Responses For Novel ONLY for Pro Dan

CH1:Rowdy Gives Me Advice About Love Have you ever watched a beautiful woman play volleyball?

Yesterday, during a game, Penelope was serving the ball and I watched her like she was a work of art.

She was wearing a white shirt and white shorts, and I could see the outlines of her white bra and white panties.

Her skin was pale white. Milky white. Cloud white.

So she was all white on white on white, like the most perfect kind of vanilla dessert cake you've ever seen.

I wanted to be her chocolate topping.

She was serving against the mean girls from Davenport Lady Gorillas. Yeah, you read that correctly. They willingly called themselves the Lady Gorillas. And they played like superstrong primates, too. Penelope and her teammates were getting killed. The score was like 12 to 0 in the first set.

But I didn't care.

I just wanted to watch the sweaty Penelope sweat her perfect sweat on that perfectly sweaty day.

She stood at the service line, bounced the volleyball a few lines to get her rhythm, then tossed it into the air above her head.

She tracked the ball with her blue eyes. Just watched it intensely. Like that volleyball mattered more than anything he in the world. I got jealous of that ball. I wished I were that ball. As the ball floated in the air, Penelope twisted her hips id back and swung her right arm

back over her shoulder, coiling like a really pretty snake. Her leg muscles were stretched and taut. I almost fainted when she served. Using all of that twisting id flexing and concentration,

she smashed the ball and aced le Lady Gorillas. 
 And then Penelope clenched a fist and shouted, "Yes!" 
 Absolutely gorgeous. 
 Even though I didn't think I'd ever hear back, I wanted to know what to do with my

feelings, so I walked over to the computer lab and e-mailed Rowdy. He's had the same address for five years.

"Hey, Rowdy," I wrote. "I'm in love with a white girl. What should I do?" 
 A few minutes later, Rowdy wrote back. 
 "Hey, Asshole," Rowdy wrote back. "I'm sick of Indian guys who treat white women like

bowling trophies. Get a life." 
 Well, that didn't do me any good. So I asked Gordy what I should do about Penelope. "I'm an Indian boy," I said. "How can I get a white girl to love me?" 
 "Let me do some research on that," Gordy said. 
 A few days later, he gave me a brief report. 
 "Hey, Arnold," he said. "I looked up 'in love with a white girl' on Google and found an

article about that white girl named Cynthia who disappeared in Mexico last summer. You remember how her face was all over the papers and everybody said it was such a sad thing?"

"I kinda remember," I said.

"Well, this article said that over two hundred Mexican girls have disappeared in the last three years in that same part of the country. And nobody says much about that. And that's racist.

The guy who wrote the article says people care more about beautiful white girls than they do about everybody else on the planet. White girls are privileged. They're damsels in distress."

"So what does that mean?" I asked. 
 "I think it means you're just a racist asshole like everybody else." Wow. 
 In his own way, Gordy the bookworm was just as tough as Rowdy.

�

CH2: Dance, Dance, Dance Traveling between Reardan and Wellpinit, between the little white town and the reservation, I always felt like a stranger.

I was half Indian in one place and half white in the other.

It was like being Indian was my job, but it was only a part-time job. And it didn't pay well at all.

The only person who made me feel great all the time was Penelope. 
 Well, I shouldn't say that. 
 I mean, my mother and father were working hard for me, too. They were constantly

scraping together enough money to pay for gas, to get me lunch money, to buy me a new pair of jeans and a few new shirts.

My parents gave me just enough money so that I could pretend to have more money than I did.

I lied about how poor I was.

Everybody in Reardan assumed we Spokanes made lots of money because we had a casino. But that casino, mismanaged and too far away from major highways, was a money-losing business. In order to make money from the casino, you had to work at the casino.

And white people everywhere have always believed that the government just gives money to Indians.

And since the kids and parents at Reardan thought I had a lot of money, I did nothing to change their minds. I figured it wouldn't do me any good if they knew I was dirt poor.

What would they think of me if they knew I sometimes had to hitchhike to school?

Yeah, so I pretended to have a little money. I pretended to be middle class. I pretended I belonged.

Nobody knew the truth.

Of course, you can't lie forever. Lies have short shelf lives. Lies go bad. Lies rot and stink up the joint.

In December, I took Penelope to the Winter Formal. The thing is, I only had five dollars, not nearly enough to pay for anything—not for photos, not for food, not for gas, not for a hot dog and soda pop. If it had been any other dance, a regular dance, I would have stayed home with an imaginary illness. But I couldn't skip Winter Formal. And if I didn't take Penelope then she would have certainly gone with somebody else.

�

Because I didn't have money for gas, and because I couldn't have driven the car if I wanted to, and because I didn't want to double date, I told Penelope I'd meet her at the gym for the dance. She wasn't too happy about that.

But the worst thing is that I had to wear one of Dad's old suits:

�

I was worried that people would make fun of me, right? And they probably would have if Penelope hadn't immediately squealed with delight when she first saw me walk into the gym.

"Oh, my, God!" she yelled for everybody to hear. "That suit is so beautiful. It's so retroactive. It's so retroactive that it's radioactive!"

And every dude in the joint immediately wished he'd worn his father's lame polyester suit.

And I imagined that every girl was immediately breathless and horny at the sight of my bell-bottom slacks.

So, drunk with my sudden power, I pulled off some lame disco dance moves that sent the place into hysterics.

Even Roger, the huge dude I'd punched in the face, was suddenly my buddy.

Penelope and I were so happy to be alive, and so happy to be alive TOGETHER, even if we were only a semi-hot item, and we danced every single dance.

Nineteen dances; nineteen songs. 
 Twelve fast songs; seven slow ones. 
 Eleven country hits; five rock songs; three hip-hop tunes. 
 It was the best night of my life. 
 Of course, I was a sweaty mess inside that hot polyester suit.

But it didn't matter. Penelope thought I was beautiful and so I felt beautiful. And then the dance was over. 
 The lights flicked on. 
 And Penelope suddenly realized we'd forgotten to get our picture taken by the

professional dude. 
 "Oh, my God!" she yelled. "We forgot to get our picture taken! That sucks!" 


She was sad for a moment, but then she realized that she'd had so much fun that a

photograph of the evening was completely beside the point. A photograph would be just a lame souvenir.

I was completely relieved that we'd forgotten. I wouldn't have been able to pay for the photographs. I knew that. And I'd rehearsed a speech about losing my wallet.

I'd made it through the evening without revealing my poverty.

I figured I'd walk Penelope out to the parking lot, where her dad was waiting in his car. I'd give her a sweet little kiss on the cheek (because her dad would have shot me if I'd given her the tongue while he watched). And then I'd wave good-lye as they drove away. And then I'd wait in the parking lot until everybody was gone. And then I'd start the walk home in the dark. It was a Saturday, so I knew some reservation family would be returning home from Spokane. And I knew they'd see me and pick me up.

That was the plan. 
 But things changed. As things always change. 
 Roger and a few of the other dudes, the popular guys, decided they were going to drive

into Spokane and have pancakes at some twenty-four-hour diner. It was suddenly the coolest idea in the world.

It was all seniors and juniors, upperclassmen, who were going together.

But Penelope was so popular, especially for a freshman, and I was popular by association, even as a freshman, too, that Roger invited us to come along.

Penelope was ecstatic about the idea. 
 I was sick to my stomach. 
 I had five bucks in my pocket. What could I buy with that? Maybe one plate of pancakes.

Maybe. 
 I was doomed.

"What do you say, Arnie?" Roger asked. "You want to come carbo-load with us?" "What do you want to do, Penelope?" I asked. 
 "Oh, I want to go, I want to go," she said. "Let me go ask Daddy."

� Oh, man, I saw my only escape. I could only hope that Earl wouldn't let her go. Only Earl could save me now.

I was counting on Earl! That's how bad my life was at that particular moment! Penelope skipped over toward her father's car. 
 "Hey, Penultimate," Roger said. "I'll go with you. I'll tell Earl you guys are riding with

me. And I'll drive you guys home." 
 Roger's nickname for Penelope was Penultimate. It was maybe the biggest word he knew.

I hated that he had a nickname for her. And as they walked together toward Earl, I realized that Roger and Penelope looked good together. They looked natural. They looked like they should be a couple.

And after they all found out I was a poor-ass Indian, I knew they would be a couple. Come on, Earl! Come on, Earl! Break your daughter's heart! 
 But Earl loved Roger. Every dad loved Roger. He was the best football player they'd ever

seen. Of course they loved him. It would have been un-American not to love the best football player.

I imagined that Earl said his daughter could go only if Roger got his hands into her panties instead of me.

I was angry and jealous and absolutely terrified. 
 "I can go! I can go!" Penelope said, ran back to me, and hugged me hard. 
 An hour later, about twenty of us were sitting in a Denny's in Spokane. 
 Everybody ordered pancakes. 
 I ordered pancakes for Penelope and me. I ordered orange juice and coffee and a side

order of toast and hot chocolate and French fries, too, even though I knew I wouldn't be able to pay for any of it.

I figured it was my last meal before my execution, and I was going to have a feast. Halfway through our meal, I went to the bathroom. 
 I thought maybe I was going to throw up, so I kneeled at the toilet. But I only retched a

bit. 
 Roger came into the bathroom and heard me. 
 "Hey, Arnie," he said. "Are you okay?" 
 "Yeah," I said. "I'm just tired." 
 "All right, man," he said. "I'm happy you guys came tonight. You and Penultimate are a

great couple, man." "You think so?"

"Yeah, have you done her yet?" 
 "I don't really want to talk about that stuff." 
 "Yeah, you're right, dude. It's none of my business. Hey, man, are you going to try out for

basketball?" 
 I knew that practice started in a week. I'd planned on playing. But I didn't know if the

Coach liked Indians or not. "Yeah," I said.

"Are you any good?" 
 "I'm okay." 
 "You think you're good enough to play varsity?" Roger asked. 
 "No way," I said. "I'm junior varsity all the way." 
 "All right," Roger said. "It will be good to have you out there. We need some new blood."

"Thanks, man," I said.

I couldn't believe he was so nice. He was, well, he was POLITE! How many great football players are polite? And kind? And generous like that?

It was amazing. 
 "Hey, listen," I said. "The reason I was getting sick in there is—" 
 I thought about telling him the whole truth, but I just couldn't. 
 "I bet you're just sick with love," Roger said. 
 "No, well, yeah, maybe," I said. "But the thing is, my stomach is all messed up because I,

er, forgot my wallet. I left my money at home, man." 
 "Dude!" Roger said. "Man, don't sweat it. You should have said something earlier. I got

you covered." 
 He opened his wallet and handed me forty bucks. 
 Holy, holy.
 What kind of kid can just hand over forty bucks like that? 
 "I'll pay you back, man," I said. 
 "Whenever, man, just have a good time, all right?" 
 He slapped me on the back again. He was always slapping me on the back. 


We walked back to the table together, finished our food, and Roger drove me back to the

school. I told them my dad was going to pick me up outside the gym. 
 "Dude," Roger said. "It's three in the morning." 
 "It's okay," I said. "My dad works the swing shift. He's coming here straight from work." "Are you sure?" 
 "Yeah, everything is cool." 
 "I'll bring Penultimate home safely, man." 
 "Cool." 
 So Penelope and I got out of the car so we could have a private good- bye. She had laser

eyes. 
 "Roger told me he lent you some money," she said. 
 "Yeah," I said. "I forgot my wallet." 
 Her laser eyes grew hotter. 
 "Arnold?" 
 "Y eah?" 
 "Can I ask you something big?" 
 "Yeah, I guess." 
 "Are you poor?" 
 I couldn't lie to her anymore. 
 "Yes," I said. "I'm poor." 
 I figured she was going to march out of my life right then. But she didn't. Instead she

kissed me. On the cheek. I guess poor guys don't get kissed on the lips. I was going to yell at her for being shallow. But then I realized that she was being my friend. Being a really good friend, in fact. She was concerned about me. I'd been thinking about her breasts and she'd been thinking about my whole life. I was the shallow one.

