Page 37 of Assistant to the Assassin

She gives a dark laugh, shaking her head. “The superintendent said that he would back my teachers over me and that he wouldn’t punish a teacher over one student’s complaints. Turned out he was sexually harassing kids in the school district, but everyone was keeping it quiet because he was so popular.”

I stare at her, struck silent by her words. “I’m so sorry, Beth.”

She shrugs. “That’s why I chose to get into the CIA. I wanted to help people who no one else would help, but I hated how hard the rules and the system itself made that job. So, when you came to me with a job offer, I jumped at the opportunity to do actual good. There are too many people like that superintendent that can do whatever they want because they have power.”

“It’s bullshit that fully grown adults would punish a little girl for a disease she didn’t ask for and make her feel bad for keeping herself alive.” My fists clench at my sides as images of a twelve-year-old Beth flood into my mind, her expression frustrated and angry as all the adults around her tell her she’s doing something wrong and bullying her for taking care of her health.

She shrugs. “Like I said, I managed to get through it with some forced positivity and a lot of boy bands. Therapy helped too. I was convinced that all of the bad treatment I received was earned, that I deserved it, and it took a couple years to unpack that false thinking. Why do you think I encouraged you to go see Dr. Bennett? I know how helpful therapy can be.”

I have nothing to say to that; threats towards those who wronged her won’t fix the past, nor the trauma she endured. She shoots again, and finally she clips the target’s ear. She turns and gives me another smug smile, her usual perky attitude back in place of the resigned sorrow. Now that she has revealed this part of herself, I will always wonder whether her joyful attitude is real or just a mask. I’ve always joked we were opposites in terms of how we present ourselves, but maybe I was wrong. Her walls are just made of different material than mine.

“You’re turn,” she says, still sporting that grin.

I shake my head, pointing at the target. “I’ll answer that if you manage to hit the arm or shoulder.”

She glares at me. “Fine.”

She goes through two rounds of ammo before actually hitting the line of the target’s arm. When I bring it forward and she sees the shot, she jumps and squeals with glee, waving her gun around in the air. I rush forward and grab it out of her hand, giving her an exasperated look. “Never do a giddy victory dance with a gun in your hand!”

She laughs, flinging her arms around my neck. “Don’t be such a party pooper.”

I laugh at how ridiculous that statement is. “I’m a party pooper for making sure you don’t fire an accidental shot?”

“My finger wasn’t even on the trigger. I’m not that stupid.”

I hug her back with one arm, holding the gun at my side. “Maybe leave the dancing for outside of training, that’s all I ask.”

She pulls back from me and gives me a little pout. “I guess that’s fair.”

Journal Entry 18

Man, Chinese, Italian, American, Bisexual, Catholic, Orphan, Soldier, Killer.

Dr. Bennett told me to write down all the words that define me. She said that through all of the grief and hardships I’ve suffered, I’ve lost my sense of self. I define myself by what’s happened to me. Now that I’ve written out my defining traits, I can only think of one thing.

I’m Chinese and Italian, but I’m completely detached from those cultures. My father died before he could teach me anything, and my mother was as lost to the Chinese culture as I am. I bet my father was the same way. I’m an American, just like they were, and this country is so far up its own ass that it squashes any other cultures that may live within it. Momma and I visited a Chinatown a couple times, but we felt like outsiders. We looked like they did, but we weren’t one of them. She tried to make some traditional Chinese food and teach me some history, but she was learning it all alongside me. She even attempted to connect me with my Italian side, but if she was lost to her own culture, she certainly knew nothing about my father’s.

I had foster parents for a few months that were Chinese. They were nice, but their attempts to teach me my lost culture only served to piss me off. My parents were gone, and I didn’t want even more reminders of that fact.

Looking back, I wish I had listened. Maybe I would feel closer to my mother. Maybe I would have more sense of self.

I guess I’m an orphan in more ways than one.

Ain’t It Warming You, the World Going Up in Flames?

I pull the trigger again, firing my last bullet from the magazine, and I don’t even make it close to the target’s chest. I keep hitting the arm, or more often, hitting nothing at all.

Two days we’ve been at this, yet I can’t seem to get any better.

“This gun is defective!” I exclaim, unloading the mag and then angrily setting both items down on the rack.

Henry gives me a sympathetic smile. “It’s not defective. It just takes a lot of practice, and you’ll get there eventually.”

I huff, planting myself down on one of the sparring mats. “I have been a star student since I was in elementary school. Never got below a B! I can ace a test on Macbeth but I can’t shoot a paper person in the head!”

“Macbeth and killing people are hardly the same thing.”

I give him a sardonic chuckle. “You clearly haven’t read Macbeth.”

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