The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (7 page)

"We've only got one hallway here," she said and smiled. She had red hair and green eyes and was kind of sexy for an old woman. "It's all the way down on the left."

I shoved the paperwork into my backpack and hustled down to my homeroom.

I paused a second at the door and then walked inside.

Everybody, all of the students and the teacher, stopped to stare at me.

They stared hard.

Like I was bad weather.

"Take your seat," the teacher said. He was a muscular guy.

I walked down the aisle and sat in the back row and tried pore all the stares and whispers, until a blond girl leaned toward me.

Penelope!

Yes, there are places left in the world where people are named Penelope!

I was emotionally erect.

"What's your name?" Penelope asked.

"Junior," I said.

She laughed and told her girlfriend at the next desk that my name was Junior. They both laughed. Word spread around the room and pretty soon everybody was laughing.

They were laughing at
my name
.

I had no idea that Junior was a weird name. It's a common name on my rez, on any rez.

You walk into any trading post any rez in the United States and shout, "Hey, Junior!" and seventeen guys will turn around.

And three women.

But there were no other people named Junior in Reardan, so I was being laughed at

because I was the only one who had that silly name.

And then I felt smaller because the teacher was taking roll and he called out my
name
name.

"Arnold Spirit," the teacher said.

No, he yelled it.

He was so big and muscular that his whisper was probably a scream.

"Here," I said as quietly as possible. My whisper was only a whisper.

"Speak up," the teacher said.

"Here," I said.

"My name is Mr. Grant," he said.

"I'm here, Mr. Grant."

He moved on to other students, but Penelope leaned over toward me again, but she wasn't laughing at all. She was mad now.

"I thought you said your name was Junior," Penelope said.

She
accused
me of telling her my
real
name. Well, okay, it wasn't completely my real name. My full name is Arnold Spirit Jr. But nobody calls me that. Everybody calls me Junior.

Well, every other
Indian
calls me Junior.

"My name is Junior," I said. "And my name is Arnold. It's Junior and Arnold. I'm both."

I felt like two different people inside of one body.

No, I felt like a magician slicing myself in half, with Junior living on the north side of the Spokane River and Arnold living on the south.

"Where are you from?" she asked.

She was so pretty and her eyes were so blue.

I was suddenly aware that she was the prettiest girl I had ever seen up close. She was

movie star pretty.

"Hey," she said. "I asked you where you're from."

Wow, she was tough.

"Wellpinit," I said. "Up on the rez, I mean, the reservation."

"Oh," she said. "That's why you talk so funny."

And yes, I had that stutter and lisp, but I also had that singsong reservation accent that made everything I said sound like a bad poem.

Man, I was freaked.

I didn't say another word for six days.

And on the seventh day, I got into the weirdest fistfight of my life. But before I tell you about the weirdest fistfight of my life, I have to tell you:

THE UNOFFICIAL AND UNWRITTEN

(but you better follow them or you're going to get beaten twice as hard)

SPOKANE INDIAN RULES OF FISTICUFFS:

1. IF SOMEBODY INSULTS YOU THEN YOU HAVE TO FIGHT HIM.

2. IF YOU THINK SOMEBODY IS GOING TO INSULT YOU, THEN YOU

HAVE TO FIGHT HIM.

3. IF YOU THINK SOMEBODY IS THINKING ABOUT INSULTING YOU,

THEN YOU HAVE TO FIGHT HIM.

4. IF SOMEBODY INSULTS ANY OF YOUR FAMILY OR FRIENDS, OR IF

YOU THINK THEY'RE GOING TO INSULT YOUR FAMILY OR FRIENDS,

OR IF YOU THINK THEY'RE THINKING ABOUT INSULTING YOUR

FAMILY OR FRIENDS, THEN YOU HAVE TO FIGHT HIM.

5. YOU SHOULD NEVER FIGHT A GIRL, UNLESS SHE INSULTS YOU,

YOUR FAMILY, OR YOUR FRIENDS, THEN YOU HAVE TO FIGHT HER.

6. IF SOMEBODY BEATS UP YOUR FATHER OR YOUR MOTHER, THEN

YOU HAVE TO FIGHT THE SON AND/OR DAUGHTER OF THE PERSON

WHO BEAT UP YOUR MOTHER OR FATHER.

7. IF YOUR MOTHER OR FATHER BEATS UP SOMEBODY, THEN THAT

PERSON'S SON AND/OR DAUGHTER WILL FIGHT YOU.

8. YOU MUST ALWAYS PICK FIGHTS WITH THE SONS AND/OR

DAUGHTERS OF ANY INDIANS WHO WORK FOR THE BUREAU OF

INDIAN AFFAIRS.

9. YOU MUST ALWAYS PICK FIGHTS WITH THE SONS AND/OR

DAUGHTERS OF ANY WHITE PEOPLE WHO LIVE ANYWHERE ON THE

RESERVATION.

10. IF YOU GET IN A FIGHT WITH SOMEBODY WHO IS SURE TO BEAT

YOU UP, THEN YOU MUST THROW THE FIRST PUNCH, BECAUSE IT'S

THE ONLY PUNCH YOU'LL EVER GET TO THROW.

11. IN ANY FIGHT, THE LOSER IS THE FIRST ONE WHO CRIES.

I knew those rules. I'd memorized those rules. I'd lived my life by those rules. I got into my first fistfight when I was three years old, and I'd been in dozens since.

My all-time record was five wins and one hundred and twelve losses.

Yes, I was a terrible fighter.

I was a human punching bag.

I lost fights to boys, girls, and kids half my age.

