The Inside Battle

by Melanie Sumrow

  My face flushes with embarrassment, but then I notice the unprotected ball. “Go,” I blurt and push off on my right foot, hoping to catch her off guard. Too bad I’m me.

  My left foot slips on the damp grass; my arms flail but I’m on the ground, landing hard on my back, before I can stop her.

  There’s the thump again, followed by another score.

  “That’s two,” she says like I can’t count that high.

  I sit, my hands and boots pressing into the ground in frustration. Pieces of grass stick to my hands. My backside is wet from the dew. Heat flickers across my skin.

  She returns to center with the ball as I stand and brush the grass from my pants. She’s not even breathing hard.

  “Come on, Rebel!” Josiah yells from the porch. He’s cupping his hands around his mouth. “You’re letting her win!”

  Letting her? I wipe my forehead on the shoulder of my T-shirt and try to stay calm. I take a deep breath and exhale. One more score and I’m finished. One more and I never get to see her again. I can’t let that happen. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Oh, no. You can’t back out now,” she says, cutting me off. “A bet’s a bet.”

  I shake my head. I take another breath. She thinks I’m talking about the soccer game. Why is this so hard? “That’s not what I mean.”

  Calliope puts her foot on top of the ball, like she’s ready to sink the final goal and get rid of me for good.

  “I’m not like them,” I say.

  Calliope’s jaw tightens. She draws the ball backward with the sole of her shoe, and then she punts. Hard, as if she’s imagining it’s my face. It sails between the cones.

  “Game over,” she says, gruff, before rushing toward the cabin.

  Leaving me alone.

  SIXTEEN

  Game over? “Hey,” I call after her. “I wasn’t ready.” Why wasn’t I ready?

  Calliope is already stomping up the ramps.

  “That last one doesn’t count,” I argue, hoping Josiah will help me.

  He says nothing; she’s almost to the porch.

  I follow her, trying to catch up. “Please,” I say. “I didn’t know they would do that.”

  She’s not even giving me a chance to explain.

  My hands clench from the unfairness. “What was I supposed to do, huh?”

  Calliope stops mid-ramp. She spins around, her arms crossed. “If you have to ask, you’re even dumber than you look.”

  I flinch.

  “Calliope,” Josiah finally speaks and then shakes his head.

  “What?” she asks, her arms hugging her body.

  “‘Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.’”

  She rolls her eyes. “Are you really going to quote the Bible to me now?”

  Slow to anger? I take a couple of deep breaths and feel the heat escaping.

  “You should hear the boy out,” Josiah says, touching her elbow as she reaches the porch. “He did come all the way over here.”

  She rolls her eyes again.

  “Thank you,” I say as I join them on the porch.

  “And then, if you’re still unhappy with what he has to say, you can throw him out like yesterday’s trash.” He turns to me with one eyebrow raised.

  Thanks a lot.

  Calliope huffs and drops into the rocking chair. It creaks as she moves—back and forth, back and forth. “Fine, I’m listening,” she says, without looking at me, glaring straight ahead.

  Josiah gestures, encouraging me to talk. My tongue is dry. I wipe my hands on my pants and suddenly feel self-conscious. My fingers come away from my legs as I realize I’m staring at the knots in Josiah’s pants.

  Calliope clears her throat with impatience.

  “I—I didn’t know,” I sputter. “I mean, I knew.” This is why I don’t speak.

  Calliope stops rocking. She grinds the toe of her shoe into the porch, like she’s had enough.

  “I came here with my dad,” I admit. “He wanted to get away from stuff.” I swallow hard, choosing not to confess I wanted to get away from stuff, too. “I thought I could help him. But he joined this group.”

  “The Flag Bearers?” Josiah asks.

  I nod. “Everything’s so messed up.” I turn to him. “I’m so sorry Dwight did that to you—spit on you, I mean—and that my dad said those things.”

  Josiah shakes his head. “It’s not your apology to make, son.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “Because he’s a man of God,” Calliope answers. “Me, on the other hand . . .” She gives her head an abrupt shake and returns to rocking, her jaw clenched.

