A gift for Nicola’s 10^th birthday, but it wasn’t really hers.  It was a “keepsake”; it was something to “save for when she had kids.”

Nicola was not going to have kids.

Her parents were still in the living room with her grandmother as she snuck past.  Once there was a lull in the conversation, they would remember the cake and ice cream in the fridge.  The teddy bear was squished under one arm; Nicola pressed it hard against her side so the metal and glass inside wouldn’t clink.  The straps of her armguard bound her brown skin.

They kept her bow and her arrows in the garage, as if keeping them out of sight would keep them out of her mind.  Her uncle had given them to her a few weeks before along with lessons at the local club.  Her parents weren’t satisfied.  A certified instructor and even a solemn promise to never take down her bow without their knowledge barely qualified as trust.  They forgot how true a promise could be if you wanted something badly enough.

Her quiver was hung on the edge of some white plastic shelves.  The shelves sagged under the weight of neglected paint cans and dirty rags, but the sides held firm against the wall.  Five arrows shifted inside as she slid the quiver down; their tips were blunted steel and the fletching was bright yellow plastic.  Her knees weakened a little at the sound, at the thought of what she was risking.  The bear looked up at her, lumpy head pulled to the side in limp apathy.  She took a shaky breath and moved on.

Getting her bow was a different matter.  It was a green plastic recurve bow with a molded black rubber grip.  The bow was laid, unstrung, across two hooks over the back door.  The sun was setting on that side of the house so she could barely see it with the glare coming through the window.  She wheeled her bike back to the door, the wheels disturbing the grit spread across the concrete.  Bracing the bike against the wall and the pedal against the kickstand, she stood and used one of the arrows to flick the bowstring free of the hook.  Nicola grabbed ahold of it and quietly pulled the bow off its restraints.

A chair scraped inside and someone stomped further into the house.  She waited, heard the pipes rattle as the water ran.  Still no one missed her.  She tied the quiver to a belt loop on her jeans and went out the door.  The sun shone on her black hair and on the spider webs she dodged.  The unstrung bow was in her left hand; the bear smothered under her right.

Nicola walked quickly across the backyard; her shoulders felt heavy, like phantom hands were pushing her on.  She was afraid that if she turned her head, she might find she had gained an audience.  Or see someone in the windows and hesitate.  She didn’t turn.  Noise scraped her ears: the grass beneath her feet, the swishy flop of a loose armguard strap.  Her uncle would be so disappointed.

The day he gave her the set, they had a talk right before he left.  They both stood by his truck in the driveway and he had crouched to her level.  He said, “Listen, Nick, we both know how much you wanted this.  Just be fair to your parents and follow their rules, ok?”  The possibility that they might not let her keep her bow clenched her heart.  She bit her lip and, when she could talk, asked why he couldn’t keep it at his house.

“That isn’t the kind of secret you keep, Nick.  Not just because it’s a weapon.  You don’t lie about your actions; you own them.”

The walk down the property line seemed to take an hour but she made it behind the garden shed without any discovery.  It looked like a barn out of a picture book with red siding and white trim that seemed to glare at her.  On the other side, there was a bale of hay and a nailed target.  She set the bear down with its mirror belly gaping open.  A few paces away, she stepped through the opening of the bow and bent the upper end over an exaggerated jut of her hip, sliding the string into the notch.

The first arrow went through one of its stitched eyes.  A bead of sweat, a piece of hair irritated one of her corneas.  Nicola was not crying.  The force had knocked the bear back, tilting the mirror so she could see herself.  She paused, straightened her posture, and aligned her waist on an even plane.  She hated this goddamn girly bear.

Nicola pulled another arrow and sent it through one of the paws.  A seam split; stuffing and purple fuzz came loose.  It tangled on the hay, caught on the yellow fletching.  A memory ghosted through the back of her mind: her mother’s hands in her hair, asking why she couldn’t grow it long enough to braid.  Two more arrows pierced her target.

Finally, she sent the last arrow through the mirror itself, just to see if it would break.  The metal broke, but the head clanged strangely against the atomizer inside.  She lowered her bow and stood undecided.  Was the glass shattered or was something inside still whole?  Suddenly she couldn’t bring herself to look inside the bear’s belly.  The longer she stood there, the more the hole gaped at her.  Nicola heard the back door open and ran to meet whoever it was, her hands ready to surrender the bow.