Josh Levy [1]

I don't know exactly when I made the decision. Maybe it was when Mom yelled at me for leaving the comic book boxes in the hallway again. Maybe it was when Bill said he wouldn't last a week without the internet. Or maybe it was when I looked in the mirror, with the same ketchup stains on my usual green shirt, and thought: What if I do something... radical?

That's how I ended up here
Military school.
Not a Jedi training ground, not Starfleet. No, this is real. This smells of sweat, wet earth, and cheap disinfectant. There are no holograms. Just people shouting.

It all started as a joke.
"Sign up, Josh Levy, let's see if you finally get in shape and stop living like a depressed Ewok," Pete said, laughing hysterically. But something clicked inside me. Maybe a broken part, maybe a part that wanted to prove that I'm not just a cliché with glasses and overweight. Maybe, deep down, I hoped to find something... more.

From the moment I crossed the fence, I knew I had made a mistake.
A man who seemed to be built of bricks and hatred yelled at me as soon as I got off the truck:
"DO YOU THINK THIS IS A COSPLAY COMPETITION, SOLDIER?"
And I, like an idiot, replied: "It depends... are there prizes?"

Instant punishment: one hundred push-ups. I did six and a half. I vomited on the seventh.

The other cadets look at me like I'm an intruder on a poorly disguised infiltration mission. And I am. I don't have what they have: muscle, discipline, or a clear reason to be here. I have a backpack with Battlestar Galactica patches and breath that smells like Mountain Dew.

But here I am.

They call me "Cadet Levy," although a couple of sergeants have nicknamed me "Wookiee Soft." They make me run, march, and shout.
And as if it were a cruel twist of fate, right next to the Military College where I am, there's another school, although this one is only for girls. It would be great if it weren't a Catholic school; sometimes I wonder if it's as tedious as they say.