Free Rites of Passage by Joy N. Hensley

feel like I had to do more than I should.” It’s a good excuse, almost solid.
    â€œShort quit. Yesterday in the river. The cadets started calling us names and she just decided she couldn’t take it,” I say. “If you’re going to try to finish out the year, you need to come back. We’ve got to stick together.”
    â€œI just need to rest my ankle for a day or so. I’ll be back up there tomorrow when classes start, okay?” She’s not budging. Her jaw is set firm and she’s not changing her mind. Even though she’d hated Hell Week, she’d never once talked about not wanting to be there.
    But Katie wouldn’t last if Matthews started spitting on her or yelling at her like he did me. She’d crack. “Did Matthews threaten you or something?”
    It’s a small hesitation, but it’s there just the same. “No . . . of course not.”
    â€œMatthews doesn’t treat us as hard as he treats you, Sam. It’s crazy how much pressure he puts on you,” Cross says, sounding at least a little sympathetic, then turning to Katie. “But that’s no excuse. We’ve got to work just as hard. Everyone’s watching us this year and we can’t slack off at all,” she says, for the first time hinting that maybe Katie isn’t pulling her weight.
    â€œI can’t help that I got hurt.” Katie sits a little higher in the bed and winces.
    â€œJust get better, okay? The sooner you’re back, the sooner we can stick together.”
    â€œWe’ll see you at lunch tomorrow. Get back to the barracks as soon as they say it’s okay,” Cross says.
    Katie crosses her arms and looks out the window. “Now, I think I really should rest while I have the chance. And I’m sure you guys want to get back to be part of the company.”
    I stand and look at Cross. There’s no point in pushing anymore. “Ready?”
    She nods. “See you, Quinn.”
    Katie doesn’t say anything, though. She just keeps staring out the window. The conversation is over.
    Â 
    The rain turns to drizzle as we trudge back across campus, squaring corners, our eyes locked straight ahead. It may be a Sunday but we won’t be at ease on campus until we’re recognized as full-fledged members of the Corps. And that won’t happen for at least a few months. When Cross heads to the library to meet up with the rest of the company, I give her a little nod. I’ve still got one more stop to make, so I continue around the PG, then down the hill toward the mess hall.
    The chapel is a redbrick building with window frames, columns, and a steeple all painted a blinding white. Once the school year starts up, every Sunday we’re allowed to come to a service if we want.
    I open the heavy wooden door and walk in.
    â€œGood morning, Miss McKenna.”
    The voice makes me jump, even though it’s the quietest voice I’ve heard in days. The man who spoke is tall and portly, and has a mustache as thick as three fingers. He smiles through the ’stache, although I can’t see his teeth behind the whiskers. He wears a long white robe with a red cross on the front and a rope belt tied at his waist—very Christ-like. I’m surprised he’s not wearing sandals.
    He’s standing in a small open area in front of the sanctuary. “Why don’t you come into my office?” He gestures to his left. Maroon carpet cushions my steps as I follow him through the open door.
    I run a hand over my hair, trying to catch any stray drips, then shut the door behind me. A lamp on his desk lights the room with a warm orange glow. Every inch of the office and floor, other than a small walkway to get to the chair and the reverend’s desk, is covered in stacks of papers and books. Pictures of Rev with cadets and soldiers, some on battlefields, some in dress blues with women in white dresses, cover all but a small