“Hey, no coffee for us?” he asks.
“Sorry, Dad,” I reply, sitting down at the weapons assembly table behind them. I look the assault rifle over and begin the process of stripping it to clean it, a weekly must-do to avoid jams and misfires. “I didn’t think vanilla lattes would pair well with gunpowder.”
“Good point,” Dad says, looking down at his phone. He’s always on that thing. I’ve even seen him checking it while brushing his teeth. He’s constantly connected to CORE.
“So, how was school today?” Mom asks.
“Took a calculus test, got an A on my AP modern European paper,” I say, popping out the assault rifle’s magazine with a loud crack. “Threatened to break the arm of a girl who was bullying Claire. You know, the usual.”
“You da woman, Rea Rea,” Dad says, giving me a thumbs-up with one hand and picking up his Glock 27 pistol with the other. I swear I could tell my dad that I discovered the cure for cancer and he’d give me the same response. You da woman. It’s his little annoying but sort of adorable way of showing pride.
“You weren’t using Krav Maga in school, now, were you?” Mom asks and crosses her arms, not exactly excited that I almost snapped a girl’s bone in two.
“I mean, nothing ridiculous,” I say, visually inspecting the M4’s upper receiver and chamber for any ammunition.
“Reagan…” she starts.
“Just one move, Mom. She was going to punch me in the face. And besides, I’m not going to let people mess with Claire.”
“Well, good for you,” Mom says with a small smile, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. “You’re a natural rescuer. I’ve been telling you that for years. Black Angel is in your blood.” Of course. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. They always have to slip that in.
“I got an email from the Templeton admissions guy about my interview Saturday. What time are we leaving?” I ask, pushing the upper portion of the M4’s bolt catch, sliding the bolt forward. “My interview’s at two but I’d like to make sure we’re there by one so we can walk around the campus.”
“Sorry, hon, but you’ll have to go without us,” Dad announces casually, crossing the room and grabbing another clip for his pistol off the shelf. “Mom and I have to leave for DC tonight.”
“What? But I’ve had this interview planned for months,” I say, looking up from my weapon.
“You know how missions are,” Mom says with a small shrug. “We can get called to headquarters at any moment.”
“What’s the big deal?” Dad asks, reloading his magazine with a sharp click. “It’s not like you’re going to college anyways.”
My breath catches, sharp and jagged, in my chest. Of course he’d say that. They’ve never even bothered to ask if this is the life I want. I was told casually over dinner at thirteen that when I turned eighteen, it would be my choice. But it’s never been brought up again. The path they’ve chosen for me is rammed down my throat at every opportunity. I’m not asking for much. I’d take even a flicker of concern over what I want for my future.
“I know. I just wanted you guys to see the campus with me,” I say, lowering my weapon and my voice, trying not to get upset. I know it won’t do any good so what’s the point? The anger I want to feel is already replaced by defeat. I pick up my M4 and cross the room to the weapons shelf. God, I freaking hate this. It’s more than Dad’s dismissal. It’s the fact they can’t show up for anything. Why even make plans? We almost always have to cancel them. Family vacations, Christmas, Thanksgiving, it doesn’t matter. The Black Angels come first and always will.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Reagan,” Mom says, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. I turn to look at her; the corners of her mouth are pointed down and her eyes are heavy. I shake my head, press my lips together, and look away. I’ve been hearing “sorry” my whole life. Sorry for missing your birthday, sorry for leaving you on Christmas Eve, sorry for missing your play. But there are some pains they’ve never even acknowledged. Sorry you’ve basically been raised by Aunt Sam, sorry you’re always in danger, sorry for forcing you to lie every single day of your life, sorry for making you choose between this life and a normal one, sorry you don’t even know what normal is. I’m sick of their sorrys. The ones they say and the ones they never will.
Bang. My father is shooting at a fresh dummy target. Clearly, he cannot feel my disappointment like my mother can. She is still looking at me, her gaze heavy, willing me to look at her. I place the M4 on my shelf and walk toward the martial arts room.
“Reagan,” my mother says in between gunfire as I walk away, but I pretend I don’t hear her. I don’t want to turn around and have her see the broken look I can feel on my face.
I pull on my training gloves and stare at the quote that’s been painted, thick and black, on the wall of every martial arts room we’ve ever had: