I swallow hard, reading between the lines. Someone must’ve made a threat. If we go home, Aunt Birdie will be in danger. Suddenly, I’m glad she doesn’t know where we are.
“Besides, I finally feel like I have a purpose again.” Dad awkwardly smiles and nudges my arm.
Purpose? Are you kidding me? “You robbed an armored car. That’s a crime, Dad.” I shake my head. “Someone could’ve gotten hurt—or killed.”
Dad wags his finger. “No one was hurt.”
“This time,” I say, my voice rising. “What if they catch you? What then? You could go to jail.” I clutch my chest, dizzy. “I could go to jail.”
“You’re not going to jail.”
“How do you know that? I was there. I’ve heard about those accessory things on TV.”
“Rebs,” Dad says softly. “I really, really need this. Please give it a chance. It’ll get better.” He lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Promise.” His eyes don’t waver.
“But you promised we’d go fishing, too, remember?”
Dad looks at me for a second, and then his expression changes. He barks a laugh, startling me, before his laugh turns deep and throaty. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh—a real one—since we arrived.
“It’d be nice to do something normal for a change,” I say, wanting to add: Most kids don’t go on camping trips with their dads for the weapons assembly and training. But I keep my mouth shut about the last part.
“Yeah, okay,” Dad says, still smiling. “We’ll go fishing.”
I’m about to ask when, but the screen door slams against the inside wall.
“Soldier,” Wade barks from the open doorway, startling us both.
“Yes, sir,” Dad answers, his body stiff, heels clicking together.
Wade marches inside, letting the door slam behind him. He follows the length of the table, inspecting my progress, before he points to the crate. “At least your boy can do something right.”
“He’ll be finished within the hour, sir, and ready for the next shipment.”
The next shipment? How many guns do these people need?
Wade nods his approval. “Come help demonstrate a lateral advance for the kids.”
“Yes, sir,” Dad says, not even trying to hide the excitement in his voice.
“You’ll need one of these.” Wade pulls a fully assembled weapon from the crate.
Dad takes the gun and removes the magazine clip to check. Empty. He shoves his open hand at me. “Twenty rounds.”
I press my lips together. I meant to leave the bullets packed in their boxes. These parts without the bullets are just a bunch of parts that click together like a robot. But once you add the bullets . . .
“Is there a problem?” Wade asks.
“N-no, sir,” I mumble, shuffling over to the pile of cardboard boxes. Inside the top box, there are stacks of smaller green-and-white boxes labeled 223 REMINGTON/55 GRAIN. A shiver goes down my spine before I carefully lift a box and open the lid.
One by one, I count twenty bullets.
“We haven’t got all day,” Wade scolds.
My hands shake a little as I lay the bullets on the table.
“Hurry!”
I startle, dropping the ones in my hands, the brass clinking together as they land.
Dad wastes no time in snatching them, quickly stacking them side by side inside the rectangular magazine. When it’s full, he slams it into the bottom of his weapon and retrieves the earplugs from his vest, slipping them inside his ears.
“You’ll want to see this,” Wade says to me.
I focus on the parts in front of me, hoping he’ll let me stay inside, away from the loaded guns outside.
But Dad shoves another set of earplugs into my hand, letting me know it really isn’t an option.
With a sigh, I push in the plugs; they expand and muffle the sound of gunfire as I step outside. Late-afternoon sunlight warms my face in the clearing. Kids line a temporary chain-link fence surrounding the training area.
“Hey,” I say to Justin and Morgan.
Morgan turns up her nose and marches to the farthest spot away from me on the fence.
“What’s with her?” I ask Justin.
“We aren’t supposed to talk to you,” he whispers.
I guess they heard about what happened at the farmers market.
On the other side of the fence, barrels and stacks of tires have been spread, leading to a plywood structure shaped like a house. Human-shaped targets are scattered throughout the simulation. Justin leans against the fence. “If I were you, I’d stay away from them.”
“Who?” I ask.
