St. Clair (Gives Light Series) (32 page)

slow. I've gotta be honest, though; it tasted just as

good coming out as it did going in.

Mr. Red Clay obviously felt as though he had to

compensate for the week-long sun dance break.

We went back to school on Tuesday morning and

he threw three different pop quizzes at us. Poor

Aubrey's eyes just about popped out from behind

his glasses.

"Seniors," Mr. Red Clay said, stacking up our

papers on top of his lectern, "please remember,

this

is

the
absolute
deadline for college

applications."

How was the sun dance?
Annie signed to me.

Sore
, I signed back.

"Teacher, I've gotta go potty!" Jack Nabako

shrieked.

Mr. Red Clay pressed his lips in a tight line. He

pointed at the front doors. Jack tore out of his seat

and ran to the outhouse.

"I'm aware we won't be seeing him again for the

rest of the day," Mr. Red Clay said. He checked

his watch. "What do you kids want to talk about?"

I thought: He must be
really
burned out. And the

responses he received were very varied.

"Girls!"

"Pie!"

"Life of Brian!"

"Squanto!"

"Squanto," Mr. Red Clay said quickly. "Alright. I

suppose that's
somewhat
relevant to our interests--

"

William Sleeping Fox stuck his hand in the air.

Mr. Red Clay looked surprised--and discomfited.

"Yes?"

"You're pronouncing it wrong," William said. "It's

Sasquatch. And I think it's made up."

Well, I thought, that's one less college application

Mr. Red Clay has to worry about.

"
Anyway
," Mr. Red Clay went on, very visibly

exasperated. "Squanto. Squanto wasn't his real

name. The white settlers were a bit, shall we say,

confused. His real name was Tisquantum--which

means 'Wrath of God' in Patuxet.

"Now," Mr. Red Clay said. "Interestingly, the two

specific things Tisquantum is famous for never

actually happened. Can anybody tell me what

Tisquantum is famous for? Miss Little Hawk?"

"Helping the first white colonists survive the

wilderness and starting the first Thanksgiving,"

Lila said, in a bored voice.

"That's correct. But as I've said, neither of those

things really happened. Certainly Tisquantum was

a valuable asset to the pilgrims, but not of his own

volition. He was not their friend. He was their

slave. John Smith's traveling party kidnapped and

shackled him when he was only sixteen."

I'd never read about that in any history book

before. I sat up, curious.

"And

as

for

the

other

matter--the

first

Thanksgiving. It's a very poetic idea, the whites

and the Natives putting aside their differences and

sitting down to a dinner together. Unfortunately, it

never happened. Thanksgiving began in 1637,

when colonists set fire to a Pequot village,

destroying the tribe's homes and crops. When the

Pequot people saw the fire and ran, the colonists

gave chase, ultimately slaughtering seven hundred

Pequot men, women, and children. At the sight of

the carnage, Governor John Winthrop declared,

'This day forth shall be a day of celebration and

Thanksgiving.' "

Mr. Red Clay smiled grimly. "I'm sure you can

understand why Thanksgiving isn't celebrated in

Nettlebush."

Matthew Tall Ridge raised his hand.

"Yes?" Mr. Red Clay asked.

"Now can we talk about pie?"

Mr. Red Clay dropped his head against the lectern.

The school day ended around noon. Jack Nabako

never did come back from his potty break.

"Can we go to the grotto?" Zeke said. "I don't

wanna go back to Meredith right now. She's gonna

make me shovel manure!"

"Would you like me to help you?" Aubrey offered,

bless his heart.

"I can't come," Rafael said. "I wanna hang out

with Charity."

Can I come?
I signed.

"Sure. She likes you better than me."

Annie seized Zeke and Aubrey's arms. "Let's

shovel manure, then," she said peaceably.

"What?!" Zeke said. "Aw, but--"

I waved at the three of them and started down the

road after Rafael.

Nettlebush is really vibrant in spring. The oaks

are crisp and green, like a child's drawing, the

apple trees teeming with blossoms in cloud-white

and rosy pink; the robins and the grackles compete

in treetop concertos, the grackles by far

outmatched.

I tapped Rafael's shoulder for his attention. I lifted

my shirt and showed him my bandaged stomach.

The grin on his face was radiant. He snatched my

hand in his and pressed a quick kiss to my open

palm. "I'm gonna make you eggs," he said.

It was a disaster waiting to happen and I didn't

care. My heart swelled and I laughed, soundless,

endeared. I tugged him along the path to his house.

Rafael didn't get the chance to turn on the stove.

Sitting at the north-facing window were Gabriel

and Dad, Gabriel's arms around a doe-eyed

Charity, both men looking very official.

"Boys," Gabriel said. "Sit down."

I looked at Rafael, and he looked at me, and I

knew, somehow, that we were in trouble. I folded

my legs and sat on the rug, trying very hard to

ignore the skinned game hanging from the ceiling

rafters. Those poor animals.

"What is it?" Rafael said forcefully, sitting next to

me. I thought he was trying too hard to sound

confident.

Dad cleared his throat and wouldn't meet our

eyes. I knew him well enough to know when he

was embarrassed. He rubbed his throat, stalling

for time.

Gabriel shifted Charity from one arm to the other

and produced a book from underneath the

windowseat.

"OhGod," Rafael said in one breath.

"I thought you might say that," Gabriel remarked

amicably. "And I'm very surprised with you. I've

never known you to keep a library book past its

due date."

"Sky's the one who stole it," Rafael said.

