Rumble (12 page)

Dad:
You mean because he’s seeing

a ther-a-pist?
(Disdain evident.)

Maybe this is all the therapy he needs.

Mom:
He has no idea how to shoot

that thing. What if he accidentally

puts a bullet through someone’s head?

Dad:
You don’t have to worry

about that. I signed him up for

a course at Jessie’s range.

That wasn’t quite the end

of the “discussion.” But I tuned

the rest out about there.

Dad’s Motive

For buying the gun remains

murky. But I was fascinated

immediately, and he proved

right about a couple of things.

Shooting is therapy.

And I’m really, really good at it.

I practice a lot at Uncle Jessie’s

range. He says I should enter

competitions, and maybe I will.

But not till I’m unbeatable.

Not that I worry a lot about

what Dad thinks of my talents—

or lack thereof. But for once

it would be nice to prove to him

that his disappointment of a son

is not only good at something

besides academics, but he is,

in fact, the absolute best.

Sunday on a Holiday Weekend

Uncle Jessie isn’t here at the range,

playing NRA-butt-kissing owner,

and I’m pleased about that. I love

my gun, but I despise gun politics.

I don’t want to massacre little kids,

I just want to hit bull’s-eyes on targets.

If they happen to resemble some Al

Qaeda goon, well, that’s a fortunate

bonus. The Glock 34 is a competition

gun. Quick to load and reload. Smooth

slide action. Not too much recoil, at

least if you grip it correctly.

Dad showed me the basics—how

to load and check for chambered

bullets. Where not to put my thumb

to avoid the backward kick of the slide.

The Weaver stance, which is his choice,

one leg slightly behind the other.

But Uncle Jessie taught me finesse

and nuance. How to bring the gun up

from the holster, right hand positioned

correctly to shoot without the aid

of the left if need be. Where to place

the left and how to utilize it for maximum

control and cushion. How to focus

most on the far sight, rather than

the near, which actually blurs just

a bit because of concentrating so hard

on the other. The Isosceles stance—

feet parallel, upper body forward

and triangular to the plant, allowing

free side-to-side swing at the waist.

The last is more important for taking

out moving targets. Uncle Jessie knows.

He was infantry in Iraq. Lost an eye

to shrapnel on his second tour. After

his discharge, he had a choice: go

to Portland, live with his parents,

and design video games; or move

to his grandparents’ property and farm.

Didn’t want to do either,
he told me.

Fake shooting on-screen is for pussies.

Farming is for fools, but I’ve always

loved this piece of land.
The shooting

range was his compromise. And damned

if he can’t hit bull’s-eyes square despite

his handicap.
It only takes one eye to

sight, son. But you go ahead and use two.

I Use Two

For a couple of hours. I’m off

my game a little today,

and I’m pretty sure my lack

of concentration has to do

with still being pissed.

The initial earthquake

of anger has receded.

But the aftershocks keep

coming in rhythmic succession.

Finally, I give up, pack it in,

and go home, where it’s very

quiet. Dad’s sleeping off

his tough morning. Mom’s

gone. I wash off the gunshot

residue, put on a clean shirt.

It’s probably not enough.

Hayden does not share

my passion for shooting,

and she can always smell

gun on me after I spend time

at the range. One time I told

her it was better than smelling

something else on me.

She didn’t appreciate the joke.

Four O’Clock

Arrives. Goes. Four ten.

Four fifteen. Four twenty.

By the time her call finally

comes at four twenty-five,

I’m pacing. A big ol’

simmering pot of pissed.

I consciously lower

my boiling point

before I detonate.

Deep breaths. Liquid Metal,

turned way up loud,

the blazing beat absorbing

what’s left of my anger.

By the time I reach Pizza

Hut, I’m mostly in control.

Until I turn the corner, see

them standing beneath the eaves,

backs to the building, bundled

against the cold. Hayden. Jocelyn.

And some guy who’s in his early

twenties. Though he’s a head

taller than me, he’s slender.

I could kick his ass if I wanted

to, and maybe I do. As I pull

to the curb across the street,

two things are apparent.

Jocelyn is flirting unmercifully

with him—hardly “Christian,”

and I hate how familiar that sounds.

But what I despise

is how his eyes completely

overlook Jocelyn, despite her best

efforts, because they are locked

on Hayden. She says something,

and he smiles, and there is way

too much obvious affection there.

I tap the horn to ruin the moment.

Hayden turns, waves, and

her smile is all for me. I think.

She gives Jocelyn a quick hug

and as she starts away the guy

touches her arm, redirecting

her attention toward his goodbye.

I definitely want

to kick his spindly ass.

She Crosses the Street

And I get out of the truck, wait

for her. I want him to see me greet

her with a kiss, and more, I want

him to see her kiss me back.

I hope she can’t hear the anger

hissing in my ears, or see the way

it’s crawling, crimson, up my neck.

