Radical (2 page)

I have a visual in my head, the pack with empty spaces where items still to be acquired should be. The written lists freaked Mom out, and the mental image plays double duty — shopping list and preparation exercise — as I visualize the contents of my pack before I fall asleep and when I wake up, so I can organize it and find what I need without thinking in a crisis.

Until my pack is complete, a couple of water bottles and boxes of bolts keep the weight and bulk right for training and acclimation. Bolts and washers in the pockets of my vest stand in for ammo. A large wrench strapped to my belt simulates the weight of my Glock, because even on our land, I don’t carry a handgun. That is Dad’s line in the sand.

My phone buzzes. Text from Mark.
Leaving in 40
.

Mark’s coming to the range? All right, then. He hasn’t wanted to shoot with me in months, not since we set off the pipe bomb and Mom went ballistic. He’s shot plenty of hostile beer cans with his idiot friends, but that’s not going to help him improve his accuracy or his readiness on the move.

I take a different trail back, closer to the road that runs along the far perimeter of our land, until I get to the old barn. This hasn’t been a working farm in decades. Dad and Uncle Skip grew up down the road. When Uncle Skip bought this place, he converted the barn into a workshop, with built-in workbenches and shelves for his woodworking tools, and a storage area for all our collective junk that doesn’t fit in the house. In the back of the storage area, under some boxes and a tarp, half behind a standing mirror, is an old trunk, with a combination lock added by me. I spin the dial, pull it open, and push my pack inside. I’ll bring my pack in later, when everyone’s asleep. Or tomorrow. If I bring it in now, and Mom’s itching for a skirmish, she might just try to take it away. Dad might actually change the combo for the gun locker instead of looking the other way.

I survey the house from the barn, make sure no one is looking out the kitchen window or door, and then move low and fast to Dad’s truck. I stow the rifle in its soft case, which I put in the back of Dad’s truck earlier so he’d have no reason to look for the rifle in the locker.

“Where have you been?” Mom says before I’m even through the screen door.

“What? I went for a run. I’m not even allowed to run on our own property anymore?”

Mom slaps the counter with the hand holding a dish towel, giving me that look, the one that says I’m trying her patience, that I’m not too old to be put in time-out, dragged there by a good grip on my ear like when I was six.

I stand my ground, staring back at her. We’ve been having this fight for weeks. They can refuse to do anything to prepare themselves, but they can’t stop me from training.

“I don’t like waking up to find you gone. Sneaking out while it’s still dark, running around the woods doing Lord knows what.”

“I had to get a run in before we left.” She stands there, staring. She isn’t backing off. “Fine,” I say. “From now on, I’ll wake you up on my way out, however early that is.”

Dad pauses midbite to give her a look that says he’s not in favor of early wake-up calls.

Mark says something unintelligible around half-chewed eggs and toast, double-fisting the fork and toast like a toddler.

“Swallow,” Dad says. “And you.” He looks at me. “No more sneaking out. If,” he continues, putting up his hand to stop my response, “If you plan an early run, you make sure we know the night before.”

“Fine,” I say.

Mom stares at him for a long pissed-off beat and then turns back to the dishes, pan clanking off the edge of the sink.

Mark forces the food down. “We’re gonna be late.”

“For what?”

“We’re dropping Mark off on the way,” Dad says. “His truck died. Again.”

Mom slams the pan against the edge of the sink louder.

“Dropping him where?” I ask.

Mark mumbles a response, food getting in the way.

“Where?”

“Clearview Sportsmen’s Club,” Dad answers, like he can’t believe it any more than I can.

“A
sportsmen’s
club? Are you kidding me?” I can’t get either of them to train, but Mark’s going to a snooty gun club full of wannabes and rich losers? “Since when are you the joining type?”

“Daniel Trace invited me to check it out.”

“This is a joke, right? With what money? You can’t even afford to keep your truck running.”

“He’s going as a guest,” Mom says from the sink. “A free guest, right?”

“Yes. As a guest. For free,” Mark says.

