Radical

by E. M. Kokie

  I run home with several contingency plans. If Lucy texts back, maybe a turn in my bed, if I can be sure Dad won’t stop home. If not, then maybe some shooting by the pond, a shower, and then, hopefully, out with Lucy later.

  But when I get to the house, there are two trucks parked in the driveway, including Mark’s, and another on the grass, backed up to the barn.

  When I’m almost to the porch, Mark, Zach, and Mr. Open Carry — Devon — come out of the house, bounding down the steps and off the porch. Laughing. With the last bites of sandwiches and cans of pop.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Mark asks. He’s not wearing a shirt. When did he get muscles?

  “You came through, Mark,” Devon says.

  Mark is grinning from ear to ear, almost dancing, hyper.

  Two other guys come out of the barn carrying a cooler between them and put it in the back of the truck parked near there.

  “Neal,” Devon yells, “my stuff’s in the back of the truck. Stow it in the gear box, would ya?” Neal gives him a thumbs-up.

  What he takes out of the back of the truck is a rifle. And some other stuff. Is that an ammunition belt?

  Another guy comes out of the barn. I’ve never seen him or the guy with Neal before.

  Mark jumps down off the top step, landing right in front of me, forcing me to turn and face him. When I start to look at the barn again, he moves so he’s between me and the barn, bodying me away so I can’t see.

  Mark’s smile makes goose bumps jump out on my skin.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Go ahead,” he says to Zach and Devon. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Zach and Devon walk around me and past me. Not ignoring me, exactly. More like making sure I know they are right there, backing Mark up. Or maybe that Mark’s all that is holding them back.

  “Don’t dawdle, now,” Devon says.

  Mark just smirks. He chugs the rest of his pop and then burps, right in my face. Still that stupid smirk. Have they been drinking more than pop? And shooting? Idiots. Dad would blow a gasket.

  “Where have you been? You’ve been missing training, and Riggs was asking me about where you were and —”

  “What did you tell him?” Mark asks, grabbing my arm. Hard.

  “Nothing!” His fingers dig in harder, and his eyes are wild. “I just . . . He asked about a job and said you weren’t working with Darnell, and I didn’t know what to tell him, so . . .”

  “You keep your mouth shut. And don’t worry about Riggs. He’s irrelevant.”

  “What do you mean?” Are they trying to oust Riggs? Does Zach’s dad have that much pull?

  “Nothing,” he says. “Forget about it.” He pushes me away. “Just keep your mouth shut.”

  “Mark.” He glances back, but I don’t know what to say to him, not when he’s acting like this.

  He slams the door shut and starts the truck, the muffler drowning out any response I could make. But he gives me one more look, a nasty one that makes me shiver even though it’s hot in the sun.

  Forget drunk — was he high? Or just crazy? Drunk on his own bullshit?

  Inside is a mess. Crumbs and cans on the counters. Dirty plates and knives in the sink. They ate most of the bread, all of the turkey. Some of the beer is gone, too. But there wasn’t enough to get them all drunk. Unless Mark was the only one drinking.

  I run out to the barn. Some scuffs in the dirt but nothing else out of place. Someone was using the workbench for something. Metal shavings near the vise. But whatever they were up to, they cleaned up after themselves. Nothing really looks out of place in the storage area, either, but I think things have been moved.

  Every time I feel like I have a handle on things, that everything is working, something happens and I’m left scrambling for even ground again.

  I thought maybe with Zach, Devon, and Neal gone, Mark would go back to hanging with Daniel and them. He’s even more stupid than I thought if he’s ready to throw Clearview over and follow those idiots somewhere else. Would the majority really get rid of Riggs? And if not, what line of crap has Zach been feeding Mark?

  Maybe I should call Dad. If Mark’s screwing up, then he needs to know. And if Riggs really is on his way out, then Dad needs to know that, too.

  I sit on the porch, staring at my phone. Trying to decide what to do.

  Then I do it. I call Dad. And it’s ringing. I’m going to need to say something when he answers. What am I going to say?

