, and lots of us are legacies. I'm third generation," she informs me.
"I'm fourth generation," Charlie says with pride.
"What'd you do?" Jack asks. I can't tell if he's pissed at my assumption or not. He offers nothing about himself.
"Bunch of stupid pranks, mostly."
"He broke into a safe," Jessica admits on my behalf. It's becoming clear that this group doesn't have secrets from each other, but they are definitely keeping things from me. I feel my ears burn with heat and humiliation and feel Bailey shift next to me. Further away again. She must be hanging off the opposite edge of her seat.
I sigh. I have offered the same explanation a few times now, not that it's made any difference in people's opinion of me. "The other guy had a key. It was his dad's safe. We were just messing around. It's not like we stole anything."
"Then what's the point?" Jack asks. It's at least a new question.
I shrug. Hell if I know what I was thinking. The last few months I've been doing all I can to stop thinking. "Mostly we were just bored."
"Nothing to do in Connecticut?" Rob asks. He looks mildly amused, but probably at my own discomfort.
"We'll have to show him how to have a good time in town," Jessica tells her group.
"Is fun scheduled at eighteen hundred hours?" I ask, my sarcasm breeching my subdued manner.
"Work hard, play harder," Charlie says with a smirk. "It's more of a cadet creed than the school motto."
The school motto is all about honor and character a bunch of qualities my father has found me lacking. Not that I ever had a good role model before. This place is made to bend me into their mold, and it's up to me if I break or not in the process.
Lunch is over with a bell and everyone starts to return trays. I barely ate anything, but I'm not really hungry, either. I return a mostly full tray and back away. I bump into Bailey, who is finishing a paragraph and balancing her empty tray with one arm and her hip.
"Oh," she says, like an exhale as we bump off one another. "Sorry," she apologizes quickly, and I stiffen. Her book has fallen closed between her arm and her torso and she's staring at me as if she'd just rear-ended me in a car. Her eyes are wide and wary.
"No, I, I'm sorry. Go ahead. Please," I gesture for her to cut around me. I may be a Yankee, but I was taught how to be a gentleman. My skills might be rusty from disuse, but they are deeply ingrained from a young age. My mother is very into social standing, and as a result I was put through all the rigors of cotillion training for young men and years of society parties. None of the debutantes I used to consort with ever seemed capable of beating me in an arm-wrestling match, however. Even with her smaller stature, I would give Bailey the benefit of doubt against half the guys here, but especially me. She relaxes visibly and offers the promise of a smile, just the barest upturn of her lips on one side. I smile back, and someone bumps me at the shoulder as she exits the room.
"Dream on, man." It's Rob. He's dumped his tray and looped back around.
"What?"
"Bailey doesn't date. Anyone. At all. We look out for her, so if you're thinking she'd be a good distraction from whatever it is you're dealing with… forget it."
"No. I wasn't... I wasn't."
Rob nods once, taking me at my word. "Charlie, Jack, and I meet up, after last period, to run and lift. If you're interested, ask Jess. She'll tell you where to meet us."
"Thanks. I will," I say, and then everyone breaks off. Jess and Charlie kiss, again, and she says something low in his ear that makes him smile. He's leaning into her, and she's backed up against a wall away from the mass of cadets filing out of the hall. They aren't like the couples I hung out with at Chilton, or couples I was a part of. They seem comfortable and close, a bonded unit. Most of the couples I knew fought most of the time, fueled by drama and unfiltered rumor mills, and partners changed on a regular basis. No one expected to be together longer than a couple of weeks. Girls planned future boyfriends like they made hair appointments. If they were together in May, there was no way they'd be seen together the first week of summer, let alone come fall. But these two seem unshakable.
Jess waits for me as everyone scatters in all directions. "We're off to English Lit next. Shakespeare," she adds without emotion offering an opinion of the class. The sun is definitely up now, blaring overhead, and I notice how much warmer it is here than it was at home.
"Please, God, tell me it's not Romeo and Juliet," I groan.
She turns her head with curiosity. Her gait never slows. "How did you know?"
I shake my head just once before letting it fall back in defeat. I mutter under my breath. "'A plague on both your houses. I am sped.'"
It really and truly hits me then. My exile is just a location change. All my demons have followed me to Pinehurst Military Academy.