“You know who,” he says under his breath. “People around here are pretty slow to forget.”
Is that a threat?
“We are a go,” Karl announces as he exits the plywood house, wearing a bulletproof vest and a helmet. He stands at attention next to the house.
Wade’s scar wrinkles with a smile. From inside the fence, he nods at Karl. “Gunnery Sergeant Thompson has set up a new simulation for us today.” Wade lowers a bolt-action rifle on top of one of the barrels farthest from the plywood house before he gestures toward Dad. “And Staff Sergeant Mercer has agreed to help me demonstrate a lateral advance upon a closely guarded building.”
As Dad crosses inside the fence, there’s a sudden wave of electricity in the air. Many of the kids wiggle with excitement.
“In this simulation, we are on a rescue mission.”
“Who are we rescuing?” a small voice asks.
Some of the bigger kids shush the girl with a bow in her blond hair. She looks about six or seven.
“It’s quite alright,” Wade says as he moves along the chain-link fence, nearing the girl. He lowers his voice. “We’re rescuing little kids like you from a work camp.” My stomach twists as Wade returns to his announcer voice: “The New World Order has separated children from their families, forcing them into labor camps, but who watches the watchmen?”
“WE DO!” everyone yells.
Wade nods at the little girl. She smiles up at him, like she’s placed all her trust in him. I feel sick as he paces along the fence line. “That’s right. We are the true defenders of American liberty. The feds have forsaken our country, but we’ll take it back. We are the ones under attack. We are the endangered species.”
I cringe. By we, I now know he’s talking about white people.
His face is bright red, except for his scar, which stays a silvery white. “We will defeat the New World Order or die trying!”
Everyone erupts in cheers. Everyone except for the grown men standing at attention. Everyone except for the soldiers and me.
When the noise settles, Karl jumps over the fence in a single motion, landing on our side.
Wade kneels in the dry leaves behind the barrel that acts as a table for his rifle. Dad positions himself to Wade’s left.
“Ready!” Karl yells as he slips behind the kids until he’s standing next to me.
I scoot a little closer to Justin as Karl looks down the line of children and places a finger over his lips, telling them to be quiet. And then he points forward.
Boom! Wade’s rifle fires, blowing a hole through the farthest human-shaped target. The smell of ammonia, then gunpowder, fills my nose.
Dad surges forward to the next barrel and ducks. With a glance, he fires. Boom! Straight through the middle of the target’s paper skull. He moves sideways and forward to the stack of tires. Firing again. Boom, boom! Same result. Head. Heart. Again, advancing and firing with single-shot accuracy.
Over and over Dad makes the hit until he reaches the house, when, out of nowhere, Dwight charges from behind wearing the same bullet-proof gear as Karl. Dad’s not wearing any protective gear. The bullets are real.
My hands clench the top of the sharp fence as Dad and Dwight wrestle with the gun. My heart races. Somebody could get shot. All the kids are cheering, but they could get shot. Dwight snatches the gun from Dad’s h
ands. I gasp.
Dad sweeps his leg backward; Dwight drops to the ground. He grunts, his shaggy hair matted against his face. I manage a breath as Dad presses his foot into Dwight’s shoulder, stealing back his gun. Justin shifts uncomfortably. Dwight squirms and roars until Dad presses the muzzle of his AR-15 into Dwight’s lower back. Justin turns away from the fence, like he can’t watch.
With his rifle pointed at Dwight, Dad snags the handgun from its holster and throws the plywood door wide open, revealing the life-sized pictures of children lining the walls inside the house. Many of them are pictures of the kids standing along this fence.
“Oo-rah!” Karl shouts over my shoulder, making me jump.
Wade stands from his hiding place, signaling the end of the drill. Dad returns his handgun to its holster and offers Dwight a hand up from the ground. The other kids clap as Dad gives Dwight a friendly slap on the shoulder. I clap, too, grateful Dad wasn’t shot.
Dad grins when he sees me clapping for him.
