Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
Marcus decides that the best way to spend our Saturday morning is to have Valencia shop for the barbecue while he takes Easton
and me to a gun range. Father-son bonding over guns? It’s very heteronormative and I already hate it.
My real parents never had a gun. And knowing this one is even in the house—with someone who may have killed the real Nate—terrifies
me. In fact, this whole trip feels more and more like an intimidation tactic.
When we arrive at the gun range, Easton presents the person behind the counter with his ID—I don’t need one since I’m a minor
and Marcus is responsible for me—and chooses a handgun to rent. They charge him for a box of bullets, then hand over ear protection
and a target, and tell him he can go to the range, where someone will meet him to go over the rules.
Marcus tells them we’re hanging back because he’s going to show me how to properly handle a weapon first. Then he puts a locked
box on the counter and the guy behind it watches as he unlocks it, then shows him the gun inside—the one I found in a Cole
Haan shoebox even though this box exists somewhere—and that it’s not loaded.
The guy reminds him not to load it outside the shooting area and Marcus nods and buys a second box of bullets and a target. I take the orange plastic ear protection the clerk hands over and Marcus leads me to a seating area where another man is cleaning a big, terrifying rifle.
“Don’t worry,” Marcus says. “I’m not the hunting type, so you don’t have to worry about those.”
I must have shown my thoughts on my face. “I don’t really like guns period.”
“Well, you shouldn’t,” he says as he unlocks the handgun’s trigger. “Guns are dangerous. We only have this one because it
helped your mother feel safer.”
“How bad was she? When I was abducted, I mean.” I want to see how Marcus reacts to my question. Because he should look at
me skeptically if he knows I’m not really Nate. Right?
But he doesn’t even flinch as he sets the trigger lock down on the table between us. “How bad do you think? She’s your mother
and you disappeared. She could only hope for the best for so long before she had to fear the worst.” His eyes drop to the
gun in his hand. He pulls the top back and clicks something with his fingers. Then he pulls it forward and the top of the
weapon slides off.
He looks at it, then at the rest of the disassembled gun in his hand, and blows into it before putting the top back on. It’s
like a nervous tic. Something he’s doing to distract himself from what he’s saying because he’s uncomfortable.
“What about you?” I ask. “Didn’t you have the same hope?”
He stops and looks at me. Hesitates. Then his shoulders slump. “Of course I did.”
I stare at him as he stares back. I don’t break eye contact, no matter how awkward it feels.
I want him to break first. To stutter or say something he might regret later.
Something, anything, that might prove he was a part of this.
Or that he at least knows for a fact I’m not Nate. Because he knows Nate is dead.
And he does look away first. He puts the gun down, gently, on the tabletop.
“Nate,” he says, still avoiding my eyes. “I did hope. But my experience in life is different. I see how this stuff goes all
the time, and usually after a certain point, things get hopeless.”
“But not for our family,” I say, pushing him.
He finally looks up at me, surprised. Then he smiles. He puts his elbow on the table and rests his chin on his palm, shaking
his head at me.
“Yeah, bud,” he says. “I guess for us it was different.” He sighs, and if I weren’t suspicious about his involvement in his
own son’s death—if there weren’t a gun on the table between us like a threat—this could be a nice father-son bonding moment.
Or maybe it’s another side effect of Valencia making me feel so loved. I might be looking for a way to excuse my suspicions
about Marcus.
“Listen.” Marcus leans back, crossing his arms. “I’m sorry I got so mad about the car.” The car we drove here that looks exactly
how it did before someone framed me for spilling paint on it. “It’s just stuff. I’m happy you’re back, kiddo. And I’m sorry
I let my temper get the best of me.”
Maybe he senses that I’m about to ask him if that means he believes me, because he returns his attention to the weapon.
“Okay. This is called the slide.” He picks up the gun and pulls the top back and turns the chamber in my direction so I can see there isn’t a bullet in there waiting for me. “First rule, always assume the gun is loaded. You pull the slide to check.”
He picks up the empty clip from the table and puts it in the handle.
“Then you check the clip.” He clicks something on the side and the clip slides out. Then he puts it all back together and
places it on the table. “Now you try it.”
I pick up the gun and again it feels heavy in my hand. I try to pull the top back, but Marcus puts his hand on top of mine.
“Not there, you’ll pinch your fingers.” He moves my hand and adjusts my grip. I pull back the slide and look again in the
empty chamber. Part of me half expected a bullet to be in there. Like this was all a trick and he was setting me up.
I press the little button on the side of the handle and the clip slides out, clattering to the table. Marcus grabs it but
tells me good, then holds out his hand. I give the gun back.
“Second rule is the safety. So remember, to start, always assume the gun is loaded.” He tilts it over and points to a lever
on the side of the weapon. “This is the safety.”
He flicks it and a red dot appears under it.
“Red means dead. It means the safety is off. So you should always assume the safety is off. But if you see the red dot, you
know for sure it’s off. Repeat what I just said.”
“Red means dead.”
He nods. “Red means dead.” Then he locks the safety into place again. He stands. “Come on, I’ll have the range teach you how to stand and shoot. They’ll do it better than I would.”
I follow him out the door to the range, putting on my ear protection. But despite what Marcus said to me before showing me
the gun, I can’t shake the thought that this whole exercise is a threat.
A warning that if I step out of line . . .
Red means dead.
I half listen to the bearded guy talking about gun range etiquette—“Don’t point the gun at anyone” being such an obvious rule
that I really don’t think you should have to say it, but here we are.
Then he takes me to a little cubby next to Easton, who is shooting slowly and methodically. Gun Range Guy shows me how to
load the gun, how to clip my target on the reel, and how to send it back. He moves it close for me—about twenty feet away—and
in the next lane over, I see Easton’s is all the way at the back of the range in front of a massive mound of sand meant to
catch the bullets.
The guy shouts loud enough that I can hear him through my ear protection and over the muffled sounds of gunshots.
It’s overwhelming, so I nod, and when he tells me to give it a shot—pun intended?—I hold up the gun. His hands wrap around
mine and he manipulates my fingers into the correct position, telling me if I pulled the trigger like that, the top of the
gun might pinch the skin between my thumb and forefinger. I shiver and he tells me to go ahead.
I pull the trigger, but nothing happens. The man reaches out and tells me good job for keeping the safety on. I try again.
The gun jumps in my hand in a way I’m not prepared for, and for a second I’m worried I’ll drop it. It’s so powerful it makes
my heart race and my hands tingle. I put it down and shake my head.
I don’t want to do this. I hate guns.
Marcus leans down and yells next to my ear protection, “It’s okay. It’s a lot at first, but you’ll get used to it.”
I don’t want to get used to it. But Marcus picks up the gun and holds it out to me again.
I hold it tighter, square up, and squeeze the trigger. This time the bullet hits the target. Or at least the paper. It puts
a large hole in the bottom right corner of the sheet. But the terrifying part is the target doesn’t even flutter with the
impact. The bullet rips through and continues into the sand pile.
There are still eight bullets left in the clip, so I aim for the center of the target and pull the trigger a few quick times.
Again, the guy from the range corrects me and tells me to adjust between each shot.
Adrenaline is coursing through my veins. I feel like I’m back at the convenience store, getting caught for shoplifting. My
old life and my new one blending into some adrenaline-fueled nightmare.
By the time I empty the clip, my heart rate seems to have regulated. Marcus has me reload the gun and tells me to shoot the
target.
It takes seven more shots, but I hit the bull’s-eye. Marcus cheers and claps me on the shoulder, and I can’t help but feel
a little bit proud.