"Roger was the one who guessed you were poor," she said. "Oh, great, now he's going to tell everybody."

"He's not going to tell anybody. Roger likes you. He's a great guy. He's like my big brother. He can be your friend, too."

That sounded pretty good to me. I needed friends more than I needed my lust-filled dreams.

"Is your Dad really coming to pick you up?" she asked. "Yes," I said. 
 "Are you telling the truth?" 
 "No," I said.

"How will you get home?" she asked.

� "Most nights, I walk home. I hitchhike. Somebody usually picks me up. I've only had to walk the whole way a few times."

She started to cry. 
 FOR ME!
 Who knew that tears of sympathy could be so sexy? 


"Oh, my God, Arnold, you can't do that," she said. "I won't let you do that. You'll freeze.

Roger will drive you home. He'll he happy to drive you home." 
 I tried to stop her, but Penelope ran over to Roger's car and told him the truth. 
 And Roger, being of kind heart and generous pocket, and a little bit racist, drove me

home that night. 
 And he drove me home plenty of other nights, too. 
 If you let people into your life a little bit, they can be pretty damn amazing.

CH3:Don’t Trust Your Computer Today at school, I was really missing Rowdy, so I walked over to the computer lab, took a digital photo of my smiling face, and e-mailed it to him.

A few minutes later, he e-mailed me a digital photo of his bare ass. I don't know when he snapped that pic.

It made me laugh. 
 And it made me depressed, too. 
 Rowdy could be so crazy-funny-disgusting. The Reardan kids were so worried about

grades and sports and THEIR FUTURES that they sometimes acted like repressed middle-aged business dudes with cell phones stuck in their small intestines.

Rowdy was the opposite of repressed. He was exactly the kind of kid who would e-mail his bare ass (and bare everything else) to the world.

"Hey," Gordy said. "Is that somebody's posterior?" 
 Posterior! Did he just say "posterior"? 


"Gordy, my man," I said. "That is most definitely NOT a posterior. That is a stinky ass.

You can smell the thing, even though the computer." 
 "Whose butt is that?" he asked. 
 "Ah, it's my best friend, Rowdy. Well, he used to be my best friend. He hates me now." "How come he hates you?" he asked. 
 "Because I left the rez," I said. 
 "But you still live there, don't you? You're just going to school here." 
 "I know, I know, but some Indians think you have to act white to make your life better.

Some Indians think you become white if you try to make your life better, if you become successful."

"If that were true, then wouldn't all white people be successful?"

Man, Gordy was smart. I wished I could take him to the rez and let him educate Rowdy. Of course, Rowdy would probably punch Gordy until he was brain-dead. Or maybe Rowdy, Gordy, and I could become a superhero trio, fighting for truth, justice, and the Native American way. Well, okay, Gordy was white, but anybody can start to act like an Indian if he hangs around us long enough.

"The people at home," I said. "A lot of them call me an apple." 
 "Do they think you're a fruit or something?" he asked. 
 "No, no," I said. "They call me an apple because they think I'm red on the outside and

white on the inside." 
 "Ah, so they think you're a traitor." 
 "Y ep." 
 "Well, life is a constant struggle between being an individual and being a member of the

community." 
 Can you believe there is a kid who talks like that? Like he's already a college professor

impressed with the sound of his own voice? 
 "Gordy," I said. "I don't understand what you're trying to say to me." 
 "Well, in the early days of humans, the community was our only protection against

predators, and against starvation. We survived because we trusted one another." "So?"

"So, back in the day, weird people threatened the strength of the tribe. If you weren't good for making food, shelter, or babies, then you were tossed out on your own."

"But we're not primitive like that anymore." 
 "Oh, yes, we are. Weird people still get banished." 
 "You mean weird people like me," I said. 
 "And me," Gordy said. 
 "All right, then," I said. "So we have a tribe of two." 
 I had the sudden urge to hug Gordy, and he had the sudden urge to prevent me from

hugging him. 
 "Don't get sentimental," he said. 
 Yep, even the weird boys are afraid of their emotions.

CH4: My Sister Sends Me a Letter Dear Junior,

I am still looking for a job. They keep telling me I don't have enough experience. But how can I get enough experience if they don't give me a chance to get experience? Oh, well. I have a lot of free time, so I have started to write my life story. Really! Isn't that crazy? I think I'm going to call it HOW TO RUN AWAY FROM YOUR HOUSE AND FIND YOUR HOME.

What do you think? 
 Tell everybody I love them and miss them!

Love, 
 your Big Sis!

P .S.
 And we moved into a new house.

It's the most gorgeous place in the world!

�

CH5:Reindeer Games I almost didn't try out for the Reardan basketball team. I just figured I wasn't going to be good enough to make even the C squad. And I didn't

want to get cut from the team. I didn't think I could live through that humiliation.

But my dad changed my mind. 
 "Do you know about the first time I met your mother?" he asked. 
 "You're both from the rez," I said. "So it was on the rez. Big duh." 
 "But I only moved to this rez when I was five years old." 
 "So." 
 "So your mother is eight years older than me." 
 "And there's a partridge in the pear tree. Get to the point, Dad." 
 "Your mother was thirteen and I was five when we first met. And guess how we first

met?" 
 "How?"

"She helped me get a drink from a water fountain." 
 "Well, that just seems sort of gross," I said. 
 "I was tiny," Dad said. "And she boosted me up so I could I get a drink. And imagine, all

these years later and we're married and have two kids." 
 "What does this have to do with basketball?" 
 "You have to dream big to get big." 
 "That's pretty dang optimistic for you, Dad." 
 "Well, you know, your mother helped me get a drink from the water fountain last night, if

you know what I mean." 
 And all I could say to my father was, "Ewwwww-wwwww." 
 That's one more thing people don't know about Indians: we love to talk dirty. Anyway, I signed up for basketball. 
 On the first day of practice, I stepped onto the court and felt short, skinny, and slow. All of the white boys were good. Some were great. 
 I mean, there were some guys who were 6 foot 6 and 6 foot 7. 
 Roger the Giant was strong and fast and could dunk. 


I tried to stay out of way. I figured I'd die if he ran me over. But he just smiled all the

time, played hard, and slapped me hard on the back. 
 We all shot basketballs for a while. And then Coach stepped onto the court.

�

Forty kids IMMEDIATELY stopped bouncing and shooting and talking. We were silent, SNAP, just like that.

"I want to thank you all for coming out today," Coach said. "There are forty of you. But we only have room for twelve on the varsity and twelve on the junior varsity."

I knew I wouldn't make those teams. I was C squad material, for sure.

"In other years, we've also had a twelve-man C squad," Coach said. "But we don't have the budget for it this year. That means I'm going to have to cut sixteen players today."

Twenty boys puffed up their chests. They knew they were good enough to make either the varsity or the junior varsity

The other twenty shook their heads. We knew we were cuttable.

"I really hate to do this," Coach said. "If it were up to me, I'd keep everybody. But it's not up to me. So we're just going to have to do our best here, okay? You play with dignity and respect, and I'll treat you with dignity and respect, no matter what happens, okay?"

We all agreed to that. 
 "Okay, let's get started," Coach said. 
 The first drill was a marathon. Well, not exactly a marathon. We had to run one hundred

laps around the gym. So forty of us ran. And thirty-six of us finished.

After fifty laps, one guy quit, and since quitting is contagious, three other boys caught the disease and walked off the court, too.

I didn't understand. Why would you try out for a basketball team if you didn't want to run?

I didn't mind. After all, that meant only twelve more guys mil to be cut. I only had to be better than twelve other guys.

Well, we were good and tired after that run. 
 And then Coach immediately had us playing full-court one-on-one.

That's right. 
 FULL-COURT ONE-ON-ONE.
 That was torture. 
 Coach didn't break it down by position. So quick guards had to guard power forwards,

and vice versa. Seniors had to guard freshmen, and vice versa. All-stars had to guard losers like me, and vice versa.

Coach threw me the ball and said, "Go." 
 So I turned and dribbled straight down the court. 
 A mistake. 
 Roger easily poked the ball away and raced down toward his basket. 
 Ashamed, I was frozen. 
 "What are you waiting for?" Coach asked me. "Play some D." 
 Awake, I ran after Roger, but he dunked it before I was even close. 
 "Go again," Coach said. 
 This time, Roger tried to dribble down the court. And I splayed defense. I crouched down

low, spread my arms and legs high and wide, and gritted my teeth.

�

And then Roger ran me over. Just sent me sprawling. 
 He raced down and dunked it again while I lay still on the floor. 
 Coach walked over and looked down at me. 
 "What's your name, kid?" he asked. 
 "Arnold," I said. 
 "You're from the reservation?" 
 "Y es." 
 "Did you play basketball up there?" 
 "Yes. For the eighth-grade team." 
 Coach studied my face. 
 "I remember you," he said. "You were a good shooter." 
 "Yeah," I said. 
 Coach studied my face some more, as if he were searching for something. 
 "Roger is a big kid," he said. 
 "He's huge," I said. 
 "You want to take him on again? Or do you need a break?" 
 Ninety percent of me wanted to take the break. But I knew if I took that break I would

never make the team. 
 "I'll take him on again," I said. 
 Coach smiled. 
 "All right, Roger," he said. "Line up again." 
 I stood up again. Coach threw me the ball. And Roger came for me. He screamed and

laughed like a crazy man. He was having a great time. And he was trying to intimidate me. He did intimidate me.

I dribbled with my right hand toward Roger, knowing that he was going to try to steal the ball.

If he stayed in front of me and reached for the ball with his left hand, then there was no way I could get past him. He was too big and strong, too immovable. But he reached for the ball with his right hand, and that put him a little off balance, so I spun-dribbled around him, did a 360,

and raced down the court. He was right behind me. I thought I could outrun him, but he caught 
 up to me and just blasted me. Just me skidding across the floor again. The ball went bouncing into the lands.

I should have stayed down. 
 But I didn't. 
 Instead, I jumped up, ran into the stands, grabbed the loose ball, and raced toward Roger

standing beneath the basket. I didn't even dribble.

I just ran like a fullback. 
 Roger crouched, ready to tackle me like he was a middle linebacker. 
 He screamed; I screamed. 
 And then I stopped short, about fifteen feet from the hoop, and made a pretty little jump

shot.
 Everybody in the gym yelled and clapped and stomped their feet. 
 Roger was mad at first, but then he smiled, grabbed the ball, and dribbled toward his

hoop.
 He spun left, right, but I stayed with him.

He bumped me, pushed me, and elbowed me, but I stayed with him. He went up for a layup and I fouled him. But I'd learned there are NO FOULS CALLED IN FULL-COURT ONE- ON-ONE, so I grabbed the loose ball and raced for my end again.

But Coach blew the whistle.

"All right, all right, Arnold, Roger," Coach said. "That's good, that's good. Next two, next two."

I took my place at the back of the line and Roger stood next to me. "Good job," he said and offered his fist. 
 I bumped his fist with mine. I was a warrior!

And that's when I knew I was going to make the team.

Heck, I ended up on the varsity. As a freshman. Coach said I was the best shooter who'd ever played for him. And I was going to be his secret weapon. I was going to be his Weapon of Mass Destruction.

Coach sure loved those military metaphors.

