Lisa
Slowly squeezing the trigger, the .300 Winchester rifle kicks back against my shoulder as a round is propelled downrange. The concussing boom—caused by igniting gun powder in the bullet’s brass shell—makes me flinch. Having shot hundreds of rounds in my lifetime, I still haven’t become immune to being startled by that sound.
Following the second that it takes for my eyes to blink, the miniature watermelon that was my target explodes into a red and green shower of rind and pulp.
“Good shot, honey,” my father says while patting me on the back. “One shot, one kill.”
As we both stand up from our crouched position, he hands me a forty caliber Sig Sauer pistol. The weight of the gun in my hand feels empowering.
I understand the responsibility that comes with having a firearm, but holding one makes me feel like it’s a superpower because it allows me to defend against any enemy. A large, bodybuilding criminal could attack me, and while a small Japanese girl like myself is no match for him physically, the gun transforms me into an equal adversary. Despite that power, it’s a scenario I hope that I never encounter. I’m not sure I could ever shoot another human being. Well, I’d probably make an exception if my mother’s murderer was standing in front of me.
In reality, I don’t think I’ll ever really be attacked by anyone, let alone have my life in danger. Since my mother was murdered shortly after I turned three, the reality is that anything can happen. That’s why my father has been training me to defend myself since my seventh birthday.
Before my memory conjures up the few, vague memories I have of my mother, I am startled once again, only this time from Dad slapping me on the back.
“Quickly, shoot the cans to your left,” he says, pointing at the new targets.
I turn swiftly toward the wooden fence that supports six empty soup cans. I bring my left hand up underneath my right for support, then carefully squeeze the trigger six times. Five of the six cans are thrust off of the fence by the force of the bullets, while a single Campbell’s chicken noodle remains.
“Well done, honey. Not perfect, but well done none the less.”
I frown at his stating the obvious.
A chilly breeze begins blowing through the yellow, recently harvested open field we stand in. The cotton, long-sleeved shirt that I’m wearing is not enough to defend against the invading cold. Goose bumps overtake the hairs on my arms and order them to stand at attention.
Picturing my arm hairs standing at attention like disciplined soldiers, I roll my eyes. I’ve been so ingrained with military vocabulary and imagery, it’s hard to imagine anything else.
While my father only spent six years in the Army, everything he had learned during that time left a lasting impression on him; especially the survival training. He taught me everything he knew, that way I would be better prepared for any dangerous situation—no matter how unlikely.
Marksmanship practice is one of my favorite pastimes, but I’m too distracted thinking about my first day at a new school tomorrow. I know that my nerves and wandering thoughts are affecting my accuracy on the makeshift range.
“Dad, can we call it a day? I want to make sure I have everything ready for school tomorrow. You know, some R & R.”
He hesitates a moment before answering me, as if I have something else to say. He can probably tell that I’m cold, but I’m not about to admit it. I also don’t want to let on how nervous I am about my first day of school. “What does that acronym mean again?”
“Rest and relaxation, Dad.”
“Well done. Okay . . .” he says, checking his olive-green banded watch, “sure. I kind of lost track of time. It’s almost eighteen hundred hours and we still need to get chow started.”
Thank goodness.
We begin walking back to the truck in silence. Orange and red maple leaves fall around us, floating and twirling down to the ground. There are almond and walnut orchards a few hundred yards away. We walk down a gravel road toward our F-150 pickup parked a quarter mile away. I notice he too is admiring the weather on this autumn afternoon. The sky has become orange and yellow from the sun low on the horizon.
“So, this is a nice spot for target practice, right?” he asks.
I reach up and pull the scrunchy off my ponytail. My hair falls down to my shoulders and a few strands from my bangs land in my mouth. I spit them out before responding to him. “Yeah, it is. Whose property is it?”
“My boss, Mr. Henderson, owns the fields and orchards around here. I started a conversation about local shooting ranges, and he said we could come out here to shoot anytime. He’s a real nice guy.”
“Awesome. He sounds nice.”
“What are you going to be for Halloween?” Dad asks. He has a way of jumping from one topic to the next without much of a transition.
I look at him with my eyebrows raised. “Are you serious? I didn’t even realize how close it is to Halloween. Not like we haven’t been preoccupied with moving or anything.”
I’m not expecting to go out on Halloween. It’s only a few weeks away, and I don’t usually make friends all that fast. We usually just stay home together and watch scary movies. Sometimes we dress up for fun, but we haven’t even mentioned it this year.
“You need someone to trick or treat with. You haven’t done that in a couple years, honey. You’re going to be too old for treating soon.”
“Yeah . . . well . . . maybe I am too old already. It’s more fun scaring trick or treaters that come to the door, anyway. Who would you watch horror movies with if I did go out?”
“Your mother loved Halloween. She wouldn’t have let you give up celebrating it until you moved out on your own, and even then . . . . I feel like we let her down when we don’t keep up with old traditions.”
I look over at him and shake my head. “No, Dad. We’re not letting her down. Things are just different now. I think she’s aware of that. She just wants us to be happy.”
I return to my thoughts, imagining my first day of school. I have avoided thinking about it until now because it gives me anxiety. The whole process of meeting people is difficult for me. I’m not shy, but I do have a hard time making friends because I can’t relate to most kids. I’ve never taken a selfie or posted a status online, and I don’t care about fashion. On the other hand, most people I meet don’t know the difference between a round nose and a hollow point bullet, or a forty caliber and a nine-millimeter handgun.
For that reason, there isn’t much room for conversation or bonding, so I focus on school and training. I can handle being on my own, but I would really like to have at least one really good friend. I’ve always wanted to experience a sleepover, where we stay up all hours of the night talking about boys and sharing our secrets with one another. Someone I can confide in that won’t just see me as a tomboy with a tragic childhood.
God bless my dad for taking care of me on his own, but he raised me like a tomboy. I know why he did, but I still wish my mother was alive so that she could show me how to be more of a girly-girl. I wouldn’t mind having a mother that was in the parent-teacher association, or that would take me to ballet classes. I don’t even know the first thing about makeup. I would give anything to have the best of both worlds, and I know that my father would, too.
Reaching the truck, I open the passenger door and climb in. The warm interior orders my goose bumps to stand down. My body feels comfortable and relaxed. I don’t put up a fight as my eyelids slowly close while Dad puts the guns in the truck bed. Just as a dream begins, he startles me awake by climbing in the truck.
“Whoa,” he says, reacting to my body jolting awake. “You must be pretty tired, honey.”
“Yeah, I’m feeling pretty tired all of a sudden. I just hope I’m not behind in schoolwork after transferring between schools.”
“This is the fourth school you have transferred to in your short lifetime. I feel good about this one. I’m almost sure that we won’t have to move anymore, honey. You’re a smart girl, a good person, and I personally know how compassionate you are. I want you to make a lot of friends this time.”
The ignition turns over, revving the engine up. The rear tires kick up gravel as we begin driving home.
“I’m perfectly fine being on my own with you, Dad. I have a whole lifetime ahead of me to meet people.” I sure hope he’s right, though.
