Radical

by E. M. Kokie

  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 strapp
ed 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.

  I glance back, and the others are gone already.

  “She’ll go all night if we let her.”

  “I don’t have anywhere I need to be,” I say.

  “Neither do I.”

  We just watch Cammie.

  “She’s really good,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Karen says. “She used to compete.”

  “Why’d she quit?”

  “I had better things to do,” Cammie says, resting the bow and making Karen smirk and my face flame.

  But it makes me wonder if her better things are like my better things. MAG kind of better things. Cammie and Karen and I make a good team.

  An ATV on the trail gets Karen’s attention. We don’t hear them that often.

  “Hey,” Carl says, pulling up next to the ATV Karen drove out here. “Hey,” he says again, out of breath but looking relieved.

  “Hey,” Karen says back, but I feel like I’m missing something. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Carl says, but I don’t buy it any more than Karen does.

  “What?” she asks, holding his stare.

  Carl looks at Cammie and me, and then I guess decides we’re trustworthy. “Ferguson had a team out marking and clearing the red trail extension. They heard shots and maybe a small detonation out near the perimeter, past the end of the blue trail. Randy and your dad are going to check it out.”

  “And you wanted to make sure we were where I said we’d be,” Karen says more than asks.

  His lopsided smile says it all. “I just wanted to be sure.”

  “Well, we’re here,” Cammie says, annoyed and dismissing him.

  “Just Dad and Randy?” Karen asks.

  “Frank’s with them, and I’m going to follow. I just wanted to check here first.”

  “Do you need me to go with?” Karen asks.

  “Nah, we got it.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Will do,” he says, heading out on the trail.

  She turns and looks at Cammie, like she’s waiting for Cammie to say something. Cammie scowls, like Karen shouldn’t have to ask.

  “He was just checking,” Karen says.

  “He should know we’re not stupid enough to shoot off-trail in the blind.” Cammie puts the compound bow on the ATV and starts removing her gear.

  Their chill remains all the way back to the Box. Cammie hops off the ATV and heads for the lot before we’re even parked, leaving Karen and me to carry the bows and quivers inside.

  “My dad back yet?” Karen asks the guy inside, who takes the bows from her.

  He shakes his head. “Not yet. But radioed in. They’re heading back.”

  “Everything okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah, just some idiots screwing around.” He shakes his head.

  “Without permission or logging where they’d be?”

  “Apparently.” He glances at me and doesn’t offer anything more.

  Karen curses under her breath. “Who?”

&n
bsp; “Two guesses,” he says.

  Karen looks at me, and I don’t know how, but I know it was Zach and them. “Mark?” I ask. “Uh, Mark Mullin?”

  “Her brother,” Karen adds, and then nods to him, like Go ahead, tell her.

  “No Mullin,” he says.

  Thank God.

  Karen is quiet all the way to the lot and until we pass through the gate.

  “Mark should stay away from Zach,” Karen says, breaking the silence.

  “No shit.” Not that I could tell him that. It would make him run to Zach all the faster. But maybe I should say something to Dad.

  “Cammie and I meet at the range on Wednesday mornings for a few hours. You should come.”

  “Can’t,” I say. “I have to work.” But I’m already calculating the loss of a few hours’ pay compared to shooting, with friends — or whatever we are.

  As soon as Mike locks the front door, I bring Uncle Skip all of today’s paperwork and deposits, and then duck into the bathroom to clean up. My hair looks like crap. The ends are starting to curl, the long layer is too long, the sides are patchy, and the back is a hacked-up mess. I brought some gel so I can try to make the layer hang straight, but I need to cut it again. Or cut it different. Or maybe just buzz it all.

  I brush my teeth with my finger and then pop in some gum. I’ve kissed a lot of girls. Felt up a few. Gotten horizontal with two, though with both of them, my hands stayed above the waist and clothes stayed mainly on. Before Kara moved, we were inching closer to more, grinding against each other until I swear I could feel her through both our clothes. But I didn’t work up the nerve to touch below her waist.

  Lucy’s texts have been melting my phone. She’s not going to red-flag me, which actually makes me more nervous than if I was sure she would. With the others I didn’t have to think about it, because someone else was in charge of drawing the line. I could just go with it. But tonight, I think that line is on me.

  And as much as thinking about making out is making me sweat, it’s the not-making-out parts that have my stomach all twisted in knots. What if she wants to go to the movies and hold hands and be all obvious?

  I hear Mike and Uncle Skip talking in the office and quickly repack my stuff. I said I’d meet her at the church lot, instead of her coming here to get me. Best not to give Uncle Skip any reason to ask questions or to mention her to Dad. As long as Dad thinks I’m hanging out with Clearview girls, he doesn’t ask questions. In fact, I think he’d encourage me to go out as much as I want if he thought it would help cement his position at Clearview.