falling outside and a fire crackling in the hearth, the last thing I want to do is homework.
I empty the contents of my backpack onto the sofa. My calculus text lands with a thud. “I despise Krenshaw,” I groan.
Laughing, Aksel takes my calculus textbook and opens to our assignment. “You definitely have that in common with every other student at Waterford.”
I peer over Aksel’s shoulder as he pencils out the equation, his damp hair loose on his forehead, his mouth tight in concentration.
Even in Kabul, eating MREs and using flashlights, my father tutored me relentlessly. But here with Aksel, the numbers blur. “I don’t want to do schoolwork,” I say, and drop onto the sofa.
Aksel taps his pencil against his wrist. “We can go skiing? Fresh powder today.”
I scrunch my nose. “There’s fresh powder every day.”
He looks amused. “What about shooting?” he suggests.
“I’m not firing your rifle.”
“That’s fine. I want you to teach me to shoot a handgun.”
“You’re an excellent shot!”
Aksel shakes his head. “I can hit a soda can from four hundred yards, no scope, no problem—eight hundred yards on a clear day with a scope, but that’s long-barrel shooting. With a handgun, I can’t hit a stationary target at ten yards. It’s so unpredictable—it aims wherever it wants.”
I fold my legs on the couch. My knees bump against his thigh. “It’s not the gun that’s unpredictable,” I say. “It’s you.”
He lifts his eyebrow audaciously. “Me?”
“Technically, it’s because of the shake.”
The side of his mouth curves upward. “The what?”
“You know, ‘the shake’ …”
He tilts his head, as if trying not to laugh.
I push his biceps. “Go get your SIG, sniper, I’ll show you.”
Aksel hops over the back of the sofa and disappears around the corner. He descends to the ground floor and, a few minutes later, reemerges with a SIG.
“How many guns do you keep?” I ask.
“Only my hunting rifle and this. I got rid of the rest after my dad died.” Aksel locks the slide back and passes it to me.
“First,” I say, “disassembly.” I take the SIG apart and point to the pistol components in my lap. “Magazine. Chamber. Slide. Barrel.”
Aksel whistles. “You do that fast.”
“It’s always easier with your eyes open.”
Aksel watches me with a disconcerted expression. My skin tingles.
I point to the grip. “A pistol is always a compromise of accuracy, power, and concealment. You can have one, but you compromise the other two—you can’t have all three. Understand?”
Aksel nods. I begin reassembling the SIG.
“Concealment is problematic for me because I don’t wear baggy clothes. And I don’t like too much power—I want accuracy. With a pistol, it’s important how the gun fits in your palm. The FN 5-7 has a nice grip; it gives me the most accurate shot. I prefer it over a SIG, but my dad prefers an HK45.”
“And your mom?” he quips.
“Beretta Tomcat in a thigh holster, but I’ve only seen her use it once.” I take his SIG in my hand.
“When you hold it …” I lift Aksel’s hand off my knee, keeping it steady in the air. My fingers graze the top of his. He smells so good—like pine and leather and sandalwood—I have to concentrate on what I’m trying to explain.
“… insert the magazine, load a bullet into the chamber, then tap, rack, and roll as usual. Now, you’ll want to hold it taut but loose, like you’re cradling a small bird, a swallow: don’t crush it but don’t let it get away. When you’re ready to shoot, aim like you would with a rifle, except control the shake.”
I put my hand out, palm down. “See it shaking? That’s the natural resting point of a hand—moving. With a Remington, the tremors in your hand are compensated for by the rifle lodged here …” I place my hand on his chest, my palm flat against his pecs. He smiles.
I force my voice not to quiver. “… distributing the shake throughout your muscular and skeletal systems, neutralizing it.” I draw my fingertips across his chest and down his arm to his fingertips.
Under Aksel’s intense stare, my breathing is heavy. His presence makes every nerve in my body feel like it’s been scorched.
“When you’re shooting a pistol,” I continue, “all the shaking in your fingers is concentrated into the trigger pull. If you want an accurate shot, you have to train yourself not to shake.” I hold my palm out again. Aksel frowns, putting his hand next to mine. His fingers twitch, nearly invisibly, but enough to affect aim at twenty