and lets out his best yell.
“Damn. That hurt,” Mallory says, still rubbing her shoulder.
“Nice shot,” I say.
She turns to me, a challenge in her eyes. “You think you can do better?”
Dad taught me to shoot years ago, and Wayne’s twelve gauge isn’t any different from the one in Dad’s gun safe. But I also know Wayne. A couple of shotgun blasts could easily turn into our spending the next seven hours sitting in the back of his truck, drinking beer and listening to his stories. We’d be here until dawn.
“Okay, soldier boy,” Wayne says, holding the gun out to me. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“I’m not getting caught shooting a gun in the parking lot of a school,” I say.
Wayne and Sinclair consider the felonious nature of this statement briefly before laying into me. Asking if I need to go home for some quiet time. Whether my yoga practice is affecting my trigger finger. All that.
“How is that vegan diet?” Wayne asks.
I still haven’t moved when Mallory takes the gun from Wayne and says, “Sinclair, throw another bottle.” And this time it doesn’t get twenty feet from Sinclair’s hand before it explodes, raining glass everywhere.
“Hot damn!” Wayne nearly falls off the back of his truck with excitement. But she’s already jumping off the bed and walking to me, a taunt etched into her face and the shotgun in her hands.
“One shot and nobody will think you’re a punk.”
“You must have me confused with somebody else.”
“Somebody who’s a punk?”
“I think I’ve got a slingshot in the truck!” Sinclair laughs as he says it. I hesitate a second too long.
“I understand if you’re scared,” Mallory yells, for the world to hear. “Especially now that I’ve shown what’s what.”
“Hitting one is easy,” I say. “Anybody can do that. You hit two, three in a row? Then maybe I’m impressed.”
Mallory takes the challenge, eyeing me as she lifts the gun to her shoulder. She misses the next three bottles, each one smashing against the parking lot. At first she doesn’t look at me, just stands there for a second contemplating what she’s going to say next.
“Well, if you don’t shoot, you’re still a punk,” she says, handing the gun to Wayne.
It gets a hallelujah chorus from the idiots as Mallory scans me up and down, like “Let’s see what you can do.” If I don’t shoot, nothing happens. Maybe they give me hell for another fifteen minutes, and probably not even that long. But if I do shoot, if I miss I’ll never hear the end of it.
But I don’t think I’ll miss. Having a stock against my shoulder is like learning to ride a bike in most other families. You walk, you get a little age to you, you learn to shoot. BB guns, a hunting rifle: I’ve shot everything. As I’m going through all of this, I can’t think of a good reason not to take the challenge. And besides, it will be nice to finally win something with Mallory. Even if it took eighteen years to make it happen.
When I stand up, Mallory starts clapping, throwing her hands up in the air like she’s at church. Then she’s in my ear, taunting me, whispered put-downs that are halfhearted at best. I climb into the truck bed, trying not to listen to her or Wayne and Sinclair’s commentary on the state of my manhood as I reject the shotgun and pick up the .22 leaning against the truck instead.
“Throw three in a row,” I say, checking the sight and getting a feeling for the weight of the gun in my hands. “After I hit the first, throw the second, then the third. Okay?”
“That’s presumptuous,” Mallory says, but I ignore her.
When I nod to Sinclair, everything stops moving for a second. The first bottle is in the air, and all I can hear is myself breathing as I pull the trigger. The second, the third: all of them are taken from the sky one after another. When I drop the barrel of the gun, everyone’s silent for a second.
I smile as Mallory shakes her head, refusing to look at me.
“Well, at least I can rest easy knowing America’s going to be safe,” Wayne says, taking the gun and slapping me on the shoulder. “When do you leave, man?”
“Tomorrow,” I say.
“Oh, shit! Tomorrow? Like, tomorrow tomorrow?”
“I’ll be gone before the sun even comes up,” I say.
“See, Sinclair, that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Wayne says. “This right here is a man with plans.