Parlor Tricks EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Chuck Harrison MANAGING EDITORS Tiffany Chhuor Alessandra Miranda ART EDITOR Lisa Yin Zhang PROSE EDITORS Andrew Wallace Arjun Pothuri POETRY EDITORS Erin Courville Alessandra Miranda DESIGNERS Tiffany Chhuor Carolyn Kim WEB DESIGN Maye McPhail COVER ART Carolyn Kim INSET ILLUSTRATIONS Lester Lee
Education EMILY BURCH
I used to think that hunting season shouldn’t occur during the school year. When my dad first started taking me I wasn’t old enough to understand that animals, unlike humans, decide to get busy with it at certain times of year, and that the seasons for different types of game are organized around those times. So I spent the first few years of my hunting life irrationally angry at the animals. And then the next few, once I’d figured out the whole mating thing, ticked off at Fish and Wildlife for arranging it that way. Now I know they do it because it’s best for the critters. “People are idiots, Leah. They don’t approve of things they don’t understand.” I nodded sagely the first time Dad told me that. As I got older, it turned into an eye roll and a “tell me about it.” It was, without a doubt, the understatement of the century. The first time my parents pulled me out of class to roam around a national forest in full camo, it was late September in first grade. My teacher, Mrs. Kissman, had a husband who hunted elk and occasionally took their two sons along, so she understood. The school’s principal didn’t, though, and she didn’t try. My parents received a voicemail while tromping around with me about the benefits of school; the social bonds I was making, the scholastic skills I was building as a foundation, the importance of an educated community, how every day counts. I remember my dad thought it hilarious. He stood next to the phone smiling as he listened once we got home, then called my mom in so she could hear it. “Is she serious?” she asked. “She can’t be serious.” “She doesn’t know any better.” My dad turned the machine off. “All you can do is laugh about it.”
“Does she really think that Leah will learn anything in that room more valuable or practical than being outside at this age? That classroom is total chaos, Joe. Sure, it’s good for her to be around the other kids, but I don’t think she’d know how to read or add if we didn’t teach her.” My mom volunteered with my class for a few hours three days a week all through elementary school and continued to once I’d moved over to the middle school. She didn’t work and said it got her out of the house a bit. Kept her busy. I think she just wanted to be around kids – I was the only one and it sometimes felt like she regretted it. And I think she, more than anyone, took the comments about me hunting as a personal attack. In March that same year, my parents took me out of school for a full week. It was turkey season in Nebraska. Friends who lived there part time had invited us out. My dad asked me, “Do you want to go, Leah-bear?” “I’ll stay home with you if you don’t want to,” my mom said. “No, I wanna go.” I always wanted to go. She smiled at me. “Okay, then let’s go!” You aren’t allowed to take Hunter’s Safety until you’re at least ten. Being seven, I wasn’t licensed yet, so I could only tag along with my dad. He preferred using a bow, liked the greater skill required, but he pulled a 20 gauge shotgun and shells out to pack up too. “What’s that for?” I asked. “Target practice. You can’t shoot turkeys yet, but Dan has a small range. You can shoot targets.”
I was pumped. Happiest kid in the world. But then I thought about an incident a year prior. “Does it kick like yours does?” He’d let me have a go with his .3006 rifle and it had knocked me on my ass. I’d only shot .22’s before and didn’t expect the kick. He’d chuckled and used the experience to teach me how to treat a gun with recoil. “No, it’ll hit you a little bit but it’s not nearly as powerful as mine. You’ll see.” And I did. I fell in love with that shotgun. Started craving the feeling of it jamming into the pocket of my shoulder. My dad loved that I loved it. Told me to breathe deeply before a shot, to squeeze the trigger slowly on an exhale. Said it should be an expected surprise when the gun fired. He taught me to shoot standing, kneeling, prone. Showed me how to disassemble and clean it, how to oil the metal parts so they didn’t rust. We set up a bracket competition with a few of our friends’ neighbors. Each person got five shots against the other, winner of that round moved on. I got second – my mom never believed in letting me win – and when I got back to school the next week, I told my friends all about it, proudly displaying the bruise on my shoulder. They asked why I had been in Nebraska shooting guns. I told them I was turkey hunting with my daddy. They asked about it, excited. The next day, my friend Alice came up to me. “My mommy said your parents are disgusting for making you watch them kill animals.” I told her I liked hunting, and she told Mrs. Kissman that I liked killing cute animals. Taken out of context, years later, it made sense why I was sent to the principal’s office.
