St. Clair (Gives Light Series) (39 page)

though. I had to do
something
. I wondered

whether we could take advantage of the fact that

the Department of Transportation fell through on

their eviction warning. Their property rights

expired in a year, Racine said. If we could

convince a court that Dad had been convicted

under unlawful circumstances...

The truth is that I wanted to scream. I wanted to

rip my skin off my bones and scream until my lungs

burst. I wanted to hug my father. I wanted him

here. I wanted him safe. I wanted him surrounded

by the people who loved him.

Helplessness and despondence make for a

powerful combination.

"Come on, Sky," Rafael said. "I'm serious. We

have to try it. The least we can do is get the truth

out there. My dad was a scumbag who went on a

killing spree. The FBI didn't want to deal with it,

and now they're punishing your dad for doing their

job."

And that's it exactly.

I thought: If people don't know the truth, how can

they change anything? And people don't know the

truth. They don't know that the FBI ignores 52% of

all murders that happen on Indian reservations.

They don't know that 35% of all Indian women are

going to be raped if they try to leave their

reservation. They don't know that foster care

kidnaps thousands of Indian children every year so

they can make money off of their adoption. They

don't know that the law won't let Indians do

anything about it. They don't know we're still

living in the 1800s.

They don't know because the people in charge

don't want them to know.

I want them to know.

I sat down on the stone basin of the unlit firepit. I

couldn't breathe. And for the first time in a really

long time, I actually wanted to cry.

I couldn't do that, either.

The Nettlebush Reserve always hosts a raft race in

June.

Actually, there's a historic reason behind the race.

Long ago, when the Shoshone were free to roam

the Plains, the men and women used to build rafts

to travel the rivers. Tribes all over America

would come out of their tipis and their wickiups

and watch the Shoshone floating on by. It's kind of

a funny thought.

It felt so surreal. Exactly one year ago, I was

planning to enter the raft race with Dad. I was

healthy--or I thought I was healthy; I didn't know a

thing about cancer. I didn't know anything except

my friends and my family.

"Skylar, I like that tree."

I summoned myself from a sullen daydream. I felt

the breathy summer sunlight grazing the back of my

neck. Jessica tugged on my hand and pointed at the

towering beech tree. Its spread limbs reached for

the sky as though in envy of the clean white clouds.

DeShawn gulped, a cord of rope hanging from his

shoulder. "I hope we're not cutting down the

whole
tree," he said.

I picked up my rusty old handsaw and threw my

free arm around the trunk. I found a knot in the

bark and stepped on it for leverage.

"Yay! Go! Go!" Jessica said, hopping on her

heels.

I hooked my arm around a lower branch. I stuck

my head through the leaves and pointed for them to

stand aside. DeShawn took his sister's hand and

pulled her back from the base of the tree.

The kids were cute, whooping and yelping as the

sawed-off branches toppled to the ground. I wasn't

sure just how many we were going to need.

Usually in Nettlebush, you recycle your old raft, or

combine it with someone else's; but Jessica and

DeShawn didn't have an old raft. We were starting

from the ground up.

I dropped to the ground, crouched, and stood. I set

the handsaw against the trunk of the tree.

DeShawn was already unfurling the rope.

"I learned all about this in Boy Scouts," DeShawn

said sagely.

"Uncle Paul's gonna play, too," Jessica said.

My heart felt heavy in my chest. I palmed the

warm crown of her head. I didn't know how to

correct her. Even if I'd had a voice, I don't know

that I would have said anything.

I let DeShawn arrange the wood however he

wanted. Jessica was more interested in picking

the wild centauries that grew on the forest floor.

"What do we do about the leaves?" DeShawn

asked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his

nose.

I picked up my handsaw and started cutting them

away.

You know, it's weird; I kind of felt like I was

cutting a part of myself away. The part of me that

leaned on my father. The part of me that couldn't

stand on its own.

"Jess," said DeShawn, panting, "stop sprinkling

flowers and help me lash the wood."

"I'm making the raft look pretty."

We spent hours cutting and tying wood. More than

a few splinters were sustained. We tried picking

up the raft a couple of times before deciding the

lashing wasn't taut enough. We tightened the

ropes.

"It's small," DeShawn said. "I think we're going to

need more wood."

"Does it float?" Jessica asked.

"Well, how would you know? You didn't do any

of the work."

"Shawny, I wanna see it float."

"Skylar?"

I nodded. We hoisted up the half-finished raft and

carried it to the forest path.

The lake was glistening and blue beneath a high

sun. Joseph Little Hawk and Jack Nabako were

already on the water, their knees muddy and wet.

"Throw the raft in!" Jessica yelled, shaking her

braids.

DeShawn winced. "You can't
throw
it, you've got

to
ease
it..."

We slid the half-raft onto the shallow water.

Jessica whooped and clapped when it started to

drift.

"Don't let it get
too
far!" DeShawn panicked. He

ran into the lake, water splashing around his

thighs. Jessica giggled at her brother's plight.

I sat on the lakeshore, my hands in the wet soil. I

closed my eyes and breathed.

