Face-Slapping11 min read
My Dad, the General, and the Girl Who Thought the World Revolved Around Her
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"I promise me no special treatment," my father said the night before I left for training.
"You won't," I said, folding the paper he handed me.
"You'll blend in. From the people, back to the people," he added, more serious than when he taught me to thread a needle.
"I know." I tucked the UV allergy note into my backpack like it was a secret charm. "No special treatment."
He huffed. "Don't make me come down there."
"Don't worry," I lied, grinning. "I won't make you ruin your diet of coffee and discipline."
He squinted at me from behind his reading glasses. "You hear that, Jayla?"
"Yes, sir."
The next morning, I walked to the pickup point with one small duffel and a water bottle. I pulled my cap down to protect my face from the sun. I kept the allergy certificate folded in my pocket like an honest card I might need later.
"Move your suitcases, please." A girl stood dead center in front of the gate, four suitcases, three bags. She was a living roadblock.
"Excuse me," I tried.
She looked up, measured me, and made a sound like someone clearing a throat. She turned away. I didn't like repeating myself.
"Could you move your stuff, please? People need to pass."
She raised her chin. "Why should I? This is my spot."
"Because it's the gate."
"Maybe use the other gate," she said.
I stepped on a suitcase and climbed over. The suitcase gave one terrified wheeze and I was over. She snapped her head around. "Hey! You dirty my bag!"
"I didn't dirty it. You didn't move it."
"You have no manners."
"I have manners. You have a throne."
She opened her mouth to accuse me further, but someone tugged her sleeve. A cluster of students had formed around her like bees around something sweet. A woman with glasses checked a clipboard.
"Jayla Willis?" she said, peering at the list.
"That's me," I answered.
"Stand in line."
A chorus of bus after bus arrived. Students piled in. The girl with the suitcases didn't. She had an entourage to help.
"Why is she boarding before the rest?" I asked, tapping the woman with glasses.
"Her family has...connections," she said, looking annoyed. "Hurry now."
I folded my arms. "Who's family?"
"January Garcia," someone whispered. "Her dad runs a department. She’s the department head’s daughter."
I kept my mouth shut. I was new, and I like to choose my fights.
On the bus, January spread herself like a peacock, hand on polished suitcase handle, sunglasses on even though the windows were tinted. People whispered. She smiled as if every whisper were about her.
Later, when we reached the camp, she became a rule unto herself.
"Move your things over," she told others. "Leave this bed empty."
"It’s shared," someone said.
"I can't sleep in the middle," she said. "My things need a special corner."
"That's not fair," someone muttered.
"Don't make it your business," she shot back.
The counselor, Joann Torres, walked through and nodded at January with a smile that said, I know who pays for lunch.
"Nice to see you organized," Joann said.
"Of course," January purred.
I and my friend Jess Dawson shared a bed near the end. Jess is shorter than me but louder. She elbowed me.
"Don't sweat it," she said.
Later, when the sun bore down and my skin flushed, I showed the bandage of paper I kept: my UV allergy note.
"I can't stay under full sun," I told the training sergeant, Zander Vasquez.
Zander looked at the paper, then at me. "Fair enough. We'll set you where it's shaded. And we need a communications person for each class. You can handle messaging from the shade."
Before I could answer, January stepped forward.
"I can do communications," she said, smoothing her hair. "I'm very good at writing. I've been doing it for a while."
"She already has...experience?" Joann asked, eyes bright.
"Maybe," January said with a perfect smile.
Zander hesitated. "I suppose."
"Hold on," I said. "This job means writing things—"
"It's better if January does it," Joann said. "She has abilities."
"That’s fine," I said. "Take it. I haven't much interest in pen-pushing."
Later that day, while the rest of us were out in the blistering heat doing drills, January sat under the eaves. She took pictures, sipped sweet drinks, and walked past me like a queen among subjects.