My mom was scheduled to volunteer that day, so instead of calling, the principal just had me wait the 25 minutes until she walked through the front door. When she did, the receptionist pointed at me, sitting in the corner bored out of my mind, and asked her to step into Mrs. Bueller’s office. I had jumped up to hug my mom. I was angry at being sent away from class and confused as to what I’d done wrong. She felt like relief condensed into a solid being. “Come on,” she said, taking my hand and stepping through the door. Mrs. Bueller looked up at us. “Mrs. Blair, thanks for coming in.” “A warning would have been appreciated, Joyce,” my mom said. She didn’t sit down, so I didn’t either. “Weren’t you the one who called earlier on this fall suggesting that a child’s place is in the classroom? Why isn’t Leah?” Her hand was gripping mine. Mrs. Bueller’s mouth tightened. My best friend Charley and I called her Pucker Lips, P.L.. It turned into F.L. halfway through fourth grade. “Leah said something to a classmate that caused us concern.” “Well…?” “Well what?” “Well what did she say?” “That she likes killing animals.” She looked at me when she said it. My mom actually laughed. “She saved a spider from her bathroom this morning. Scooped it up in her hand and took it outside. You’re telling me she said she likes killing animals?” “Mrs. Blair, this really isn’t something to joke about. Its a proven first sign of psychopathy.” My mom’s tone was scathing. “I wasn’t joking, and I’d call your ability to work with children into question if you actually think that about my child, Joyce.” “I didn’t even say that,” I piped in. “Alice made it up. I said that I liked hunting. She said her mom thought you and daddy were disgusting for making me watch you kill animals.” I could tell she was pissed. Turning to P.L., she said, “Sounds to me that the person you should have sitting in here is Alice’s mother.” Mrs. Bueller stood up, mouth even tighter. “Look, Mrs. Blair, we have to be fair here. I think
we need to take Alice’s side into consideration as well.” “No, I apologize but I disagree with you. I’ve never known Leah to lie. Now, are you going to punish her? Or can she get back to class and can I get on with my day? P.L. grumblingly let us go, saying that a mother should know best whether or not her child is telling the truth. In the hallway, I asked, “Do you like Mrs. Bueller?” “Sometimes parents shouldn’t tell their kids what they think, Leah. Not until they’re older and think more for themselves, at least.” “You aren’t happy with Alice’s mom, are you?” She stopped, bent down and hugged me. “No, I’m not. But you don’t need to tell Alice that. Okay?” “Okay.” Alice didn’t talk to me for the rest of that day, anyway. I thought she just felt guilty and I wanted her to wallow in it. Now I think she was just a bitch like her mom. On my tenth birthday, my grandfather gave me a gorgeous Remington 12 gauge. My dad signed me up for the 4H skeet class, and I started spending Thursday afternoons learning to hit three inch diameter orange disks in midair. I was the only girl and five years younger than the youngest boy. The man teaching the lessons asked me if I could hold up such a heavy gun. The old Remington had a solid wood stock and several engraved iron panels. He said he had a few shotguns with synthetic stocks in his truck that I could try out. I told him I only needed to hold it up for about 5 seconds to shoot a clay pigeon, so I’d keep my granddaddy’s gun. He told my dad he liked me. After the third or fourth class, he walked over to my dad as I was unloading my gun and putting it in its case.