Two weeks later, we traveled up the road for our first game of the season. And our first game was against Wellpinit High School.

Y ep. 
 It was like something out of Shakespeare. 
 The morning of the game, I'd woken up in my rez house, so my dad could drive me the

twenty-two miles to Reardan, so I could get on the team bus for the ride back to the reservation. Crazy.

Do I have to tell you that I was absolutely sick with fear? 
 I vomited four times that day. 
 When our bus pulled into the high school parking lot, we were greeted by some rabid

elementary school kids. Some of I hose little dudes and dudettes were my cousins. 
 They pelted our bus with snowballs. And some of those snowballs were filled with rocks.

� As we got off the bus and walked toward the gym, I could hear the crowd going crazy inside.

They were chanting something. 
 I couldn't make it out. 
 And then I could. 
 The rez basketball fans were chanting, "Ar-nold sucks! Ar-lold sucks! Ar-nold sucks!" They weren't calling me by my rez name, Junior. Nope, they were calling me by my

Reardan name. 
 I stopped.

Coach looked back at me. 
 "Are you okay?" he asked. 


"No," I said. 
 "You don't have to play this one," he said. "Yes, I do," I said.

Still, I probably would have turned around if I hadn't seen my mom and dad and grandma waiting at the front door.

I know they'd been pitched just as much crap as I was. And there they were, ready to catch more crap for me. Ready to walk through the crap with me.

Two tribal cops were also there.

I guess they were for security. For whose security, I don't know. But they walked with our team, too.

So we walked through the front and into the loud gym. 
 Which immediately went silent. 
 Absolutely quiet. 
 My fellow tribal members saw me and they all stopped cheering, talking, and moving. I think they stopped breathing.

And, then, as one, they all turned their backs on me. It was a fricking awesome display of contempt. 
 I was impressed. So were my teammates. Especially Roger.

He just looked at me and whistled. 
 I was mad. 
 If these dang Indians had been this organized when I went to school here, maybe I would

have had more reasons to stay. 
 That thought made me laugh.

So I laughed. 
 And my laughter was the only sound in the gym. 
 And then I noticed that the only Indian who hadn't turned his back on me was Rowdy. He

was standing on the other end of the court. He passed a basketball around his back, around his back, around his back, like a clock. And he glared at me.

He wanted to play. 
 He didn't want to turn his back on me. 
 He wanted to kill me, face-to-face. 
 That made me laugh some more. 
 And then Coach started laughing with me. And so did my teammates.

And we kept laughing as we walked into the locker room to get ready for the game.

Once inside the locker room, I almost passed out. I slumped against a locker. I felt dizzy and weak. And then I cried, and felt ashamed of my tears.

But Coach knew exactly what to say.

"It's okay," Coach said to me, but he was talking to the whole team. "If you care about something enough, it's going to make you cry. But you have to use it. Use your tears. Use your pain. Use your fear. Get mad, Arnold, get mad."

And so I got mad.

And I was still mad and crying when we ran out for warm-ups. And I was still mad when the game started. I was on the bench. I didn't think I was going to play much. I was only a freshman.

But halfway through the first quarter, with the score tied at 10, Coach sent me in.

And as I ran onto the court, somebody in the crowd threw a quarter at me. AND HIT ME IN THE FRICKING FOREHEAD!

They drew blood. 
 I was bleeding. So I couldn't play. 
 Bleeding and angry, I glared at the crowd. 


They taunted me as I walked into the locker room. 
 I bled alone, until Eugene, my dad's best friend, walked in. He had just become an EMT

for the tribal clinic. 
 "Let me look at that," he said, and poked at my wound. 
 "You still got your motorcycle?" I asked. 
 "Nah, I wrecked that thing," he said, and dabbed antiseptic on my cut. "How does this

feel?" 
 "It hurts."

"Ah, it's nothing," he said. "Maybe three stitches. I'll drive you to Spokane to get it fixed up."

"Do you hate me, too?" I asked Eugene. 
 "No, man, you're cool," he said. 
 "Good," I said. 
 "It's too bad you didn't get to play," Eugene said. "Your dad says you're getting pretty

good." 
 "Not as good as you," I said.

Eugene was a legend. People say he could have played in college, but people also say Eugene couldn't read.

You can't read, you can't ball. 
 "You'll get them next time," Eugene said. 
 "You stitch me up," I said. 
 "What?" 
 "You stitch me up. I want to play tonight." 
 "I can't do that, man. It's your face. I might leave a scar or something." 
 "Then I'll look tougher," I said. "Come on, man." 
 So Eugene did it. He gave me three stitches in my fore head and it hurt like crazy, but I

was ready to play the second half. We were down by five points.

Rowdy had been an absolute terror, scoring twenty points, grabbing ten rebounds, and stealing the ball seven times.

"That kid is good," Coach said. 
 "He's my best friend," I said. "Well, he used to be my best friend." 
 "What is he now?" 
 "I don't know." 
 We scored the first five points of the third quarter, and then Coach sent me into the game. I immediately stole a pass and drove for a layup. 
 Rowdy was right behind me. 
 I jumped into the air, heard the curses of two hundred Spokanes, and then saw only a

bright light as Rowdy smashed his elbow into my head and knocked me unconscious. 
 Okay, I don't remember anything else from that night. So everything I tell you now is

secondhand information. 
 After Rowdy knocked me out, both of our teams got into a series of shoving matches and

push-fights.
 The tribal cops had to pull twenty or thirty adult Spokanes off the court before any of

them assaulted a teenage white kid. 
 Rowdy was given a technical foul. 
 So we shot two free throws for that. 
 I didn't shoot them, of course, because I was already in Eugene's ambulance, with my

mother and father, on the way to Spokane. 
 After we shot the technical free throws, the two referees huddled. They were two white

dudes from Spokane who were absolutely terrified of the wild Indians in the crowd and were willing to do ANYTHING to make them happy. So they called technical fouls on four of our players for leaving the bench and on Coach for unsportsmanlike conduct.

Yep, five technicals. Ten free throws.

After Rowdy hit the first six free throws, Coach cursed and screamed, and was thrown out of the game.

Wellpinit ended up winning by thirty points. 
 I ended up with a minor concussion. 
 Yep, three stitches and a bruised brain. 
 My mother was just beside herself. She thought I'd been murdered. "I'm okay," I said. "Just a little dizzy."

"But your hydrocephalus," she said. "Your brain is already damaged enough." 
 "Gee, thanks, Mom," I said. 
 Of course, I was worried that I'd further damaged my already damaged brain; the doctors

said I was fine. Mostly fine.

Later that night, Coach talked his way past the nurses and into my room. My mother and father and grandma were asleep in their chairs, but I was awake.

"Hey, kid," Coach said, keeping his voice low so he wouldn't wake my family. "Hey, Coach," I said. 
 "Sorry about that game," he said. 
 "It's not your fault."

"I shouldn't have played you. I should have canceled the whole game. It's my fault." "I wanted to play. I wanted to win."

"It's just a game," he said. "It's not worth all this."

But he was lying. He was just saying what he thought he was supposed to say. Of course, it was not just a game. Every game is important. Every game is serious.

"Coach," I said. "I would walk out of this hospital and walk all the way back to Wellpinit to play them right now if I could."

Coach smiled. 
 "Vince Lombardi used to say something I like," he said. 
 "It's not whether you win or lose," I said. "It's how you play the game." 
 "No, but I like that one," Coach said. "But Lombardi didn't mean it. Of course, it's better

to win." 
 We laughed.

"No, I like this other one more," Coach said. "The quality of a man's life is in direct proportion to his commitment to excellence, regardless of his chosen field of endeavor."

"That's a good one." 
 "It's perfect for you. I've never met anybody as committed as you." 
 "Thanks, Coach." 
 "You're welcome. Okay, kid, you take care of your head. I'm going to get out of here so

you can sleep." 
 "Oh, I'm not supposed to sleep. They want to keep me awake to monitor my head. Make

sure I don't have some hidden damage or something." 
 "Oh, okay," Coach said. "Well, how about I stay and keep you company, then?" "Wow, that would be great." 
 So Coach and I sat awake all night. 
 We told each other many stories. 
 But I never repeat those stories. 
 That night belongs to just me and my coach.

CH6:And a Partridge in a Pear Tree When the holidays rolled around, we didn't have any money for presents, so Dad did what he always does when we don't have enough money.

He took what little money we did have and ran away to get drunk. He left on Christmas Eve and came back on January 2. 
 With an epic hangover, he just lay on his bed for hours. 
 "Hey, Dad," I said.

"Hey, kid," he said. "I'm sorry about Christmas." 
 "It's okay," I said. 
 But it wasn't okay. It was about as far from okay as you can get. If okay was the earth,

then I was standing on Jupiter. I don't know why I said it was okay. For some reason, I was pro- ting the feelings of the man who had broken my heart yet again.

Jeez, I'd just won the Silver Medal in the Children of Alcoholic Olympics. "I got you something," he said. 
 "What?" 
 "It's in my boot."

I picked up one of his cowboy boots. 
 "No, the other one," he said. "Inside, under that foot-pad thing." 
 I picked up the other boot and dug inside. Man, that thing smelled like booze and fear and

failure. 
 I found a wrinkled and damp five dollar bill. 
 "Merry Christmas," he said. 
 Wow.
 Drunk for a week, my father must have really wanted to spend those last five dollars.

Shoot, you can buy a bottle of the worst whiskey for five dollars. He could have spent that five bucks and stayed drunk for another day or two. But he saved it for me.

It was a beautiful and ugly thing. 
 "Thanks, Dad," I said. 
 He was asleep. 
 "Merry Christmas," I said, and kissed him on the cheek.

CH7:Red Versus White You probably think I've completely fallen in love with white people and that I don't see anything good in Indians.

Well, that's false. 
 I love my big sister. I think she's double crazy and random. 
 Ever since she moved, she's sent me all these great Montana postcards. Beautiful

landscapes and beautiful Indians. Buffalo. Rivers. Huge insects. Great postcards.

She still can't find a job, and she's still living in that crappy little trailer. But she's happy and working hard on her book. She made a New Year's resolution to finish her book by summertime.

Her book is about hope, I guess. 
 I think she wants me to share in her romance. 
 I love her for that. 
 And I love my mother and father and my grandma. 
 Ever since I've been at Reardan, and seen how great parents do their great parenting, I

realize that my folks are pretty good. Sure, my dad has a drinking problem and my mom can be i little eccentric, but they make sacrifices for me. They worry about me. They talk to me. And best of all, they listen to me.

I've learned that the worst thing a parent can do is ignore their children. 
 And, trust me, there are plenty of Reardan kids who get ignored by their parents. There are white parents, especially fathers, who never come to the school. They don't

come for their kids' games, concerts, plays, or carnivals. 
 I'm friends with some white kids, and I've never met their lathers. 
 That's absolutely freaky. 
 On the rez, you know every kid's father, mother, grandparents, dog, cat, and shoe size. I

mean, yeah, Indians are screwed up, but we're really close to each other. We KNOW each other. Everybody knows everybody.

But despite the fact that Reardan is a tiny town, people can still be strangers to each other. I've learned that white people, especially fathers, are good at hiding in plain sight. 
 I mean, yeah, my dad would sometimes go on a drinking binge and be gone for a week,

but those white dads can completely disappear without ever leaving the living room. They can just BLEND into their chairs. They become the chairs.

So, okay, I'm not all goofy-eyed in love with white people all right? Plenty of the old white guys still give me the stink eye just for being Indian. And a lot of them think I shouldn't be in the school at all.

I'm realistic, okay?

