Degrees of Wrong Read Online Free Page B

that’s what I thought he said. The end sounded more like hut .
    The word appeared to be a command of some sort because everyone in line stood erect, hands folded behind their backs. The three black-dotted docks in front of us had already come to order. I followed suit, pushing my laptop behind me as the knot in my stomach twisted.
    “They’re all yours, Lieutenant,” Little-Man said.
    Another voice said, “Welcome, land lubbers.” Only his tone didn’t sound welcoming at all but was rather a shout. Loud footsteps thundered down the wood planks, creaking the boards.
    “I am Lieutenant Frank Horan. I am now your mother, your father and your priest. Do not even think about speaking. You were once the scum of the earth, and now you are the scum of the sea.” He enunciated every word, still shouting. I wasn’t sure if he did this for emphasis, or if he always talked in this ridiculous manner.
    Snickers erupted at the opposite end of the line, and hurried footsteps descended on them.
    “What’s your name, boy?” the lieutenant roared at the culprit.
    “St-St-Stanley, sir!” the boy shouted back, his accent betraying Scottish descent.
    “Is St-St-Stanley your first name or your last name, boy?” Lt. Horan yelled.
    “Stanley is my last name. Sir!”
    “So, Cadet Stanley, what in God’s name could you find so funny about the realization that you are lower and more vile than the bacteria that is flushed down the toilet somewhere in a Mexican prison on a smoldering day in July?” He continued to enunciate his insults, and I was sure that after speaking this way in such whole, descriptive sentences, he couldn’t help but adapt to this kind of dialogue on a normal basis.
    “Nothing, sir!” By the shakiness of his reply, St-St-Stanley had bitten off more than he could chew.
    “No?”
    “No, sir!”
    “Well, that’s where you’re wrong, son! It is funny. It’s just not funny to you. In fact, boy, nothing is funny to you unless I tell you it is. Is that understood?”
    “Yes, sir!”
    “Good. Now, for the rest of you oxygen vacuums. I am in charge of your valueless lives while you are on this vessel. You do not breathe, drink, eat or sleep without my permission. Until you obtain my permission, you will not blink. Until you obtain my permission, you will withhold bowel movements. Until you obtain my permission, you will not swallow the spit in your mouth…” He continued bellowing until he came to a close with his outrageous requirements.
    A deep burning sensation began in my stomach, a foreign feeling I couldn’t identify, eclipsing the knot. As I struggled to name the fire in my gut, the lieutenant edged closer to my end of the line. I heard terrified cadets shouting their names, and the insults that followed. Each time, the pit of my stomach lurched in—what? Apprehension? No. Fear? No. I contemplated that for a moment. No anxiety? No terror? Am I still alive, then?
    “Ebony Grace, sir!” the pale woman next to me shouted. I started, surprised he was so close. I peeked around her at him.
    “Is that a joke?” he yelled in her face. “You are the pastiest individual I have ever had the misfortune to lay my eyes on. If your name is Ebony, then my name is Pretty Princess!”
    As you wish, Pretty Princess , I thought. And then I giggled. Out loud.
    He parked in front of me in an instant. With wide eyes, I took in his appearance. He was every bit the stereotypical drill sergeant. Probably in his mid-forties, he had spiked blond hair that resembled blades atop his enormous head, and huge, brown, wrathful eyes. Too bad he was my height, giving him the ability to stare me down over the bridge of his stubby nose. Well-muscled, his stocky build gave him the appearance of a bulldog—an effect accentuated by the frown lines that had set in over many years of repetition. The absurd cleft in his chin reminded me of a comic book hero, but his snarl resembled a villain’s.
    He regarded me now in—disgust, I would