"Do something about this," Granny had said to me.

"So that the generation after yours will have

opportunities you don't."

How do you change the law when the law's built to

keep you quiet? How do you change anything

when you're already quiet?

You find a way, I thought. Find a way or make

one. Roger O'Kelly didn't let the law shut him up.

The day of the raft race was arid and dry, which

could only mean one thing: No smooth sailing.

The whole of Nettlebush went down to the lake for

a picnic on the grass. I helped DeShawn and

Jessica set up their raft on the opposite lakeshore.

"USS Flowers," Jessica had named it. "With a

name like that," DeShawn grumbled, "no one will

ever take me seriously."

I sat beneath a ponderosa with Granny and Racine,

Granny laying dishes of wojapi on the pendleton

blanket. Mr. At Dawn blew his whistle; the kids

jumped on their rafts. Spectators on the other side

of the lake leapt up and cheered.

I watched Gabriel and Rosa sitting under the sun,

their heads bent, Charity on Rosa's lap. Little

Serafine ran circles around the families, Joseph

chasing after her.

Rafael sat down next to me, his long legs stretched

out, a dove's feather knotted in his hair.

"They're not going anywhere," he remarked. "This

wind sucks."

I smiled, humoring him.

"Wanna go for a walk?"

I looked back at Granny and Racine. Racine stood

and clapped for her children. Granny was too

wrapped up in conversation with Mrs. Threefold

to notice much of anything else.

I nodded and followed Rafael.

We walked the forest path together, the cicadas

noisy in their trees. We walked west, idly,

comfortable silence hanging between us.

"Hey," Rafael said suddenly.

I looked up with a smile.

"Don't smile if you don't mean it," he chastised.

"You're always doing that."

I shrugged.

He fell into another silence. We were coming onto

the neighborhood, the end of the forest path. I

wondered just how far he wanted to walk.

"We're going to the same school," he said.

"Right?"

I nodded.

Rafael coughed. "Maybe..." He muttered and

trailed off, sheepish. What was that about?

"Maybe we could try and get in the same

dormitory."

I looked at him.

"I mean," he said, and he was starting to sound

irritable--a pretty good sign that he was

embarrassed. "It would be practice."

Practice, I thought.

Practice. Practice for when we come back to the

reservation. Practice for when we live together.

We're going to be a family, I thought, feeling

slightly tremulous.

And then I thought: We already are.

I smiled. This time I meant it. Rafael must have

known. He always knew. He smiled shyly; he

reached for my hand with visible relief.

I'm going to be a lawyer. He's going to be a

speech therapist. If he gives me my voice back,

that's another person I'm indebted to. Somehow, I

wouldn't mind being indebted to him for an

eternity.

There are a million things I want to change about

this country. I want it to be a place where we're

really
equal--not just on the surface. I want us to

stop sweeping it under the rug when an entire

people's still suffering the consequences of their

ancestors' democide. Because I think Annie's

right. I think the world is mostly good.

I know it is. I've met a lot of good people.

The computer monitor buzzed at me, the screen

glowing bluish-white. I rubbed my temples at the

onset of a headache.

"Don't stay up too late!" Granny shouted to me, just

before her bedroom door snapped shut.

I pulled up the tribal website, grimacing at the

bright orange background. I clicked "Login" at the

top of the screen and pulled up a blank template.

I faltered. I knew what I wanted to say. I just

didn't know how to put it into words. How was I

supposed to sum up the past thirteen years?

How could I get people to care about Dad as much

as I did?

I heard the coywolves yipping in the trees outside

my window, winding down for a night of rest. I

started to smile.

The computer screen leered tauntingly at me.
Go

on
, it said.
Make an ass out of yourself.

You know how I hate reading? Turns out I hate

writing, too.

I slouched in my chair. I tapped my fingers against

my knee. Maybe I should start with a random

statistic, I thought. People like random statistics.

It makes them feel like the world is orderly.

Something sounded loudly just beyond the front

room window--something like the lumber box

tipping over outside. I turned, but I wasn't

worried. The coywolves are very nosy little

creatures. If they think there's food around, they'll

go looking for it.

I stared at the empty computer screen. I pulled on

my eyelids until my eyes rolled back in my head.

Cut it out, I thought, annoyed. Just write

something.

But what?

My fingers hovered above the keys. Without really

thinking about it, I started to type.

My father always told me,
If I'm gone

for three days, call the police.

I froze. I wasn't imagining it--I could hear the

squeaking of the outhouse faucet as somebody

worked the water pump.

My heart thundered so quickly, my chest actually

ached. Nettlebush is a very close-knit

neighborhood. I'm not saying that a stranger using

our water pump was cause for alarm. But at the

same time, I sort of am. It was only thirteen years

ago that the first and last serial killer terrorized the

female community. We still put padlocks on our

doors at night.

It's sad, I thought, Dad and Eli at the back of my

mind. When your own friend turns out to be

untrustworthy, you must feel, deep down inside,

that you can't really trust anyone.