I've thought about these things. And maybe I haven't done enough thinking, but I've done enough to know that it's better to live in Reardan than in Wellpinit.

Maybe only slightly better. 
 But from where I'm standing, slightly better is about the size of the Grand Canyon. And, hey, do you want to know the very best thing about Reardan?


It's Penelope, of course. And maybe Gordy. 
 And do you want to know what the very best thing was about Wellpinit? 
 My grandmother.

She was amazing. 
 She was the most amazing person in the world. 
 Do you want to know the very best thing about my grandmother? 
 She was tolerant. 
 And I know that's a hilarious thing to say about your grandmother. 
 I mean, when people compliment their grandmothers, especially their Indian

grandmothers, they usually say things like, "My grandmother is so wise" and "My grandmother is so kind" and "My grandmother has seen everything."

And, yeah, my grandmother was smart and kind and had traveled to about 100 different Indian reservations, but that had nothing to do with her greatness.

My grandmother's greatest gift was tolerance.

Now, in the old days, Indians used to be forgiving of any kind of eccentricity. In fact, weird people were often celebrated.

Epileptics were often shamans because people just assumed that God gave seizure- visions to the lucky ones.

Gay people were seen as magical, too.

I mean, like in many cultures, men were viewed as warriors and women were viewed as caregivers. But gay people, being both male and female, were seen as both warriors and caregivers.

Gay people could do anything. They were like Swiss Army knives!

My grandmother had no use for all the gay bashing and homophobia in the world, especially among other Indians.

"Jeez," she said. "Who cares if a man wants to marry another man? All I want to know is who's going to pick up all the dirty socks?"

Of course, ever since white people showed up and brought along their Christianity and their fears of eccentricity, Indians have gradually lost all of their tolerance.

Indians can be just as judgmental and hateful as any white person. 
 But not my grandmother. 
 She still hung on to that old-time Indian spirit, you know? 
 She always approached each new person and each new experience the exact same way. Whenever we went to Spokane, my grandmother would talk to anybody, even the

homeless people, even the homeless guys who were talking to invisible people. 
 My grandmother would start talking to the invisible people, too. 
 Why would she do that? 
 "Well," she said, "how can I be sure there aren't invisible people in the world? Scientists

didn't believe in the mountain gorilla for hundreds of years. And now look. So if scientists can be wrong, then all of us can be wrong. I mean, what if all of those invisible people ARE scientists? Think about that one."

So I thought about that one:

� After I decided to go to Reardan, I felt like an invisible mountain gorilla scientist. My grandmother was the only one who thought it was a 100 percent good idea.

"Think of all the new people you're going to meet," she said. "That's the whole point of life, you know? To meet new people. I wish I could go with you. It's such an exciting idea."

Of course, my grandmother had met thousands, tens of thousands, of other Indians at powwows all over the country. Every powwow Indian knew her.

Yep, my grandmother was powwow-famous. 
 Everybody loved her; she loved everybody. 
 In fact, last week, she was walking back home from a mini powwow at the Spokane

Tribal Community Center, when she «is struck and killed by a drunk driver. Yeah, you read that right.

She didn't die right away. The reservation paramedics kept her alive long enough to get to the hospital in Spokane, lint she died during emergency surgery.

Massive internal injuries.

At the hospital, my mother wept and wailed. She'd lost her mother. When anybody, no matter how old they are, loses a parent, I think it hurts the same as if you were only five years old, you know? I think all of us are always five years old in the presence and absence of our parents.

My father was all quiet and serious with the surgeon, a big and handsome white guy. "Did she say anything before she died?" he asked. 
 "Yes," the surgeon said. "She said, 'Forgive him.' " 
 "Forgive him?" my father asked.

"I think she was referring to the drunk driver who killed her." 
 Wow.
 My grandmother's last act on earth was a call for forgiveness, love, and tolerance. She wanted us to forgive Gerald, the dumb-ass Spokane Indian alcoholic who ran her

over and killed her. 
 I think my dad wanted to go find Gerald and beat him to death.

I think my mother would have helped him. 
 I think I would have helped him, too. 
 But my grandmother wanted us to forgive her murderer. 
 Even dead, she was a better person than us. 
 The tribal cops found Gerald hiding out at Benjamin Lake. 
 They took him to jail. 
 And after we got back from the hospital, my father went over to see Gerald to kill him or

forgive him. I think the tribal cops might have looked the other way if my father had decided to strangle Gerald.

But my father, respecting my grandmother's last wishes, left Gerald alone to the justice system, which ended up sending him to prison for eighteen months. After he got out, Gerald moved to a reservation in California and nobody ever saw him again.

But my family had to bury my grandmother. 
 I mean, it's natural to bury your grandmother. 
 Grandparents are supposed to die first, but they're supposed to die of old age. They're

supposed to die of a heart attack or a stroke or of cancer or of Alzheimer's. 
 THEY ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO GET RUN OVER AND KILLED BY A DRUNK

DRIVER!
 I mean, the thing is, plenty of Indians have died because they were drunk. And plenty of

drunken Indians have killed other drunken Indians. 
 But my grandmother had never drunk alcohol in her life. Not one drop. That's the rarest

kind of Indian in the world. 
 I know only, like, five Indians in our whole tribe who have never drunk alcohol. 
 And my grandmother was one of them. 
 "Drinking would shut down my seeing and my hearing and my feeling," she used to say.

"Why would I want to be in the world if I couldn't touch the world with all of my senses intact?" Well, my grandmother has left this world and she's now roaming around the afterlife.

CH8:Wake We held Grandmother's wake three days later. We knew that people would be coming in large numbers. But we were stunned because almost two thousand Indians showed up that day to say good-bye.

And nobody gave me any crap.

I mean, I was still the kid who had betrayed the tribe. And that couldn't be forgiven. But I was also the kid who'd lost his grandmother. And everybody knew that losing my grandmother was horrible. So they all waved the white flag that day and let me grieve in peace.

And after that, they stopped hassling me whenever they saw me on the rez. I mean, I still lived on the rez, right? And I had to go get the mail and get milk from the trading post and jus I hang out, right? So I was still a part of the rez.

People had either ignored me or called me names or pushed me. 
 But they stopped after my grandmother died. 
 I guess they realized that I was in enough pain already. Or maybe they realized they'd

been cruel jerks. 
 I wasn't suddenly popular, of course. But I wasn't a villain anymore. 
 No matter what else happened between my tribe and me, I would always love them for

giving me peace on the day of my grandmother's funeral. 
 Even Rowdy just stood far away. 
 He would always be my best friend, no matter how much he hated me. 
 We had to move the coffin out of the Spokane Tribal Longhouse and set it on the fifty-

yard line of the football field.

� We were lucky the weather was good.

Yep, about two thousand Indians (and a few white folks) sat and stood on the football field as we all said good-bye to the greatest Spokane Indian in history.

I knew that my grandmother would have loved that send-off. 
 It was crazy and fun and sad. 
 My sister wasn't able to come to the funeral. That was the worst part about it. She didn't

have enough money to get back, I guess. That was sad. But she promised me she'd sing one hundred mourning songs that day.

We all have to find our own ways to say good-bye. 
 Tons of people told stories about my grandmother. 


But there was one story that mattered most of all. 
 About ten hours into the wake, a white guy stood. He was a stranger. He looked vaguely

familiar. I knew I'd seen him before, but I couldn't think of where. We all wondered exactly who he was. But nobody knew. That wasn't surprising. My grandmother had met thousands of people.

The white guy was holding this big suitcase. 
 He held that thing tight to his chest as he talked. 
 "Hello," he said. "My name is Ted." 
 And then I remembered who he was. He was a rich and famous billionaire white dude.

He was famous for being filthy rich and really weird. 
 My grandmother knew Billionaire Ted! 
 Wow.
 We all were excited to hear this guy's story. And so what did he have to say?

� We all groaned.

We'd expected this white guy to be original. But he was yet another white guy who showed up on the rez because he loved Indian people SOOOOOOOO much.

Do you know how many white strangers show up on Indian reservations every year and start telling Indians how much they love them?

Thousands. 
 It's sickening. 
 And boring. 
 "Listen," Ted said. "I know you've heard that before. I know white people say that all the

time. But I still need to say it. I love Indians. I love your songs, your dances, and your souls. And I love your art. I collect Indian art."

Oh, God, he was a collector. Those guys made Indians feel like insects pinned to a display board. I looked around the football field. Yep, all of my cousins were squirming like beetles and butterflies with pins stuck in their hearts.

"I've collected Indian art for decades," Ted said. "I have old spears. Old arrowheads. I have old armor. I have blankets. And paintings. And sculptures. And baskets. And jewelry."

Blah, blah, blah, blah. 
 "And I have old powwow dance outfits," he said. 
 Now that made everybody sit up and pay attention. 
 "About ten years ago, this Indian guy knocked on the door of my cabin in Montana." Cabin, my butt. Ted lived in a forty-room log mansion just outside of Bozeman. 
 "Well, I didn't know this stranger," Ted said. "But I always open my door to Indians." Oh, please. 
 "And this particular Indian stranger was holding a very beautiful powwow dance outfit, a

woman's powwow dance outfit. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. It was all beaded blue and red and yellow with a thunderbird design. It must have weighed fifty pounds. And I couldn't imagine the strength of the woman who could dance beneath that magical burden."

Every woman in the world could dance that way.

"Well, this Indian stranger said he was in a desperate situation. His wife was dying of cancer and he needed money to pay for her medicine. I knew he was lying. I knew he'd stolen the outfit. I could always smell a thief."

Smell yourself, Ted.

"And I knew I should call the police on this thief. I knew I should take that outfit away and find the real owner. But it was so beautiful, so perfect, that I gave the Indian stranger a thou sand dollars and sent him on his way. And I kept the outfit."

Whoa, was Ted coming here to make a confession? And why had he chosen my grandmother's funeral for his confession?

"For years, I felt terrible. I'd look at that outfit hanging on the wall of my Montana cabin."

Mansion, Ted, it's a mansion. Go ahead; you can say it: MANSION!

"And then I decided to do some research. I hired an anthropologist, an expert, and he quickly pointed out that the outfit was obviously of Interior Salish origin. And after doing a little research, he discovered that the outfit was Spokane Indian, to be specific. And then, a few years ago, he visited your reservation undercover and learned that this stolen outfit once belonged to a woman named Grandmother Spirit."

We all gasped. This was a huge shock. I wondered if we were all part of some crazy reality show called When Billionaires Pretend to be Human. I looked around for the cameras.

"Well, ever since I learned who really owned this outfit, I've been torn. I always wanted to give it back. But I wanted to keep it, too. I couldn't sleep some nights because I was so torn up by it."

Yep, even billionaires have DARK NIGHTS OF THE SOUL.

"And, well, I finally couldn't take it anymore. I packed up the outfit and headed for your reservation, here, to hand-deliver the outfit back to Grandmother Spirit. And I get here only to discover that she's passed on to the next world. It's just devastating."

We were all completely silent. This was the weirdest thing any of us had ever witnessed. And we're Indians, so trust me, we've seen some really weird stuff.

"But I have the outfit here," Ted said. He opened up his suitcase and pulled out the outfit and held it up. It was fifty pounds, so he struggled with it. Anybody would have struggled with it.

"So if any of Grandmother Spirit's children are here, I'd love to return her outfit to them." My mother stood and walked up to Ted. 
 "I'm Grandmother Spirit's only daughter," she said. 
 My mother's voice had gotten all formal. Indians are good at that. We'll be talking and

laughing and carrying on like normal, and then, BOOM, we get all serious and sacred and start talking like some English royalty.

"Dearest daughter," Ted said. "I hereby return your stolen goods. I hope you forgive me for returning it too late."

