The Prince and the Punk [EDITING]

Chapter 19

Janice

I knew my elimination was coming. It would have been naïve to think I'd make it farther in the competition than round one, especially after the draft. But that doesn't make it hurt any less.

It's been a week since I found out I was no longer in the running for princess. At first, I was sort of relieved. Being out of the public eye took pressure off of me, and I assumed Xavier was just playing along with the competition anyway. I thought I'd hear from him, but days passed and I received nothing. Even then, I was confident that I'd get a sign or something.

But that faith is severely depleted when the letter I sent to Xavier comes back.

RETURN TO SENDER is scrawled in big red letters across the front of the envelope, but what hurts is that the note has clearly been opened and taped back up. Nothing has been altered, and it actually got returned, which I doubt would happen if it was intercepted. Xavier's father would have probably destroyed it.

Could it be possible that he opened it, read it, and sent it back? It almost feels like a message, a big, fat "Don't talk to me." Otherwise, the letter would've simply been thrown away. I almost don't want to consider the possibility, but could he be trying to cut ties? Why?

A bugle sounds, pulling me out of my thoughts. It's early morning, but it doesn't feel like it. I've been up most of the night, tossing, turning, and thinking.

The other recruits stir from their beds and we all line up outside, trying to seem more awake than we really are.

Moments later, we're running along our usual trail. Sgt. Slater is leading the group. It almost seems like he's following me. It sounds absurd, but it's the only reason I can think of to explain why he's always near me. I didn't even think he was assigned to our squadron.

Last night's snow is melting away, leaving dirty sludge that slows us all down and blocks what we can see on the trail. Lost in my thoughts, I narrowly avoid tripping over a giant root.

Mere seconds later, I hear a cry of pain as someone behind me falls hard.

I turn around, cringing as I see a girl a bit older than me on the ground, her face twisted in pain as she cradles her ankle. She must've tripped over the root I've just avoided.

Out of instinct, I move to help her.

"Keep moving!" the older sergeant barks at the girl. "And you get back in line," he says to me.

"Are you kidding?" I reply. "She hurt her ankle. You're not gonna help her?"

He gets in my face. "She gets up or she gets left behind. Keep interfering and the whole platoon will go without food for the next twenty-four hours."

"That's ridiculous!" I shoot back, shoving past him and giving my arm to the girl.

"You're being trained to fight in a war," the sergeant continues. "On the moon, when you're running to avoid enemy fire, you keep running. She needs to be able to keep up with the group or she'll be left behind. You need to learn that it's every man for himself out there."

"We're a platoon, we need to look out for each other! Jesus, maybe if you took better care of your soldiers, you wouldn't need to draft more!"

I shouldn't have said that.

"That's it!" the sergeant spits. "Your entire platoon—together—will go without food until tomorrow! How's that for unity?"

I'm about to protest, but Slater jumps in.

"Dawson, the girl seems pretty hurt. I don't want her walking on that ankle if she's shipping off in a few weeks."

Dawson seems to consider the argument, and relents a bit.