One bully, Micah, made me beat up myself. Yes, he made me punch myself in the face

three times. I am the only Indian in the history of the world who ever lost a fight
with himself
.

Okay, so now that you know about the rules, then I can tell you that I went from being a small target in Wellpinit to being a larger target in Reardan.

Well, let's get something straight. All of those pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty white girls ignored me. But that was okay. Indian girls ignored me, too, so I was used to it.

And let's face it, most of the white boys ignored me, too. Hut there were a few of those Reardan boys, the big jocks, who paid special attention to me. None of those guys punched me or got violent. After all, I was a reservation Indian, and no matter how geeky and weak I appeared to be, I was still a potential killer. So mostly they called me names. Lots of names.

And yeah, those were bad enough names. But I could handle them, especially when some

huge monster boy was insulting me. But I knew I'd have to put a stop to it eventually or I'd always be known as "Chief" or "Tonto" or "Squaw Boy."

But I was scared.

I wasn't scared of fistfighting with those boys. I'd been in plenty of fights. And I wasn't scared of losing fights with them, either. I'd lost most every fight I'd been in. I was afraid those monsters were going to kill me.

And I don't mean "kill" as in "metaphor." I mean "kill" as in "beat me to death."

So, weak and poor and scared, I let them call me names while I tried to figure out what to do. And it might have continued that way if Roger the Giant hadn't taken it too far.

It was lunchtime and I was standing outside by the weird sculpture that was supposed to be an Indian. I was studying the sky like I was an astronomer, except it was daytime and I didn't have a telescope, so I was just an idiot.

Roger the Giant and his gang of giants strutted over to me.

"Hey, Chief," Roger said.

It seemed like he was seven feet tall and three hundred pounds. He was a farm boy who

carried squealing pigs around like they were already thin slices of bacon.

I stared at Roger and tried to look tough. I read once that you can scare away a charging bear if you wave your arms and look big. But I figured I'd just look like a terrified idiot having an arm seizure.

"Hey, Chief," Roger said. "You want to hear a joke?"

"Sure," I said.

"Did you know that Indians are living proof that niggers fuck buffalo?"

I felt like Roger had kicked me in the face. That was the most racist thing I'd ever heard in my life.

Roger and his friends were laughing like crazy. I hated them. And I knew I had to do

something big. I couldn't let them get away with that shit. I wasn't just defending myself. I was defending Indians, black people,
and
buffalo.

So I punched Roger in the face.

He wasn't laughing when he landed on his ass. And he wasn't laughing when his nose

bled like red fireworks.

I struck some fake karate pose because I figured Roger's gang was going to attack me for bloodying their leader.

But they just stared at me.

They were
shocked
.

"You punched me," Roger said. His voice was thick with blood. "I can't believe you punched me."

He sounded insulted.

He sounded like his
poor little feelings
had been hurt.

I couldn't believe it.

He acted like he was the one who'd been wronged.

"You're an animal," he said.

I felt brave all of a sudden. Yeah, maybe it was just a stupid and immature school yard fight. Or maybe it was the most important moment of my life. Maybe I was telling the world that I was no longer a human target.

"You meet me after school right here," I said.

"Why?" he asked.

I couldn't believe he was so stupid.

"Because we're going to finish this fight."

"You're crazy," Roger said.

He got to his feet and walked away. His gang stared at me like I was a serial killer, and then they followed their leader.

I was absolutely confused.

I had followed the rules of fighting. I had behaved exactly the way I was supposed to

behave. But these white boys had ignored the rules. In fact, they followed a whole other set of mysterious rules where people apparently DID NOT GET INTO FISTFIGHTS.

"Wait," I called after Roger.

"What do you want?" Roger asked.

"What are the rules?"

"What rules?"

I didn't know what to say, so I just stood there red and mute like a stop sign. Roger and his friends disappeared.

I felt like somebody had shoved me into a rocket ship and blasted me to a new planet. I was a freaky alien and there was absolutely no way to get home.

I went home that night completely confused. And terrified.

If I'd punched an Indian in the face, then he would have spent days plotting his revenge.

And I imagined that white guys would also want revenge after getting punched in the ace. So I figured Roger was going to run me over with a farm tractor or combine or grain truck or runaway pig.

I wished Rowdy was still my friend. I could have sent him after Roger. It would have

been like King Kong battling Godzilla.

I realized how much of my self-worth, my sense of safety, was based on Rowdy's fists.

But Rowdy hated me. And Roger hated me.

I was good at being hated by guys who could kick my ass. It's not a talent you really want to have.

My mother and father weren't home, so I turned to my grandmother for advice.

"Grandma," I said. "I punched this big guy in the face. And he just walked away. And now I'm afraid he's going to kill me."

"Why did you punch him?" she asked.

"He was bullying me."

"You should have just walked away."

"He called me 'chief.' And 'squaw boy.' "

"Then you should have kicked him in the balls."

She pretended to kick a big guy in the crotch and we both laughed.

"Did he hit you?" she asked.

"No, not at all," I said.

"Not even after you hit him?"

"Nope."

"And he's a big guy?"

"Gigantic. I bet he could take Rowdy down."

"Wow," she said.

"It's strange, isn't it?" I asked. "What does it mean?"

Grandma thought hard for a while.

"I think it means he respects you," she said.

"Respect? No way!"

"Yes way! You see, you men and boys are like packs of wild dogs. This giant boy is the alpha male of the school, and you're the new dog, so he pushed you around a bit to see how tough you are."

"But I'm not tough at all," I said.