It’s hard not to get caught up in the fake children’s rescue. We all cheer until I see Dwight push past Dad and spin toward the house. There’s another boom, followed by silence. Dwight lowers the handgun he’d hidden in his belt; the other kids’ shouts grow louder.
But I don’t join them.
Chills run down my spine as I stare at the one shot Dwight made inside the house—the mangled photo of a child who doesn’t look like the rest.
Justin sneers. “Looks like my dad just killed your girlfriend.”
FIFTEEN
It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve seen Calliope. I wanted to find her sooner but didn’t think it would be safe for her, or for me. They’ve been watching too closely.
But now some of the Flag Bearers have returned to the farmers market to sell survival kits. The rest are running drills, and there are not enough men to split watch between the camp and me.
Besides, I finally put on their uniform—black T-shirt, camouflage pants, and these awful black boots. Dad’s been nagging me about it for over a week, and I finally gave in, hoping they wouldn’t watch me so close if I looked like one of them.
Dad left before sunrise, and I’m now crossing the creek, scooting my new black boots sideways along the fallen log. They pinch and rub my ankles, making me wish I had my old, dirty running shoes.
The shiny boots remind me of him, and I can’t help but remember what Dad said: He thinks nobody cares he’s been hurt. But I do.
And I don’t want to hurt him more, which is why I still haven’t asked about the one shot. Dad had rescued the children—every single one of them—but Dwight wouldn’t let that happen.
And the cheers afterward? And what Justin said?
I mean, the picture with the hole through the face wasn’t really a picture of Calliope, and she’s definitely not my girlfriend. But it was a picture of a black girl and Calliope is my friend, or she was before I screwed things up.
Landing on the other side of the stream, my hefty boots squish the dew-covered leaves. I try to breathe in the smell of the coming rain, but it feels like I have a giant weight pressing on my chest.
As I clear the trees and slip into the meadow of white flowers, I spy the gathering clouds over the mountains—dark and menacing. It’s like they’re warning me to stay away, but I push forward anyway, moving through the flowers.
The sweet honey smell grows stronger as I round Josiah’s shed and hear the low buzz of bees. I walk past the hives, giving them a wide berth so I don’t get stung again. But there aren’t any bees outside the hives today. It’s as if they know a storm is coming.
Between the field of red flowers and their cabin, I spy Calliope running back and forth. My breath catches. She seems to be playing a game with herself. She’s all laughter and smiles.
As I move closer, I can see she’s dribbling a soccer ball the length of the lawn in front of her house. She looks so happy and free. I wonder if she feels that way inside.
I move through the red flowers slowly, releasing their spicy scent. Calliope kicks the ball between a pair of cones. It crosses an invisible line between them; she pumps her arm in celebration.
But as she turns, her face changes from a smile to a scowl. She’s spotted me, and suddenly I wish I hadn’t come and ruined whatever she was feeling.
Calliope immediately leans over and grabs her soccer ball, rolling it up the side of her long leg until it reaches the crook of her waist. She holds it there and spins away from me, hurrying toward the cabin.
“Wait,” I call, waving a hand over my head like an idiot.
Of course, she doesn’t stop. Why should she? Still, I’m running—or more like lumbering in these heavy boots—after her. Flower stems crunch beneath their weight.
“Calliope, I’m sorry,” I say, already out of breath when I reach the ramps.
She’s on the porch, next to the front door. She drops her ball on the rocking chair and turns toward the railing, looking down on me. Her eyes narrow. “I’ll say this slowly so you can understand. Go—”
“I know you’re mad,” I say, cutting her off before she can tell me to leave.
She wipes the sweat from her upper lip. “Gee, how’d you figure that one out?”
“And I know I deserve it,” I continue. “I didn’t know what to do at the farmers market. It all happened so fast.”
She crosses her arms over her body like a shield. “You lied to us. You said you were on vacation with your dad.”
“I know,” I say, my gaze falling to my boots.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were one of them?” she says, practically spitting the last word.
