smiled as she did it. “A lot distracted, and that other bow of yours isn’t helping. But,” she waved a paper at me, “that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”
She hadn’t mentioned any new competitions in her team announcements, but the paper looked suspiciously like an application.
“Okay?” I said, warily, squinting at the paper to try to make out the writing on it.
“They want to run an archery range at sixth grade camp this year and Mr. Cooper asked me if any of my archers would be able to help out. Since you’re certified to teach, I thought this might be a good experience for you.”
I regretted letting Coach talk me into getting my level one certification last summer. The thought of teaching a bunch of eleven year olds about aiming at targets and not at each other made my stomach turn. Instead of looking back up at her, I twirled one of my arrows between my fingers, watching the teal and black vanes blur together.
“I don’t know. I’m not really good at this kind of thing.” A camp book series I’d read over the summer popped into my head, tempting me with the idea of s’mores and cute campers singing around campfires and hot counselors, but I pushed those thoughts away as quickly as they had come. “I don’t think I’m good at teaching.”
“You really don’t give yourself enough credit. I’ve seen you helping out new archers and think you do a great job.” She handed me the application and pat me on the arm. “Think about it.” As she walked away, she turned around and walked backwards to look at me while adding, “And if I catch you with that other bow, I’m confiscating it. Understand?”
“Um, okay,” I said with crossed fingers. As soon as she turned around again, I shoved the application into the black hole at the bottom of my bow bag, down under a few folded up old targets. Camp, just like shooting a perfect session a few minutes earlier, wasn’t going to happen.
Propping my bow in its stand, I checked the gym bleachers behind me. Dad always came for the last half of practice, waiting on the bleachers with the two or three other parents who came to watch. Most of the other kids hated when theirparents watched practice, but I kind of loved that archery was something he and I shared, even though he refused to even
hold
a bow.
I dropped down next to his feet and looked up at him, slipping my blue shooting glasses onto the top of my head. “You know, most people who come to watch practice actually watch.” I pointed with one of my arrows at the thick mystery bestseller he was balancing on his knees.
“They do,” he said calmly, slipping a bookmark into the book and gently shutting it. “But usually the shooting is much better.”
“That’s harsh.”
He let out a laugh and shook his head. “That’s me, your really harsh Dad. So, are you done?”
“I think it’s best for everyone involved if I stop before I hurt anyone.” Maeve
never
had bad archery days. But, then again, her destiny kind-of made it impossible for her to mess up. I thought of the paper now squished in my bow bag. “And after seeing me shoot like this, can you believe Coach Rentz wants me to volunteer to teach archery at the sixth grade camp?”
He looked up again over the rim of his glasses and suppressed a laugh. “Sixth grade camp? Did anyone tell her about the cryogenically frozen Jesus fiasco?”
I didn’t need to be reminded of my last, disastrous attempt to volunteer with kids. “It’s not my fault people let six year olds watch the Science Channel. You would think Father Sam would be the first to forgive and forget.”
Dad choked back a laugh. “You and kids just aren’t a good mix. It might be a good idea if you volunteer with inanimate objects, instead.”
“Yeah. I’ll stick to knitting chemo caps and preemie hats. Less chance of getting calls from angry parents. Still,” I side-eyed him with a fake annoyed look, “thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Always,
She hadn’t mentioned any new competitions in her team announcements, but the paper looked suspiciously like an application.
“Okay?” I said, warily, squinting at the paper to try to make out the writing on it.
“They want to run an archery range at sixth grade camp this year and Mr. Cooper asked me if any of my archers would be able to help out. Since you’re certified to teach, I thought this might be a good experience for you.”
I regretted letting Coach talk me into getting my level one certification last summer. The thought of teaching a bunch of eleven year olds about aiming at targets and not at each other made my stomach turn. Instead of looking back up at her, I twirled one of my arrows between my fingers, watching the teal and black vanes blur together.
“I don’t know. I’m not really good at this kind of thing.” A camp book series I’d read over the summer popped into my head, tempting me with the idea of s’mores and cute campers singing around campfires and hot counselors, but I pushed those thoughts away as quickly as they had come. “I don’t think I’m good at teaching.”
“You really don’t give yourself enough credit. I’ve seen you helping out new archers and think you do a great job.” She handed me the application and pat me on the arm. “Think about it.” As she walked away, she turned around and walked backwards to look at me while adding, “And if I catch you with that other bow, I’m confiscating it. Understand?”
“Um, okay,” I said with crossed fingers. As soon as she turned around again, I shoved the application into the black hole at the bottom of my bow bag, down under a few folded up old targets. Camp, just like shooting a perfect session a few minutes earlier, wasn’t going to happen.
Propping my bow in its stand, I checked the gym bleachers behind me. Dad always came for the last half of practice, waiting on the bleachers with the two or three other parents who came to watch. Most of the other kids hated when theirparents watched practice, but I kind of loved that archery was something he and I shared, even though he refused to even
hold
a bow.
I dropped down next to his feet and looked up at him, slipping my blue shooting glasses onto the top of my head. “You know, most people who come to watch practice actually watch.” I pointed with one of my arrows at the thick mystery bestseller he was balancing on his knees.
“They do,” he said calmly, slipping a bookmark into the book and gently shutting it. “But usually the shooting is much better.”
“That’s harsh.”
He let out a laugh and shook his head. “That’s me, your really harsh Dad. So, are you done?”
“I think it’s best for everyone involved if I stop before I hurt anyone.” Maeve
never
had bad archery days. But, then again, her destiny kind-of made it impossible for her to mess up. I thought of the paper now squished in my bow bag. “And after seeing me shoot like this, can you believe Coach Rentz wants me to volunteer to teach archery at the sixth grade camp?”
He looked up again over the rim of his glasses and suppressed a laugh. “Sixth grade camp? Did anyone tell her about the cryogenically frozen Jesus fiasco?”
I didn’t need to be reminded of my last, disastrous attempt to volunteer with kids. “It’s not my fault people let six year olds watch the Science Channel. You would think Father Sam would be the first to forgive and forget.”
Dad choked back a laugh. “You and kids just aren’t a good mix. It might be a good idea if you volunteer with inanimate objects, instead.”
“Yeah. I’ll stick to knitting chemo caps and preemie hats. Less chance of getting calls from angry parents. Still,” I side-eyed him with a fake annoyed look, “thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Always,
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