Free Operation Oleander (9780547534213) by Valerie O. Patterson

they might get what they want,” Mrs. Johnson says. “For now. Trust me—no one on this post is going to want to be reminded about that orphanage. Not right now.”
    â€œI can’t quit.”
Duty, honor, country.
Dad wouldn’t want me to give up because of violence. That’s what people do when they’re not tough enough. When they let things knock them off track and lose sight of what they believe in. Right? He’s right, isn’t he?
    Mrs. Johnson’s cheek twitches, and she snaps the lid back on the stroganoff. “Flags are half-mast on post. You ought to give it a rest.”
    â€œIs that an order?”
    â€œJess—”
    But I plug in my earbuds. I’m no longer listening to her.

Eleven
    I SHOWER AND change clothes. Mrs. Johnson left a note saying she and Cara have gone for ice cream, and she’ll bring me a cone.
    A peace offering?
    I scribble out a note that I’m at the PX.
    When I get there, the whole place is crowded. People stream in and out. Little kids and high schoolers congregate at the far end of the complex near the rec center. On the far end, there’s also a basketball court.
    The table’s still in the hallway. Empty cups and candy wrappers have been left on top, so I clean it off. Then I unlock the closet and get our supplies. First I cover the table with the cloth and Mrs. Scott’s baskets. I flatten out the wrinkles in the blue linen with my palms and sort the snacks the way Meriwether would have. Potato chips and pretzels in separate baskets.
    Everything’s out, except for the sodas. When I finally prop the poster of Warda on the metal frame, it wobbles. I hold my breath, ease it over until it balances. Then I wipe my palms on my shorts.
    I take one of the extra posters and tape it to the sliding glass doors in front of the PX. To make sure everyone sees it.
    A soldier walking into the building detours around me. He frowns. Whether at me or the poster I’m not sure. I press harder on the glass, getting the edges of the poster smooth. Trying to get the air bubbles out from underneath the tape.
    Behind me, I hear voices at the table. A man in uniform says to a woman with him, “That’s Master Sergeant Westmark in that photo.” They study the picture. “We ought to be giving money for
him.
”
    Maybe I’m wrong to be here.
    But I can’t forget about the orphanage. It’s why we were here. Why Dad was there when the bomb went off.
    The woman lays the poster on the table.
    â€œCome on, honey.” She touches the man’s arm.
    I force myself to smile. Stepping closer, I make myself speak up. “Can I tell you anything about the orphanage?”
    The woman blushes, but she doesn’t put the poster back where it belongs.
    â€œI just don’t think we should play on people’s emotions right now. To earn money for charity, or for anything else. It’s like those animal-shelter ads—they try to break your heart.” The woman folds her arms.
    â€œIt’s not the orphans’ fault. Since the bombing, they need us more than ever.”
    The woman’s cheeks go a deeper red. “I’m sure they need lots of things. Things we can’t do for them. But what about our own soldiers? How about this Master Sergeant Westmark? He’s gravely wounded in Germany.”
    â€œYes, he is,” I hear myself say.
    â€œWe should focus on him.” She twists the wedding band on her hand.
    â€œYes, well, he’s my dad. I think he’d want me to continue.” Dad never gives up. When he and Mom wanted to have children and they couldn’t, they looked into adoption. Dad said it took them years to find a child, the right child.
    If they’d given up, I wouldn’t be here.
    The woman’s face drains of color. “I’m—I’m sorry,” she says, and walks away, weaving her way between people coming from the PX with piled-high grocery