“Are you going to sign her up for Hunter’s Safety? There’s a course next month and she’s ten, right?” My dad nodded. “Already done. And we’re planning on going turkey hunting a few weeks later.” “I think that’s great. Not enough kids know their way around the sport anymore. Do you like rifles?” he asked, turning to me. “Yes, sir.” “I’m offering a .22 marksmanship course this summer. Would love to have you in it. Great practice if you’re thinking about going after deer or elk in the future, too.” I looked at my dad for permission. He smiled. “I’ll definitely sign up for it!” A lot of people don’t understand how many rules and regulations there are surrounding hunting. They think of it as a bunch of redneck hillbillies out in the woods dressed in neon orange and camouflage waving around guns that could go off at any second. There are some people like that. But the system works to eliminate and educate most of them. Besides Hunter’s Safety, there’s a long list of regulations to abide by for each type of game. For turkeys, the age limit is ten, but for elk or deer, it’s twelve. In muzzleloader or rifle season, you have to wear 50 square inches of solid orange. In archery season, you don’t. Firearms in vehicles must be unloaded, ammunition stored outside the case, and the safety on. Those hunters that you see shooting at anything from the road, they’re breaking the law. Write down their license plate number and call Fish and Game. They’ll take away their privilege to hunt. Report them. They give the vast majority of us a bad reputation. You also have to purchase a tag to harvest an animal. That tag is good for a set time period. It’s pretty similar to a fishing license, if you’re more familiar with that, but it’s more precise. It states the exact dates for
which it is valid, the unit of land in which you are authorized to hunt, the firearm you can use, and the type and sex of the game you can go after. The number of tags issued each season depends on a population count performed by biologists within Fish and Game. And the money that comes from hunters purchasing those tags funds over 85% of Fish and Game. Pretty cool, huh? What wasn’t cool was the number of people who just didn’t get it.
stuff happened. I talked about it with Charley occasionally – he was always over at my house. Our property backed up to a river, national forest on the other side, so we usually set up target practice for the BB guns out back. He thought most girls didn’t like me because I didn’t like makeup, and most boys were just intimidated. “You come off a little strong sometimes, Leah,” he said. I thought he was being unreasonable. Some of my other friends admitted it was jealousy. “How come you get to miss so much school? What makes you There were a few more incidents through ele- so special, huh?” they’d ask. mentary and middle school. Once, my dad and I were “Let’s go outside and see,” I’d say back. It wasn’t an emphiking out on the Colorado Trail after a long morning. ty threat. I knew so many things they didn’t. I was twelve or thirteen and carried a bull elk tag in my pocket. We’d been with In high school, sports in 80 yards of a bunch of and clubs and friends cows and were talking made it hard to find time about how exciting it was to hunt with my family, to watch the animals so so I didn’t much. It didn’t close for so long. come up in conversation The Colorado Trail is fremuch, either, and there quently used by runners were no more locker inand bikers, and a womcidents for the first three an jogging that morning years. saw us and slowed down. At Summit High, it’s a seHer eyes scanned our ornior tradition to go campange vests, our camo hats, ing the first weekend after then finally stopped on school starts. We all go to my 7mm-08. The rifle was Green Mountain Reserslung over my shoulder. voir in Heeney and swim “Are you guys and drink during the day, hunting?” she asked. drink and fuck during the night. It was a glorious week “Nope, just taking our gun for a walk,” my dad end and I spent most of it with Grace and Morgan, two replied as she ran past. of my close friends. In late elementary school, a group of girls On Saturday night, a few of the more popuskipped around me every recess calling, “I’m an elk! lar girls in our grade, not in my friend group but with I’m a deer! Are you gonna shoot me?” Someone splat- whom I was friendly, were trying to build a fire. They ter painted my locker red in sixth grade. When my dad were striking a match – I was impressed they even knew proudly posted a picture of me with my first bull elk how to do that without burning themselves – and then on Facebook, so many, “Eww, no one wants to see that,” holding it to a split log, expecting it to burst into flame. and “wow, you’re a killer. Stay away from me, freak” Grace, Morgan, and I walked by and I stopped to help comments came my way within the first hour of the them. I explained the proper way and coaxed a small next school day that I texted my dad asking him to un- blaze into existence. They seemed half-sincere when tag me. they thanked me at least, then asked where I’d learned None of my friends said anything when that that.