  There’s a low rumble of thunder in the distance; the quiet on the porch is almost unbearable. I don’t know where to begin. What are the right words? How do you say what’s been pulsing in your mind for weeks? Years? I wish she’d save me and rattle off trivia or that Josiah would quote scripture again.

  “War messes with a man’s head,” Josiah says instead, surprising me.

  “What do you mean?”

  Josiah gazes across the field of red flowers, almost like he’s in a daze. “You leave as one person and come back as another.”

  It’s hard to imagine him as anything but what he is: kind.

  Calliope slides forward in her chair. “Were you different before the war?”

  “Sure was,” he says. “And when I came home, my life didn’t quite fit together the same as it used to. Everyone had moved on with their lives, while mine had been forever changed.” Josiah stares at his legs. “It was too much for me. I knew I had to get away from everyone.” Suddenly, he winks at Calliope. “Except for your grandmother, of course. She knew how badly I needed this, so she abandoned the comforts of living in town to move to this empty valley with me.” He laughs to himself. “Here she was such a fine southern lady. She loved to entertain—Sunday dinners, Wednesday-night Bible studies. And she gave those things up for me.” He points. “I’m guessing like Rebel is doing for his dad now.”

  My cheeks warm. He makes it sound so noble, which I’m definitely not.

  Josiah shrugs. “I suppose, deep down, I knew I needed the space to clear my head.”

  “My dad says he needs that, too.”

  “It’s not uncommon with guys who’ve seen battle.” Josiah crosses his hands over his lap. “But eventually, things started to make a little more sense. Breathing became easier.” A smile brightens his face as he gestures toward the meadow. “I found God in this valley. My faith, along with some group counseling, helped me through.”

  I shift, uncomfortable. Josiah found God out here; Dad found the Flag Bearers. “My dad won’t go to counseling,” I admit, feeling an instant mixture of relief and shame for saying it out loud.

  Josiah nods like he understands. “It’s a struggle many veterans face. We’re told we should be happy to be alive. People think we should be grateful to be back home. And we are, but that attitude also leaves folks feeling ashamed, scared, or too angry to ask for help.”

  Calliope tilts her head. “But that doesn’t excuse ignorance, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Josiah agrees. “But it can explain why Rebel’s dad feels like he still has to fight an enemy, even if it’s one of his own making.” Josiah turns to me and points the direction of his shed. “Your dad’s like that bee from the other day.”

  I shake my head, not understanding.

  “The one that stung Rebel?” Calliope asks.

  “Precisely,” Josiah says.

  I look between them, confused. “My dad’s like—a honeybee?”

  “Oh, I get it,” she says, sitting up in her chair. “Did you know a honeybee dies after it stings someone?”

  I’m relieved she’s spouting trivia again, but I still don’t understand what they’re saying. It’s like they’re tossing out puzzle pieces without showing me the picture on the box.

  “And remember how I said you didn’t need to slap
it?” she adds.

  “O-kay.”

  “Your dad is like that bee.” She puts a finger to the side of her head. “He only thinks he’s defending himself. But he’s not.”

  “He’s not,” I say, still not fitting everything together.

  Josiah shakes his head. “He’s on a path of self-destruction.”

  And suddenly, it’s like he’s flipped the last puzzle piece. Everything fits. Dad only thinks he’s protecting himself. “He’s been so busy defending himself, he doesn’t realize he’s actually hurting himself.”

  Josiah nods somberly. “When fear is at the center of your life, it’s impossible to be your best self.”

  Calliope points to me. “Can I ask you something?”

  I immediately nod.

  “Do you think you’re better than me?”

  “Of course not,” I say, thumbing toward the lawn. “I think you just proved that.”

  Calliope smiles, but it quickly fades. “You know that’s not what I mean. You can’t just stand there when people act like that. Like we’re not even people.”

  I know she’s right. “But what was I supposed to do? They’re grown men. Not to mention the fact they have guns.”

  “Shouldn’t you be used to the guns by now?”