"Well, there's nothing to forgive, Ted," my mother said. "Grandmother Spirit wasn't a powwow dancer."

Ted's mouth dropped open. 
 "Excuse me," he said. 
 "My mother loved going to powwows. But she never danced. She never owned a dance

outfit. This couldn't be hers." 
 Ted didn't say anything. He couldn't say anything. 
 "In fact, looking at the beads and design, this doesn't look Spokane at all. I don't

recognize the work. Does anybody here recognize the beadwork?" "No," everybody said.

"It looks more Sioux to me," my mother said. "Maybe Oglala. Maybe. I'm not an expert. Your anthropologist wasn't much of an expert, either. He got this way wrong."

We all just sat there in silence as Ted mulled that over.

Then he packed his outfit back into the suitcase, hurried over to his waiting car, and sped away.

For about two minutes, we all sat quiet. Who knew what to say? And then my mother started laughing.

And that set us all off. 
 Two thousands Indians laughed at the same time. 
 We kept laughing. 
 It was the most glorious noise I'd ever heard. 
 And I realized that, sure, Indians were drunk and sad and displaced and crazy and mean,

but, dang, we knew how to laugh. 
 When it comes to death, we know that laughter and tears are pretty much the same thing.

� And so, laughing and crying, we said good-bye to my grandmother. And when we said good-bye to one grandmother, we said good-bye to all of them.

Each funeral was a funeral for all of us. 
 We lived and died together. 
 All of us laughed when they lowered my grandmother into the ground. 
 And all of us laughed when they covered her with dirt. 


And all of us laughed as we walked and drove and rode our way back to our lonely,

lonely houses.

�

CH9: Valentine Heart A few days after I gave Penelope a homemade Valentine (and she said she forgot it was Valentine's Day), my dad's best friend, Eugene, was shot in the face in the parking lot of a 7- Eleven in Spokane.

Way drunk, Eugene was shot and killed by one of his good friends, Bobby, who was too drunk to even remember pulling the trigger.

The police think Eugene and Bobby fought over the last drink in a bottle of wine:

� When Bobby was sober enough to realize what he'd done, he could only call Eugene's name over and over, as if that would somehow bring him back.

A few weeks later, in jail, Bobby hung himself with a bed-sheet. We didn't even have enough time to forgive him. 


He punished himself for his sins. 
 My father went on a legendary drinking binge.

My mother went to church every single day. 
 It was all booze and God, booze and God, booze and God.

We'd lost my grandmother and Eugene. How much loss were we supposed to endure? I felt helpless and stupid. 
 I needed books. 
 I wanted books.

And I drew and drew and drew cartoons. 
 I was mad at God; I was mad at Jesus. They were mocking me, so I mocked them:

I hoped I could find more cartoons that would help me. And I hoped I could find stories that would help me.

So I looked up the word "grief" in the dictionary.

I wanted to find out everything I could about grid I wanted to know why my family had been given so much I grieve about.

And then I discovered the answer:

�

� Okay, so it was Gordy who showed me a book written by the guy who knew the answer. It was Euripides, this Greek writer from the fifth century BC. 
 A way-old dude. 
 In one of his plays, Medea says, "What greater grief than the loss of one's native land?" I read that and thought, "Well, of course, man. We Indians have LOST EVERYTHING.

We lost our native land, we lost our languages, we lost our songs and dances. We lost each other. We only know how to lose and be lost."

But it's more than that, too.

I mean, the thing is, Medea was so distraught by the world, arid felt so betrayed, that she murdered her own kids.

She thought the world was that joyless.

And, after Eugene's funeral, I agreed with her. I could have easily killed myself, killed my mother and father, killed the birds, killed the trees, and killed the oxygen in the air.

More than anything, I wanted to kill God. 
 I was joyless. 
 I mean, I can't even tell you how I found the strength to get up every morning. And yet,

every morning, I did get up and go to school. 
 Well, no, that's not exactly true. 
 I was so depressed that I thought about dropping out of Reardan. 
 I thought about going back to Wellpinit. 
 I blamed myself for all of the deaths. 
 I had cursed my family. I had left the tribe, and had broken something inside all of us,

and I was now being punished for that. No, my family was being punished.

I was healthy and alive.

Then, after my fifteenth or twentieth missed day of school, I sat in my social studies classroom with Mrs. Jeremy.

Mrs. Jeremy was an old bird who'd taught at Reardan for thirty-five years.

I slumped into her class and sat in the back of the room.

"Oh, class," she said. "We have a special guest today. It's Arnold Spirit. I didn't realize you still went to this school, Mr. Spirit."

� The classroom was quiet. They all knew my family had been living inside a grief-storm. And had this teacher just mocked me for that?

"What did you just say?" I asked her. 
 "You really shouldn't be missing class this much," she said. 
 If I'd been stronger, I would have stood up to her. I would have called her names. I would

have walked across the room and slapped her. But I was too broken.

Instead, it was Gordy who defended me. 
 He stood with his textbook and dropped it. 
 Whomp!
 He looked so strong. He looked like a warrior. He was protecting me like Rowdy used to

protect me. Of course, Rowdy would have thrown the book at the teacher and then punched her. Gordy showed a lot of courage in standing up to a teacher like that. And his courage

inspired the others. 
 Penelope stood and dropped her textbook. 
 And then Roger stood and dropped his textbook. 
 Whomp!
 Then the other basketball players did the same. 
 Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! Whomp!
 And Mrs. Jeremy flinched each and every time, as if she'd been kicked in the crotch. Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! Whomp!
 Then all of my classmates walked out of the room. 
 A spontaneous demonstration. 
 Of course, I probably should have walked out with them. It would have been more poetic.

It would have made more sense. Or perhaps my friends should have realized that they shouldn't have left behind the FRICKING REASON FOR THEIR PROTEST!

And that thought just cracked me up.

It was like my friends had walked over the backs of baby seals in order to get to the beach where they could protest against the slaughter of baby seals.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't that bad. 
 But it was sure funny. 
 "What are you laughing at?" Mrs. Jeremy asked me. 


"I used to think the world was broken down by tribes," I said. "By black and white. By

Indian and white. But I know that isn't true. The world is only broken into two tribes: The people who are assholes and the people who are not."

I walked out of the classroom and felt like dancing and singing. 
 It all gave me hope. It gave me a little bit of joy. 
 And I kept trying to find the little pieces of joy in my life. That's the only way I managed

to make it through all of that death and change. I made a list of the people who had given me the most joy in my life:

1. Rowdy 


2. My mother 


3. My father 


4. My grandmother 


5. Eugene 


6. 7. 8. 9.

I made

1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

I made

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

I made a list of the musicians who had played the most joyous music:

Coach 
 Roger 
 Gordy
 Penelope, even if she only partially loves me

I made a list of the musicians who had played the most joyous music:

Patsy Cline, my mother's favorite 
 Hank Williams, my father's favorite Jimi Hendrix, my grandmother's favorite Guns N' Roses, my big sister's favorite White Stripes, my favorite

a list of my favorite foods:

pizza
 chocolate pudding 
 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches banana cream pie 
 fried chicken 
 mac & cheese 
 hamburgers 
 french fries 
 grapes

a list of my favorite books:

The Grapes of Wrath Catcher in the Rye 
 Fat Kid Rules the World Tangerine

Feed
 Catalyst Invisible Man Fools Crow Jar of Fools

a list of my favorite basketball players:

Dwayne Wade
 Shane Battier 
 Steve Nash 
 Ray Allen 


Adam Morrison Julius Erving 
 Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

George Gervin Mugsy Bogues 


I kept making list after list of the things that made me feel joy. And I kept drawing cartoons of the things that made me angry. I keep writing and rewriting, drawing and redrawing, and rethinking and revising and reediting. It became my grieving ceremony.

CH10: In Like a Lion I'd never guessed I'd be a good basketball player.

I mean, I'd always loved ball, mostly because my father loved it so much, and because Rowdy loved it even more, but I figured I'd always be one of those players who sat on the bench and cheered his bigger, faster, more talented teammates to victory and/or defeat.

But somehow or another, as the season went on, I became a freshman starter on a varsity basketball team. And, sure, all of my teammates were bigger and faster, but none of them could shoot like me.

I was the hired gunfighter.

Back on the rez, I was a decent player, I guess. A rebounder and a guy who could run up and down the floor without tripping. But something magical happened to me when I went to Reardan.

Overnight, I became a good player.

I suppose it had something to do with confidence. I mean, I'd always been the lowest Indian on the reservation totem pole—I wasn't expected to be good so I wasn't. But in Reardan, my coach and the other players wanted me to be good. They needed me to be good. They expected me to be good. And so I became good.

I wanted to live up to expectations. 
 I guess that's what it comes down to. 
 The power of expectations. 
 And as they expected more of me, I expected more of myself, and it just grew and grew

until I was scoring twelve points a game. AS A FRESHMAN!

Coach was thinking I would be an all-state player in a few years. He was thinking maybe I'd play some small-college ball.

It was crazy. 
 How often does a reservation Indian kid hear that? 
 How often do you hear the words "Indian" and "college" in the same sentence?

Especially in my family. Especially in my tribe. 
 But don't think I'm getting stuck up or anything. 
 It's still absolutely scary to play ball, to compete, to try to win. 
 I throw up before every game. 
 Coach said he used to throw up before games. 
 "Kid," he said, "some people need to clear the pipes before they can play. I used to be a

yucker. You're a yucker. Ain't nothing wrong with being a yucker." So I asked Dad if he used to be a yucker. 
 "What's a yucker?" he asked. 
 "Somebody who throws up before basketball games," said. "Why would you throw up?"

"Because I'm nervous." 
 "You mean, because you're scared?" 
 "Nervous, scared, same kind of things, aren't they?" 
 "Nervous means you want to play. Scared means you don't want to play." All right, so Dad made it clear. 
 I was a nervous yucker in Reardan. Back in Wellpinit, I was a scared yucker.

Nobody else on my team was a yucker. Didn't matter one way or the other, I guess. We were just a good team, period.

After losing our first game to Wellpinit, we won twelve in a row. We just killed people, winning by double figures every time. We beat our archrivals, Davenport, by thirty-three.

Townspeople were starting to compare us to the great Reardan teams of the past. People were starting to compare some of our players to great players of the past.

Roger, our big man, was the new Joel Wetzel. 
 Jeff, our point guard, was the new Little Larry Soliday. 
 James, our small forward, was the new Keith Schulz. 
 But nobody talked about me that way. I guess it was hard to compare me to players from

the past. I wasn't from the town, not originally, so I would always be an outsider. 
 And no matter how good I was, I would always be an Indian. And some folks just found

it difficult to compare an Indian to a white guy. It wasn't racism, not exactly. It was, well, I don't know what it was.

I was something different, something new. I just hope that, twenty years in the future, they'd be comparing some kid to me:

"Yeah, you see that kid shoot, he reminds me so much of Arnold Spirit."

Maybe that will happen. I don't know. Can an Indian have a legacy in a white town? And should a teenager be worry about his fricking legacy anyway?

Jeez, I must be an egomaniac.

Well, anyway, our record was 12 wins and 1 loss when we had our rematch with Wellpinit.

They came to our gym, so I wasn't going to get burned the stake. In fact, my white fans were going to cheer for like I was some kind of crusading warrior:

Jeez, I felt like one of those Indian scouts who led the U.S. Cavalry against other Indians.

� But that was okay, I guess. I wanted to win. I wanted revenge. I wasn't playing for the fans. I wasn't playing for the white people. I was playing to beat Rowdy.

Yep, I wanted to embarrass my best friend.