"I can't believe a simple excuse like that got you off drills," someone hissed.
"Some people play the system," Jess said. "Don't let her get to you."
But she did get to me in other ways: smirks, small barbed comments, and the way she would walk into a group and make it polite to idolize her.
The next day at the shooting range, January came with a camera and a story.
"You've never fired a real gun," she said from across the line. "Bet you can't even hit the target."
"Want to bet?" I asked.
"Loser does a public bow and apology in front of the school," she said, soft as honey.
"You'll do it if you lose," I answered.
"I will," she promised.
People gathered. A rivalry grabbed the crowd like a magnet. I let the crowd roar. I let the training sergeant set the rules.
January did fine—better than fine. By her last shots, she was averaging respectable rings. I went after her. I felt something thrumming under my ribs. Against the sun and sweat, I felt my father's hands in the way he'd taught me to hold the firearm. I felt a momentum I didn't expect.
"Ten!" the sergeant called out for one of my shots.
Someone's voice cut like a knife. "You cheated!"
January pointed at me. "She cheated!"
"On what grounds?" I asked. "I shot in front of everyone."
"You falsified your allergy! You said you'd avoid work! You don't deserve honors."
"Everyone saw me shoot ten," the sergeant said.
"You fabricated a reason not to train!"
"Enough," Zander said. "We finish scores and that's that."
They tallied. "Jayla Willis: average eight," Zander said. "January Garcia: average six."
Then the din began. "She wins! She wins!"
And then January's voice, sharp as a cracked bell, "You cheated! You got help! Your father helped you!"
"Who is your father?" a boy asked, laughing.
"I don't like this," Jess said.
"I don't care," I said. "It's over."
January fumed. "You'll pay."
A week is a long time in a small training camp. January used every spare breath to make trouble. She whispered to boys. She whispered to the counselor. She pulled aside staff as if to rearrange life.
When the flag-guard list was posted, I stared. Nine students selected for the honor. I had the sort of walk and presence that made a sergeant nod. I had practice. They picked the front nine. I was not on the list.
"Why?" I asked.
"Your spot is being taken," Joann said, avoiding my eyes.
"By whom?" I asked.
"January Garcia," she said.
"Because she didn't want to train," someone muttered. "Because her father—"
"Her father?" I repeated. "I don't understand."
"Raj Graham is the head of the department," someone said. "January's father."
My jaw tightened. "Then tell me why it's happening."
"We'll speak to the sergeant," Zander offered.
But the sergeant looked away. "Teachers decide," he said, very plain.
That night, the camp lights buzzed louder than usual. A rumor blew through the bunks like a cold wind: "The principal and a high-rank officer will watch the parade."
The next morning, the clouds gathered. We practiced. We rehearsed. The parade lineup smelled like sweat and polish.
I stood with my class. In front of us: the flag guard led by January. She was nervous but tried to look poised.
We marched. We stepped. The band rolled. Someone whispered, "Look—there's a general."
I looked up.
There he was: my father, Cormac Pierce, in uniform, a man whose whole face held an instruction manual for control. Behind him moved an orderly group that looked exactly like the people he used to command—his old guard. They had come on their own.
"Why is he here?" Jess whispered.
My father walked up to the platform. The principal shuffled next to him. Raj Graham nodded, smiling a practiced smile.
"Thank you for inviting me," my father said once the microphone was handed. "I came to watch our kids. It's a good day."
Polite claps. The principal smiled, uneasy.
"These young people worked hard," my father continued. "I see improvement. I see order. But I see something else."
The microphone trembled under his hand in a way that made the backyard hush.
"When I was a young man," he said, "we were taught to earn everything. And we taught our children the same."
He turned and pointed, with a slow, patient motion that made everything around us tilt.
"That young woman leading the first guard—what is her name?"
"January Garcia," someone said, as if by instruction.
"I see her in the front," my father said. "I also see a young woman behind whose walk and posture and dedication are better. I wonder—why is she not leading?"
