“Get out of this house, you little squirt!”
He didn’t need to tell me twice. I peeled outta there before he got even more pithed.
Now I’m on my own on the mean streets of Orchardville, wishing I had a good, stiff rain and a soft leaf to lie on, but that would only zest me through the night. I needed to think bigger.
Valencia! I’ve got it!
I’ll join the Navel Academy!
Earn a little orange. Make some buds. Get citrusly pumped.
That’d show my ol’ mandarin what this little squirt can do!!
“I’d like to sign up for the Navel Academy!”
The thick rinded officer behind the desk barely looked up. “A little seed like you. You’d be pulp in about five minutes. We’re not running a produce stand here, kumquat. The door’s behind ya.”
“I can do it, sir!”
“I told you, bud, you don’t got what it takes.”
“Sir. I’ll do anything.”
The officer let out a mist as his shoulders fell back onto his chair, his beady eyes staring over the rim of his glasses. “You think you can squeeze with the best, huh?”
“Yes, sir!’
“Well, we got rules here, clementine. You think you can follow the rules?”
“Well,” I didn’t want to start off on the wrong stem, but I had to ask. “What are the rules?”
“Are you citrus right now? The rules are whatever the halo we tell you! Duck a la me, you’re a few segments short of a circle, aren’t you? Wait a minute,” The officer rose so suddenly, I stumbled backwards before he had even rounded his desk. Soon, I felt his breath on my face as he peered into my eyes. “You candied, bud? A little extra juice in the pulp? Getting Hi-C on your own slicey?”
“No sir. I’m totally round. I swear!”
“Alright, let’s find out then. All you gotta do is put a little juice right here and we’ll see if you’re telling the truth.”
“I gotta juice?”
“What do you think we’re running here, sunny D? Some kind of artificial flavor, corn syrup kinda deal? This here is a 100% juice operation. We only take the best!”
My core shook like marmalade, but I knew what I had to do. I had to prove to my ol’ mandarin that I wasn’t the waste of squirt he thought I was. “Fine, here’s your juice,” I said with all the bitterness I could muster.
“This better not be concentrate, bud,” the officer mumbled as he made his way back to the desk. “Well, I’ll be. Looks like we got ourselves some top grade vitamin C here….and it did take some big pomelos for you to waltz in off the street. Alright, minute maid, you’re in. But if I find out there’s any funny business going on I’ll toss your sweet, little fruit right back outta here!”
My first day in the Naval Academy wasn’t all it was sliced up to be.
I was rolling behind, so had to skip breakfast and go right into Seedology class. It’s really difficult to pay attention to your sprouts with us-scones on your mind.
By lunch, all I could think about was a nice, big, juicy us-glazed pork chop sandwich. Sadly, my commanding officer thought my time would be better spent in remedial Squishy Studies, as my first few attempts “lacked precision”.
Finally, dinner arrived and I was first in line with my tray. Those us-sticky buns were calling my name. Before I could tong me a donut, something muscled me out of the line, sending me to the ground.
“Get outta the way plebe.” An orange the size of a grapefruit stood over me grinning.
“Hey! What the fructose is your problem, bud?” I misted, rolling up to face him.
The huge orange laughed. “What are you going to do about it, kumquat?”
“You tell ‘em, Melon,” his friend said, as he and the rest of their bushel stepped up to cut the line while Melon held guard, glancing down the queue as if daring anyone to challenge them.
Melon was a fitting nickname, I thought, but nothing was getting in the way of me and some us-chicken. I grabbed another tray and bolted to the front of the line, ready to get my share.
What happened next was like something out of a dreamsicle. One moment I was in the air and the next I was laying on the officer’s table, upside down and eye to eye with the meanest looking officer I’d ever seen. The fact that he was currently covered in us-pudding, made him look even more fearsome. I was done for. I didn’t even last a day. Maybe my ol’ mandarin was right. Maybe I was a waste of squirt. The entire rest of the mess hall was silent, and I braced myself as the officer’s voice boomed into the air as he slowly rose.
“I have never seen such disrespect in all my years as a Navel Officer! I will not stand for it!” The officer marched to the mess line and my shame turned to glee. “This is your last warning Melon! One more stunt like this, you’ll be seeing the inside of a storage tank quicker than you can say juice. Is that clear, cadet?”
