Free The Shooting by James Boice

the parking lot one day after school. She is the prettiest girl who ever lived—Lee has been in love with her since the first time he saw her. He hates Joey even more than ever, for how he has taken advantage of Tamra Riley. He waits until they leave, goes and picks up the joint, and writes down the date and time and types up a report on the incident and delivers it to the principal. Tamra is suspended and her parents remove her from the school as an emergency measure to rescue her transcript for college applications, and Joey, having received his second infraction while still on probation, is expelled.
    The day after their suspensions are handed down, Lee steals one of his father’s Glocks and brings it to school in his backpack. Loaded. Not to hurt anyone—he would never do that—for self-defense. It’s only smart—not everyone will like what he has done, not everyone appreciates those who do what’s right. Walking around with the Glock having the ability to kill any bad guys who threaten him, or more so having the ability, the option , of killing anyone at all whenever he feels like it but choosing not to, allowing them to live, makes him feel much better about himself. I am good, he thinks. He finds he feels warmer toward people, is more forgiving, even feels affection toward them. He is more polite on crowded stairwells, gallantly allowing others to go ahead of him. A cop, he thinks. A cop in New York.
    One of Joey Whitestone’s friends, a big dumb moron named Bobby Pool—football, wrestling—stares Lee down in the hallway. He is surrounded by other gang rape mutants like himself. Normally Lee would stare at the ground and seethe as he pretends to ignore them, but today, knowing his gun is there, Lee meets Bobby Pool’s gaze.He says to Bobby Pool without breaking his stride, —What the fuck are you looking at? And Bobby Pool just looks away. Doesn’t say shit. None of his friends says shit. No one says a goddamn thing to Lee Fisher.
    â€”What the hell crawled up your ass? his father says when he gets home that day.
    They are in the kitchen, pulling slices of pizza from the delivery box and slapping them onto their plates, which ordinarily they would carry off to their respective wings of the house, where they would remain for the night, ignoring each other. His father never notices anything about him, hardly ever talks to him anymore; he never talks to anyone and rarely leaves the house. Mostly he sits in his chair drinking and watching cable news. He has grown very fat and Lee is not far behind. They have not spoken to each other in days, and his now taking an interest in Lee is like one of those cable news people suddenly stopping midsentence, squinting out at you from the screen, and saying your name, saying hello to you. Lee says he’s fine.
    â€”The hell you are, you look like your dog just died. Lee looks away, but his father is peering closer at him. Puts his hand on Lee’s shoulder and squeezes. It feels both good and repellent. —Whatever it is, his father says, —Let’s take your mind off of it.
    Down at the firing range, his father loads up the special gun, hands it to Lee. The firing range is the only part of the property his father still maintains nowadays, the rest of it is long overgrown with tall brown grass and weeds, including the farm they tried to live off of, the training course they once drilled on with the soldiers. Lee takes the gun, aims it at the targets, fires. Misses. Fires again, misses. Not even a nick.
    â€”You’re missing to the right, his father says.
    Lee says, —As fucking usual.
    â€”Hey, easy, it’s all right, don’t get down on yourself. You’re doing good. You’re a hell of a marksman. Here, try tightening up that right hand, kind of push against the gun with it, kind of brace against it on that side.
    Lee does, fires, hits just on the edge of the bull’s-eye.
    â€”Beautiful!