  “No.” I shake my head vigorously and then wonder, turning toward Josiah. “Do you own a gun?” I hold my breath for the answer.

  “Don’t believe in them.”

  I exhale. “I hate them,” I admit softly.

  Josiah rolls a little closer, looking like he’s figured something out about me, too.

  My pulse jumps. He’s going to ask me why I hate them. My hands are sweaty.

  “You know, sometimes, if we talk about things, it’s easier to let them go.”

  I reach back, clutching the poles of the porch railing.

  Josiah shrugs. “Your choice.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Seems to me it does,” Calliope says.

  “It’s nothing. It was a long time ago.” My hands slip from the railing. “Dad took me on a hunting trip when I was about eight, maybe nine, that’s all.”

  “That’s about how old I was the first time,” Josiah says, his tone nudging.

  “It was cold.” I shiver from the memory of how cold it was. “We saw her breath before we saw the moose.” I can still hear her gentle snorting sounds. “We were hiding inside of a deer blind when she came up to the feeder.”

  “Had you ever shot a gun before?” Josiah asks.

  “Not really,” I answer. “I guess Dad had shown me how to fire the rifle before then, but I really don’t remember.” My stomach turns. “I just know he told me to shoot.”

  “So you missed,” Calliope says, gripping the arms of her rocking chair.

  “There was a loud boom, but I didn’t kill her.” I hit her in the chest; it went through her back. She kept stumbling around for what seemed like forever. “Blood was everywhere.” My heart thumps fast. Red was on the ground. On the leaves. She was making these horrible sounds. “I dropped the rifle. Dad yelled at me.”

  The gun had changed me, gave me a power I shouldn’t have. I was crying. I guess I hadn’t thought it through. Hunting sounded like something cool you did with your dad, but I didn’t know what it meant. “It was cruel to leave her like that,” I say.

  But I couldn’t shoot her again. I couldn’t put her out of her misery. “Dad finished her.” From then on, I refused to go hunting with him. It made him angry—really angry—but I saw what a gun could do.

  “Sometimes, things aren’t as easy as we think,” Josiah reasons.

  I bite the inside of my cheek and wipe my eyes.

  “So what? You don’t like guns,” Calliope says, pointing the direction of the Flag Bearers’ camp. “You must agree with them if you stay there.”

  The heat is instant. “I already told you.”

  “Did you?” she asks. “That’s your problem.”

  The heat spreads to my face. “What? What’s my problem?” I ask harshly.

  “You don’t ever say what you’re thinking,” she says, even louder. “Not really.”

  My breath huffs in disagreement, even though I know she’s telling the truth.

  “If you think he’s wrong, you should tell him.”

  I tense another notch.

  “Complacency is the same as affirmation,” Josiah adds calmly.

  Calliope gestures toward him. “He’s right, you know. If you don’t speak up, you might as well agree with him.”

  “But I’m just me,” I argue. “I don’t agree, but I’m not any good at that stuff. I never know what to say. Obviously.”

  Josiah presses his hands together, as if in prayer. “The Psalms tell us: ‘God ordains strength out of the mouths of babes.’” He nods at me. “The voices of children matter, especially since they are often the only carriers of truth.”

  “But how do I tell him?”

  “In your own words,” Josiah says, like that helps.

  “Do you like acting like a soldier?” Calliope asks.

  Thunder sounds in the distance; I shake. “I hate it,” I admit, which is the easiest thing I’ve confessed so far.

  Her face softens. “Then tell him.”

  “How?”

  “In your own way.”

  My own way. I glance at my black boots and camo pants. This is not me. But how can I tell Dad without hurting him?

  Josiah rolls toward the door. “Since it seems the bulls have finally come out of the china shop, I should probably get back to preparing tomorrow’s sermon.”

  Calliope springs from her chair. It rocks on its own as she opens the door for him.

  “Pastor Josiah,” I say.

  He stops in the doorway

  “I really am sorry about what happened at the farmers market.”

