The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (11 page)

We also had mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, corn, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin

pie. It was a feast.

I always think it's funny when Indians celebrate Thanksgiving. I mean, sure, the Indians and Pilgrims were best friends luring that first Thanksgiving, but a few years later, the Pilgrims were shooting Indians.

So I'm never quite sure why we eat turkey like everybody else.

"Hey, Dad," I said. "What do Indians have to be so thankful for?"

"We should give thanks that they didn't kill all of us."

We laughed like crazy. It was a good day. Dad was sober. Mom was getting ready to nap.

Grandma was already napping

But I missed Rowdy. I kept looking at the door. For the last ten years, he'd always come over to the house to have a pumpkin-pie eating contest with me.

I missed him.

So I drew a cartoon of Rowdy and me like we used to be:

Then I put on my coat and shoes, walked over to Rowdy's house, and knocked on the

door.

Rowdy's dad, drunk as usual, opened the door.

"Junior," he said. "What do you want?"

"Is Rowdy home?"

"Nope."

"Oh, well, I drew this for him. Can you give it to him?"

Rowdy's dad took the cartoon and stared at it for a while. Then he smirked.

"You're kind of gay, aren't you?" he asked.

Yeah, that was the guy who was raising Rowdy. Jesus, no wonder my best friend was

always so angry.

"Can you just give it to him?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'll give it to him. Even if it's a little gay."

I wanted to cuss at him. I wanted to tell him that I thought I was being courageous, and that I was trying to fix my broken friendship with Rowdy, and that I missed him, and if that was gay, then okay, I was the gayest dude in the world. But I didn't say any of that.

"Okay, thank you," I said instead. "And Happy Thanksgiving."

Rowdy's dad closed the door on me. I walked away. But I slopped at the end of the

driveway and looked back. I could see Rowdy in the window of his upstairs bedroom. He was holding my cartoon. He was watching me walk away. And I could see the sadness in his face. I just
knew
he missed me, too.

I waved at him. He gave me the finger.

"Hey, Rowdy!" I shouted. "Thanks a lot!"

He stepped away from the window. And I felt sad for a moment. But then I realized that

Rowdy may have flipped me off, but he hadn't torn up my cartoon. As much as he hated me, he probably should have ripped it to pieces. That would have hurt my feelings more than just about anything I can think of. But Rowdy still respected my cartoons. And so maybe he still respected me a little bit.

Our history teacher, Mr. Sheridan, was trying to teach us something about the Civil War.

But he was so boring and monotonous that he was only teaching us how to sleep with our eyes open.

I had to get out of there, so I raised my hand.

"What is it, Arnold?" the teacher asked.

"I have to go the bathroom."

"Hold it."

"I can't."

I put on my best If-I-Don't-Go-Now-I'm-Going-To-Explode face.

"Do you really have to?" the teacher asked.

I didn't have to go at first, but then I realized that yes, I did have to go.

"I have to go really bad," I said.

"All right, all right, go, go."

I headed over to the library bathrooms because they're usually a lot cleaner than the ones by the lunchroom.

So, okay, I'm going number two, and I'm sitting on the toilet, and I'm concentrating. I'm in my Zen mode, trying to lake this whole thing a spiritual experience. I read once that Gandhi was way into his own number two. I don't know if he I old fortunes or anything. But I guess he thought the condition and quality of his number two revealed the condition and quality of his life.

Yeah, I know, I probably read too many books.

And probably WAY too many books about number two.

But it's all important, okay? So I finish, flush, wash my lands, and then stare in the mirror and start popping zits. I'm all quiet and concentrating when I hear this weird noise coming from the other side of the wall.

That's the girls' bathroom.

And I hear that weird noise again.

Do you want to know what it sounds like?

It sounds like this:

ARGGHHHHHHHHSSSSSPPPPPPGGGHHHHHHH

AAAAAARGHHHHHHHHHHAGGGGHH!

It sounds like somebody is vomiting.

Nope.

It sounds like a 747 is landing on a runway of vomit.

I'm planning on heading back to the classroom for more scintillating lessons from the

history teacher. But then I hear that noise again.

ARGGGHHHHHHHHSGHHSLLLSKSSSHHSDKFDJSABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRST

UVWXYZ!

Okay, so somebody might have the flu or something. Maybe they're having, like, kidney

failure in there. I can't walk away.

So I knock on the door. The girls' bathroom door.

"Hey," I say. "Are you okay in there?"

"Go away!"

It's a girl, which makes sense, since it is the girls' bathroom

"Do you want me to get a teacher or something?" I ask through the bathroom door.

"I said, GO AWAY!"

I'm not dumb. I can pick up on subtle clues.

So I walk away, but something pulls me back. I don't know what it is. If you're romantic, you might think it was destiny.

