My Name Is Not Easy (52 page)

O U R S T O R Y

Th

ey belonged with the story Junior had written. Th

ey needed

Junior’s story for backup. No,
backup
wasn’t quite right. Th e

audience that was going to read Amiq’s story needed to read Junior’s story fi rst. Th

at’s how it worked. Th

e story Junior said

didn’t belong anywhere belonged with Amiq’s.

Th

at’s what Luke decided, walking down the hall toward the library.

Father Mullen was mad. Who was responsible for
this?
He waved a newspaper at them. It was the “Letters to the Editor” section of the
Dallas Morning News,
a newspaper none of them had ever even seen before.
Th

e headline read: “From

the Ice Cellar to the Bomb Shelter: Seeking Missing People.”

It was signed “Aamaugak, a student at Sacred Heart School in Alaska.”

Who was Aamaugak?

Looking at the headline, Junior felt all the blood drain from his face. For a couple of long seconds, he couldn’t even breathe. Maybe he would suff ocate. Or throw up. He looked at Amiq. Amiq looked at him and shrugged, smiling the way he always smiled. Like everything was all part of some grand plan he’d always had.

“I’m sure there’s some explanation,” Father Flanagan was saying, standing next to Father Mullen, ringing his hands.

Junior could tell that Father Flanagan was trying hard not to look at him.

“We will sit here until we get the
truth,
” Father Mullen said.

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

Th

ey all sat, rigid in their seats, trying not to eye each other. Th

e silence roared in their ears like a military plane.

A plane full of weapons landing. Father Mullen’s gaze swept across the room, pausing on Amiq’s downturned head. Amiq sat still. Calm and certain. Th

en, very slowly and very delib-

erately, he stood up.

Luke looked at him and frowned, shaking his head with a movement so slight, most people wouldn’t have noticed it.

Amiq looked away.

“I’m responsible,” Amiq said in a loud voice. “I did it.”

Junior let out a big sigh of relief. He hadn’t realized that he’d been sitting there with his fi sts clenched, holding his breath. He was suddenly grateful that he was the kind of kid people never seemed to notice.

But with his fi sts unclenched, he felt strangely fl at and defl ated. And then, just as suddenly, he was mad. Amiq had done it again! Even though he’d been trying to protect Junior, he’d done it again. Made Junior invisible. Made Junior’s writing invisible.

Junior raised his hand. It seemed at fi rst that no one even noticed him, way in the back, his skinny arm poised like a question mark.

Father Mullen looked at him with curiosity. “Junior?”

“Actually, sir,” Junior said, shoving at his glasses. He saw Donna’s face, closed as a book, and looked at Leo Pete, scared as a rabbit, and at Amiq, who frowned at him and said
no
with his eyes.

Yes?” Father said.

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O U R S T O R Y

“I wrote it,” Junior said. Th

e words seemed to fl y out of

his mouth. He looked straight at Father, thinking about his story, which was now a newspaper story no matter what anyone said. Th

e tape was rolling in his head again, and he could

hear it loud and clear: the word
family.
Suddenly his story seemed to belong to everyone, even Amiq. “In a way, sir . . . in a way, we all wrote it.”

He hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud.

Leo Pete shuffl

ed awkwardly, and the girls looked at Junior

with betrayed eyes, then they looked at Father with looks that said,
“We never!”
Amiq grinned at Luke.

Luke stared back. “It’s true,” he said.

Father Mullen looked at Junior and smiled. “Th

at’s very

noble of you, son,” he said. Th

en he told Amiq to follow

him.

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Civil Disobedience

SPRING 1964

Amiq was piling stuff together on his bed, acting like he was all alone in the room—all alone in the world, maybe. Acting like Luke and Sonny and the Pete boys didn’t even exist. He was staring at the bed as he worked with a look that said he didn’t see or hear any of them.

“What did you have to do that for?” Sonny said, fi nally.

It wasn’t a question; it was an accusation. Amiq fl ashed a look at Sonny.

“Because,” Amiq said. His jaw snapped shut on the word with a force that made Leo Pete think of his uncle’s steel traps.

“Pe-cuz,” Sonny mimicked.

Amiq scowled. For a second it looked like he was going to punch Sonny. Th

en his eyes got dark and his face went hard,

and you got the feeling they could do just about anything and it wouldn’t touch him. Wouldn’t even register.

Amiq’s duffl

e sat gape-mouthed on the fl oor, and he

started to cram it full of stuff : wrinkled clothes, broken pen-cils, a hunting knife and, unaccountably, a beat-up old copy
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C I V I L D I S O B E D I E N C E

of
Th

e History of Alaska
left over from Father Flanagan’s sev-enth-grade history class. He looked briefl y at the book and grinned. It was not an amiable grin.

“President Seward paid the Russians $7,200,000 for something they didn’t even own. A royal rip-off ,” he said, shoving the book underneath a wad of underwear. “Seward’s Folly.”

Th

e Pete boys eyed each other uncomfortably.

“Folly?” Leo said.

“Means ‘I jokes,’” Amiq said, no humor whatsoever in his voice. He eyed Sonny sidewise. “Least we never let them set foot on
our
land. Our grandfathers killed trespassers.
All of
them.”

Sonny leaned forward, tense. It wasn’t entirely clear exactly who Amiq was including in the word
all.
But Amiq had already turned away from them like he never said it, punching dirty socks into the edges of his duffl