The way Dad won’t really look at Mom makes me doubt it’s really free. Mom’s back is tense and angry. Dad’s looking guilty. Of course Dad’s giving Mark money. Never mind that neither of them is earning anything steady these days, or that Dad said I had to pay the range fees today out of my money. If Mark wants something, then by all means.

“Why does he get anything he wants and he doesn’t even have to —?”

“I don’t get anything —”

“Enough!” Dad yells. He can’t stand talking about our current financial condition.

By the time I’ve cleaned up and changed, Dad and Mark are waiting outside, ready to go.

Mom grimaces at my clothes — my too-long-and-baggy-by-her-standards cargo shorts, my layered shirts. Even the bandanna over my hair.

“Mom, we’re going to the range. No one you know will see me.”

She grunts and turns back to the sink. I am dismissed. I grab an apple on the way out the door.

It’s already getting hot, and three of us crammed into Dad’s truck makes for a sticky, sweaty ride.

“The rifle will be back in the locker as soon as we get home,” Dad says. “And it will stay there unless we are going to the range.”

Crap. “I was just dry firing.”

“I don’t care.” Mark’s pretending he can’t hear us. “You know better.”

“What good is practicing tactical movement without at least being able to sight and dry fire?” Dad gives me a look. “Only on our land, I promise.”

“Skip’s land,” Dad corrects. “It’s Skip’s land. We are his guests.”

“But I need to —”

“Not when you’re home alone, or like this morning, when no one knows where you are. End of discussion.”

Mark’s still quiet. Usually he’d be giving me crap or sucking up to Dad. But today there’s nothing.

He showered. He shaved what little facial hair he has. Clean clothes. New boots. Well, newer than his old ones. He doesn’t look dressed for a snooty club, but he definitely put some effort into this.

The snotty, sulking Mark we’ve had to deal with since moving out to Uncle Skip’s place is gone. Maybe he’s finally waking up again.

Daniel Trace and his dad used to camp and do survival skills weekends with us. Mr. Trace is the one who taught me to set snares. I can’t believe they’ve gone club. Clubs are for wannabes and poseurs, and they always cost money.

“It’s really free?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Mark says. “For now.”

“Why just for now?”

“Because right now I’m a guest, checking it out. They’re just getting started.”

“And later?” I ask. He looks at me. “When it stops being free?”

“I’ll work it out.”

“How exactly are you —?”

“Leave your brother alone,” Dad says. “It’s his business. Not yours.”

Of course. Because he’s a boy. No, a man now. I’m still just a girl. And not even good enough at being that.

“There, on the right,” Mark says. “There.”

Dad slows to a crawl and then turns onto an unmarked road.

“Are you sure?” Dad asks. There’s no official sign marking the entrance. Just
NO TRESPASSING
signs on trees here and there.

“Yes.” Mark seems amused by Dad’s skepticism, like he’s in on some secret joke we don’t know.

After we pull off the main road, we drive for at least a mile on a country road before turning onto an even smaller one. I’m not sure two trucks could pass in some places. More
NO TRESPASSING
,
PRIVATE PROPERTY
, and
NO HUNTING
signs as we go deeper into woods. Then
DANGER: SHOOTING RANGE
signs start to appear. Then the road widens and the trees recede, and there is a metal cattle gate, with a fence extending from the road into the woods. But it’s not “gated” like where Aunt Lorraine and Uncle Nathan aspire to live, with the manicured lawns and friendly attendant in the booth to wave you through. There’s no booth. Just a card reader and a keypad. A building on the other side of the fence could accommodate guards, in a shit-hitting-the-fan scenario.

Dad slows as we approach the gate.

“Go through. It’s open,” Mark says, but Dad’s look is asking again,
Are you sure?
“It’s okay, Dad. We’re allowed.”

Dad pulls through slowly, as if waiting to be ambushed.

After another half mile or so, an open space emerges. A large gravel parking lot. A few benches and a picnic table next to it. Beyond that, some grass and then a gravel road. A large post-frame building with wide doors for equipment. A smaller building that looks like it could be offices. Poles in the ground for something else next to it.

There isn’t even a sign like these snooty clubs usually have.

