My Name Is Not Easy (49 page)

His dad would’ve liked the look on that guy’s face, too, Amiq thought
. Like he’s not afraid of anything. Like he could ask
to get arrested and grin about it.

Luke nodded.
Th

at’s how he is, all right
.

Th

ere was something about that picture that just forced you to notice it. Th

ose hunters were all Luke’s family, too—

uncles and great uncles, his mom’s cousins and Uncle Joe’s buddies—and Uncle Joe seemed so alive, bigger than life. Like he could just step right out of the newspaper and march into the room with all those hunters behind him.

Fearless.

Luke looked up and blinked with a sudden realization.

When they were all together like that, what was there to be afraid
of ?

“Th

ey got a jail in Barrow big enough for that many hunters?” Michael O’Shay asked, leaning over Luke’s shoulder.

“Not a chance,” Amiq said. Th

ey would of had to take ’em

to Fairbanks.”

“Th

ey’d have to pay for one heck of a big plane to send
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M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y

all those guys to Fairbanks,” O’Shay said, and suddenly Amiq started laughing. Laughing and laughing the way Luke’s uncle must have laughed. Laughing for both him and his dad.

“All them hunters and their ducks!” he cried. “Don’t forget the ducks!”

“You don’t need permission,” Amiq was saying.

Th

ey were sitting in the
Sacred Heart Guardian
editorial offi

ce, which was actually Father Flanagan’s classroom. Chickie and Sonny were
Sacred Heart Guardian
reporters, and Junior was the editor. Amiq wasn’t anything.

Junior looked at Amiq but didn’t say a word. Who’d said anything about permission?

“Father said I should write about my uncle’s newspaper,”

Junior said.

“Yeah, but that’s not the
real
story,” Amiq said.

Junior bristled. Th

e real story? Junior could feel the real

story. He could almost hear it, in fact. It whispered in the back of his mind, like a tape machine rolling with the sound turned down low. He could hear the clacking sound of tape on the reel, but he couldn’t hear the words, because Amiq was talking too much.

Junior turned away, tuning Amiq out, thinking about the Duck-In. One of the papers had called it “a civil disobedience action,” which was a curious phrase. How could people be civil and disobedient at the same time?

Junior thought about the hunters. First one hunter had been arrested for catching a duck out of season, and then the
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O U R S T O R Y

rest got upset, and they all showed up, holding ducks. Th ey

weren’t trying to break the law, like the Anchorage papers said.

Th

ey were just sticking together, following their own law
.

Th

at was the real story,
Junior thought.
Or was it?

And what was the real story behind Project Chariot—the story
he
wanted to tell? Junior wasn’t exactly sure. But he was sure about one thing: he could fi nd the real story just fi ne without any help from Amiq.

“Th

e story Father told me to write is the story about the new newspaper,” Junior said again. He said it just to shut Amiq up. He needed time to think.

“Is that how your uncle got a new newspaper, by writing the stories somebody told him to write?” Amiq said.

Junior adjusted his glasses. “I guess,” he said.

Amiq grinned and shook his head, like he knew better.

“You write it down and I’ll help keep you honest,” he said.

Chickie looked at Junior and rolled her eyes.

“I can write my own story,” Junior said.

But his jaw was set so hard, it felt like he was going to have to grind the words out sideways.

When Father Flanagan read Junior’s story, all he did was frown and scratch his head.

“Th

is isn’t quite what I was expecting, Junior.”

Junior swallowed hard and nodded. Amiq, in the corner of the room, grinned.

“Th

is isn’t the kind of story we run in the
Sacred Heart
Guardian.
And it’s not very uplifting, either, is it?”
Father said.

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M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y

“A bunch of grown men, breaking the law—who wants to hear about that?”

Junior nodded again, his chest tightening.

“Th

e
Guardian
is for our students, Junior. Our students are interested in hearing about your uncle’s newspaper because he’s your uncle. Th

is other stuff ”—Father waved his arm like

he was shooing off mosquitoes—“this other stuff belongs in your uncle’s paper, not in ours.”

Junior looked down and nodded a third time, biting his cheeks to keep the tears away. He could feel Amiq, over there in the corner, watching. Th

ey were all watching. He lifted his

chin and adjusted his glasses.

“Write one about the paper, will you, Junior?” Father said.

Junior nodded and swallowed. Th

e lump in this throat

was sharp as ice.

“What about you, Chickie? What are you writing about?”

Father asked.

“I’m writing about the new desks Sister Mary Kate got, the ones that school in Anchorage donated.” She said it fast, watching Junior out of the corner of her eye as if writing about new desks made her feel guilty all of a sudden.

“Great idea,” Father said, shuffl

ing through a pile of papers

on his desk. “What’s the headline?”

Chickie looked at Junior. Junior, after all, was the editor.

“Providence Strikes Again,” Amiq said loudly. “Th

at’s the

headline.”

Chickie glared at Amiq, and Amiq winked.

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