Chapter 21
Mireya
Play – Brooklyn Baby by Lana Del Rey
Teenage fever
Ethan, Hayzel and I are sitting on the same bench as yesterday. The large statue is still watching us as we eat our sandwiches.
Her wings are folded behind her, head bowed, eyes sad. They talk around me while I keep looking up at her. I wonder who decided to carve grief into stone.
I'd like to draw her.
“Ethan actually fell from his chair when we arrived, because he wanted to make sure no one would sit next to him,” Hayzel said, bringing me back into the conversation with a slight nudge. “He fell on his stupid ass, you should’ve seen it!”
“I fell because the chair was broken,” he said like it was a fact.
“Reya and I were sure you’d do something dumb before the first week ends.”
I laughed and high-fived Hayzel, as I kept eating my sandwich, trying to focus on them instead of her.
Ethan leaned back on the bench, eyes half-closed, smirking slightly. “You’re awfully quiet today,” he said, tilting his head toward me. “You didn’t smoke enough, Reya?”
I raised an eyebrow, unamused by his comment. Actually, I did not smoke that much today.
“Oh, come on,” he teased, glancing at Hayzel who’s enjoying her food.
“You can’t just sit there and act like a brick.
Tell me what’s going on.” I shrugged, taking a slow sip of my cold coffee.
He watched me for a long second, then leaned slightly forward, voice softer, almost careful.
“What’s going on, little head, am I too loud for you? ”
“I’m saving my energy to not shoot you during training, Bennett.”
He laughed, shaking his head.
Hayzel grinned, nodding. “Honestly… wouldn’t surprise me if you did,” she said.
I turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “We can even call that an accident,” I added, shrugging.
“True, they’d probably believe us.”
“I’m right in front of you, assholes,” he replied.
“We know,” we both answered in unison, and he just laughed and kept eating.
After a few minutes we were all done and Hayzel glanced at her watch. “Alright, break’s over. Let’s get moving before we’re late for firearm training.”
We rose, gathering our things, and reached the gates of the training area pretty quickly, the distant pop of gunfire already filling the place.
Heath’s coffee shop was one of my favorite places growing up. I’d stay there and check the CDs for hours and not go to some classes. It was a safe place, warm, music was always playing in the background. Heath would always offer me a chocolate drink and show me a lot of artists I never heard of.
I loved it.
Not far from it was a shooting range, the sound of shots always there and eventually, I stopped noticing it.
After my mother died, my father started leaving his gun out more often, but not by accident. I noticed the timing. I noticed how the house changed when it was visible. How he would use it to threaten me if I made him angry.
He never had to say much. I understood what it meant when he’d push it next to my head and scream to not piss him off.
So, I started going to the range when he was at work for the week. Edna was already taking care of Milo when I had to go to school. She took her retirement early on and helped me because I couldn’t just stay at home until he was old enough to start school too.
At first, I told myself I was just curious. Then I told myself it was practical. If he ever stopped threatening and actually decided to use it, I didn’t want to be completely helpless.
That felt reasonable. Responsible, even. I wasn’t trying to prove anything, I just wanted to be ready.
I was young and scared.
I went there for years, quietly, on my own, paid attention, remembered things. I couldn’t use it so I would just see people go there to train.
When I was old enough, I started using it.
I never told anyone about it, not even Hayzel. Most of the time I went there stressed, and I didn’t want to explain why it felt necessary.
It wasn’t a hobby, or confidence, it was insurance.
I never thought of it as fear, it felt like preparation.
Standing outside the training grounds now, waiting to go in, that same reasoning settled in my head. I was doing what I’d always done, making sure I wouldn’t be caught off guard and imagining what it would feel like to have to protect Milo from dad if one day he loses patience.
“I’m nervous,” Hayzel whispers in front of me.
My hand finds its way to her shoulder as I squeeze there before replying, “We’re just training, it’s gonna be okay.”
All the main instructors were there, moving between lanes, targets lined up, ear protection on, every student was ready and groups were formed per supervisors.
Hayzel was fussing over her straps, laughing, and Ethan was checking his weapon, tossing a grin my way.
I was loading my magazine when he stopped behind me. Mister Caldwell was here, leaning slightly over my shoulder as he helped adjust my gear.
“So,” he said quietly, voice just low enough for me, “are you still completely closed at the idea of helping me with the case?”
“Sir,” I replied flatly, “Harassing a student you barely know, really?”
There was a pause, followed by a quiet and deep laugh.
“I’m discussing a case with a student I think is brilliant,” he said, adjusting the strap of my vest with a quick movement. “Nothing more.”
“Of course,” I muttered, stepping half a pace forward, “Still a no.”
We took position on the line and he moved behind me to observe, posture straight, hands clasped behind his back like the others.
I raised the weapon, focused on the first target, breathing calmly. After my first shots, he leaned in slightly again toward me. Mister Caldwell is tall, he’s impressively tall and muscular. So, I’m sure no one is even noticing that he’s actually talking to me.
“You’re good,” he said quietly. “Who taught you that?”
I exhaled, finger off the trigger. “Professor, I have a gun in my hands. Wouldn’t you prefer asking personal questions when I’d be less of a danger to your life?”
He laughed under his breath, just once. “Fair point," and then stepped closer, still careful, still covering us to anyone watching. His foot nudged mine outward, firm and quick, opening my stance by a few inches.
“Wider, Miss Vitelli,” he murmured. “You’re locking your hips. Let the recoil travel.”
I adjusted without looking at him.
“Relax your shoulders,” he continued. “Try again.”
I fired again. Better grouping this time.
“See?” He said. “You listen.”
“Only when it’s useful,” I replied.
A corner of his mouth lifted, and he moved away, correcting another student, but I felt his attention even when he wasn’t there. A glance when I reset. A nod when I adjusted my grip on my own.
Hayzel caught my eye two lanes over and mouthed, ‘showoff.’
The session wrapped quickly after that, weapons cleared, targets lowered, and instructors called time.
As I slung my bag over my shoulder, I felt his gaze again. Then he turned away.
This man will cause me trouble, and I don’t know exactly how, but I’m sure of it.