Radical (17 page)

“No, it’s my idea. I think it would be nice.”

Nice. To have Cammie and Karen and them over for a sleepover. Maybe we could do each other’s nails. I’m talking to him about training and he’s thinking about slumber parties. Did he think Mark should have his “little friends” over for pizza and video games?

“It’s training, Dad.”

“Right,” he says. “Jim said you were the one who suggested some of the new training sessions, the survival skills and foraging.”

“Yeah.”

I don’t like Riggs and Dad talking about me. Even good talking.

“Well, I think it’s great,” Dad says. “I’m glad to see you really fitting in out there.”

The timer goes off. Uncle Skip comes into the kitchen, and I dish up casserole for the three of us. Saves me from having to talk anymore about Clearview, since we don’t really talk about it in front of Uncle Skip.

After dinner, Dad and Uncle Skip retreat back in front of the TV. I clean up our dishes, then put Mark’s back in the sink. I stay at the table, reading more of
The Color Purple
. Since it’s gotten good, I’ve been reading slower.

Lucy finally sends me another text during the last load of laundry, and I hop up on the washer and we text back and forth while it jerks and spins.

Dad and Uncle Skip went to bed a while ago. On my way upstairs, I get a glass of water from the kitchen. Mark’s dish and fork are still in the sink. I turn off the light and leave them there.

I turn off the lights in the living room, too. If Mark actually comes downstairs to do laundry, he can turn them all on again.

I’m in bed, texting Lucy, when I hear Dad and Mark down the hall.

“How much?” Dad asks.

I can’t hear Mark’s response.

“
How
much?” Dad asks again. “Are you crazy? We don’t have that kind of money to spare!”

“But it’s not to spare. I’ll be the only one who doesn’t have his own.”

“You won’t be the only one, I’m sure.”

“Dad, do you really want me to tell them that we can’t afford to equip me?”

“No,” Dad says, “I expect you to tell them that
you
can’t afford to buy your own equipment.”

A burst of sound from Mark and then, “I’ve been training so hard. It’s been really hard to get up to speed and, and . . . I work, as much as Darnell can use me, but . . .”

“You’re an adult now, as you keep reminding us. You have responsibilities. Gas costs money. Maintenance on that truck costs money. Insurance. Food. And equipment costs money. So you need to make more money. More than fun money. We can’t float you.”

“It’s not fair! I don’t have time to —”

“If you need equipment, gas, food, then I suggest you start looking for a way to earn it. A real job.”

Mark stomps past my room. His bedroom door slams.

The texts backed up while I was listening, and Lucy texted good night.

I reread her texts and then replay every bit of this afternoon. Mostly, I think about how it felt at the end, standing there smushed together. I let my mind, and hands, wander, thinking about next weekend.

“Hey, we need some parts,” Mike says loudly, obviously, leaning on the counter, blocking me so I can shove my phone under some papers before Uncle Skip comes into the front and catches me texting for a third time.

“It’s not like we’re busy,” I say, only loud enough for Mike to hear.

He hands me the codes, and I start looking them up.

My phone keeps vibrating against the desk, under the papers, making more noise than if I’d kept it in my hand or shoved it in a pocket.

Uncle Skip comes up behind me, looking at the parts that need to be ordered. “Put that thing away when there are customers in here,” he says, heading back to his office. He can’t stand waiting for someone to do something because they’re “playing” on their phone.

“What’s in this?” asks a girl, the kind with too much makeup and her nose in the air.

“Beef jerky.” I text Karen to let her know I’m almost done.

“I know that.” She rolls her eyes. “I mean: What. Is. It. Made. Out. Of. It doesn’t have its ingredients listed.” She studies the noncommercial plastic wrapping.

“It’s beef jerky, babe,” a guy wearing a too-loose tank top says, putting a couple bottles of water and three energy drinks on the counter. “Low carb.”

“Oh, good.” She grins up at him and puts two sticks on the counter next to the drinks.

“And twenty-five on pump one,” he says, pulling out a wad of cash, but when he starts to peel off bills, they’re mostly ones. I ring them up. Then they’re gone. Too bad. I wanted to watch her take a bite and then tell her the jerky is made by a very hairy guy who dabbles in both food dehydration and taxidermy, when not checking fishing and hunting licenses. The fact that he wrapped it in plastic was a victory for food prep everywhere.

