He moved me into position in front of the hanging target and showed me how to raise my arms, left hand cradling my right for more stability and control.
“You’re too stiff,” he said. “Relax your elbows. Don’t copy what you see on TV. That shit’s not real. This is.”
I bent my elbows. It felt awkward. That’s not how the TV police did it. Their arms stuck straight out like arrows.
“I can’t prepare you for what you’re about to feel,” Dad said. “If something hits your face, don’t freak out.”
“What?” I cried.
“It won’t be the bullet,” he said patiently. “Unless you turn the gun the wrong way.”
He chuckled. I did, too, even though I thought it was a lousy joke.
“Line it up. See those markers on the top of the gun? That’s your center. Center it. You’re going for the chest. Drop the nose a little. You’re aiming too high.”
I listened and adjusted accordingly until Dad was satisfied.
“You ready?” he asked.
I nodded.
“One shot,” he said. “Only one.”
My sweaty hands gripped the slick, black metal. Forefinger moved a fraction to the trigger. It curled around the hook. Pull back. Resistance. More pressure. Release.
Alarming blast.
Dad was right. He couldn’t prepare me. The force of the kickback scared the shit out of me. My adrenaline kicked into overdrive. The shaking started almost instantly after the bullet shot out. I couldn’t stop it. I placed the gun on the counter and clasped my hands, but I couldn’t control the shaking.
“That’s normal,” Dad said. “It’s your first time. You get used to the power and then stop reacting like that.”
He swiped his thumb over my forehead. I didn’t even take notice of the shell casing smacking my head, apparently leaving black residue in its wake.
“This isn’t like the movies,” I said, teeth chattering. Stop with the shaking already!
Dad laughed.
“I’ve never seen actors get hit with casings. Is that normal?”
Dad nodded. “If you shoot a gun with real bullets in it, yes. You’re gonna get hit in the head with the casings on occasion.” He noted my shivering. “Calm down. Take a deep breath.”
I obeyed.
“You knew before that it wasn’t a toy,” Dad said.
I blinked, confused.
“But now you really understand that.”
Ohhhh, I got it. I nodded solemnly.
“That thing on the table there should only be used for good. You understand?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Don’t let anyone make you feel ashamed for owning and handling guns. You’ll be the one they run to when they’re in danger. Do you understand?”
I understood none of it, but I nodded anyway.
“You fight for that thing sitting on the counter. Always. Because people will always try to take it from you. Do you understand?”
I continued to nod.
Dad smirked. “You wanna try again?”
Now that I understood. I nodded enthusiastically and took hold of the gun once more.
~
He knew he had a problem. He lay in bed that night fantasizing about his next encounter with Regan. Tomorrow! It would happen tomorrow in that greasy space downstairs: an English paper, a beautiful girl, and . . . joy.
“Joy,” he said aloud, staring into the blackness of his ceiling.
He didn’t think he’d ever uttered the word, let alone experienced it. Perfect and complete happiness. The word felt strange in his mouth as he said it again—like he was learning it for the first time—sounding out a foreign feeling on his tongue. Swallowing it whole and hoping it filled his heart to the brim. He thought he’d glow—streams of light shooting out of his fingertips and toes, eyes and ears. He imagined that’s how joy felt inside one’s body—bright heat. Impossible-to-contain heat. A sort of radiant ecstasy. Possibly manic.
And that’s where the problem lay.
He shouldn’t be thinking about a girl or a happy feeling. He should be plotting his next move. He should be practicing at the gun range. He should be cultivating the feelings of hatred and revenge—the ones he feared were receding into that landfill place of the heart. The place that collects all the memories and emotions that don’t matter anymore.
“Get a grip,” he growled, fisting his sheets.
But his brain disobeyed, and with every forced image of Brandon, came Regan shoving her way in front of him. Blocking his view. Making Brandon unimportant. Making retribution unimportant. The anger ebbed slowly, further and further away until he succumbed to his temporary fate.
Only for tonight, he told himself.
He closed his eyes and dipped into the dream. Regan tossed him the soccer ball.
“I don’t know how to play.” He wasn’t sure if he said it aloud or in his sleep.
“I’ll show you,” she replied.
“You’ll annihilate me.”
She grinned. “Most likely, but isn’t that what you want?”
***
I should tell an adult.
Regan stole down the school hallway to the office. Familiar mission. Brand new fear. He lied to her! He made her believe he wrote a bunch of crazy shit in a red notebook to help him manage his pain. Lies. His back betrayed him. His back told the truth: Strategic words to match an equally strategic plan. She thought back to that plan and all its fine-tuned details listed one by one. Careful. Calculated. Incontrovertible proof of his true nature. She ignored it because she wanted to. She wanted to believe his innocence instead.
Her eyes darted all around, praying for his absence. If she saw his face, she might back down. Not out of fear. Out of love, and that’s what frightened her the most—that she loved a monster.
“You promised a quick review before our quiz today,” Regan heard behind her. She turned around.
Casey stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
“I’ve been here for half an hour looking for you.” Not an accusation. There was a wobble to her voice instead, and Regan noticed the slight quivering of her bottom lip.
“I’m sorry,” Regan offered.
“I . . . I waited for Ethan yesterday for an hour. He was supposed to pick me up,” Casey went on. “He forgot.”