Learning How to Shoot

by Karen Chien

The day after our stepdad’s funeral, Mark took the new BB gun rifle he got for his birthday and opened the window to the fire escape.

“Come on,” he said, extending his palm to me. There was dirt under his fingernails and in the sweaty creases of his hand. Even though Mark was two years younger than me, he could still make me feel like he offered a whole world of promise so long as I accepted his invitation. I put my hand in his.

He already had one leg out the window and swung the other one around, pulling me along.

“What are we doing?” I asked. I already knew where we were going. When we had first moved into the apartment, our mom had forbidden us from going up to the roof for fear of prowlers trying to get rid of two nosy kids. Naturally, we were drawn to the roof, bringing our walkie-talkies and baseball bats, hoping today would be the day we’d finally catch a prowler and be awarded some sort of medal from the police department.

“Eh. You’ll see,” said Mark.

Mark was a small kid. The rifle hung at an awkward angle off his neck, clanging against the railing as we maneuvered up the stairs.

“Someone’s going to hear us,” I said.

Mark looked down at me through the grates of the scaffolding over my head. “We’re almost there.”

I watched the bottom of his jeans climb up the last stretch of ladder and the BB gun rifle sway behind him. I scrambled to catch up.

When I swung my sneakers onto the gravel roof, Mark was already at the far edge of the building, surveying the next roof over like one of those cowboys we’d secretly watch late at night on TV with Seth.

Mark must’ve been thinking the same thing, since when he heard me approaching from behind, he talked in a lazy drawl that he tried to deepen into a man’s. “There be some Injuns out there,” he said.

I walked up beside him and looked at the adjacent building. Six pigeons perched on the building’s giant TV antennae. Mark made a sound next to me. I glanced at him in time to see him pull out a mashed-up cardboard box of BB gun pellets, which he put on the cement ledge.

“You want the first shot?” he asked, loading several tiny metal beads into the rifle. When he finished, he tilted the wooden handle towards me.

Whenever it was my turn to walk our dog Boots, I always let him chase squirrels in the park longer than was necessary. Even so, when Mark offered the rifle to me something kept my hand at my side.

“No thanks,” I said finally. “It’s your birthday present. You should get the first shot.”

Mark shrugged. “Suit yerself,” he said, adopting the cowboy drawl again.

We both turned towards the roof. I saw the beige pigeon at the same time Mark did. I knew it would be the first to go because that was just how things were. The rifle went off, the piston quieter than I expected. The pigeons took off—all except for one.

“Got ’im!”

Mark grinned. I glanced back at the beige body lying unnaturally still on the rooftop. That is when it occurred to me that even though we’d been in New York City for over five years, I’d never seen a dead bird before.

“Hey, let’s hide and wait for more,” said Mark. “You can get the next shot. Let me go grab some snacks from the kitchen.” He handed me the rifle, still warm from where he had held it. I sat down and watched him go.

Twenty minutes later, we were eating pretzels and drinking soda with our backs against the concrete railing. We sat there, eating and waiting for more pigeons to come. It was never silent in our neighborhood. There was always a car alarm, or a siren or a dog barking off in the distance. Even now, we could hear a Spanish radio station coming from one of our neighbors’ windows down below.

I wasn’t very hungry but I ate anyway, since we weren’t doing anything important. As an older brother, I suddenly felt like maybe this was the time to talk about Seth like how in movies they show two outlaws sitting together around a fire. First one cowboy says something, and then the two launch into what they’d do with the money or how they weren’t afraid of the sheriffs and Indians trailing them. I didn’t know how to start so I peeked over the ledge instead.

I saw some pigeons congregated on the building ledge. The roof remained empty. It was as if they saw the dead body by the TV antennae and knew not to perch there.

“They’re back,” said Mark, suddenly urgent and quiet. He turned around and propped himself up on one knee. He picked up the BB gun rifle and started to reload it.

“Listen . . . I don’t want to do this anymore,” I said.

“Come on,” said Mark. “Don’t be a pussy. Just one shot. They’re just pigeons. Come on. I bet you can’t even hit one.”

“Fine!” I scowled and yanked the rifle away from him. I pointed it at the pigeons when really I wanted to point it at Mark for calling me a pussy. I felt Mark slide up next to me.

“Don’t hold it so hard,” he coached me, talking quietly into my ear. “You’ll jerk it the wrong way and miss.”

“Who died and made you an expert?” I snapped, but I loosened my grip. The handle suddenly felt slippery and moist in my hand.

Mark hesitated for a second. “Seth showed me how to shoot a little,” he said.

I picked my head up from the telescopic sight. “What? When?”

“You and mom had gone to bed. We shot cans on the roof.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. . . . So which one are you gonna shoot?”

I put my eye against the scope again and surveyed the pigeons on the ledge. I had wondered why Mark was such a good shot. I figured it was beginner’s luck. The rifle moved up and down the ledge as if it was looking for its victim on its own. Mark was crouched down beside me, his muscles tense and his breathing steady as he waited to see what would happen. I pretended the pigeons weren’t birds but empty soda cans lined up in a neat row. The breathing next to me wasn’t Mark’s; it was Seth’s. The rifle came to a halt on an average grey pigeon. Suddenly a gust of wind kicked up and the pigeons started to take flight. I pulled the trigger.