I’m explaining the work and costs to a new customer when Mark saunters in like he owns the place. He grabs a bag of chips off the shelf and opens them, shoving some into his mouth, dropping crumbs. Daring me to stop him. I don’t. But I
will
talk to Uncle Skip about Mark’s thieving. At least about the chips and lighters and easy stuff. I’m not sure how to bring up the beer and whatever else he grabbed from the back without getting me in trouble, too. Mark probably knows that.

When the clock hits five thirty, I lock up and head back to tell Uncle Skip I’m leaving. I can hear Mark’s voice through the partially closed door.

“I’m sorry, Mark. But my answer is no.”

“I’ll pay you back. Promise. I just haven’t been able to find something steady that pays enough for all my expenses, that won’t interfere with my responsibilities.”

“Responsibilities?” Uncle Skip scoffs. “And anyway, I thought you
were
working. That they would find you work. Isn’t that what you said, what your father said, for why you all were —?”

“Okay!” Mark pushes the door open. “Forget I asked.”

“That’ll be a buck twenty-five.” Uncle Skip doesn’t move from behind the desk, but it feels like he’s stood up. “For the chips.”

Mark freezes mid–storming out and looks at the bag in his left hand, and then at Uncle Skip, and at the bag again. His right hand sort of flinches toward his pocket but doesn’t make it all the way there.

“Forget it,” Uncle Skip says. “But it’s the last time. You want something, chips, gas —
whatever
— you pay for it. I agreed to let you work off the costs for your truck, and you haven’t even done that. From now on, you’re a paying customer.”

Mark leaves without answering. The door between the office and storage area slams open.

“I was going to mention that,” I say.

“And his rooting around back here, too?”

I stare at my shoes.

“I don’t want him hanging around here. No more mooching off the shelves or anywhere else.” I nod to show I get it. “You lock up?”

“Yeah. Here’s the deposit.” I hand him the pouch and pick up my backpack, bulging because of the change of clothes. “If you don’t need anything, I’m going to change.”

“Okay. See you at home.”

“Dad’s going to be late, I think, and I’m going out with some friends for a while.” He grunts, which means he knows where I’m going.

I change out of my work clothes and into a clean pair of cargos and T-shirt, a long-sleeve shirt tied around my waist in case it’s cooler under tree cover.

When I walk around front, Karen’s waiting.

“Hey, Bex,” she says through the open window, over the loud radio.

“Thanks for picking me up,” I say, getting into the car.

“No problem. I had to work, too, so it was more or less on my way.” She pulls out of the lot and turns down the radio.

“Where do you work?”

“Home Depot. I know,” she says with a self-deprecating grin. “Corporate. But it’s a good job.”

“I thought you’d work for the Club, for your dad.”

“Nah. I don’t mind helping out. But that’s not a career. I need a career. I’m gonna work my way up. Become a manager.” She tilts her head back and forth, like she’s continuing the conversation by herself. “I’d be a good manager.”

She would be. She has that easy way of getting people to do what she says, sometimes with just a look.

“Clearview’s great, but it’s not my whole thing.” She glances my way a few times, in between watching the road, then shrugs. “I just like to shoot.”

I thought Karen would push for a leadership position at Clearview, and maybe speak for the women in the group.

When we get to Clearview, Karen swipes her access card and the gate opens. Some of the guys think the cards are a bad idea because they record who is coming and going, and when. I think that was maybe the point.

Cammie, JoJo, Delia, and Trinny are waiting at the lot.

Cammie looks annoyed, as usual. The only time she doesn’t look annoyed is when she’s shooting.

We head out to the cleared area that’s being used for archery and other nonshooting training, while Karen brings the bows and arrows from the Box on an ATV. She unloads a couple of crossbows and a compound bow, and three quivers of arrows. She immediately hands the compound bow and one of the quivers to Cammie.

Cammie looks over the compound bow. She already has her arm guard, glove, and release strapped on.

It’s like none of us are here anymore. It’s just Cammie and the bow and the targets.