I shot him a disbelieving look.

"What?" He returned the look humorlessly. "You

did."

"I see. Which one of you did all the dog-earing? I

think that's vandalism. Paul?"

"Don't drag me into this," Dad murmured. The

way he shrank in on himself, he looked exactly like

a turtle pulling its head into its shell.

Gabriel excused himself for a moment and carried

Charity to her room. Dad pretended he was busy

admiring the badlands from the sweeping window.

Just lie
, I signed to Rafael.

"What? I'm not gonna lie--"

"Ahem," Gabriel said when he'd returned.

"Hi," Rafael muttered.

"Hello," Gabriel said cheerfully.

Dad coughed.

"Now, then," Gabriel said. He sat down, the

helpful, innocuous book on his lap. He reached

into his shirt pocket and took out--I couldn't

believe it--a pair of reading glasses. He slid them

over his eyes and opened the book. "We are not

mad at you. We understand that these are the years

when a young man is at the peak of his sexuality--"

"Uncle!" Rafael shouted, like he'd been zapped by

a livewire. I kind of felt it, too.

"We would like to discuss...safety," Dad said.

Dear sweet ever-loving God, I thought.

"Now. Um." Dad tugged uncomfortably on his

ear. "You see, all the things you might do to--to

prepare--with a woman--you should also do them

with a man." He took a long pause. "I realize that

came out wrong..."

"Can you guys stop?" Rafael begged.

"Well, that looks uncomfortable," Gabriel thought

out loud, staring at the innocuous book.

"Hey," Mary said cheerfully, and strolled through

the front door. Her acoustic guitar was hanging off

her back by a leather strap. Good ol' Mary was on

a never-ending quest to start the world's first

Native American metal band. "What're we all

talking about?"

It was a catastrophe in slow motion. Mary's hazel

eyes zeroed in on the cover of the innocuous book.

Her jaw dropped open. She started making the

most outlandish fish faces. She snatched the book

out of her uncle's hands and thumbed through it.

"What's the matter, Uncle Gay? Rosie getting too

vanilla for you?"

"Very funny, Mary," Gabriel said patiently. "Hand

it over, please."

But Mary was smarter than her teased hair would

have you think. She revolved on the spot, as

though just noticing Rafael and me. A wicked,

horrible grin split her face in half.

"Stormin' the citadel!"

"Mary!" Rafael growled.

"Is this the gay sex talk? Can I try?"

"Mary..." Gabriel warned.

"I'm going to say hello to Charity," Dad said, and

practically ran from the room.

"I can handle it from here, Uncle Gabriel," Mary

said unctuously. She blinked her heavy black

eyelashes at Rafael and me, reminding me--

somehow--of a guillotine. She perched on the

windowseat next to her uncle, a huge, monstrous

boot tucked under her bent knee.

"Listen up, boys. If one of you wants to dip his

wick in the other--"

It was the first time I felt like I could choke on my

own spit.

"--wrap it up first, you never know what's lurking

down there and I don't want my baby brother

getting herpes of the eye. Oh, and remember, the

mancave is dark and dry and you should never go

in without the proper equipment. Flashlight, safety

rope, KY jelly--"

"Mary, thank you. Please leave," Gabriel said.

"--spandex, whipped cream--"

"Help," Dad said, reappearing in the doorway. "I

think I made your daughter angry--"

The loud, infantile wail from behind him

confirmed his fears.

Rafael saw our exit plan. He stole my hand in his

and we bolted out the front door.

I thought Shoshone were supposed to value

privacy
, I signed, when we had cleared the

southern oak tree and made it back to the main

road.

Rafael scowled. "Like my crazy family follows

the rules? Back when the Comanche used to come

to Nettlebush for the summer pauwau, Mary

insulted all of them in one go by calling them 'fake

Shoshone.' And my uncle butts into everything.

He thinks he's my dad."

Rafael seemed to soften as we walked together, his

hands swinging slightly at his sides. "You know

something," he said. "When we took Charity home

from the hospital, I asked Uncle Gabe how it felt.

To hold his first kid in his arms. He said, 'I've

already got two kids. But it always feels good.' "

I took Rafael's hand and squeezed it, smiling. He

turned his head and flashed me a small smile in

return. My heart swelled and melted and my head

went dizzy. Man, was I a fool for that boy.

"Wanna go to the windmills?" Rafael asked. "I

don't feel like shoveling manure."

Me neither, I thought. I tugged on his hand and

pulled him along.

The windmill field was huge, open, and

perpetually green. Somehow the grass out there

never went brown the way it did elsewhere on the

reservation. Rafael and I sat beneath the whirling

windmill blades; even the lightest breeze sent them

into a frenzy. Rafael took a stubby pencil out from

behind his ear and patted his pockets. He didn't

have any paper.

"Play Ring of Fire," he insisted, pulling lightly on

the flute that hung around my neck.

I played Sari Gelin instead.

"Is that Cem Adrian?" Rafael demanded,

disgusted.

I hit him with my flute.

"Ow. Gimme your arm," Rafael said.

I stuck out my arm.

"Not that side," Rafael said. "Too many freckles."

But he stopped to admire them, brushing them with

his fingers. "I like 'em," he said appreciatively.

I grinned roguishly and flipped over my arm.

Rafael wet the tip of his pencil with his tongue--

coughing a considerable amount; yeah, I wouldn't

have done that if I were him--and drew on my arm

in spit and ink. From what I could gather, it was a

city skyline, upside-down from my vantage point.