Dad pulls in next to some other trucks. Maybe twenty cars and trucks parked around the gravel lot. Plates mostly from Michigan, like ours.

Dad’s looking around, dipping his head to see past the cars and trucks. He’s starting to look more and more skeptical about leaving Mark here.

“Daniel,” Mark calls out the window before he even has the door open. “Daniel,” he yells again, louder, adding a wave as he jumps out of the truck. Daniel and the two guys he’s walking with turn around. They don’t wave. The two other guys start walking again, but Daniel holds up at the edge of the lot.

“Hey,” Dad calls to Mark. He motions Mark over to his side of the truck, and when Mark doesn’t move says, “Come here.”

Mark rolls his eyes and lurches around the truck and over to Dad’s window.

“Thanks, Dad,” Mark says, to forestall any lectures. “I’m pretty sure Daniel or one of the others can give me a ride home. So . . .”

Dad looks hard at Mark, then across at the buildings again, around the lot, squints at the trees behind the buildings, then back at Mark.

“Dad,” Mark whines.

“Where are the ranges?” Dad asks.

Mark points back toward the buildings.

All I see are trees.

Where
are
the ranges? Screw the ranges — where are the sportsmen? Where are the poseur wannabes in their expensive shirts and stuff? Where’s the clubhouse? We may not have seen a lot of sportsmen’s clubs, but this doesn’t look like
any
kind of club, let alone a snooty gun club.

If there are ranges here, they are well hidden.

A guy walks by the truck in full tactical gear.

Dad turns off the truck and opens his door.

“Come on,” Mark gripes, but Dad gets all the way out of the truck. Then he puts his keys in his pocket.

“I just want to check things out,” Dad says.

Mark looks over his shoulder. Daniel is standing with some guys on the path near the buildings. “Look, there’s Daniel’s dad. Okay? You know Mr. Trace wouldn’t be involved in anything weird.”

Daniel’s dad is standing next to a man wearing a polo shirt and khakis. He’s the first country club–lawyer type we’ve seen here.
He
looks like he could be in a sportsmen’s club.

“Dad,” I say, “I want to get to the range before it gets crowded.”

“You’re embarrassing me,” Mark says, trying to block Dad’s path.

Dad stares until Mark steps back. “I want to say hello to Mr. Trace. That’s all.”

Mark groans, but he follows Dad across the lot toward the men.

When they get there, Mark does introductions. Daniel walks over, and his dad puts his hand on Daniel’s shoulder while Daniel shakes Dad’s hand. Like they’re saying,
This is the boy that sprang from my loins. I see your son is a boy as well. We have sons, and they are grand
. Don’t mind the girl waiting in the truck — who can shoot better than either of them.

Another man walks up. Handshaking all around. Mr. Country Club does that thing where he reaches out with his nonshaking hand and draws Dad closer.

Mark is grinning and nodding so hard he looks like a bobble-head doll. Then he bumps fists with Daniel and they head over to where the other guys are waiting, and the whole group starts down the path toward the trees. And still Dad is talking to the two men.

At this rate we’ll never get to the range before the wait is three deep. I reach over and lay on the horn. Dad turns and waves me off, then goes back to the talking and smiling. Daniel’s dad crosses his arms. Country Club guy touches his chin like he’s got a great idea. More talking and now gesturing. Dad looks back toward me, and then Mr. Country Club is motioning toward the truck and over. Dad is nodding. And then all of them turn their backs on the lot and more gesturing and nodding, now toward the buildings.

Ten more minutes and they’re still talking.

A car pulls up next to the truck. The driver takes off her sunglasses and tilts the rearview mirror so she can see herself. She likes what she sees. She takes her time gathering her long dark-red hair behind her head, and then puts it up in a ponytail. She smooths the hair on the side of her head until it’s just right, and then adjusts her ponytail and studies herself in the rearview mirror. She wipes at the side of her lip, like her lip gloss got smudged. She gets out of her car and pulls a vest on over her tight black T-shirt. Then pulls her range bag out of the trunk. Her vest is nice but far from new. Same with her bag.