The principal cleared his throat, a sound like paper folding.
"Jayla Willis," my father said. "Do you have a moment?"
My heart jounced. I stepped forward.
"What are you trying to prove?" I whispered.
"Stand and listen," he said.
He turned to the audience.
"I would like to ask some questions now," he said into the microphone. "Was there a problem with the selection of the flag guard?"
The principal swallowed. "We made adjustments for...organizational purposes," he said. "We—"
"Is it your policy to swap the right to lead because of someone's family?" my father asked.
The murmurs rolled through the crowd like pebbles. January swallowed. Her face was a mask that would crack.
"That's enough," Raj Graham said, stepping forward with a forced laugh. "This is an honor show."
"Was an honor taken by intimidation?" my father asked him directly.
The principal and Raj exchanged a glance. "Not intimidation," Raj said. "We—"
"Is it policy to accept special favors?" my father asked.
The entire stadium watched. Teachers, students, the camp staff, even the visiting officials' eyes fixed like spotlights.
January's hands were shaking now. Her smile had gone.
"Sir," she blurted, voice high. "My father works hard—"
"You're not the only one with a father," my father said. "Are you?" He didn't wait for an answer.
He leaned forward. "This camp is about effort, about fairness. Who thinks this is fair—raise your hand."
A few hands stayed down. More hands came up.
"My daughter has a medical condition," I said, and the words felt small. "I presented documentation."
"Who presented the documentation?" my father asked.
"I did," I said. "He knows."
"Joann Torres looked at it."
Joann shifted. "We followed protocol."
"Did you ever consider being impartial?" my father asked.
The counselor swallowed. "We have procedures."
"Procedures that allow a student to sit in shade and not do the work while others sweat and crumble?" my father said.
"That's not—" Raj began.
The principal's hand fluttered like a broken flag. "We will conduct an inquiry."
"If it's an inquiry, do it now," my father said. "If it's delayed, I will not accept 'we'll look into it' as justice."
January's color drained as the crowd began to hum with questions.
"Did you file any complaints—about who gave you advantage?" my father asked, fixing January with his glance.
"No—no," she said, too quickly. "I had permission."
"Permission from whom?"
She looked at the ground. "Joann," she admitted, in a tiny voice.
Joann's face, which had seemed carved in wax, melted.
"Miss Torres," my father said, "how can you claim fairness with a halo on your head?"
The crowd gasped.
Every eye turned to Joann. The counselor's lips trembled.
"I—" Joann said. "I thought—I thought I was supporting an exemplary student."
"Supporting with what?" my father asked. "Special perks? Personal bias? Did you imagine this was helping the group?"
Teachers began to shift. Students whispered. Phones were raised. The murmurs grew into a chorus.
"My daughter was removed from a duty she earned," I said. "She was told—replaced."
"By choice?" the principal stammered. "We made a choice."
"Because it's fair?" my father challenged.
A teacher on the platform coughed like someone trying to speak through a wet blanket. "The school will take action," he vowed.
"Will you?" my father said. "Will you act now, in front of everyone?"
I watched January's expression change. She moved through a private set of stages: arrogance, then a brief, wild triumph that she might swat me down, then confusion as fingers of doubt poked, then fear, then denial, and finally that awful, sinking realization when someone's comfortable story unravels.
"She lied," one boy shouted. "She said she won awards she didn't!"
"She took a job she dressed over," another said.
The group clustered tight around January thinned. Her inner circle looked embarrassed, glancing down at their hands. The crowd's tone changed from curiosity to judgment.
"You're telling us you earned an honor you didn't?" my father asked, as if he were both instruction and judge.
"No—" January whispered.
"But you let people believe it," he said. "You took a place from someone who deserved it."
"I didn't mean—" she started.
"Meaning doesn't matter in fairness," my father said.
The press of voices rose. Someone recorded. Someone else took pictures. January's followers stepped back slowly.
