ELISE ROE:
I was not a good shot.
We spent the first few hours in a shooting range, rows and rows of targets. The sound. Deafening. Even with my earmuffs on. The sound in my chest, my ribcage.
The first time I did it, I almost dropped the gun.
My wrists were anticipating the kickback, that’s what the leader said. That’s why I was so off.
“You own the tool,” he barked, “not the other way around.”
Sweat on my palms. Sulfur and brass in the back of my throat. I aligned my sights. Inhale, finger on the trigger. Exhale, pull.
Closer. But not to standard. Think of Mom. Think of Dad.
Again. Sights. Inhale. Exhale. I winced. I pulled. My shot was even worse.
Part of me was a little relieved. Maybe I’d fail the tests, go home and never have to leave for the Run-downs. I could tell myself I tried. I could go back to my filing job and tell myself it’s for the better.
I’d be lying.
I leaned to the side, watched the rest of the men aim and fire. Foot back, tight wrists. I adjusted my boots, copied their stance.
Again. Sights, inhale, exhale, boom.
Right next to bullseye. I lowered my gun.
You promised not to do this.
I was doing it.
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Ten minutes later, we clustered around a fighting ring. Someone led us through a sequence. He punches. You block, pull, and sweep your foot. He ends up on the floor. You end up with one knee on his back.
Chaos taught me something like this. Except, she taught me to go for kneecaps. For throats and eyes. I wondered if she’d be proud. If she’d whisper excited words into my ear: aren’t you glad you listened? You’ll beat them all. They won’t even know what hit them.
Or maybe she hated me for being here. The way Andi must’ve hated me.
“Roe. You’re up.”
I stepped into the ring with a man named Phil. We practiced slowly. I blocked, pulled, swept my foot. The leader clapped his hands twice. Again. Now I was the one throwing the punch.
Then full speed, full power.
It’s very different, in case you’re wondering. Everything happens in a blink, a tiny gasp. BlockPullSweepKnee. Phil hit the ground with a thud. My knee on his back. Both of our shoulders falling and rising.
Two claps. Switch places.
I threw my punch, and he blocked. But his palm went too far, popped me in the mouth.
Pennies.
I was pushed to the floor. Knee in my back.
The men around the ring made a low oooh sound, like something deflating. It took me a second to notice the blood on the mat. My blood.
Phil pulled me up, clapped me on the back. “Busted your lip open. My bad, man.”
I was handed a sheet of paper towel. Hands and knees, clean it up. Thud, thud, thud in my throat. Blood dripped from my face, onto my shirt, my hands.
Worth it. I told myself this was worth it.
The next pair stepped over me.
Back on the concrete, watching another sequence in the ring. Block, pull sweep, knee.
Think of Mom. Think of Dad. Not Ivy and her wounded expression. Not the congealed blood on my neck.
Someone poked my shoulder. Nik. He handed me a tissue. I dabbed at my face, my shirt, pressed it against my lip.
“Why are you doing this?”
His eyes pinched. “Helping you?”
“Yeah.” My voice was rough. “What do you want?”
He looked down at his boots. “You remind me of her.”
“Who?”
He shrugged. “My sister.” Two claps. The people in the ring switched places. “Before the debt and all that. You’re like what she could’ve been.”
I blinked a few times.
What do you say to that? Thank you? I’m sorry?
I said, “Oh.”
He added, “It’s not a crime to be nice.”
I smiled a little at that. My lip stung.
Someone called his name, and Nik glanced around. “Wish me luck. I’m next.”
He pushed to the front of the ring.
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Home. Andi didn’t even say anything. His eyes fell to my swollen lip, then to the blood on my collar. He didn’t say anything, but I could see it in his expression. Flat. A resigned I told you so.
He soaked a rag, wrung it out until I thought he’d rip the material. Placed it in my hands. Didn’t ask if I was okay. Didn’t care how it happened.
“Andi, I—”
“Rice on the counter.” He didn’t even look at me, just walked off to his room.
Where was Chaos? Ivy? Were they upstairs, crouching by the banister, listening to me pull back my chair?
Alone at the table. I wished he’d yell, curse, slam the door. At least I’d have something to push back on. Something to fight for. You can’t fight resignation.
I pushed away my bowl. Not hungry. I wet the rag, tried to wipe away the sweat, the grime. The crease of my neck was raw from my stiff uniform. What I wouldn’t do for a shower.
I walked upstairs. Sat on my bed and pressed my knees against my chest. Crickets chirped in the night, and the wind winded through the trees. Picture Mom, picture Dad. Picture their hands in yours. Walking them to the front door.
What if Andi was right? Was I really doing this for nothing?
Tomorrow I’d wake up, do it all over again.
I didn’t think I’d cry, but the tears came slowly, and then flooded. The way blood comes out when you scrape your knee. Face in my pillow.
I choked out, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”
Who did I hate? Andi? The Corps? Myself?
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and then Add to home screen.