He'd turned into a stud on his team. He was only a freshman, too, but he was averaging twenty-five points a game. I followed his progress in the sports section.

He'd led the Wellpinit Redskins to a 13-0 record. They were the number one-ranked small school in the state. Wellpinit had never been ranked

that high. And it was all because of Rowdy. We were ranked number two, so our game was a big deal. Especially for a small-school battle.

And most especially because I was a Spokane Indian playing against his old friends (and enemies).

A local news crew came out to interview me before the game.

"So, Arnold, how does it feel to play against your former teammates?" the sports guy asked me.

"It's kind of weird," I said. 
 "How weird?" 
 "Really weird." 
 Yep, I was scintillating. 
 The sports guy stopped the interview. 
 "Listen," he said. "I know this is a difficult thing. You're young. But maybe you could get

more specific about your feelings." "My feelings?" I asked.

"Yeah, this is a major deal in your life, isn't it?"

Well, duh, yeah, of course it was a major deal. It was maybe the biggest thing in my life ever, but I wasn't about to share my feelings with the whole world. I wasn't going to start blubbering for the local sports guy like he was my priest or something.

I had some pride, you know?
 I believed in my privacy. 
 It wasn't like I'd called the guy and offered up my story you know? 
 And I was kind of suspicious that white people were really interested in seeing some

Indians battle each other. I think it was sort of like watching dogfighting, you know? It made me feel exposed and primitive. 
 "So, okay," the sports guy said. "Are you ready to try again?" 
 "Y eah."

"Okay, let's roll." 
 The camera guy started filming. 
 "So, Arnold," the sports guy said. "Back in December, you faced your old classmates,

and fellow Spokane tribal members, in a basketball game back on the reservation, and yon lost. They're now the number one-ranked team in the state and they're coming to your home gym. How does that make you feel?"

"Weird," I said. 
 "Cut, cut, cut, cut," the sports guy said. He was mad now. 
 "Arnold," he said. "Could you maybe think of a word besides weird?" 
 I thought for a bit. 
 "Hey," I said. "How about I say that it makes me feel like I've had to grow up really fast,

too fast, and that I've come to realize that every single moment of my life is important. And that

every choice I make is important. And that a basketball game, even a game between two small schools in the middle of nowhere, can be the difference between being happy and being miserable for the rest of my life."

"Wow," the sports guy said. "That's perfect. That's poetry. Let's go with that, okay?" "Okay," I said. 
 "Okay, let's roll tape," the sports guy said again and put the microphone in my face. "Arnold," he said. "Tonight you're going into battle against your former teammates and

Spokane tribal members, the Wellpinit Redskins. They're the number one-ranked team in the state and they beat you pretty handily back in December. Some people think they're going to blow you out of the gym tonight. How does that make you feel?"

"Weird," I said. 
 "All right, all right, that's it," the sports guy said. "We're out of here." 


"Did I say something wrong?" I asked. 
 "You are a little asshole," the sports guy said. 
 "Wow, are you allowed to say that to me?" 
 "I'm just telling the truth." 
 He had a point there. I was being a jerk. 
 "Listen, kid," the sports guy said. "We thought this was an important story. We thought

this was a story about a kid striking out on his own, about a kid being courageous, and all you want to do is give us grief."

Wow.
 He was making me feel bad. 
 "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm just a yucker." 
 "What?" the sports guy asked. 
 "I'm a nervous dude," I said. "I throw up before games. I think I'm just sort of, er,

metaphorically throwing up on you. I'm sorry. The thing is, the best player on Wellpinit, Rowdy, he used to be my best friend. And now he hates me. He gave me a concussion that first game. And now I want to destroy him. I want to score thirty points on him. I want him to remember this game forever."

"Wow," the sports guy said. "You're pissed." 
 "Yeah, you want me to say that stuff on camera?" 
 "Are you sure you want to say that?" 
 "Y eah." 
 "All right, let's go for it." 
 They set up the camera again and the sports guy put till microphone back in my face. "Arnold, you're facing off against the number one- ranked Wellpinit Redskins tonight and

their all-star, Rowdy, who used to be your best friend back when you went to school on the reservation. They beat you guys pretty handily back in December, and they gave you a concussion. How does it feel to be playing them again?"

"I feel like this is the most important night of my life," I said. "I feel like I have something to prove to the people in Reardan, the people in Wellpinit, and to myself."

"And what do you think you have to prove?" the guy asked

"I have to prove that I am stronger than everybody else. I have to prove that I will never give up. I will never quit playing hard. And I don't just mean in basketball. I'm never going to quit living life this hard, you know? I'm never going to surrender to anybody. Never, ever, ever."

"How bad do you want to win?"

"I never wanted anything more in my life." "Good luck, Arnold, we'll be watching."

** *
 The gym was packed two hours before the game. Two thousand people yelling and

cheering and stomping. 
 In the locker room, we all got ready in silence. But everybody, even Coach, came up to

me and patted my head or shoulder, or bumped fists with me, or gave me a hug. 
 This was my game, this was my game. 
 I mean, I was still just the second guy off the bench, just the dude who provided instant

offense. But it was all sort of warrior stuff, too.

We were all boys desperate to be men, and this game would be a huge moment in our transition.

"Okay, everybody, let's go over the game plan," Coach said. 
 We all walked over to the chalkboard area and sat on folding chairs. 
 "Okay, guys," Coach said. "We know what these guys can do. They're averaging eighty

points a game. They want to run and run and run. And when they're done running and gunning, they're going to run and gun some more."

Man, that wasn't much of a pep talk. It sounded like Coach was sure we were going to lose.

"And I have to be honest, guys," Coach said. "We can't beat these guys with our talent. We just aren't good enough. But I think we have bigger hearts. And I think we have a secret weapon."

I wondered if Coach had maybe hired some Mafia dude to take out Rowdy. "We have Arnold Spirit," Coach said. 
 "Me?" I asked. 
 "Yes, you," Coach said. "You're starting tonight."

"Really?"

�

"Really. And you're going to guard Rowdy. The whole game. He's your man. You have to stop him. If you stop him, we win this game. It's the only way we're going to win this game." Wow. I was absolutely stunned. Coach wanted me to guard Rowdy. Now, okay, I was a

great shooter, but I wasn't a great defensive player. Not at all. There's no way I could stop Rowdy. I mean, if I had a baseball bat and bulldozer, maybe I could stop him. But without real weapons—without a pistol, a man-eating lion, and a vial of bubonic plague—I had zero chance 
 of competing directly with Rowdy. If I guarded him, he was going to score seventy points.

"Coach," I said. "I'm really honored by this. But I don I think I can do it."

He walked over to me, kneeled, and pushed his forehead against mine. Our eyes were, like, an inch apart. I could smell the cigarettes and chocolate on his breath.

"You can do it," Coach said.

Oh, man, that sounded just like Eugene. He always shouted that during any game I ever played. It could be, like, a three-legged sack race, and Gene would be all drunk and happy in the stands and he'd be shouting out, "Junior, you can do it!"

Yeah, that Eugene, he was a positive dude even as an alcoholic who ended up getting shot in the face and killed.

Jeez, what a sucky life. I was about to play the biggest basketball game of my life and all I could think about was my dad's dead best friend.

So many ghosts.

"You can do it," Coach said again. He didn't shout it. He whispered it. Like a prayer. And he kept whispering again. Until the prayer turned into a song. And then, for some magical reason, I believed in him.

Coach had become, like, the priest of basketball, and I was his follower. And I was going to follow him onto the court and shut down my best friend.

I hoped so. 
 "I can do it," I said to Coach, to my teammates, to the world. 
 "You can do it," Coach said. 
 "I can do it." 
 "You can do it." 
 "I can do it." 
 Do you understand how amazing it is to hear that from an adult? Do you know how

amazing it is to hear that from anybody? It's one of the simplest sentences in the world, just four words, but they're the four hugest words in the world when they're put together.

You can do it. 
 I can do it. 
 Let's do it. 
 We all screamed like maniacs as we ran out of the locker room and onto the basketball

court, where two thousand maniac fans were also screaming. 
 The Reardan band was rocking some Led Zeppelin. 
 As we ran through our warm-up layup drills, I looked up into the crowd to see if my dad

was in his usual place, high up in the northwest corner. And there he was. I waved at him. He waved back.

Yep, my daddy was an undependable drunk. But he'd never missed any of my organized games, concerts, plays, or picnics. He may not have loved me perfectly, but he loved me as well as he could.

My mom was sitting in her usual place on the opposite side of the court from Dad.

Funny how they did that. Mom always said that Dad made her too nervous; Dad always said that Mom made him too nervous.

Penelope was yelling and screaming like crazy, too. 
 I waved at her; she blew me a kiss. 
 Great, now I was going to have to play the game with a boner. 
 Ha-ha, just kidding. 
 So we ran through layups and three-on-three weave drills, and free throws and pick and

rolls, and then the evil Wellpinit five came running out of the visitors' locker room. Man, you never heard such booing. Our crowd was as loud as a jet. 
 They were just pitching the Wellpinit players some serious crap. 
 You want to know what it sounded like?

It sounded like this:

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOO!

We couldn't even hear each other. 
 I worried that all of us were going to have permanent hearing damage. 
 I kept glancing over at Wellpinit as they ran their layup drills. And I noticed that Rowdy

kept glancing over at us. At me.

Rowdy and I pretended that we weren't looking at each other. But, man, oh, man, we were sending some serious hate signals across the gym.

I mean, you have to love somebody that much to also hate hem that much, too.

Our captains, Roger and Jeff, ran out to the center circle to have the game talk with the refs.

Then our band played "The Star-Spangled Banner."

And then our five starters, including me, ran out to the center circle to go to battle against Wellpinit's five.

Rowdy smirked at me as I took my position next to him. 
 "Wow," he said. "You guys must be desperate if you're starting." 
 "I'm guarding you," I said. 
 "What?" 
 "I'm guarding you tonight." 
 "You can't stop me. I've been kicking your ass for fourteen years." 
 "Not tonight," I said. "Tonight's my night." 
 Rowdy just laughed. 
 The ref threw up the opening jump ball. 
 Our big guy, Roger, tipped it back toward our point guard, but Rowdy was quicker. He

intercepted the pass and raced toward his basket. I ran right behind him. I knew that he wanted to dunk it. I knew that he wanted to send a message to us.

I knew he wanted to humiliate us on the opening play.

And for a second, I wondered if I should just intentionally foul him and prevent him from dunking. He'd get two free throws but those wouldn't be nearly as exciting as a dunk.

But, no, I couldn't do that. I couldn't foul him. That would be like giving up. So I just sped up and got ready to jump with Rowdy.

I knew he'd fly into the air about five feet from the hoop. I knew he'd jump about two feet higher than I could. So I needed to jump quicker.

And Rowdy rose into the air. And I rose with him. 
 AND THEN I ROSE ABOVE HIM!


Yep, if I believed in magic, in ghosts, then I think maybe I was rising on the shoulders of

my dead grandmother and Eugene, my dad's best friend. Or maybe I was rising on my mother and father's hopes for me.

I don't know what happened. 
 But for once, and for the only time in my life, I jumped higher than Rowdy.
 I rose above him as he tried to dunk it. 
 I TOOK THE BALL RIGHT OUT OF HIS HANDS!
 Yep, we were, like, ten feet off the ground, but I was still able to reach out and steal the

ball from Rowdy. 
 Even in midair, I could see the absolute shock on Rowdy's face. He couldn't believe I was

flying with him. 
 He thought he was the only Indian Superman. 
 I came down with the ball, spun, and dribbled back toward our hoop. Rowdy, screaming

with rage, was close behind me. 
 Our crowd was insanely loud.

