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Shari smiled and shook her head. "He's a father. Well, a grandfather, but arguably it's the same thing. What he really wants is what's best for you, in his eyes. He might be right, he might be wrong, but that's what he's trying for. That's what every parent tries to do," she finished with a sigh.
"The other thing is that he's a guy," Wendy said. "He used to be one of those boys with their tongues hanging out and he knows what they're thinking and he knows what they want. And all that ninety-nine percent of them want is to get laid. They'll say anything, do anything, to get that. Some of them are even willing to use force. He knows what they're thinking, he knows what they're saying to each other in the barracks and he knows what they are willing to do to get it. So he's very paranoid about it."
"I'm paranoid about it, too," Cally said. "You only have to get stalked a couple of times to get really paranoid. But . . ."
"But me no buts," Wendy said. "I spent four, heck, six years with the reputation of school slut because I was the only girl not putting out. I spent I don't know how many summer dates perspiring in a long sweater and tied tight sweat pants. And don't even get me started on fumbling with electronic locks. I got to where I knew not to get in the backseat because they might have engaged the damned child locks and I wouldn't be able to open the door. I walked home at least six times in four years. When it comes to guys and hormones there is no such thing as too paranoid."
"There's worse," Shari said darkly. "If you choose wrong in one of those back seats, you can get to the point where you really believe that you're in the wrong. That the hitting is because it's all your fault. That the abuse is okay because you're not good enough, not pretty enough, not smart enough." She stopped and looked at Cally shaking her head. "Don't get me wrong, men are great and they have a place . . ."
"Plumbing, electrical," Wendy said with a snort. "Carrying heavy loads . . . killing spiders . . ."
" . . . But choosing right is the most important choice you'll ever make," Shari continued, looking at Wendy severely. "But at that point, my advice is all dried up; I've never been able to choose worth a damn."
"Well, I did okay," Wendy said with a smile. "So far. And if you want some advice on that, it's just this; if he tells you he wants you to put out, run like hell. Shoot your way out if you have to. If he's not willing to wait for you to say you want to, he's not worth your time."
"How do you know he really likes you if he's not asking?" Cally asked. "I mean . . . what if he doesn't like you?"
Wendy smiled in recollection. "Well, in my case I knew he liked me because he carried me out of a firefight instead of putting a bullet in my head as we'd agreed. So I was pretty certain he liked me. But I'd sort of come to that conclusion before that anyway. You'll know. If you don't, he doesn't like you enough."
"This is too complicated," Cally said. "What about I shoot him? If he comes back, he really likes me. And I can guarantee he won't try anything until I say it's okay."
"Well . . ." Shari said.
"I was joking," Cally said with a laugh. "At most a broken arm." Cally looked pensive for a moment then shrugged. "So, to decide whether a guy is worth going to bed with, I wait. And if he doesn't ask . . ."
"Or beg or whine or bully," Wendy said. "They're all much more likely . . ."
" . . . Then it's okay?"
"If you want to," Shari noted. "And . . . wait a while, okay? Thirteen is way too young to make a good decision, however grown up you feel."
"I wasn't pla
"Yeah, and it's really the basics," Wendy said with a sigh. "It's the deciding if you want to that's tough."
"If he doesn't ask, but you're still getting a creepy feeling, or he's always making fun of you or talking you down, especially in front of people, don't, even if you want to." Shari shook her head with a dark expression. "Don't, don't, don't."
"This is getting complicated," Cally said. "I think I should just shoot him and see what happens from there."
"It'll drive away some good ones, you know," Wendy said with a smile. "Actually, I can't think of a guy it wouldn't drive away."
"I could just shoot 'em lightly," Cally said plaintively. "With a .22. In a fleshy spot. No pain, no gain."
Shari laughed out loud and shook her head. "Okay, it sounds like a plan. If you like 'em, and they seem to be okay, and they're not asking for you to go to bed with them, shoot 'em lightly in a fleshy spot. If they never come back, you know they weren't for you. But don't get in a habit of shooting him every time you disagree, okay?"
"Just one question," Wendy said with a mock serious expression. "Where are you going to get a .22? I mean, I've seen .308s and .30-06s, but .22s seem to be in short supply in this household."
"It's what I carry as my main weapon," Cally said with a snort. "It's not like I'm going to carry around a special 'guy test' gun just to shoot guys if I think I like 'em."
"You carry a .22?" Wendy said with a laugh. "Wow, that must really scare the Posleen no end! You're joking, right?"
Cally smiled thinly. "Let's go down to the range. And see who laughs last."
CHAPTER 19
Rabun Gap, GA, United States, Sol III
1325 EDT Friday September 25, 2009 ad
"So that's a .22?" Wendy asked in disbelief. The weapon was odd looking, resembling nothing so much as an undersized "Tommy Gun" with the drum magazine placed on top. She could see the tiny aperture in the barrel, but she found the concept of this warrior-child carrying a .22, a round usually used by eight-year-old boys to shoot rats, ludicrous. The gun looked like a toy, which she knew was a dangerous mental attitude.
"Yep," Cally said, walking around onto the range. "Range is cold, people, no locking, no aiming, no, no, no firing; safe your weapons." She picked up a broken cinderblock off of a stack and, with remarkably little difficulty, carried it halfway to the first target and set it on a section of tree trunk that had apparently been set up for the purpose. "This is the standard demonstration for the American 180," she continued, walking back to the firing line.
There were two ranges set up on the O'Neal property. The first, where they were preparing to fire, was a standard target range. There were a variety of pop-up targets, scoring circles and man– and Posleen-shaped silhouettes, ranging out to two or three hundred yards. The other range, which ran along the road to the entry, was a tactical firing line.
Cally looked at the group and frowned. "Papa O'Neal usually covers this, but I think I'm elected. How many of you have been on a range before?"
Most of the children had wandered over and she frowned when none of them raised their hands. "None of you have been on a range? Where do you do weapons training?"
"It's illegal to let a person under sixteen handle a weapon in the Urb," Wendy said with a frown.
"That's . . . ridiculous," Cally said.
Wendy shrugged. "You're preaching to the choir; there were kids in the Hitler Youth that were younger than that. They tended to surrender pretty quick and they weren't much good. But they fought in a real war."
"I won't even go there," Cally said with a frown.
"Have you ever shot a Posleen?" Shari asked. "I only ask because . . . I don't see somebody Billy's age being . . ."
"Useful?" Cally said with a snort. "You see the bunker by the house? I killed my first Posleen when I was his age, covering Granpa with my rifle; he was ma