Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris

gave his head a weary rub. Lacing his hands on the desk, he sat forward as though it took great effort. As though being back in action would be a relief in comparison. “Look, Betty. You’re a nice, pretty girl . . .”

      She cringed at the familiar phrase. It had been a favorite from her guidance counselor, a guy who smelled like pickles and always ended their conversations with a verbal pat on the head, a why don’t you run off and play with your dolls conclusion.

      Though tempering herself now, she interjected, “Are you trying to say that pretty girls can’t be WACs?”

      “Of course they can,” J.T. countered. Then he threw a conspiratory glance around the empty room and continued in a hushed tone. “You already got a gig as a singer, right? Why not just focus on that, sweetheart, and forget about all this Army stuff. Didn’t you say something about touring with the USO, trotting the globe?”

      The USO tour. The aspiration she had so often boasted about. Suddenly, tossed back at her in the presence of her filthy diner dress, the possibility seemed stripped down, naked in its unlikelihood.

      “But I wanna help,” she managed to assert.

      “And I’m sure you’d be great at . . . something. I’m just not confident the Army is the best place to utilize your talents.”

      Like serving malts and meat loaves was?

      “Thanks for coming by, though. It was swell seeing you.” That cocky recline again. “Hey, maybe we can go out to dinner some night, after one of your shows.”

      Disgusted by his nerve, she couldn’t bring herself to reply. She stood up, head pressed against the ceiling of her crushed hopes, and started for the door. When she reached for the handle, however, a harsh truth slammed into her, one she never saw coming: