In the morning, I regretted not begging Patrick for food. I woke up weak and shaking, my muscles screaming from yesterday’s tryouts, and it took more effort than usual to shower and get dressed.
I’d never gone this long without food. I’d gone almost a full day once, when I was too scared to leave my room after Dad threw one of his tantrums. But I’d snuck into the kitchen that night and eaten several leftover tamales.
Maybe I understood a little what Mom meant when she said things could be worse. Her parents didn’t have much when they immigrated to Texas, and she’d mentioned fishing the last can of beans out of the cabinet at the end of the month more than once. Mom knew what it was like to go hungry, and for her, it was worse than a life of fear with Dad. I didn’t agree, but I could sympathize. A little.
There was a mini convenience store on the first floor of the hotel, and I slowed as I approached it, eyeing the granola bars near the cash register. The cashier was distracted, peering at her phone. If I was quiet, I could dart inside, grab the granola bar, and run back out before she turned around.
I sighed as I noticed the security bars on either side of the entrance. The hotel was bustling with recruits, and I couldn’t imagine anything more embarrassing than fleeing from a convenience store as the alarm blared, granola bar clutched in one hand.
I trudged past the store and outside.
“Hello, Tex,” a voice said as I walked toward the bus. Edan fell into step beside me. The asshole was eating a fucking granola bar.
“I will tackle your ass again if you call me that one more time.” Hunger had made me a bit grouchy.
“Such hostility so early in the morning.” He sounded amused.
I shot him a look I hoped conveyed that I was seriously considering tackling him. His smile faltered, and he disappeared from my side.
I glanced around for my bus. They’d split us up differently this time—I’d found a paper slipped under my door this morning, with the number 8 on it, and a note saying we’d been put into specific groups today.
Bus eight was at the front. I walked to it and lumbered up the steps. It was almost full, and I spotted two familiar faces immediately—Noah and Patrick.
“Hey!” Patrick smiled and waved. I managed a weak smile as I plopped down in the seat across from him, next to a thin Black boy with glasses. “We were looking for you last night. I thought maybe you went to bed early.”
“I did.” I eyed the area around Patrick, searching for his messenger bag full of snacks. Nothing.
“Same. My everything hurts.” He arched his back and winced as if to prove it. His eyes caught on something at the front of the bus. “Is that the guy who tried to rob me?”
“Yeah, he’s trying out.” I crossed my arms to hide my shaky hands.
“Good thing I left my wallet at the hotel,” Patrick grumbled. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes, my brain too focused on hunger for conversation. Luckily Patrick seemed preoccupied with Edan.
The bus took us to a shooting range. , the sign said. I’d never even held a gun before, despite Texas’s reputation as a gun-happy state. Mom and Dad never owned one, thank god.
We only had three team leaders with us today, all male. Was there even one female team leader? I’d yet to see one.
One of the guys—the one who looked the youngest—waved to get our attention. “Hey, I’m Julian.” He pointed to the Latino guy to his left. “This is Andy.” He pointed to the white guy on his right. “And Liam. We’re evaluating you today. First thing—who here has shot a gun before?”
Several hands went up.
“You guys go with Andy.” About ten people broke away, leaving forty or so of us behind. Julian put his hand out, cutting us in half. “Everyone on this side, come with me. The rest of you are with Liam.”
I was on Julian’s side, so I followed him into the building. He stopped in the lobby, which had lots of posters of guns and several signs about safety. I liked the one that said
“We’re going to do a very brief safety and shooting lesson, and then you guys will fire a few rounds,” Julian said. “We’re going to have sharpshooter teams, so this is just to see if we should consider you for one of those. I’m going to need you to listen carefully to everything the employees tell you today. Remember, you already signed a form saying it’s not our fault if you get shot.” He grinned, and a few people laughed nervously.
“I’m going to be bad at this,” a girl whispered. I glanced over to see a redhead glancing nervously at a girl about my age. She had long light brown hair, impressive winged eyeliner, and an expression like she was so incredibly bored.
“Well, you should try your best, because the sharpshooter teams are the best,” the bored girl said.
“They are?” The redhead was worried now.
“Yeah. Sharpshooters are the best, then the elite ground teams are second, and then the regular ground teams are the worst. Those are the ones they don’t care if they die first.” The bored girl twisted a piece of hair around her finger. “That’s what I heard anyway.”