Both Mark and I jumped to our feet as the pigeons shot away from the building. We saw one drop from the cloud of pigeons and topple effortlessly onto the sidewalk. Its wings sprawled out like it had started to fly when it was too late.

Mark had his fist to his mouth, laughing. “Holy shit! You got ’im! You actually got ’im! In mid-flight, too!”

I slung the rifle over my shoulder and brushed gravel off my knees. “Yeah,” I said, watching Mark peer over the edge and then jump at me.

Mark grabbed my shoulders, grinning. “I can’t believe you got him! I gotta try that. It’s my turn next!”

“Listen. We’re not going to shoot any more pigeons,” I said.

Mark’s grin sort of wilted, but he kept a smile. “That’s fine. Just gimme the gun. There’s no way I’m gonna let you get away with that.”

“No. We’re done.”

Mark’s expression grew serious as he studied my face. “Okay, okay. We’ll go.”

“Good,” I said. I shouldered the rifle and shoved the box of BB gun pellets into the back pocket of my jeans.

The sun was beginning to set. Mark turned to the horizon and pretended to cock an imaginary gun at the sky. “Kra-kow! Kra-kow!” He jerked his arms back with each cry. I watched him shoot imaginary birds down from the sky.

“Quit it,” I said, suddenly feeling sick.

“Kra-kow!”

“I said quit it!”

“Kra-KOW!”

I slid the rifle from my shoulder and grasped it by the barrel. I pushed past Mark, who almost fell back.

“Hey! What’s the big idea?” he demanded, narrowing his eyes at me.

I held the rifle over the ledge and let it drop into the narrow alleyway between the two buildings. Mark looked on, his mouth contorted. Keeping my eyes trained on his, I pulled the BB gun pellets out of my pocket and let them drop, too. When I heard them scatter on the pavement in a million directions, I stepped away from the ledge and started towards the fire escape.

Mark seemed to have recovered. He stepped into my path, his mouth twisted into a hard line. “What the hell is your problem!” he yelled. I tried to walk past him but he shoved me back. His eyebrows knotted together. “That was my birthday present!”

I tried to walk past him again. He shoved me, hard. I stumbled back. My hands curled into fists. I felt the blood rush into my fingertips, making them feel fat and swollen. I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and brought my fist against his face. As I held onto him, I felt his fingers claw into my back, when suddenly my throat constricted and I tried hard to draw in a breath.

I collapsed onto the gravel while something kept ramming into my stomach. My vision became blurry. I wanted to puke. Curled on my side, I saw Mark’s foot come at me again. My hands fumbled in front of me when I felt the rubber sole of his sneakers graze my palms. Knowing this was my chance, I grabbed his ankle and twisted it good and hard. He let out a yelp of pain, like a dog, and fell. As he lay on the floor, I rolled over on all fours. Everything around me drowned in a spinning white. I crawled away, gasping for air, until I stopped and threw up what looked like spaghetti.

As I drew my sleeve against my mouth, I saw Mark storming towards me from the corner of my eye. I scrambled onto my feet and we grabbed each other like we were about to embrace. We wrestled each other to the ground. The gravel cut into our backs as we struggled to see who could pin the other. There was blood on our faces and T-shirts from Mark’s swollen purple nose. I finally pinned Mark down and pressed my forearm against his throat.

“Fuck you!” yelled Mark, struggling to get the words out. A glob of spit piled at the corner of his mouth. I saw past his upheld fists that he was crying and realized then that I was too.

I moved my arm and quickly brushed my sleeve across my eyes. I wanted to crush Mark to my chest, holding him there until my eyes dried up so when we’d pull away he could see my calm expression. I swallowed instead, and blinked rapidly. I swung my leg off of Mark, getting to my feet.

“Come on,” I said.

I helped him up and did my best to brush the gravel off his back while he tried to staunch the bleeding from his nose with the hem of his shirt. Silently, Mark followed my lead. We climbed back downstairs, ducking past our apartment window. Inside I saw the back of our mom’s floral bathrobe as she rested her head in her hands. I thought about ducking inside to rub her back, but then I saw the two untouched glasses of wine on the table and our grandma sitting with her. I jimmied loose the ladder to the street and we descended into the yellow light of a streetlamp.

The pigeon lay in the pool of light, its breast to the floor and its wings stretched out, suspending it weightlessly on the pavement. I walked over to the dead pigeon. Mark trailed my footsteps. When I scooped it up, one of its wings drooped and gave an eerie rustle. Mark and I looked at each other.

With one hand still holding his shirt against his nose, Mark followed me as I walked over to the garbage cans. I nudged the lid aside and gently placed the bird inside. As I slid the lid back in place, for a second I wondered whether or not we would’ve made Seth proud, but the floral print of our mother’s bathrobe quickly flashed in my mind. Clamping my hand on Mark’s shoulder, I guided him back to the fire escape. The ladder had withdrawn to the scaffolding. I stood on my toes and strained to touch the last rung.

I wasn’t tall enough. Not yet.