“My dad and I used to go hunting a lot. Sometimes we’d be stuck out on a really cold day and needed to warm up so he taught me.” “Oh.” “Yeah.” They didn’t say anything else. “Well, we’ll see you guys around. Have a fun night.” We walked away, not thinking anything of it. Apparently they did, though, because the second Monday of my senior year felt like that scene from a movie where the bullies lie in wait for the victim to walk into school, then group around, accusing. “So. You hunt, huh?” I nodded, confused. “Kill anything this weekend?” “No…what are you talking about? I was drinking with the rest of you.” “You didn’t bring your big gun and sneak up there to shoot some innocent animal?” I think I went cross-eyed. “Its not season…I didn’t have a tag…what the fuck are you talking about I was with everyone the entire time.” One of the girls from the fire stepped forward. “Ooh, defensive. I didn’t see you the whole time.” “Anna, you don’t see most people most of the time, unless they’re attractive and male,” I said. Another one, Josie, stepped in. She pulled out her phone and showed it to everyone, then tilted it towards me. The picture of me with my first elk. “Kill this last weekend?” “You did some serious stalking to find that,” I said, laughing a little. “Are you obsessed with me? Trying to figure out why Charley’s sleeping with me? You threw yourself at him pretty hard on Friday night. Little classless, don’t you think? Must’ve hurt when he went for the killer, not you.” A few oooooo’s came from the onlookers. The other girls looked at her, hoping she’d start something. She stood quiet for a moment, then, “Just don’t bring your guns around here, freak.” They dispersed. I went to history, shaking.
I tagged myself in all of my dad’s hunting pictures on Facebook that night. He came into my room after dinner. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, fine.” “I thought you didn’t like being tagged in hunting photos.” “I’m not ashamed of who I am.” “Okay.” He sounded unsure. “Do you need anything?” “ No, thank you, though. Just finishing my math homework, then going to go to bed. Lifting for cross country before school tomorrow.” “Okay.” He left. My mom came in and silently hugged me after I brushed my teeth. I got a lot of catcalls at school the next day. A few boys asked me to show them my guns. None of the people I was sort-of-friends with said hi like they normally did. Charley asked me what I was doing. We’d started sleeping together that summer, but he was still my best friend. “Remember F.L.?” he said. “Remember middle school? Don’t start this.” “I’m not starting anything.” “Uh huh. I know you better than that.” I wore a camo sweatshirt to school on Wednesday. He rolled his eyes when he saw me. The next few weeks were fine. Nothing middle school hadn’t prepared me for. I’d noticed that Charley didn’t want to hang out as much, but told myself that was just soccer amping up. Halloween rolled around. My friends and I decided to be Greek Goddesses. Super basic, but relatively politically correct and easy. Morgan was determined to be Aphrodite, while Grace fancied herself Helen. “What about you?” Grace asked. “I was thinking Athena. Wisdom and all.” “Whatever, you’re totally Artemis,” Morgan chimed in. Grace shook her head. “I don’t think that’s such a great idea.”
I hadn’t really considered it – Athena had been my hero in Greek mythology for as long as I could remember. But Artemis was everything I admired too: strong, courageous, independent. “I like it,” I said. “Leah, you should really just keep your head down. I get that this is a part of your family and all but those girls just don’t get it. They already hate you because of Charley. They’ll tear you apart.” “Grace might be right,” Morgan said. “Well, the outfit is pretty much the same either way, right? Its not like I can bring a bow into school, even if it’s fake.” Morgan picked up my train of thought. “So you’re Athena to the public but Artemis to us. Cool!” Grace rolled her eyes. “This is so fifth grade.” On Halloween, we paraded down the hallway to our lockers in our wrapped and folded sheets. Josie, Anna, and company trooped into school a few minutes later decked out in full camouflage, face paint and all. It was that fake, fashion camo bullshit to top it off. I felt the blood in my cheeks rise, making me lightheaded. “It’s rifle season, ladies. Where’s your orange?” I called. “Don’t,” Morgan warned. “What are you talking about?” Anna asked. “If a ranger saw you, you’d get a ticket. You need to be wearing orange.” “Leah, cool it,” Grace whispered. “At least I’m not in a toga.” Josie said. “It’s actually a chiton and himation. The Romans wore togas, not the Greeks.” “What do we care?” “Just trying to help you out!” I said, cheerfully. Anna smiled, equally sugar-coated. “We don’t need any help from an animal killer.” “Leah,” Morgan said. “Let’s go to class.” “You might not kill them personally, but those