I turned away. I didn’t care what team I was on, as long as I made one.
An employee named Angela took us through some basic safety procedures, gave us a short lesson on how to load and shoot a gun, handed out safety glasses and earmuffs, and escorted us into individual booths. We were doing a practice round first, then we’d be judged on how well we hit the man-shaped targets in front of us.
The gun was heavier than I was expecting, and my hands were still shaking a little as I lifted it and aimed at the target. I tried to will my body still. I only needed it to cooperate for the rest of the day, and then I’d swallow my pride and ask Patrick for some food.
The people around me started firing, so I took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. The recoil wasn’t terrible, like Angela had said, but I still didn’t like the way each shot seemed to vibrate through my body. I felt unsteady on my feet by the time I’d emptied the chamber.
The paper man zipped along the track and stopped in front of me. I’d hit it three times, none of them within the white numbered circles.
Clearly I was not cut out for the sharpshooter team.
Angela reloaded my gun for me, and a new target appeared at the end of the lane. When he zipped toward me after I was done, I realized I’d done even worse this time. Two shots. One was almost inside the outermost circle, though.
Julian walked into my booth, glancing from me to the target. He’d been handsome from a distance, but up close he looked like a movie star. He had clear, perfect skin and dark brown eyes that seemed to smile even when his lips weren’t. His short, dark hair had a bit of red in it, and it fell right back into place when he ran a hand through it.
He was staring at me like he expected something of me, and I felt heat rise in my cheeks.
“What’s your number?” he asked after several awkward seconds.
“Oh.” I turned so he could see it. “One eighty-seven.”
He wrote something down on his clipboard, glancing back at the target as if to confirm I only hit it twice.
“Not so great, huh?” I asked with a nervous laugh. I pressed my lips together, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.
He smiled at me. “It’s fine. First time.” He took a step out of my booth. “You can go get on the bus. Just leave the gun there.”
I quickly walked out of the booth, eager to put some distance between me and Julian. My face still felt warm. I didn’t know if he was really that hot or if I was getting delirious from lack of food.
“How did I not even hit it once? Not even once?” An angry voice drifted out of the booth. I glanced back to see a tall, muscular blond boy with a pinched face glaring at Julian like he was at fault.
“Don’t worry about it,” Julian said evenly. The boy flushed.
Outside, I spotted two news vans with the bus, and a reporter held out a microphone to someone I couldn’t see. I leaned to peer past the cameraman.
Madison St. John. She wore workout clothes, the expensive kind that hugged her perfect figure. Her blond hair was pulled up in a ponytail and she wore a full face of makeup.
“Of course, I’m thrilled to be here,” she gushed to the camera. “I’m so proud of my brother, and I totally believe in what we’re doing.”
“The White House issued a statement today condemning this program as dangerous and disorganized. They’ve urged people not to join. What’s your response to that?”
Madison smiled wider, her ponytail swinging. “Well, they’re certainly entitled to their opinion, but we believe in what we’re doing. We know our results will speak for themselves.”
The reporter signaled for the cameraman to stop filming, and she thanked Madison. Madison nodded and enthusiastically shook her hand. She drew the attention of everyone in the immediate area with that bright smile.
I turned away, too hungry and annoyed for that much bubbliness. Noah and Patrick weren’t on the bus yet, so I sank into an empty seat behind the handcuffs girl who’d been on my bus from Dallas. She was still wearing the handcuffs.
The bus took us back to the gym we’d been at yesterday, and I suppressed a moan when the team leaders informed us we’d be doing the obstacle course again, three rounds. It was probably to see how we performed when exhausted and sore, but I was willing to bet that everyone else was at least somewhat well fed.
I got in line behind Patrick to start. He promptly fell on his face while doing the tire run. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me feel a little bit better.
By my third round on the obstacle course, I was dragging, my heart beating faster than normal for this level of exercise. I stopped at the net climb and put my hands on my hips, trying to catch my breath.
“Move,” a voice said from behind me. A shoulder roughly bumped against mine, and I stumbled, barely staying upright. It was the blond boy who hadn’t hit the target even once. He had a friend with him, pale and freckled and currently inspecting me in an obviously sleazy way. He sort of grimaced, like he didn’t appreciate what he saw. His friend snorted.
