Something to Hold (4 page)

Bill tosses his algebra book onto the table across from me. He pulls a pencil out of his back pocket and sits down. "What's wrong with you?" he says.

I shake my head, wiping my dripping nose with the back of my hand.

"You're
crying?
About
homework?
"

"Shut up." I keep my head down, sniffling the tears back in.

Bill opens his book, flips through a few pages, and starts in on the problems. I sit there like a big dope, my face all wet and slobbery, until he says, "Geez—here," and hands me a wadded-up tissue from his pocket.

I take it—I don't care where it's been.

"It'll get better, you know," he says.

"Yeah?" I sniff. "When?"

Bill scribbles numbers across the page. "When you make some friends."

"You sound like Mom."

He smiles, puts down his pencil. "Sometimes she's right."

I blow my nose on his tissue. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Bill says, and we finish our homework together.

O
N
my first Friday morning at this school, I stand off to the side of the playfield, waiting for the school doors to open. This has become my usual spot, though it always feels a little exposed. I watch out for Jewel and Norma. Then I notice the empty swings along the fence separating the field from the girls' dorm. That may be a better place to wait.

I thread a path through the little kids playing tag and am almost to the swings when I see Jewel and Norma sitting on the grass. They lean back against the chainlink, and Norma is holding one hand down in the grass. I get a weird feeling about this, but it's too late to turn back.

Norma lifts her chin. "What're
you
doing here?"

I could kick myself for walking into this mess. But I'm not going to show it. "Just came for a swing." I keep my voice as even as I can.

Norma shakes her head. "They're taken."

"There's nobody here," I say.

"I didn't say that." She shrugs. "Just said they're reserved."

Norma checks the field for a second, then lifts up her hand and puts it to her lips.
She's smoking!
One quick puff, and she hides the cigarette back down in the tall grass. She stares at me. "You gonna tell?" she asks.

Like on the first day of school, Jewel doesn't say a thing.

"Course not." I turn around and walk away.

***

Franklin is leaning against the front-step railing joking with Benson as I come up to the school. The nasty bruise Raymond gave him shows under the sleeve of Franklin's T-shirt, but he grins at me, so maybe it doesn't hurt that much.

"How's it going, new girl?" Benson asks.

I've had it and am not in any mood to be teased or picked on. His face looks friendly, though.

I sigh. "I hate being new."

"I know what you mean," Franklin says.

"Your dad work for the Bureau of Indian Affairs too?"

Franklin chuckles. "Worse—Presbyterian church. I'm a preacher's kid, and we've moved all over. Getting started is hard everywhere."

This is the longest conversation I've had in weeks. It feels so normal, so good.

I nod toward the bruise. "Did Raymond do that because you're white?"

"You kidding?" Benson says. "Take a look at half the boys in this school. Raymond does stuff like that 'cause he
can.
He doesn't care who you are."

The first bell jangles above our heads, and Benson heads for the front door. Franklin picks up his books, then turns back to me.

"Look," he says, "you gotta start somewhere. Just ... jump in. You'll be surprised."

And he jogs on up the stairs and through the doors.

***

I walk into the classroom and almost bump into a girl standing just inside who's got a group gathered around her. I've never seen her before, and for an instant, my hopes lift.
Maybe she's brand new, like me.

The girl turns, and I realize that I can see over her head. She is tiny and has long, black hair held back from her face by red barrettes. Suddenly, I feel tall and clumsy.

A girl named Geraldine slips around the jam we've created in the doorway and grins when she sees her. "Hey, Pinky. It's about time you got home. How was the summer up on the lookout?"

Pinky rolls her eyes. "
So
boring. I thought I'd be stuck on Sidwalter Butte forever."

In my mind, I hear the voice from the two-way radio outside my room: "
Station One, this is Sidwalter.
" The voice that watches over the woods for fires and keeps me company while I sleep.

"You got to stay up at the lookout?" I ask. I'm envious. The radio makes it sound so exciting.

Pinky sighs like this is a bad thing. "We left the day after school got out and came down last night." She gets a puzzled look. "You're new. How do you know about Sidwalter?"