are some nice leather boots,” I pointed at Josie’s lumberjack-inspired Frye’s. “Did you have bacon for breakfast too?” “That’s different.” “Really? Meat doesn’t come from the grocery store. Leather doesn’t grow on trees. Drive by a slaughterhouse sometime. The animals I kill are adults, and they live better lives.” “Don’t act like you have a conscience.” Camo Barbie Squadron strutted towards math. I turned on Grace and Morgan. “Way to stick up for me.” “What did you want us to say?” Morgan asked. “Anything would have been nice.” Grace shrugged. Morgan looked at the ground. “When you get like this, they almost seem right. Common, Grace.” She shut her locker and walked down the hall. Grace followed her. “That was a little brutal.” Charley came up behind me. I turned around. “Not really, thanks for your help, though.” “Leah…” “You’re busy. I get it.” “I’m not – ” “Then you don’t want to be seen with the class killer.” “I didn’t say that.” He looked down. I walked past him. “You didn’t have to.” My parents had used each kill as an anatomy lesson. I’d started to help skin the animals when I was six, thought it was the coolest thing how easily the hide pulled away from the body, the warm fat ripping at the slightest pressure from a blade. Sometimes you didn’t even need a knife, it’d tear with a good tug. When we opened up the body, they started pointing things out. Liver, stomach, big intestine. That’s the diaphragm separating the organs from the chest cavity. When you
puncture it, the lungs deflate from the pressure disequilibrium. See the pericardium protecting the heart? Cut that open. Be careful, pull it off gently. That’s the aorta, the atria and ventricles. Slice through the veins, careful, don’t knick the heart. We’ll pan fry it in butter. The skin is thin here up by the head, go slowly. Now go through the muscle. See that joint there, at the base of the skull? We’re going to pop that like we did the knees to get the hoofs for the dog. My parents were proud of me for finding it interesting. I think that’s why they had pictures of me, elbow deep in blood, examining the organs, pulling the skin off the neck, dislocating the head. A personal favorite was one of me smiling, a few red specks on my right cheek, as I held up an ivory freshly removed from the jaw for the camera to see. I sent all of the pictures to my phone. At lunch the next day, I walked up behind Josie, put my phone down on the table in front of her, and started scrolling through the bloody images. “What the fuck is this? Are you insane?” “Here’s where meat comes from! Enjoying that ham sandwich?” I kept swiping. “You fucking weirdo, get the hell away from me!” She tried to push away from the table and stand up but I was leaning over her, blocking her chair. “Oh come on, see the monster in action.” Anna stood up. “Come on Leah, this isn’t funny.” “Yeah, and making fun of me was.” “Okay, we’re sorry, just stop. Look, Josie’s crying! Cut it out!” “I will if you do.” I bumped into her as I walked over to my friends a few tables over. Morgan looked up at me. “That wasn’t cool, Leah.” “You never say anything to them when they’re being nasty to me. I don’t think that’s cool.” “That’s different,” Morgan said. “I don’t care what they think.” “I’m with Mo,” Grace said. “You shouldn’t have done that.” “You shouldn’t have stood there and said noth-
ing each time they called me a freak show in front of you. Great friends you are.” I turned and slammed into Charley. “Sorry, didn’t mean…” “You’re no better than any of them.” I went and ate in my car. He didn’t text me. Camo became a staple in my wardrobe. I spent lunch in the library, went straight home after practice. Charley booty-called me a few times pretending to ask if I was okay. I told him he could either ask in person or leave me alone. Apparently thirteen years of friendship boiled down to a warm body for him. Grace reached out once or twice, ate with me one time. Morgan didn’t bother, and the rest of our friends were always her shadow. I had a lot of homework time, at least. Three weeks after I showed Josie the photos, my mom intercepted me when I came home. “What are you doing, Leah?” “What do you mean?” “You don’t seem to talk to anyone – where are your friends? Why are you home right after practice every day? It’s your senior year and you’re not having any fun. What happened?” So I told her. “Oh, Leah. You can’t do that. People don’t…” “…approve of what they don’t understand. I know. But they should try to.” “You’re not letting them try.” “You’re not trying to either, Mom!” She paused. “Leah, I am. What do you think all the other parents say to me? They’ve told me for years that I shouldn’t let a little girl wander around the woods with a gun. Have I listened? Have I let it get to me? You’re smarter than them and you’re making yourself miserable. You’re the one who doesn’t understand.” “But I’m right!” “It doesn’t matter if you’re right,” she called as I stomped off to my room. I didn’t let slip that I hunt when I went to college.