Melon stood silent for a moment, seemingly never having been on the receiving end of an argument with anyone he couldn’t turn into pulp.
“I said, IS THAT CLEAR, CADET!” the officer repeated, spraying Melon’s face with flecks of us-pudding in the process. The chairs of the officers around me squeaked as their subjects abandoned the table and formed a full branch behind their fellow officer that sent Melon’s buddies scurrying for the back of the line.
Now alone, Melon accepted defeat. “Yes, sir,” he grumbled.
“That’s what I thought! Now back to the barracks for you! Get out of my sight!”
As soon as Melon lumbered out of the door, the hall resumed its chatter and I extracted myself from the table atop the officer’s trays. “I’m sorry, sir,” I said.
“Nothing to be sorry for, cadet. Here,” he said, leading me back to the buffet and handing me a tray. “Grub up.”
“Yes, sir!” I didn’t need telling twice. I piled up as much as I could fit on my tray and found a table where everyone was still talking excitedly about what happened.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I can’t believe Melon finally got what was coming to him.”
“You’re a braver fruit than me,” one cadet said.
“I know, who knows what Melon’s gonna do to him now,” another agreed in a low voice.
Suddenly my us-cake didn’t taste as good as it once had. Were they right? Was I on Melon’s pit list? Was I gonna get pruned?
Oh mandarin.
Well, tomorrow I would just have to find Melon and make him see reason.
The Navel Academy was nothing like I imagined. The air was thick with zest—literally—and the sun blazed down on us recruits as if trying to caramelize our cores. Rows of bright recruits stood at attention, their stems quivering under the drill sergeant’s glare.
“Listen up, pith-for-brains!” barked Sergeant Grapefruit, his voice sharp enough to slice through the Orange Chicken line at Panda Express. “This ain’t your mama’s fruit basket. We’re here to separate the pulp from the juice. And guess what? Most of you ain’t making it past the first squeeze.”
I gulped, wishing I could shrink to the size of a kumquat. Grapefruit’s beady eyes landed on me like a swarm of fruit flies. “You there! Tangerine Dream! What’s your story? You got the pulp to roll with the big fruits?”
“Yes, sir!” I said, trying to keep my voice from wobbling.
“Oh, is that so?” Grapefruit leaned in closer. “You think you’re the top banana around here? Hate to break it to you, peel-for-brains, but this ain’t the Chiquita Club. We don’t play favorites, and we sure as syrup don’t take kindly to soggy little slices like you.”
“I’m not soggy, sir!” I protested, my segments trembling. “I’m 100% juice, no concentrate!”
“Oh, you’re fresh-squeezed, alright,” Grapefruit sneered. “But let’s see how you handle the Juicing Gauntlet.” He motioned toward an obstacle course that looked like it had been designed by a sadistic fruit salad chef. Conveyor belts. Citrus presses. A pool of what could only be tangy marmalade.
“First up: the Pith Pit!” Grapefruit roared. “You get through that without losing your zest, maybe—maybe—you’ll earn a slice of respect.”
The other recruits whispered nervously, their whispers sounding like the rustle of leaves in an orchard. I stepped forward, my peel slick with sweat. The pit was deep, lined with sticky rinds and discarded seeds. One wrong step… and I’d be puree.
“Move it, Clementine! You’re not here to garnish cocktails!” Grapefruit barked. I gritted my pulp and leapt forward, landing on a teetering wedge. It wobbled, and I almost slipped into the pit, but I steadied myself just in time.
“Not bad,” Grapefruit muttered as I hopped to the next wedge. “Still looks like a fruitcake to me, though.”
By the time I reached the other side, my juice was pumping, and my core felt like it had been candied. Grapefruit nodded grudgingly. “Alright, alright. You didn’t get juiced. Let’s see if you can handle the Zester’s Mile.”
The recruits groaned. I didn’t know what it was, but anything with “zester” in the name couldn’t be good.
“What’s the matter? You sour already?” Grapefruit shouted. “You signed up for this, so get moving!”
The Zester’s Mile turned out to be a track lined with giant microplanes that whirled ominously, threatening to scrape away anyone’s outer layer if they so much as stumbled. The goal was simple: make it through without losing your peel.
I tightened my skin, taking a deep breath. “You’ve got this,” I muttered. “You’re not just any little squirt—you’re Valencia bound.”
And with that, I stepped onto the track. My segments braced for impact.