This is the first time I've known about
anything
since we moved here. "I can hear Mrs. Wesley on the radio. You had a big lightning storm a week or so ago."

"Yep," Pinky says. "That's my mom."

"And Station One is my dad."

Pinky's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, I know about you," she says. "You just moved here from back east."

I nod. "Yeah."

Pinky suddenly shouts out to the kids milling around the room. "Hey, you guys!"

Every head turns. I shrink back against the doorway, wishing I was invisible.

Pinky points her elbow at me. "She's OK."

I feel my face begin to glow.
What is she doing?

"They think you're stuck up."

I am too surprised to say anything. I try not to think about all the kids who are now staring at me.

"Geraldine says you haven't talked to anybody. You don't smile."

My heart is pounding, and I'm about to lose it completely.
This is so unfair!

But Pinky smiles. "I knew that wasn't true. Mom said she really likes working for your dad. And she said I'd like you, too."

I swallow hard, locking the hurt inside. Then I breathe in and try to smile back at her. "I'm glad you told me," I say, finally. "I had no idea."

The final bell rings and Mr. Nute walks through the door. As everyone scrambles to their seats, Franklin gives me a quick thumbs-up.

My desk is down the row from Geraldine's. I make myself look at her.

"Hi."

Geraldine stares at me for a second. Then she says hi back.

Franklin is right. It's a start.

O
N
Sundays we drive out of the canyon and up to the church in Madras. Going to church feels normal and familiar, no matter where we live.

I'm nervous but hopeful as we head up the highway, just like I've been every week. The kids in Sunday school see each other every day in school, and we're the only family that drives in from the reservation. Still, fitting in here, where all the kids are white, feels like it's going to be easier than at school.

My parents go straight to the sanctuary, and Bill heads upstairs with the junior highs. I follow Joe to Sunday school in the basement. Joe peels off into his classroom, and I hesitate for a second at the doorway of the sixth grade room.

It would be so great if someone would wave to me.
Come sit by me—there's a seat over here!
But nobody says a word.

Cathy Watson is sitting on the far side of the room. As usual, all the chairs around her are filled with followers. Cathy is the kind of girl teachers trust with notes to the principal, the kind born to be prom queen. That first Sunday, she made a point of saying hi and introducing me to a few of the girls. That was nice, even though they all went roller-skating after church and I went home to Warm Springs.

A couple of kids bump past me as the teacher, Cathy's mom, shoos us away from the door and over to the chairs. Mrs. Watson picks up her Bible, and I drop into the first empty seat.

I'm trying to be subtle about wiping my sweaty hands on my dress when a girl next to me swings around in her seat, her blond ponytail almost hitting me. A new girl. As she moves, her stiff petticoat rustles.

She says the worst thing right away. "I was saving that seat."

I can feel my face get hot. "Oh—sorry."

"For Cathy," she says, like I should know.

I try to sound confident and casual. "She's sitting way over there. She won't mind."

"Maybe not," the new girl says. "But I do."

We stand to sing "Onward, Christian Soldiers," and the petticoat takes up most of the space between us. I have to lean sideways toward the pudgy boy beside me, which makes him tip closer to the next kid. And so on. A whole side of the room tilting to the left. When we sit back down, the new girl folds her hands over her lap to keep her skirt in place.

We are let loose from Sunday school just as the grownups are moving into the coffee room upstairs. I'm standing by the photos of past ministers, cookie in one hand, punch in the other, when Cathy comes up with the new girl. "This is Linda," she says to me. "She just moved here from Bend. She's in my class and Campfire Girls."

Linda holds her cookie like it is a teacup, pinkie raised. "How come I've never seen you before?" she asks.

"Oh, Kitty doesn't go to school with us," Cathy answers for me. "She lives at Warm Springs. You know, the Indian reservation."

"You're Indian?" Linda looks at me kind of sideways.

"No. My dad's a forester. He works for the government. So we live on the reservation."

"You live with Indians? You go to school with them?" she asks.

"Yeah."
What's she getting at?

Linda shakes her head, arms folded. "We have Indians in Bend. All they do is drink beer down by the river."