“Keep it moving over there on the net climb!” a team leader called. The boys moved away from me and started climbing. A few feet away, Julian watched us and marked something on his clipboard. Wonderful.
I slipped off the very first bar of the monkey bars, and by the time I hit the rope climb, I felt like I was about to pass out. I swallowed hard.
“That’s all right.” Someone patted my back. “Why don’t you go get some water and sit down for a minute?”
Tears filled my eyes, and I didn’t turn around to see which team leader had said it. I didn’t need to further this humiliation by letting them see me cry.
I sat down against the wall next to a Black girl with a pink headband, her curly hair pulled back in a ponytail. She didn’t look nearly as tired as I felt. The white, red-faced boy a few feet away looked like he might hurl at any moment, though.
“You all right?” the girl asked as I slumped down and leaned my head against my knees.
“I’m fine.” My stomach growled loudly, and she gawked at it, alarmed. “I’m just a little hungry.”
“They have some protein bars and stuff up front,” she said.
I shook my head. “I don’t have any money.”
She dug into her pocket. “Well, I was about to eat mine, and I don’t need the whole thing.” She tore open the package and broke the bar in half, then held one half out to me.
I took it slowly. “Oh, my god, thank you.”
She reeled back a little, clearly startled by that level of gratitude for half a protein bar. “Yeah, sure.”
I ate the bar in three bites. I was still hungry when I was done, but at least my hands had stopped shaking.
“Thank you,” I said again. “I’m Clara.”
“Laila.” She polished off her half and hopped to her feet. “Good luck.”
“You too.”
The last portion of tryouts was an actual scrab fight. They didn’t have a setup like at Bubba’s, so a few team leaders had to be our scrab stand-ins. Julian stood in the middle of the boxing ring with Liam, who had fastened fake claws onto either arm. He wore a helmet and a bulky pad strapped to his chest.
“These”—Julian held up one of Liam’s arms—“are not sharp. We’ve rounded the edges, so he’s going to whack you with them. We’re going to have real versions of these for our recruits on certain ground teams.” He gestured at us. “Number one thirty-eight, let’s start with you.”
The freckled asshole who’d leered at me earlier stood and ducked under the ropes to enter the ring. His tag said Hunter Ward 138.
“We’re not giving you fake weapons because we don’t need you beating us to hell with them,” Julian said. That got a few laughs. “Tap the weak spots. He’s wearing pads, but there’s no need to hit him hard. We’re just seeing how you move.” Julian climbed out of the ring. “This is going to be quick, because we have a lot of you to get through.” He made a sit motion with his hands. “You guys can sit while you wait.”
I sat cross-legged on the ground. The boy next to me leaned back on his hands, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His light brown curly hair was a mess, like he’d just rolled out of bed after a particularly rough night.
Cheers rose up from the other room, where another group was doing the same thing as us. Noah and Patrick must have been with that group, because I didn’t see them.
In the ring, Liam took a swipe at Hunter, which the latter easily avoided.
“Yeah, get it!” the boy with messy curls next to me yelled. He leaned forward as he clapped so I could see the tag on his back. Andrew Dorsey 155.
Hunter dodged Liam twice more before the team leader pinned him to the ground with his claws.
“Next!” Julian called.
I was one of the last people to go. Liam was a bit slower now, wiping his forehead with the back of his hands and nearly poking himself in the eye with a rounded claw.
“Try to tap him on the neck,” Julian called. “Have at it.”
That was the cue to go, and I darted forward, fists raised. Liam knocked my first swing out of the way.
I stepped back, ducking as he tried to swipe at me. This was easier than Bubba’s, which was only slightly comforting. Bubba had crafted his dummies to be like the real thing. This was just a tired guy with some plastic strapped to his fingers.
I ducked again, barely missing the claws.
“Good,” Julian called.
A victorious thrill raced up my spine.
The feeling didn’t last long. Liam faked left, and I didn’t realize it until the claws on his other hand swiped across my neck. I stumbled and landed on my butt. Dead.
“Next!” Julian called.
I shakily got to my feet, ducking my head for fear that the tears pricking my eyes would suddenly spill over. I took my seat as another recruit stepped into the ring.
Dad’s voice rang in my ears—you will DIE—no matter how much I tried to push it out. I didn’t want him to be right. I didn’t want him to be so right that I didn’t even make a team.
I wanted to prove him wrong.