Chapter 9 #2
I just put my hand on his shoulder and say, “Let’s take a look around.”
We start at the check-in table. A volunteer looks between us with a clipboard in his hands.
“My name is Sabre, and this is Noah, my knife throwin’ partner. We’re here for the target range.”
“Our range is set up for BB guns, archery, and darts.”
“That’s fine. We brought our own target. We just need to reserve a lane.”
“Of course, gentlemen. The range opens at eleven. Station six is free.”
“We’ll take it,” Noah tells him.
I slip him the range fee and sign off on the liability waiver. We walk out of there, proud and happy. Roaming around, we eat snacks from vendors and see the sights.
When eleven o’clock rolls around, station six is properly set up with hay bales and a plywood backer. Noah takes the folded-up target out of his backpack. We spread it out and hang it in its proper place.
They’ve got a line painted on the grass showing where we should stand. We unroll the practice blades on the table. I lay down a set of blades he hasn’t seen before.
“What’s that one?” he asks curiously.
“This is your reward for reachin’ level one, the reason we reviewed your log so thoroughly after the last practice.
” I open it, revealing four brand-new practice blades, explaining, “These are of better quality than the blades you’ve been using.
They’re smaller, which means they will fit into your hands better.
Being able to get a better grip will increase your control over the blade. ”
His breath actually catches. “Now I’m working on level two, right?”
“Yes, sir, you are.” I hold his eyes. “Rules. Can you recite ‘em?”
He recites every one of them without hesitation. Never throw at anything alive. Never throw till the lane’s called clear. Blades stay in the roll till you’re at the line. Retrieve at a walk, never at a run. A blade is a tool, and a tool is only as serious as the hand holding it.
“Perfect,” I tell him. “Level two blades are earned, not given. Always remember that.”
Noah’s face lights up with pure happiness. I gesture towards the new knife roll. “You go first, sir.”
Noah’s small hands pull out one of the new blades, and he looks it over thoroughly. I watch as he walks up to the throwing line and executes his first throw. He hits the third ring of the target.
“Good job,” I tell him. “The more you throw, the better your aim will get.”
“Yes, sir,” he responds. Noah is like a knife throwing machine.
He throws his other knives, pulls them out of the target, marches back behind the line, and throws them again, one after another.
I just stand nearby, giving him pointers on his stance and what position to hold his arm in when he throws.
That’s about the time Braden arrives. I’ve seen this kid when I drop off and pick up Noah.
He’s a real pain. Today, he’s striding ahead of a larger man with a sunburn and a hat featuring the name of a local feed store.
I know the exact second he spots Noah because his face contorts into a mask of jealousy and contempt.
He looks at Noah’s vest and then at mine.
And as he gets closer, he watches him throw his knife almost into the bullseye.
By now, there’s a small crowd watching him throw.
The kid yells just loud enough to be heard over the din of the crowd, “Nice costume. Are you pretending to be a biker now?” When no one pays him any mind, he tries again. “What are you even doing here? This is for boys and dads. Everybody knows you don’t have a dad.”
The range goes quiet, and Noah freezes. I’m tempted to step in, but I don’t because Noah needs to learn to deal with his own bully.
He glances at me, and I give him a tiny nod. “You’ve got this, bud.”
Noah sets the blade down on the table first because I taught him to always put safety first. When he turns to face his longtime bully, I’m so fuckin’ proud of him. He looks Braden in the eye and says, “You’re wasting your breath when you make fun of me ‘cause I don’t care about what you think.”
Braden pushes him one more time, like they always do. “You’re a liar. You always look like you’re gonna cry.”
Noah turns away and picks up one of his knives, then throws it straight at the target, hitting the second ring. Glancing over his shoulder, he looks Braden straight in the eye. “Not today. I’ve got more fun things to do.”
Braden’s voice goes cold, and the little shit says, “He’s not your dad. You know that, right?”
I push myself off the tree, fighting my instinct to get involved. But I don’t. Instead, I stand there with a blank expression on my face while these two boys try to work their own issues out.
Without hesitation, Noah shoots back, “No, he’s the man who chose to show up for me. That’s what matters most to me.”
The large man wearing the hat with the feed store logo is standing behind Braden and hears every word.
His face is a mask of disappointment. He closes the distance between himself and the kid before speaking.
“Braden. Is this what you have been doin’ at school instead of learnin’?
I thought I raised you better than that. ”