They couldn't believe what I'd just done.

I mean, sure, that kind of thing happens in the NBA and in college and in the big high schools. But nobody jumped like that in a small school basketball gym. Nobody blocked a shot like that.

NOBODY TOOK A BALL OUT OF A GUY'S HANDS AS HE WAS JUST ABOUT TO DUNK!

But I wasn't done. Not by a long shot. I wanted to score. I'd taken the ball from Rowdy and now I wanted to score in his face. I wanted to absolutely demoralize him.

I raced for our hoop. 
 Rowdy was screaming behind me. 
 My teammates told me later that I was grinning like an idiot as I flew down the court. 
 I didn't know that. 
 I just knew I wanted to hit a jumper in Rowdy's face. 
 Well, I wanted to dunk on him. And I figured, with the crazy adrenaline coursing through

my body, I might be able to jump over the rim again. But I think part of me knew that I'd never jump like that again. I only had that one epic jump in me.

I wasn't a dunker; I was a shooter.

So I screeched to a stop at the three-point line and head-raked. And Rowdy completely fell for it. He jumped high over me, wanting to block my shot, but I just waited for the sky to clear. As Rowdy hovered above me, as he floated away, he looked at me. I looked at him.

He knew he'd blown it. He knew he'd fallen for a little head-fake. He knew he could do nothing to stop my jumper.

He was sad, man. 
 Way sad. 
 So guess what I did?
 I stuck my tongue out at him. Like I was Michael Jordan. I mocked him.

And then I took my three-pointer and buried it. Just swished that sucker. AND THE GYM EXPLODED!
 People wept. 
 Really.

My dad hugged the white guy next to him. Didn't even know him. But hugged and kissed him like they were brothers, you know?

My mom fainted. Really. She just leaned over a bit, bumped against the white woman next to her, and was gone.

She woke up five seconds later. 
 People were up on their feet. They were high-fiving and hugging and dancing and singing. The school band played a song. Well, the band members were all confused and excited,

so they played a song, sure, but each member of the band played a different song. My coach was jumping up and down and spinning in circles. 
 My teammates were screaming my name. 
 Yep, all of that fuss and the score was only 3 to 0.

But, trust me, the game was over.

It only took, like, ten seconds to happen. But the game was already over. Really. It can happen that way. One play can determine the course of a game. One play can change your momentum forever.

We beat Wellpinit by forty points. 
 Absolutely destroyed them. 
 That three-pointer was the only shot I took that night. The only shot I made. 
 Yep, I only scored three points, my lowest point total of the season. 
 But Rowdy only scored four points. 
 I stopped him. 
 I held him to four points. 
 Only two baskets. 
 He scored on a layup in the first quarter when I tripped I over my teammate's foot and fell. And he scored in the fourth quarter, with only five seconds left in the game, when he

stole the ball from me and raced down for a layup. 
 But I didn't even chase him down because we were ahead by forty-two points. 
 The buzzer sounded. The game was over. We had killed the Redskins. Yep, we had

humiliated them. 
 We were dancing around the gym, laughing and screaming and chanting. 


My teammates mobbed me. They lifted me up on their shoulders and carried me around

the gym. 
 I looked for my mom, but she'd fainted again, so they'd taken her outside to get some

fresh air. 
 I looked for my dad.

I thought he'd be cheering. But he wasn't. He wasn't even looking at me. He was all quiet- faced as he looked at something else.

So I looked at what he was looking at.

It was the Wellpinit Redskins, lined up at their end of the court, as they watched us celebrate our victory.

I whooped.

We had defeated the enemy! We had defeated the champions! We were David who'd thrown a stone into the brain of Goliath!

And then I realized something. 
 I realized that my team, the Reardan Indians, was Goliath. 
 I mean, jeez, all of the seniors on our team were going to college. All of the guys on our

team had their own cars. All of the guys on our team had iPods and cell phones and PSPs and three pairs of blue jeans and ten shirts and mothers and fathers who went to church and had good jobs.

Okay, so maybe my white teammates had problems, serious problems, but none of their problems was life threatening.

But I looked over at the Wellpinit Redskins, at Rowdy. 
 I knew that two or three of those Indians might not have eaten breakfast that morning. No food in the house. 
 I knew that seven or eight of those Indians lived with drunken mothers

and fathers. 
 I knew that one of those Indians had a father who dealt crack and meth. 
 I knew two of those Indians had fathers in prison. 
 I knew that none of them was going to college. Not one of them. 
 And I knew that Rowdy's father was probably going beat the crap out of him for losing

this game. 
 I suddenly wanted to apologize to Rowdy, to all of the other Spokanes. 
 I was suddenly ashamed that I'd wanted so badly to take revenge on them. 
 I was suddenly ashamed of my anger, my rage, and my pain. 
 I jumped off my white teammates' shoulders and dashed into the locker room. I ran into

the bathroom, into a toilet stall, and threw up. And then I wept like a baby.

Coach and my teammates thought I was crying tears of happiness. But I wasn't.
 I was crying tears of shame. 
 I was crying because I had broken my best friend's heart.

But God has a way of making things even out, I guess.

Wellpinit never recovered from their loss to us. They only won a couple more games the rest of the season and didn't qualify for the playoffs.

However, we didn't lose another game in the regular season and were ranked number one in the state as we headed into the playoffs.

We played Almira Coulee-Hartline, this tiny farm-town team, and they beat us when this kid named Keith hit a crazy half-court shot at the buzzer. It was a big upset.

We all cried in the locker room for hours. 
 Coach cried, too. 


I guess that's the only time that men and boys get to cry and not get punched in the face.

CH11: Rowdy and I Have a Long and Serious Discussion about Basketball A few days after basketball season ended, I e-mailed Rowdy and told him I was sorry that we beat them so bad and that their season went to hell after that.

"We'll kick your asses next year," Rowdy wrote back. "And you'll cry like the little faggot you are."

"I might be a faggot," I wrote back, "but I'm the faggot who beat you." 
 "Ha-ha," Rowdy wrote. 
 Now that might just sound like a series of homophobic insults, but I think it was also a

little bit friendly, and it was the first time that Rowdy had talked to me since I left the rez. I was a happy faggot!

CH12: Because Russian Guys Are Not Always Geniuses After my grandmother died, I felt like crawling into the coffin with her. After my dad's best friend got shot in the face, I wondered if I was destined to get shot in the face, too.

Considering how many young Spokanes have died in car wrecks, I'm pretty sure it's my destiny to die in a wreck, too.

Jeez, I've been to so many funerals in my short life. 
 I'm fourteen years old and I've been to forty-two funerals. 
 That's really the biggest difference between Indians and white people. 
 A few of my white classmates have been to a grandparent's funeral. And a few have lost

an uncle or aunt. And one girl's brother died of leukemia when he was in third grade. 
 But there's nobody who has been to more than five funerals. 
 All my white friends can count their deaths on one hand, 
 I can count my fingers, toes, arms, legs, eyes, ears, nose, penis, butt cheeks, and nipples,

and still not get close to my deaths. 
 And you know what the worst part is? The unhappy part? About 90 percent of the deaths

have been because of alcohol. 
 Gordy gave me this book by a Russian dude named Tolstoy, who wrote: "Happy families

are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Well, I hate to argue with a Russian genius, but Tolstoy didn't know Indians. And he didn't know that all Indian families are unhappy for the same exact reason: the fricking booze.

Yep, so let me pour a drink for Tolstoy and let him think hard about the true definition of unhappy families.

So, okay, you're probably thinking I'm being extra bitter. And I would have to agree with you. I am being extra bitter. So let me tell you why.

Today, around nine a.m., as I sat in chemistry, there was a knock on the door, and Miss Warren, the guidance counselor, stepped into the room. Dr. Noble, the chemistry teacher, hates being interrupted. So he gave the old stink eye to Miss Warren.

"Can I help you, Miss Warren?" Dr. Noble asked. Except he made it sound like an insult. "Yes," she said. "May I speak to Arnold in private?" 
 "Can this wait? We are going to have a quiz in a few moments." 
 "I need to speak with him now. Please."

"Fine. Arnold, please go with Miss Warren."

I gathered up my books and followed Miss Warren out into the hallway. I was a little worried. I wondered if I'd done something wrong. I couldn't think of anything I'd done that would merit punishment. But I was still worried. I didn't want to get into any kind of trouble.

"What's going on, Miss Warren?" I asked.

She suddenly started crying. Weeping. Just these big old whooping tears. I thought she was going to fall over on the floor and start screaming and kicking like a two-year-old.

"Jeez, Miss Warren, what is it? What's wrong?"

She hugged me hard. And I have to admit that it felt pretty dang good. Miss Warren was, like, fifty years old, but she was still pretty hot. She was all skinny and muscular because she jogged all the time. So I sort of, er, physically reacted to her hug.

And the thing is, Miss Warren was hugging me so tight that I was pretty sure she could feel my, er, physical reaction.

I was kind of proud, you know?

"Arnold, I'm sorry," she said. "But I just got a phone call from your mother. It's your sister. She's passed away."

"What do you mean?" I asked. I knew what she meant, but I wanted her to say something else. Anything else.

"Your sister is gone," Miss Warren said. 
 "I know she's gone," I said. "She lives in Montana now." 
 I knew I was being an idiot. But I figured if I kept being an idiot, if I didn't actually

accept the truth, then the truth would become false. 
 "No," Miss Warren said. "Your sister, she's dead." 
 That was it. I couldn't fake my way around that. Dead is dead. 
 I was stunned. But I wasn't sad. The grief didn't hit me right away. No, I was mostly

ashamed of my, er, physical reaction to the hug. Yep, I had a big erection when I learned of my sister's death.

How perverted is that? How inappropriately hormonal can one boy be? 
 "How did she die?" I asked. 
 "Your father is coming to get you," Miss Warren said "He'll be here in a few minutes.

You can wait in my office." 
 "How did she die?" I asked again. 
 "Your father is coming to get you," Miss Warren said again. 
 I knew then that she didn't want to tell me how my sister had died. I figured it must have

been an awful death. 
 "Was she murdered?" I asked. 
 "Your father is coming." 
 Man, Miss Warren was a LAME counselor. She didn't know what to say to me. But then

again, I couldn't really blame her. She'd never counseled a student whose sibling had just died. "Was my sister murdered?" I asked. 
 "Please," Miss Warren said. "You need to talk to your father." 
 She looked so sad that I let it go. Well, I mostly let it go. I certainly didn't want to wait in

her office. The guidance office was filled with self-help books and inspirational posters and SAT test books and college brochures and scholarship applications, and I knew that none of that, absolutely none of it, meant shit.

I knew I'd probably tear her office apart if I had to wait there. 
 "Miss Warren," I said, "I want to wait outside." 
 "But it's snowing," she said. 
 "Well, that would make it perfect, then, wouldn't it?" I said. 
 It was a rhetorical question, meaning there wasn't supposed to be an answer, right? But

poor Miss Warren, she answered my rhetorical question. 
 "No, I don't think it's a good idea to wait in the snow," she said. "You're very vulnerable

right now." 
 VULNERABLE! She told me I was vulnerable. My big sister was dead. Of course I was

vulnerable. I was a reservation Indian attending an all-white school and my sister had just died some horrible death. I was the most vulnerable kid in the United States. Miss Warren was obviously trying to win the Captain Obvious Award.

"I'm waiting outside," I said. "I'll wait with you," she said. "Kiss my ass," I said and ran.

Miss Warren tried to run after me. But she was wearing heels and she was crying and she was absolutely freaked out by my reaction to the bad news. By my cursing. She was nice. Too nice to deal with death. So she just ran a few feet before she stopped and slumped against the wall.

