Blue Stars by Emily Gray Tedrowe Read Free Book Online Page A

PDF of the Uniform/Appearance reqs, scrolling down until he found the right page. “See? That’s me.” Sure enough, there was a meticulous line drawing of authorized mustache length, shape, and fullness—Eddie’s matched it so perfectly, it could have been a picture of him.
    Mustaches are permitted; if worn, males will keep mustaches neatly trimmed, tapered, and tidy. Mustaches will not present a chopped off or bushy appearance, and no portion of the mustache will cover the upper lip line or extend sideways beyond a vertical line drawn upward from the corners of the mouth (see figure 1-1). Handlebar mustaches, goatees, and beards are not authorized. If appropriate medical authority prescribes beard growth, the length required for medical treatment must be specified. Soldiers will keep the growth trimmed to the level specified by appropriate medical authority, but they are not authorized to shape the growth into goatees, or “Fu Manchu” or handlebar mustaches.
    Lacey had laughed until she couldn’t breathe. “No ‘Fu Manchu’? No handlebars? Oh my God, I wish they had a drawing of that. ”
    Eddie tried to close the document, but she blocked him, sitting on his lap at the computer. Back when he let her do stuff like that. “Yeah, well, that’s the army,” he muttered. “You should see the section on tattoos.”
    “What does this mean about beards getting the okay from medical authority? If you’re in sick bay, they cut you a little slack?”
    “Nah, that’s if you get your face torn up by shrapnel they don’t make you keep shaving right over that.” Lacey had felt chilled, lightly reprimanded. A glimpse of what she was getting into.
    Now in the church hall Otis saw two of his buddies and ran off to join them by the punch table. Eddie was standing as straight and tall as he could, shoulders back. As usual at one of these events, Lacey had worn her flat boots; she had an inch (or two) on her husband, which, she’d learned, was not to be joked about.
    Kids were gathered around a man twisting balloons into animal shapes; the older ones around a couple of coin-op video games. There was a DJ playing easy Motown hits, and three long tables were set up with food and drink. Soldiers wandered around in greens and blues, covers on; occasionally it was the husband in civilian clothes.
    “Should we hit that first?” Lacey meant the table where his commanding officers sat. “Get it out of the way?”
    “Nah, I’ll take care of it. You go on, get some food.”
    “Really? I don’t mind.” She was relieved to see that the CO wives were in jeans too, like the nice dark pair she’d settled on. Although her Forever 21 blazer was wrong, too uptight, probably too tight . Those women, so sleek and confident, wore thin cardigans and not much jewelry. Lacey tried to look unobtrusive as she slid out her dangly chandelier earrings and tucked them in her purse.
    “Where’ve you guys been?” It was Martine, in a short black dress. “Otis found our table—we’re over there. Get me more of the potato salad, all right? And some rolls?”
    Later, a chaplain led a prayer, but his microphone cut in and out, interspersing his words with feedback squeal and thumps and finally a long silence. People lifted their heads to check on the status, was he done? He was. Then a performance of “Battle Hymn of the Republic” by a youth chorus. Finally, the chair of the FRG program—a woman named Anne Mackay—said a few words. Lacey made a sour look back at Martine, who couldn’t stand these perfect types, but in truth she watched with envy and admiration. Anne Mackay was a child psychotherapist with soft brown hair and a funny, self-deprecating manner; her husband was a captain. They had been to the Mackays’ home near the base once. Lacey’s eyes had roved the spacious rooms: all the books, all the strange art—real paintings, not posters. She wanted to scoff at Anne like Martine did, but she couldn’t deny that the woman was