"January Garcia," my father said, "will you apologize now, in front of everyone you used to charm?"
"I... I'm sorry," she said, voice high and cracking. The word had no weight.
"Apologize to Jayla," my father told her.
She turned to me, voice small. "Jayla, I'm sorry." The apology was brittle.
"Say it without the stage," my father demanded.
"I'm sorry I took your place," she said, and then she stopped. The apology was brittle, so thin it cracked.
The crowd hissed—but not with sympathy.
"Joann Torres," my father said, "you will resign your post this evening. You will be replaced."
Joann's face drained. She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. She looked like someone emptied of inside.
"In the morning," my father continued, "the principal will replace the selection committee, and the flag guard positions will be reassigned fairly. We will confirm, in writing, that all staff acted within rules. And if they did not—there will be professional consequences."
A low ripple of applause rolled through the crowd, as if everyone had been waiting for someone to say the obvious.
January's face folded into a small, private panic. Her denial fractured into admissions. She tried to muster anger.
"You can't do this!" she hissed to my father. "My father—"
"Your father will be notified of the inquiry," my father said. "And if he's complicit, he will face sanction as well."
She staggered through the remaining sentences like a soldier with no orders. Her small guard of followers watched with faces that had gone from arrogance to guilt. Phones clicked. Teachers murmured. The principal looked faint.
"January Garcia," one of the students shouted suddenly, "you stole the chance from someone who trained for it!"
The circle tightened.
She fell apart in public. She went from hauteur to denial, then to pleading I didn't recognize. "Please, don't—I didn't mean to hurt anyone—"
"You lied about awards," another student remembered aloud. "You claimed things you didn't do."
She tried to fight back. "You're lying!"
"Sit down," my father said, and his voice wasn't loud. It was final.
The crowd, which had come with curiosity, found satisfaction in the reveal. People who had been pushed aside by her now found their words. They spoke her history of small manipulations. The principal had no choice.
By the end of it, Joann's resignation was requested, the counselor apologizing through tears. January was asked to step down from any leadership role pending a full review. Raj Graham scurried away, his practiced smile gone like wax in rain.
When it was over, the crowd left in a rush of sound. Phones were already sending the clip of the moment to group chats. People who had once kissed January's shoes made no show now.
She stood by the bleachers, alone, hands twisted. The worst part wasn't the noise. It was the slow collapsing of the circle of people who used to orbit her. They looked at her now with something colder: pity, then contempt.
Weeks later, the school announced changes. Joann's resignation was accepted. The principal would face an internal review. January requested a transfer and was moved. The department head, Raj Graham, lost a chance at promotion. The counselor who had played favorites was out of a job. The school tightened selection rules.
For the rest of the semester, people who once feared January began to laugh more openly. They told the story like a small justice had finally been done.
In the end, I passed my training; the flag guard honors were redistributed fairly. I was put at the front when the time came, not because of favors but because of merit.
After everything calmed, I sat with Jess in a corner of the campus courtyard.
"You handled that well," Jess said, handing me a cold drink.
"I didn't do much," I said.
"You did," she said. "You showed you don't need a throne."
"Maybe," I said, tucking the UV note back into my pocket.
That little paper had been my quiet truth. I never shouted about my father. I never wanted him to step in. But when truth needed a voice, he found one.
I never gossiped about January in the long run. I didn't shout when she left. I only let the record speak.
"Do you think she learned anything?" Jess asked.
"I hope so," I said. "Maybe somewhere, someone's learning that favors can't replace effort."
The camp faded back into the ordinary rhythm. The principal learned to listen. The counselor never returned. The department head didn't get his promotion.
And me?
I kept my hat, my sunscreen, and the note. I kept practicing. I didn't forget the way my father had stepped in, but I also remembered his words the night before I left: "From the people, back to the people."
I carried that like a small flag in my pocket.
The End
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