  It’s ringing and ringing.

  “Bex,” Dad says, in a rush. “What do you need?”

  “Nothing, I mean, I’m home, because the power was out at the station, and . . .”

  “Fine. Good. Thanks for letting me know. I —”

  “Dad, Mark was here. With Zach, and Devon and Neal, and . . . some other guys. I don’t know what they were doing, but they left a big mess in the kitchen, and I —”

  “You don’t have to clean it up.” Dad sighs. “I’ll clean it up when I get home. Just leave it. Now I have to go.”

  “No, it’s not that. Devon and Neal, they’re . . . and Zach. I mean, Riggs said . . .”

  “Yeah, Zach and the boys got in trouble, for shooting where they weren’t supposed to or whatever. But Mark is smarter than that. I’ve already talked to him about this, and he understands.”

  “But, Dad, they’re . . .”

  “Bex,” Dad says. “Look, I know you don’t like those guys. Mark told me all about your getting into it with them. You don’t have to like your brother’s friends.”

  “But, Dad . . .”

  “I don’t have time for this right now.” He says something to someone else. “I have to go. We can talk later, okay? I’ll be home late, so go ahead and eat without me. Love you.”

  He hangs up. I stare at the phone. My getting into it with them. Always my fault. Always me that’s wrong. Always.

  So much for talking to Dad.

  I clean up the mess.

  Dad isn’t that late. Early enough that I haven’t eaten yet.

  I put dinner on the table, but neither of us really eats it. We just push it around our plates.

  Lucy calls. I ignore it. Dad’s phone buzzes. He looks down at it for a minute, then pushes his plate away.

  He’s not apologizing. I have nothing to say.

  Then Mom calls. She’s tense and cranky. She doesn’t even ask about the stupid book I’m supposed to be reading. I pass the phone to Dad before she can ask again about me coming to the city with her for whatever Hannah’s doing. Doesn’t sound like Dad’s conversation with her is going much better than mine.

  I clean up, scraping both our plates into the garbage, then go out to the porch so I don’t have to listen to them snipe at each other. Lucy’s voice mail is sort of weird. She sounds distracted and says she’s going out with her grandparents. I text her, but she doesn’t text back.

  Aunt Lorraine’s been working on Mom, even if Mom won’t admit it. Mostly working the don’t you want all this? angle, what with the country club and all. Mom’s been going to church again, our old church. It means she’s worried. She’s not the only one. I think she’s trying to get Dad to go back to church, too. Maybe he should. Maybe we all should. I miss the comfort of church before church got confusing, before I figured out that they think I’m going to hell no matter what I believe or how I pray.

  Dad’s not going to talk long. Not with the mood Mom’s in. At one point, he looks right at me through the screen door. I know Mom’s talking about me. Probably school again. I think she went and registered me at Hannah’s stupid school. I’m not going.

  When he hangs up, he looks exhausted. Not the time to try to talk to him, again, about Mark.

  And it’s not like I can talk to Mom. She’s looking for any reason to say I can’t go back to Clearview, to say that none of us can. Doesn’t help that I don’t think Dad’s seen a penny yet from all the “work” he’s been doing.

  Plus, there’s my hair. Mom flipped out when she saw it o
n Saturday. Then she grilled me about where I’d been so late the night before, until I told her I was out with Cammie and Karen, who fixed my hair, as the better of the possible lies.

  “Fixed,” she mocked. “Do they have hacked-up hair, too? Or just you? They all look nice, right?” I didn’t bother to answer that. She didn’t really want me to. “Right? All of you wasting your time and energy playing games.”

  No, I can’t talk to Mom about Mark.

  When I hear Lucy’s car, I say good-bye to Uncle Skip and head outside. Best not to make her wait after how many days she made me wait to see her again and how strange she sounded on the phone.

  “Hey,” she says through the already open window. Her hair is in a ponytail and she’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Not dressed for a date. She gives me a very quick, tight-lipped smile. But it’s barely a smile. I buckle up, trying to gauge her mood or figure out what’s going on with her.