  “I know, son,” he says with a nod and then closes the door, leaving Calliope and me on the porch.

  There’s an awkward silence, followed by the sound of thunder. Lightning flashes over the meadow. “You better go,” she says, her voice flat.

  My heart sinks, but I still dare to ask, “Can I see you again?” I’m afraid to ask and afraid not to. She did win the bet.

  Calliope crosses her arms. “I think that depends on you.”

  At least it’s not a no. My shoulders lift. I know what I have to do.

  SEVENTEEN

  Thunder claps; the trees around our cabin shake. My heavy boots thump against the porch as I breathe in the thick air of the coming storm and step inside.

  Dad’s snores roll from the upstairs loft. I breathe again. Calliope says I have to talk to him in my own way. His snores are long and deep. Looks like I have a little more time to figure out how.

  I approach our table, taking in Dad’s war scene. The sand, the soldiers, the smoke, and the girl waving on the side of the road. Why is she there?

  The rain starts outside, pattering millions of leaves. I examine the table for clues. The line of trucks on the road. Soldiers running from a building with cottony smoke. And then I spot the new addition—the gun trained on the girl. The soldier standing on the passenger seat of the Jeep, aiming his weapon right at her.

  I shiver and back away from the table, tapping my pocket out of nervous habit.

  But my phone’s not there. I know Dad said he tossed it, but maybe he’s actually hidden it. If it still works, maybe I can find a place with service and call Aunt Birdie.

  While Dad snores, I quietly check the drawers of the kitchen, but there’s only silverware in one and a Sharpie, a pencil, and a mousetrap in another. I move to the remaining boxes Dad had ordered me not to unpack and check over my shoulder.

  He’s still asleep upstairs, so I gently pull the tape from the nearest box. It’s filled with rectangular things wrapped in newspapers—picture frames. I lift one from the box and pull off the wrapping. Mom’s picture is right on top.

  It’s the one where she’s laughing at Cadillac Ranch. I
smile. It’s like looking in the mirror—pale skin and tiny freckles on her cheeks. The only difference? Her eyes. Mine are green like Dad’s.

  It’s almost as if she’s staring right at me. It’s like she’s taken one look at the clothes I’m wearing and sees right through me. If she were here, she’d tell me to be myself. That’s what she always told me to do, even though sometimes it’s hard.

  She told me I should show people who I am, even Dad. I thought it would be easier to pretend. But pretending doesn’t seem to work—not really—especially since we’ve been here.

  Maybe Calliope is right: Maybe it’s time to tell him the truth.

  Quietly, I remove the box of pictures from the top of the stack to get to the crates underneath. I find the one holding the pieces of QUEN-10 and the other crate holding my spare parts. Since the table is covered by Dad’s war scene, I move to the kitchen with my supplies.

  I take a chair from the table and sit, pulling myself as close to the countertop as I can. Gently, I disassemble the remaining parts of QUEN-10, laying them along the surface and then grabbing new ones from the crate: an EV3 brick, wires, color sensors, and the parts to make dog gears. My hand shuffles the pieces, tapping them as I assemble and rearrange them in my mind.

  For the first time in weeks, a buzz of excitement runs through me. This is who I am. I’ll build something better than ever before and show Dad, and he’ll finally understand why we can’t stay.

  I open the drawer to retrieve the Sharpie and tear a flap from the cardboard box of pictures. I sketch a rough blueprint in red ink on the cardboard, careful to keep my marker from squeaking and waking Dad. I don’t want him to see it until I’ve finished.

  After I have my robot mapped out, I write his name at the top of the sketch, underlining it three times. I cradle his rectangular brain in the palm of my hand and set to work on N8TE.

  ***

  “Wake up!” someone yells. A rough hand shakes me awake.

  Bleary, I struggle to lift my face from the counter. N8TE is still charging, his red light flashing on the kitchen countertop. It took me all afternoon, plus seven Pop-Tarts, to finish him.

  “I said up.” Dad looms over me, holding an AR-15.

  My heart skips a beat; I rub my eyes. “What time is it?”