So destiny and me lean against the wall and wait.

The vomiter will eventually have to come out of the bathroom, and then I'll know that

she's okay.

And pretty soon, she does come out.

And it is the lovely Penelope, and she's chomping hard on cinnamon gum. She'd

obviously tried to cover the smell of vomit with the biggest piece of cinnamon gum in the world.

But it doesn't work. She just smells like somebody vomited on a big old cinnamon tree.

"What are you looking at?" she asks me.

"I'm looking at an anorexic," I say.

A really HOT anorexic, I want to add, but I don't.

"I'm not anorexic," she says. "I'm bulimic."

She says it with her nose and chin in the air. She gets all arrogant. And then I remember there are a bunch of anorexics who are PROUD to be skinny and starved freaks.

They think being anorexic makes them special, makes them better than everybody else.

They have their own fricking Web sites where they give advice on the best laxatives and stuff.

"What's the difference between bulimics and anorexics?" I ask.

"Anorexics are anorexics all the time," she says. "I'm only bulimic when I'm throwing up."

Wow.

SHE SOUNDS JUST LIKE MY DAD!

There are all kinds of addicts, I guess. We all have pain. And we all look for ways to

make the pain go away.

Penelope gorges on her pain and then throws it up and flushes it away. My dad drinks his pain away.

So I say to Penelope what I always say to Dad when drunk and depressed and ready to

give up on the world,

"Hey, Penelope," I say. "Don't give up."

Okay, so it's not the wisest advice in the world. It's actually kind of obvious and corny.

But Penelope starts crying, talking about how lonely she is, and how everybody thinks

her life is perfect because she's pretty and smart and popular, but that he's scared all the time, but nobody will let her be scared because she's pretty and smart and popular.

You notice that she mentioned her beauty, intelligence and popularity twice in one

sentence?

The girl has an ego.

But that's sexy, too.

How is it that a bulimic girl with vomit on her breath can suddenly be so sexy? Love and lust can make you go crazy.

I suddenly understand how my big sister, Mary, could have met a guy and married him

five minutes later. I'm not so mad at her for leaving us and moving to Montana.

Over the next few weeks, Penelope and I become the hot item at Reardan High School.

Well, okay, we're not exactly a romantic couple. We're more like friends with potential. But that's still cool.

Everybody is absolutely shocked that Penelope chose me to be her new friend. I'm not

some ugly, mutated beast. But I am an absolute stranger at the school.

And I am an Indian.

And Penelope's father, Earl, is a racist.

The first time I meet him, he said, "Kid, you better keep your hands out of my daughter's panties. She's only dating you because she knows it will piss me off. So I ain't going to get pissed.

And if I ain't pissed then she'll stop dating you. In the meantime, you just keep your trouser snake in your trousers mid I won't have to punch you in the stomach."

And then you know what he said to me after that?

"Kid, if you get my daughter pregnant, if you make some charcoal babies, I'm going to disown her. I'm going to kick her out of my house and you'll have to bring her home to your mommy and daddy. You hearing me straight, kid? This is hi on you now."

Yep, Earl was a real winner.

Okay, so Penelope and I became the hot topic because we were defying the great and

powerful Earl.

And, yeah, you're probably thinking that Penelope was dating me ONLY because I was

the worst possible choice for her.

She was probably dating me ONLY because I was an Indian boy.

And, okay, so she was only semi-dating me. We held hands once in a while and we

kissed once or twice, but that was it.

I don't know what I meant to her.

I think she was bored of being the prettiest, smartest, and most popular girl in the world.

She wanted to get a little crazy, you know? She wanted to get a little smudged.

And I was the smudge.

But, hey, I was kind of using her, too.

After all, I suddenly became popular.

Because Penelope had publicly declared that I was cute enough to ALMOST date, all of

the other girls in school decided that I was cute, too.

Because I got to hold hands with Penelope, and kiss her good-bye when she jumped on

the school bus to go home, all of the other boys in school decided that I was a major stud.

Even the teachers started paying more attention to me.

I was mysterious.

How did I, the dorky Indian guy, win a tiny piece of Penelope's heart?

What was my secret?

I looked and talked and dreamed and walked differently than everybody else.

I was new.

If you want to get all biological, then you'd have to say that I was an exciting addition to the Reardan gene pool.

So, okay, those are all the obvious reasons why Penelope I were friends. All the shallow reasons. But what about the bigger and better reasons?

"Arnold," she said one day after school, "I hate this little town. It's so small, too small.

Everything about it is small. The people here have small ideas. Small dreams. They all want to marry each other and live here forever."

"What do you want to do?" I asked.

"I want to leave as soon as I can. I think I was born with a suitcase."

Yeah, she talked like that. All big and goofy and dramatic. I wanted to make fun of her, but she was so earnest.