  She pulls out of the lot and heads east, but she doesn’t turn toward her grandparents’ house.

  “Where are we going?”

  She takes a deep breath, forces it out, slows the car, and says, “I don’t know.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” She looks in the rearview mirror like she’s checking to merge, and I touch her arm.

  “Are you back to being pissed at me?” I ask. The car swerves a little, and I realize she’s really upset. “Pull over.”

  She drives another little bit and then pulls onto the shoulder and puts the car in park.

  “What’s going on?”

  “This was a mistake. I should have just called.”

  “What?”

  When she looks at me, I can see something is really wrong.

  I think I’m going to throw up. “Was it that bad? I mean, I thought it was good. I thought you . . . liked it.”

  She stares at me and then laughs — hard, not nice.

  “That was very good. That’s the problem,” she says. “I like you. A lot, but . . .”

  “But?”

  She won’t talk to me or look at me. She just stares straight ahead, but she wants to say something.

  “Lucy?”

  “I’ve been doing some Googling around.” She turns her head but stays solidly behind the wheel, like she’s ready to drive at any time. “And I looked at some of the other videos you had on your phone. And the links. That group in Washington.” Shit. Her face is hard. “If you think any of that is cool or, or good, then I . . . don’t understand.” She turns a little. “I don’t understand any of it. Because those people hate us.”

  “They don’t —”

  “They hate us! How can you . . . ?” Her body sort of shudders, and then she hits the steering wheel with her hands. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  I jump back in my seat.

  I am too shocked to answer.

  “Do you have any idea what guys like that do to us?”

  “Us?”

  “Dykes. Lesbos. Queers.” She looks at me like she is reliving in her head everything we’ve ever done together. “Screw that,” she says, waving her arms. “Women.” She turns until her back is against the driver-side door. “Those guys, they hate women.”

  “You have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “And you’re not stupid.” Her face is beet red. Contorted. “If even half the shit I read is true — half,” she says louder, “it’s enough to make me run in the other direction. I wouldn’t go anywhere near that. Men who think —”

  “It’s not like that. It’s . . .” I just start spewing about Karen and Cammie and training, and Delia. “Darnell,” I say. “Delia’s father. He’s black. He runs programs, workshops in the city for black people, to help them get permits and learn to use guns. To protect themselves. It’s not about race. It’s not a cult or, or . . . We’re about survival. The guys I train with, they’re —”

  “And how many of your guys are pissed about people like Darnell arming black people?”

  “Those are not my guys.”

  “Are you sure? Do they know that?”

  I can feel the roaring in my head.

  “Bex.” She leans closer, starts to reach for me, and then thinks twice, pulling back her hand. “Training freaked me out. The bruises. The scratches. But I thought, hey, it’s like hiking. Extreme hiking,” she says, and I feel the accusation in it. “And the guns, the way you talk about the guns . . . But I convinced myself it had nothing to do with me. But . . . do you have any idea how creeped out I am? I almost didn’t come to get you. I almost deleted your number!”

  I’m gut-checked. Like I’ve been elbowed in the solar plexus and dropped hard.

  “I’m still freaked out. Like they might come out of the bushes and grab us.”

  “No one is going to grab you. It’s actually hard to get in. You have to be invited.”

  “Hate groups usually work that way.”

  “You don’t know what you are talking about. There are all kinds of people there. It’s not, I wouldn’t . . . God,” I say, pushing on my temples so I can think. “I’m not like that. The groups I follow — Clearview — anyone who wants to train and is dedicated can join. The group in Washington, the video I showed you, they have all kinds of people. Women. That woman with the tattoos. Remember?”

  “Moral turpitude,” she says. “That group in Washington you think is so great? I went to their website today. Have you read it? Really read it? Sure, anyone, of any color, can join, who will swear their very fine-sounding oath. But did you miss the part about no moral turpitude? That means you and me. Queers.”

  “They mean, like, drugs and stealing,” I say.

  “No, they don’t.” I keep shaking my head, and her eyes bulge. “Look at yourself!” She waves her hand at me. “How can you feel comfortable with those kind of people?”