I suck in my breath.
What a mean, rotten thing to say!

"
I
sure wouldn't want to go to school with them," she goes on.

I look over at Cathy. She just stands there smiling in her sweet way. Maybe she didn't hear.

More of the girls who orbit around her have bubbled up. "My uncle has to follow them around his store to make sure they don't steal anything," says a chubby girl whose name is Karen. A bite of cookie bulges inside her cheeks.

"And remember when that kid pulled a knife on my brother out behind the high school? They're all like that." This is from Nadine, who has red hair. Her dress is a bit short, and it is tight across her chest where her boobs might be someday.

I thought that Jewel and Norma were mean, but in their own way these girls in their nice Sunday clothes are just the same. They cluster around Cathy. As more girls appear, Linda slowly edges me out. Pretty soon, I'm looking over her shoulder into the circle.

"See ya," she says. And she gets them all moving around to the other side of the punch table, and I'm left standing at the wall.

Cathy smiles back at me and waves goodbye. Linda leans in at her elbow and whispers to her, then the pod moves off down the hall.

Bill appears, a stack of cookies in his hand. "Mom and Dad ready to go yet? And who's that blond girl?"

"She's new," I say.

He chews as he watches the procession disappear. "So, what's the matter?" he asks. "Nothing."

Bill leans back, his right foot flat against the wall holding him up. His casual pose.

"Do you hear kids talk about Indians?" I ask him.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, do they say things about drunks?"

"Some," Bill says. "Why? What'd those girls say?"

"That Indians are drunks and steal stuff."

He holds a cookie ready to pop into his mouth. "And what did
you
say?"

"Nothing. I couldn't think."

"You should've said something. That's stupid." I think he means them, not me. Somehow, I feel a little bit better.

"Well, I didn't. They don't care what I think." Except for Cathy, who must not have heard what Linda said.

***

We usually stop at the store for something on the way home from church. Mom doesn't believe in passing up an opportunity. Sunday dinner gets put off even longer while we pick up bananas or canned milk for my dad's coffee.

We drive just until the highway pulls up the hill out of Madras, and we stop at Erickson's. I go in with Mom while Dad and the boys keep the engine running and listen to the radio. We split up to save time. I go to find bananas that are still a little bit green, and there are Cathy and Mrs. Watson in the produce aisle, picking out Brussels sprouts.

Mrs. Watson sees me first and smiles. "I sure appreciated how attentive you were today," she says.

"Thanks."

She checks her list, which is written on the back of a check deposit slip. Just like my mom. "Cathy, I'm going to get the flour. Would you find a nice squash?"

She hurries off, and Cathy rolls her eyes. "Squash—yuck!"

I nod my head. I happen to like baked squash, but it feels good to agree with her.

"Isn't Linda nice?" she asks, picking through the mixed bin. She reaches underneath a couple of bulging butternuts to come up with a tiny, shriveled acorn.

"Well..." I'm not sure what to say.

"She's got a transistor radio," Cathy says, putting the squash in a paper sack. "We listen to KRCO Platter Party when we walk home from school."

Wow. My parents don't think I need a radio. You can't pick up much from down in the canyon at Warm Springs, anyway. But you can get KRCO out of Prineville, and the junior high kids call in to dedicate songs to each other. Bill says it's how a girl tells a boy she likes him. Not that it's ever happened to him.

"That's neat," I say. Cathy Watson could be a friend. I want her to like me, to keep talking to me.

"You bet," Cathy says.

I take a chance. "I thought that what she said about Indians was mean."

"What? Back at church? Oh, that." She dismisses it with a toss of her curls. "You can't help where you live."

"That's not what I meant." I should keep my mouth shut, but I can't. "Do you think all Indians are drunks?"

"Frankly"—Cathy shrugs—"I don't think about them at all."

That's what bothers me.

***

After we eat ham and green beans and I help with the cleanup, I retreat to my bedroom, my favorite place. I take off my dress, find some pants and a sweatshirt. I'm thinking about those girls with their stiff petticoats that poof out their skirts, their hair neatly curled. And how much I don't fit in after all.