I’m in the middle of brushing
my teeth when her text finally
comes. GOING BOWLING WITH
WITH MY YOUTH GROUP. PIZZA
AFTER. FINISHED AROUND FOUR.
I’LL CALL YOU WHEN WE’RE DONE.
This Time
It’s an emotional one-two punch
striking my solar plexus.
One: anger.
Two: jealousy.
One.
Two.
One.
Two.
Straight to the gut.
Powerful blows
in repetitive action.
How
could
she
do
this
to
me?
My resident little voice
of reason—the one who
always talks me down
from the reactive cliff—
seems to have
vacated my cranium.
Can’t Sit Around Here
Waiting for the figurative knockout
blow. The interior turbulence
is building, and if I don’t want
it to shake me apart, I’d better
find a way to release it.
Only one thing I know
can accomplish that.
It resides in a lockbox
beneath the seat of my truck.
Technically, I need
a concealed carry permit
to keep my Glock 34 there,
and I can’t get that until
I’m twenty-one, despite
having taken the course.
Pistol and instruction were gifts
from Dad, which led to a memorable
eighteenth birthday, both because
of the most unexpected presents
and the fight that instigated
between him and Mom.
It Started
The moment I opened the box.
Unloaded, unpolished, unpacked
from its wrappings, still the Glock
looked remarkably deadly.
Mom: A gun? Are you insane?
He’s not mature enough for a gun.
Dad: Plenty of kids his age have guns,
and he needs to excel at something.
Mom: What are you talking about?
He’s at the very top of his class.
Dad: Academically, yes, but he sucks
at sports. Team sports, anyway.
Mom: What do sports have to do
with this? Shooting isn’t a sport.
Dad: Don’t be an idiot. Haven’t
you ever heard of hunting?
The volume of their argument
increased as the tension escalated.
Mom: You hunt with a rifle. This is
a handgun. Only serial killers
go hunting with handguns.
Dad: Target shooting is a sport,
too. You can do that with a handgun.
Don’t you know anything?
Mom: Why are you attacking me?
Do you really think this is a good
idea, all things considered?
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.
&nbs
p; 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 juveni
le 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
her in the hallways, wonder if she’s even
here, until the lunch bell rings. I find
her in the cafeteria, surrounded by
her posse of believers, who are no doubt
discussing the relative merits of their youth
minister. When I gesture for her to join
me, I’m terrified she’ll shake her head.
Instead, she says something to her friends,
grabs her book—The Perks of Being
a Wallflower, I can tell by the cover—
and comes over without hesitation. She tilts
her chin, reaching for a kiss. Relief upwells.
I whisper in her ear, “Thank you,” encircle
her with one arm, and acknowledge
her gift of forgiveness. This is the kiss
I wanted two days ago. The one that makes
everyone in this chili-stinking room understand
that Hayden and I are in love. Unfortunately,
it draws the attention of Ms. Hannity,
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