I pull her into me for said kiss, gaze

fixed over her head on the guy,

who is most assuredly assessing

every move she makes. The hiss swells

into a growl so I close my eyes, reach

for her mouth with my own, silently

pleading with her to prove how very

much she loves me. She rewards

me with a swift, dry osculation,

then slips out of my arms and walks

around to the passenger side. I follow

closely, open the door to let her in.

“Do I smell like onions or something?”

I don’t give her a chance to answer

before shutting the door. Sometimes

jerkish behavior is sort of called for.

We Are a Half Block Away

Headed toward where, I have no clue,

when I snap, “Who was that guy?”

She acts all innocent.
What guy?

Oh, do you mean Judah?

“Judah? What kind of a name

is that?” Lame, that’s what kind.

Judah. As in Judah Ben-Hur?

He’s our youth minister.

“Oh, really? Are you you sure?

He’s kind of young for a minister,

don’t you think? Has anyone

checked his credentials?” Snarky,

and she does not appreciate the snark.

He’s still in the seminary, Matt.

He has a one-year internship at our

church, working with Pastor Bohart.

Judah believes he’s been called

to youth ministry. He’s so inspirational!

If She Gushed Any More

She’d drown in her own gushiness.

I want to yell. Instead, I grumble.

“Inspirational? Looked more

like robbing the cradle to me.”

Robbing . . . You’re kidding, right?

She plasters on a ridiculous grin, but it

vanishes when she analyzes my expression.

Wait. Don’t tell me you’re jealous?

“Let’s see. We were supposed to spend

the afternoon together, then go out

for Thai. Instead you go bowling and eat

pizza with your perverted youth minister.

First of all, when have you
ever
gone

bowling? And second, his eyes were

crawling all over you. No wonder

you’re so hot on youth group lately.”

As for bowling, there’s a first time

for everything. I sucked, but so what?

And as for the rest, don’t be ridiculous.

Christ called me to youth group.

“That’s amazing. Did he use a phone,

or just shout your name down from on

high? Nah, that can’t be it, or I would

have heard it, too.” I’m on thin ice

but I can’t seem to stop skating.

“I mean, an all-powerful God would

have a pretty loud voice and all, right?”

Damn. I might have just fallen through

the veneer. She’s steaming.
Why

are you being so nasty, Matthew?

If you really think I’d cheat on you,

and with a minister, no less, maybe

we need to rethink our relationship.

I can’t believe you have such a low

opinion of me. I didn’t eat pizza,

but I’m not hungry. Take me home.

I’m almost there already, but now

I want to apologize. Except, I don’t.

She’s infuriating! How can she make

me feel so bad about being right?

And, Worse

How can she make me feel

so rotten about tomorrow

being a holiday? Apologize?

Don’t apologize? Pretty sure

this isn’t salvageable, but

I’m damn sure going to try.

“I’m sorry, Hayden. I know

you wouldn’t cheat on me. . . .”

Hardly Christian, after all.

“Yes, I was jealous, and it’s

an obnoxious thing to be. . . .”

Pretty much like you were

approximately two days ago.

She’s softening, and I really

should stop right here. Even

realizing that, my mouth keeps

motoring. “But that guy has got

a definite thing for you. By the way,

you do realize that Judah Ben-Hur

is a
fictional
character, right?”

Emphasis on the word that means “fake.”

Too Much

I went too far; of course I did.

The barrier that had just started

to crumble reconstructs, solid.

How can you be so condescending?

You don’t even
know
Judah.

I suck. She sucks. This sucks. So,

suck it up. “You’re right.” Deep breath.

“I don’t know him, and I don’t want to.

But I don’t want you to be mad at me.

I completely trust you, Hayden.”

I wish that were true, but the fact is,

I don’t completely trust anyone.

And when I reach for her hand and

she jerks it away, I have to wonder

if it’s just out of anger, or if some

ugly ulterior motive is at play.

As I pull into her driveway, stop

the truck to let her out, I withdraw

into pouty juvenile mode, “Why

wouldn’t you kiss me back there?”

I don’t know, Matt. Who were you

trying to impress? Me? Or him?

Valid Question

One she doesn’t allow

me time to answer.

She storms toward

her door without so

much as a wave, or

even a backward glance.

Damn, she is something—

anger evident in the way

she tosses her hair and

thrusts her hips side to side.

She is haunting. Daunting.

High maintenance, but

totally worth the effort.

Any guy with a libido and

half a brain would want

to possess her, and if that

includes Fake Minister Judah,

why should that surprise me?

If I’m not careful, I’ll lose

her, and that could spell

the end of Matthew Turner.

So why do I seem hell-bent

on chasing her away?

I Spend the Next Thirty-Six Hours

Wondering if I’ve done exactly that.

It’s a struggle not to go crawling up

to her door on my hands and knees.

Except, wouldn’t her father love that?

Two major quarrels over the span

of one holiday weekend, and that

doesn’t even include the ones I had with

my parents. By Tuesday, not a single

word from her, I’m wrecked. I fake

my way through English and calculus,

concentration impossible. I don’t see