She nocks an arrow and brings the bow up, facing the targets. Her body is curved slightly, and her shoulders opened, as her right hand pulls back near her cheek. She holds her form while she sights through the scope, and then lets the arrow sail. It hits the second ring. On the second arrow, she seems to hold her form longer, sighting more carefully. That one hits the far edge of the center circle. Three and four hit closer to the center.

“Who’s next?” she asks.

JoJo’s game, but after Cammie shows her how, JoJo’s first arrow lands far short of the target. I start to feel a little less pressure, watching Cammie work with JoJo.

“We usually just use crossbows,” Trinny says. “But Cammie says we need to know how to do it this way, too.”

“You never know what will come in handy,” Cammie says. “Plus, the guys won’t bother. So when we do archery, you’ll all be ahead of them.”

Cammie turns, finds Delia, and crooks her finger, motioning Delia forward. While Delia is putting on the arm guard, Cammie says, “Practice until you can hit the target right out of the gate.” She stares into Delia’s eyes. “When the time comes, hit two or three good ones. Then let them saunter up and miss by a mile.”

That would show the mouth-breathers, the ones who think that Delia shouldn’t even be here. I can’t wait to see Devon’s and Neal’s faces.

“What if I can’t?” Delia asks.

“You can.” Cammie hands Delia a glove and release. There is no question about
can’t
. Cammie won’t allow her to fail in front of those guys.

Cammie shows Delia how to hold the bow, and I move a little closer to listen. I try to commit the lesson to memory.

Delia and Cammie are like chess pieces, light and dark, but both tall and curvy and strong.

Delia is really struggling to follow Cammie’s directions. But Cammie just starts over again, until Delia shoots an arrow that actually hits the target — not in the colors, but still, on the target. When Delia makes ready for the next one all on her own, Cammie steps back, next to Karen.

“You up for it?” Cammie asks over her shoulder, but I know she’s talking to me.

“Sure,” I say, walking up to stand closer to her and watch. “I’ve never used a compound bow before.”

Delia lands two in the rings and then hands off the bow with a grin.

Cammie helps me get the release on my right hand and shows me how to nock the arrow and connect the release to the loop attached to the string.

“Okay, now, stand like you are in the batter’s box. Open your hips a little more,” Cammie says, touching my right hip. She keeps her hand on my hip as I pull the bow up, pull the arrow back, and rest my hand near my cheek. “Use the sights.” I line up the arrow like she tells me and take aim. It feels awkward, but I know I’m holding it right. I sight along my arm and let it fly. The arrow lands on the white part just outside the largest ring.

“Relax your arm,” Cammie says, and then she’s closer. She hands me another arrow. I nock it, connect the release, and pull back. “Relax,” she says, almost into my ear, tapping my extended arm, holding the bow. This is the Cammie who shoots, all serious and focused. But focused on me. “There,” she says, touching my arm. “Don’t force it. Take your aim, and then a clean release, but hold your form until the arrow hits.”

My pulse is pounding. I breathe in and out to try to calm the waves of tremors moving through me. In. Out. In again, and on the exhale I let go.

“Better,” Cammie says quietly, not as close but still nearby.

She hands me another arrow. I pull back and line up the shot, try to relax my arm, adjust the sight a little to the left, breathe in, out, and let go. Not center, but in the colors.

Cammie’s withdrawal is respect. She’s leaving me to work it out. But I can still feel her behind me, focused on me.

I let a few more fly, until one just nudges the center circle.

“Good,” Cammie says from behind me. “Stop on that one.”

My arms feel tight and heavy, nerves flowing down and out through my fingertips.

“Now for some real fun,” Karen says.

Everyone takes turns with one of the crossbows. They’re harder to load, especially the bigger one, which even Cammie has trouble getting cocked and loaded on her own. But they’re easier to shoot, with sights, stocks, and triggers like a rifle.

My aim is way better with the crossbow, and yet I’d like another shot with the compound bow sometime.

Instead of taking a second turn with the crossbow, Cammie moves to the far position, steps back another ten feet, and sends arrow after arrow into the target with the compound bow. Like it was made for her. I can only imagine what she could do with one that actually was made for her, to her exact measurements and preferences.

I feel Karen next to me, but I don’t stop watching Cammie.

“Amazing, right?”

I just nod.