  I have never felt more judged than I do right now. I swallow, try to regroup.

  A week ago, I would have told her about the training, about being respected, about being part of something, finally, that was serious and mine. About girls who get it and don’t treat me like I’m a freak. About readiness. About not being in this alone. But now, after this week, after Mark and Dad, and last week with Riggs, I don’t know what to say to her.

  “You think you can take care of yourself,” she says, her voice creaky and bitter. “You think you can, but you can’t. And you won’t know until it’s too late. You can’t . . .”

  I feel her breath and then her hands, and realize I’m trying to cover her mouth.

  “They’ll hurt you.” She keeps talking even as I’m trying to make her stop. “Eventually, someone will hurt you. They’ll rape you. That’s what men like that do, to women who won’t be like they want them to be. People who won’t look like they think they should look. You can’t —”

  A knock, and we both jump back. A sheriff’s deputy, motioning for Lucy to roll down the window. We’re both breathing hard, flushed, and there are tears on her cheeks.

  “You okay in there?” he asks, and she nods, gulping air, but her hands are shaking. Her whole body is shaking.

  He leans down and looks at me. I clench my hands and hold still, meeting his eyes, trying to keep my face blank — calm but controlled. I’m in control.

  “Everything okay?” he asks again, looking at Lucy like I might be making her not okay.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she says, nodding, forcing a smile and wiping at her eyes. “Yeah, we’re fine.”

  “Why don’t you step out of the car,” he says, and even as she is shaking her head, starting to say she’s fine again, he reaches for the door handle. “Step out of the car.” It’s no longer a friendly request. “You stay there,” he says, waving me off.

  Screw that.

  “Passenger, stay in the car,” he orders. He pulls her door open. “You,” he says to Lucy, “step out.”

  Every bit of me is on full alert — my heart, my head, my gut. Every hair on end.

  He motions her towa
rd the back of the car and closes the door.

  I strain to hear through the open window. Only catching a word here or there. Sounds like a laugh. I lean over the seat to see through the back windows, and she’s tucking her hair behind her ear, ducking her chin, doing all the things girls do to make men feel strong and cool and in control. My stomach turns. And then there’s a thud and she’s against the car, and I am out the door and halfway around before he shouts at me to freeze.

  “Get your ass back in that car, passenger.” Lucy’s eyes are huge and panicked, and he’s got one hand on her, keeping her there. But I can tell, even from the other side of the car, that the other is on his gun. “I said, get your ass back in that car.”

  I need to figure out what to do. Distract him. Draw him away. I could maybe outrun him. But toward his cruiser? Toward the field? He has to follow. Right? Then Lucy can get away. I look at her, try to tell her to be ready, but she’s frozen. She won’t go — I know it. And if he doesn’t follow, then I’m not leaving her alone with him.

  He turns his face toward the radio on his shoulder. Listens. Then he turns back toward Lucy. “You’re sure you’re okay?” She nods, another duck of her chin. He says something I can’t hear and then he’s moving toward his cruiser. “Move on, now.” Then he’s got the lights on, peeling away from the shoulder into a U-turn, and he’s gone.

  “What did he say to you?” I ask, but Lucy’s freaked and stumbling to her door.

  She’s beyond shaking when she gets back in. Vibrating all over.

  “Go.” I put her hand on the ignition. “Just drive.”

  She gulps air.

  “Okay. Move. I’ll drive.”

  She pulls off the shoulder and onto the road with a gravel-spitting squeal, and drives like a maniac. She’s white-knuckled on the wheel and shaking.

  “Lucy,” I say, and she speeds up until the car is trembling with the effort. “Lucy, we’re away. Pull over. Somewhere public.”

  The car drifts toward the shoulder and then back. She eases off but keeps going. There are oncoming cars, and we’re heading into a town. There’s a parking lot on the right.

  “Pull in there. Now.”

  She makes a sharp, wild turn into the lot and sort of into a spot, before stopping hard. I bounce back against the seat.