“To Sophie,” Margot says, eyes level with mine, raising her glass in a toast, “our latest member.”
We all clink glasses and take sips.
Margot sets her glass down on the wooden table and pulls on a pair of earmuffs. I get the impression that she always shoots first. She opens the neck of a shotgun and stuffs it with ammo and snaps it back together. She slides on a pair of safety glasses and lifts the gun to her shoulder and yells, “Pull!”
Callie steps on the foot lever of the contraption, and an orange disc whizzes through the air. Margot fires, but misses.
“Pull!” she shouts, even louder this time.
“Callie always pulls for Margot,” Tina snorts in my ear.
Margot’s shot blasts the orange disc this time, shattering it. “Yeah!” she whoops, and spins toward us, sliding the earmuffs down around her neck and parking the safety glasses on top of her dark, glossy hair.
“Who’s next?”
“Me,” Jill says, already in safety gear. She strides toward Margot, who laysthe gun in Jill’s hands. Jill fidgets with her earmuffs and opens the throat of the shotgun to load it. She fumbles with the ammo before jamming it into place and closing the gun. She cradles the gun into her shoulder and stands slightly hunched over, her skinny legs slightly parted and planted in the yellow-green grass.
“Pull!” she shouts, but a breeze off the lake tosses her shout to the ground.
Tina, now at the helm of the contraption, stamps on the foot lever, releasing a disc. It zings through the sky and Jill fires but misses.
“Pull!” she shouts again. Another shot, another miss. She lowers the nose of the gun to the ground and turns toward us, chin down.
“You’ll hit one eventually,” Margot chides. “And I can tell you’re not focusing like I told you to do. Here, more wine for you,” she says, and swaps the gun for a full glass. Jill drains half of it in one long swallow.
“Sophie. You’re up,” Margot says.
“I really wanted to shoot tonight,” Callie whines.
“Not enough time. The sun’s almost set, and I want Sophie to have a shot.”
I down the rest of my wine and put the safety glasses on. My hands are sweating, and when Margot hands me the gun, it’s still warm from Jill’s shots.
“Have you ever shot a gun before?” Margot asks.
I nod. “Just once, at a turkey shoot in kindergarten.” I remember shivering in my autumn parka, the chill of the ground seeping through me, and feeling Saturday-morning tired. Glazed over from my breakfast of an Egg McMuffin and my father pulling me out of bed too early to go to the shoot. It’s one of the few clear memories I have of us together doing father-daughter things. I actually won that day, and I remember after my shot struck the bull’s-eye, my dad hoisted me on his shoulders and twirled me around, high above the ground that was covered in muted gold and red leaves.
“Well, that would’ve been with a rifle. This is a shotgun,” Margot explains.
I’m surprised at how heavy the gun feels in my arms. “Let me help you,” Margot says, and slides behind me, locking her arms onto mine. She smells of Chanel Allure, my favorite perfume, and the gold bangles lining her arm clank in my ear.
“Hold it close to your shoulder or it will kick,” she says, her voice low and throaty in my ear. “And close one eye when you look through the viewfinder.”
She releases me and I slide the earmuffs on. I take a deep breath and say, “Pull!”
The disc releases, and I track it and fire but miss it completely. My shoulder pulses from the kick of the gun.
“That hurt!”
“Hold it tighter.”
And I do. I take a second and track through the scope at different targets. I used to play Nintendo until my elbows were shiny, and always prided myself on having good hand-eye coordination; I’m determined not to miss.
I can feel Callie sighing, but I take my time.
“Pull!” The sky is beginning to darken, but I track the disc this time and squeeze the gun to my shoulder and aim.
I fire and the disc explodes! I squeal and turn around.