“But I’m not,” I say, vigorously shaking my head.
“Yeah, right.”
I realize how I must look to her. I do look like one of them. “It’s just my dad—”
Calliope puts a hand out, stopping me. “I have better things to do than talk to a lying racist.”
Her words sting. A lot. “I’m not.”
Her hand’s on the door; she’s leaving. I haven’t said anything I need to say, and she’s leaving.
“I’ll beat you at your own game,” I blurt. I don’t know why I say it. It’s like my tongue has been possessed, like I’m being controlled by some kind of Jedi mind trick.
“What did you say?” she asks, facing me.
Is she the Jedi? All I know is I don’t want her to leave.
I point to the ball she’s dropped in the rocking chair and clear my throat, trying to sound confident. “I’ll beat you at soccer.” My heart is beating fast. I can’t play. She knows I can’t play. But at least this is stalling her, keeping her on the porch a few seconds longer.
She picks up the ball and spins it between her hands, as if she’s actually considering it. “And what do I get when I win?” she asks. The wood creaks as she descends the ramps.
I manage to breathe. She’s not leaving. Not yet, anyway.
“What do you want?” I ask, my gaze following her until she’s standing directly in front of me. “Name it. Anything.”
Her hairline is damp with sweat. Her face all business. “For you to never come here again.”
“Forget it.” I shake my head.
She spins toward the cabin.
“Okay, fine,” I say, reaching, wanting to touch her, not daring to touch her.
Calliope glares at me. “I’m serious.” She’s not smiling; I know she’s not lying.
“Fine,” I say again, desperate to keep her from leaving. Desperate to make things right. I want to go back to her rattling off trivia. Laughing at me; with me. And me pretending not to like everything about her.
She chews her lip.
“So what do I get if I win?” I ask, hoping to make her smile.
Calliope tosses the ball against my chest, knocking the air out of me. “You won’t.” She doesn’t smile or take her eyes off the ball in my hands. “Between the cones is a score,” she says pointing to the orange set on each end of the lawn. �
��First person to get to three goals wins, and I’ll finally be rid of you.” Her confidence is scary and appealing. “Oh, did I mention I’ve been playing club soccer for five years?”
“Great,” I say and drop the ball on the dewy lawn.
She hops between her feet like an agile boxer and nods my direction. “I’m going that way,” she says as I move away from the ball.
I swallow hard, trying to spread my feet like she has. But, with the weighty boots, I’m even more awkward than usual. I can see the laughter in her eyes. Bottom line: She’s going to kick my butt.
“Go!” she shouts, zigging to my left. I jump left to block her, but she’s already zagging to my right. I hear the thump of impact and turn, only to see the ball fly easily between the cones.
Calliope jogs to retrieve the ball, her hair bouncing as she moves. In one nimble motion, she shovels the ball with the toe of her shoe and balances it on top of her foot. She kicks the ball in the air before catching it with both hands.
She really is good. Of course she is.
Calliope returns to center, dropping it in the lawn, and rubs her hands together with a swish, swish. “That’s one,” she says holding up her index finger.
“What’s the bet?” Josiah yells. He’s rolling along the front porch, eyeing me. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since he was wiping Dwight’s spit from his face. I want to shrink and disappear. But I force myself to stay put, shifting between my feet, expecting him to order me to leave.
“The first to three goals wins,” Calliope answers.
“Who’s winning?”
She grins, showing off her perfect smile.
“Alright, alright,” Josiah says, “I get the picture.” He rolls his chair closer to the railing, like he’s trying to get a better view of my imminent slaughter. “Rebel, I think you might be in over your head here.”
He’s still talking to me? “Yes, sir,” I answer and shove the sleeves on my black T-shirt to my elbows and crouch with my hands on my knees, trying to get ready.
Calliope straightens and taps a foot on the soft grass. “What are you doing?”
All of a sudden, I’m self-conscious squatting in front of her.
“This isn’t wrestling, you know.”
The Inside Battle Page 12
