Wilder Girls - Rory Power Page 0,42
want one.”
“Sure,” Reese says, frowning, “but it’s not like we can steal one from the supply closet without Welch noticing.”
A set of girls rambles by, on their way to wash their hair or steal some blankets or just be bored someplace new, and we give them a nod, a tight smile. Two are from the year below us, and the others are Sarah and Lauren from ours. I like Lauren, but Sarah’s the girl who stole my last clean uniform skirt and got me a dress code violation my third week here. I can’t stand the way she brags about her flare-up, either. One heart, two heartbeats—fantastic. She thinks it means she’ll live longer. I think it just means she’s that much more fucked.
“Hey, Hetty,” Lauren says, slowing down. “Do you know if we’re having target practice today?”
Welch would have said so at breakfast, and part of me wants to remind them of that, but I’m Boat Shift now. I’m the girl they come to with questions.
“Not today,” I say. “Have a good one.”
“ ‘Have a good one’?” Reese repeats under her breath, and I know if I look at her, I’ll see her holding back a smile.
Lauren looks a little disappointed, but she shrugs. “Thanks. See you, Hetty.”
“Look at you,” Reese says once they’re gone. “You’re like a politician. Or a mall greeter.”
It’s the way she’d tease me when Byatt was here, the same words, the same amused expression. But it’s softer somehow. Or at least, I don’t mind it.
I’m about to suggest we go back inside, maybe keep an eye on the storage closet and hope Welch leaves it unattended during the day, when Reese tugs on my sleeve. She nods over my shoulder, to where the barn is standing, empty and dark.
“Target practice,” she says. “There’s a gun we can take.”
“How?”
But she’s already walking, leaving a trail of footprints through the frost.
The barn’s empty this time of day. Just vacant stalls and dust drifting, and the sliding doors open to the sea, chilled wind whipping through. I follow Reese to the back, behind the bales of hay stacked to make a target, to a long-locked chest meant for saddles and stirrups. Now it’s where Welch keeps the shotgun we use for our lessons.
“Here,” Reese says, crouching in front of the chest. It’s only got one padlock, the kind with a dial and a combination, and it looks rusted, like it might be easy to break. Welch would notice if we smashed it, but I’m about to say that some things are worth the risk when Reese starts turning the dial, spinning to a set of three numbers: 3–17–03. Her birthday.
The lock clicks open, and she looks up at me with a grin. “My dad set the combo,” she says. “I figured Welch wouldn’t have changed it.” Reese lifts the lid and pulls the shotgun out from a pile of old tack, fishing for any loose ammo. “Now what?”
“We should hide it somewhere,” I say, still surprised at our luck, as she slips a pair of stray shells into her pocket, the metal clinging to her skin in the cold. We’ll only have two shots between us. “Near the fence, maybe, so it’s easy to grab on the way out.” There’s a copse of spruce trees off to the left of the gate, where some of the older girls used to bring their mainland boyfriends on visitor days. My face burns at the thought of going there with Reese, but we should be able to hide the gun there safely until tonight.
“All right,” Reese says, and holds the shotgun out to me. I take it, unsure, only for her to turn around and shrug off her jacket. I’d be shivering if I were her, but all she’s got are a few goosebumps down her arms. “Stick it in my waistband and we’ll run it up my back.”
It’ll work, but I can’t help a burst of nervous laughter. She looks over her shoulder at me. “What? You have a better way?”
Maybe it’s her willingness to do this with me, to risk her life for Byatt’s because I asked her to. Maybe it’s the line of her jaw or the lure of her hair. But she’s given me something, and I owe her something back. “Hey,” I say. “You want to learn to shoot?”
I’m expecting her to snap at me. Instead, she sounds carefully bland when she says, “I know how.”
“I mean on your other side.” A heartbeat