I ran by my locker, grabbed my coat, and headed outside. There was maybe a foot of snow on the ground already. It was going to be a big storm. I suddenly worried that my father was going to wreck his car on the icy roads.

Oh, man, wouldn't that just be perfect? 
 Yep, how Indian would that be? 
 Imagine the stories I could tell. 
 "Yeah, when I was a kid, just after I learned that my big sister died, I also found out that

my father died in a car wreck on the way to pick me up from school." 
 So I was absolutely terrified as I waited. 
 I prayed to God that my father would come driving up in his old car. 
 "Please, God, please don't kill my daddy. Please, God, please don't kill my daddy. Please,

God, please don't kill my daddy." 
 Ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes went by. I was freezing. My hands and feet were big

blocks of ice. Snot ran down my face. My ears were burning cold. 
 "Oh, Daddy, please, oh, Daddy, please, oh, Daddy, please." 
 Oh, man, I was absolutely convinced that my father was dead, too. It had been too long.

He'd driven his car off a cliff and had drowned in the Spokane River. Or he'd lost control, slid across the centerline, and spun right into the path of a logging truck.

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy."

And just when I thought I'd start screaming, and run around like a crazy man, my father drove up.

I started laughing. I was so relieved, so happy, that I LAUGHED. And I couldn't stop laughing.

I ran down the hill, jumped into the car, and hugged my dad. I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

"Junior," he said. "What's wrong with you?" 
 "You're alive!" I shouted. "You're alive!" 
 "Rut your sister—," he said. 
 "I know, I know," I said. "She's dead. Rut you're alive. You're still alive." 
 I laughed and laughed. I couldn't stop laughing. I felt like I might die of laughing.

� I couldn't figure out why I was laughing. Rut I kept laughing as my dad drove out of Reardan and headed through the storm back to the reservation.

And then, finally, as we crossed the reservation border, I stopped laughing. 
 "How did she die?" I asked. 
 "There was a big party at her house, her trailer in Montana—," he said. 
 Yep, my sister and her husband lived in some old silver trailer that was more like a TV

dinner tray than a home. 
 "They had a big party—," my father said. 
 OF COURSE THEY HAD A RIG PARTY! OF COURSE THEY WERE DRUNK!

THEY'RE INDIANS!
 "They had a big party," my father said. "And your sister and her husband passed out in

the back bedroom. And somebody tried to cook some soup on a hot plate. And they forgot about it and left. And a curtain drifted in on the wind and caught the hot plate, and the trailer burned down quick."

I swear to you that I could hear my sister screaming.

"The police say your sister never even woke up," my father said. "She was way too drunk."

My dad was trying to comfort me. But it's not too comforting to learn that your sister was TOO FREAKING DRUNK to feel any pain when she RURNED TO DEATH!

And for some reason, that thought made me laugh even harder. I was laughing so hard that I threw up a little bit in my mouth. I spit out a little piece of cantaloupe. Which was weird, because I don't like cantaloupe. I've hated cantaloupe since I was a little kid. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten the evil fruit.

And then I remembered that my sister had always loved cantaloupe. 
 Ain't that weird? 
 It was so freaky that I laughed even harder than I'd already been laughing. I started

pounding the dashboard and stomping on the floor. 
 I was going absolutely insane with laughter. 
 My dad didn't say a word. He just stared straight ahead and drove home. I laughed the

whole way. Well, I laughed until we were about halfway home, and then I fell asleep. Snap, just like that.

Things had gotten so intense, so painful, that my body just checked out. Yep, my mind and soul and heart had a quick meeting and voted to shut down for a few repairs.

And guess what? I dreamed about cantaloupe!

Well, I dreamed about a school picnic I went to way back when I was seven years old. There were hot dogs and ham burgers and soda pop and potato chips and watermelon and cantaloupe.

I ate, like, seven pieces of cantaloupe. 
 My hands and face were way sticky and sweet. 
 I'd eaten so much cantaloupe that I'd turned into a cantaloupe. 
 Well, I finished my lunch and I ran around the playground, laughing and screaming,

when I felt this tickle on my cheek. I reached up to scratch my face and squished the wasp that had been sucking sugar off my cheek.

Have you ever been stung in the face? Well, I have, and that's why I hate cantaloupe.

So, I woke up from this dream, this nightmare, just as my dad drove the car up to our house.

"We're here," he said. 
 "My sister is dead," I said. 
 "Y es." 
 "I was hoping I dreamed that," I said. 
 "Me, too." 
 "I dreamed about that time I got stung by the wasp," I said. 
 "I remember that," Dad said. "We had to take you to the hospital." 
 "I thought I was going to die." 
 "We were scared, too." 
 My dad started to cry. Not big tears. Just little ones. He breathed deep and tried to stop

them. I guess he wanted to be strong in front of his son. But it didn't work. He kept crying. I didn't cry.

I reached out, wiped the tears off my father's face, and tasted them. Salty.
 "I love you," he said. 
 Wow.

He hardly ever said that to me. "I love you, too," I said. 
 I never said that to him. 
 We walked into the house.

My mom was curled into a ball on the couch. There were, like, twenty- five or thirty cousins there, eating all of our food.

Somebody dies and people eat your food. Funny how that works. "Mom," I said. 


"Oh, Junior," she said and pulled me onto the couch with her. "I'm sorry, Mom. I'm so sorry."

"Don't leave me," she said. "Don't ever leave me."

She was freaking out. But who could blame her? She'd lost her mother and her daughter in just a few months. Who ever recovers from a thing like that? Who ever gets better? I knew that my mother was now broken and that she'd always be broken.

"Don't you ever drink," my mother said to me. She slapped me. Once, twice, three times. She slapped me HARD. "Promise me you'll never drink."

"Okay, okay, I promise," I said. I couldn't believe it. My sister killed herself with booze and I was the one getting slapped.

Where was Leo Tolstoy when I needed him? I kept wishing he'd show up so my mother could slap him instead.

Well, my mother quit slapping me, thank God, but she held on to me for hours. Held on to me like I was a baby. And she kept crying. So many tears. My clothes and hair were soaked with her tears.

It was, like, my mother had given me a grief shower, you know? 
 Like she'd baptized me with her pain. 
 Of course, it was way too weird to watch. So all of my cousins left. My dad went in his

bedroom. 
 It was just my mother and me. Just her tears and me.

But I didn't cry. I just hugged my mother back and wanted all of it to be over. I wanted to fall asleep again and dream about killer wasps. Yeah, I figured any nightmare would be better than my reality.

And then it was over. 
 My mother fell asleep and let me go. 


I stood and walked into the kitchen. I was way hungry but my cousins had eaten most of

our food. So all I had for dinner were saltine crackers and water. Like I was in jail.

Man.

Two days later, we buried my sister in the Catholic graveyard down near the powwow ground.

I barely remember the wake. I barely remember the funeral service. I barely remember the burial.

I was in this weird fog. 
 No.
 It was more like I was in this small room, the smallest room in the world. I could reach

out and touch the walls, which were made out of greasy glass. I could see shadows but I couldn't see details, you know?

And I was cold. 
 Just freezing. 
 Like there was a snowstorm blowing inside of my chest. 
 But all of that fog and greasy glass and snow disappeared when they lowered my sister's

coffin into the grave. And let me tell you, it had taken them forever to dig that grave in the frozen ground. As the coffin settled into the dirt, it made this noise, almost like a breath, you know?

Like a sigh. 
 Like the coffin was settling down for a long, long nap, for a forever nap. 
 That was it. 
 I had to get out of there. 
 I turned and ran out of the graveyard and into the woods across the road. I planned on

running deep into the woods. So deep that I'd never be found. But guess what?

I ran full-speed into Rowdy and sent us both sprawling. 
 Yep, Rowdy had been hiding in the woods while he watched the burial. 
 Wow.
 Rowdy sat up. I sat up, too. 
 We sat there together. 
 Rowdy was crying. His face was shiny with tears. 
 "Rowdy," I said. "You're crying." 
 "I ain't crying," he said. "You're crying." 
 I touched my face. It was dry. No tears yet. 
 "I can't remember how to cry," I said. 
 That made Rowdy sort of choke. He gasped a little. And more tears rolled down his face. "You're crying," I said. 
 "No, I'm not." 
 "It's okay; I miss my sister, too. I love her." 
 "I said I'm not crying."

"It's okay."

I reached out and touched Rowdy's shoulder. Big mistake. He punched me. Well, he almost punched me. He threw a punch but he MISSED!

ROWDY MISSED A PUNCH!
 His fist went sailing over my head. 
 "Wow," I said. "You missed." 
 "I missed on purpose." 
 "No, you didn't. You missed because your eyes are FILLED WITH TEARS!" 
 That made me laugh. 
 Yep, I started laughing like a crazy man again. 
 I rolled around on the cold, frozen ground and laughed and laughed and laughed. 
 I didn't want to laugh. I wanted to stop laughing. I wanted to grab Rowdy and hang on to

him. 
 He was my best friend and I needed him. 
 But I couldn't stop laughing. 
 I looked at Rowdy and he was crying hard now. 
 He thought I was laughing at him. 
 Normally, Rowdy would have absolutely murdered anybody who dared to laugh at him.

But this was not a normal day. "It's all your fault," he said. "What's my fault?" I asked.

"Your sister is dead because you left us. You killed her." 
 That made me stop laughing. I suddenly felt like I might never laugh again. 
 Rowdy was right. 
 I had killed my sister. 
 Well, I didn't kill her. 
 But she only got married so quickly and left the rez because I had left the rez first. She

was only living in Montana in a cheap trailer house because I had gone to school in Reardan. She had burned to death because I had decided that I wanted to spend my life with white people.

It was all my fault. 
 "I hate you!" Rowdy screamed. "I hate you! I hate you!" 
 And then he jumped up and ran away. 
 Rowdy ran! 
 He'd never run away from anything or anybody. But now he was running. 
 I watched him disappear into the woods. 
 I wondered if I'd ever see him again. 
 The next morning, I went to school. I didn't know what else to do. I didn't want to sit at

home all day and talk to a million cousins. I knew my mother would be cooking food for everybody and that my father would be hiding out in his bedroom again.

I knew everybody would tell stories about Mary.

And the whole time, I'd be thinking, "Yeah, but have you ever heard the story about how I killed my sister when I left the rez?"

And the whole time, everybody would be drinking booze and getting drunk and stupid and sad and mean. Yeah, doesn't that make sense? How do we honor the drunken death of a young married couple?

HEY, LET'S GET DRUNK!

Okay, listen, I'm not a cruel bastard, okay? I know that people were very sad. I knew that my sister's death made everybody remember all the deaths in their life. I know that death is never added to death; it multiplies. But still, I couldn't I stay and watch all of those people get drunk. I couldn't do it. If you'd given me a room full of sober Indians, crying and laughing and telling stories about my sister, then I would have gladly stayed and joined them in the ceremony.

But everybody was drunk. 
 Everybody was unhappy. 
 And they were drunk and unhappy in the same exact way. 
 So I fled my house and went to school. I walked through the snow for a few miles until a

white BIA worker picked me up and delivered me to the front door. 
 I walked inside, into the crowded hallways, and all sorts of boys and girls, and teachers,

came up and hugged me and slapped my shoulder and gave me little punches in the belly. They were worried for me. They wanted to help me with my pain. 
 I was important to them. 
 I mattered.

Wow.

All of these white kids and teachers, who were so suspicious of me when I first arrived, had learned to care about me. Maybe some of them even loved me. And I'd been so suspicious of them. And now I care about a lot of them. And loved a few of them.

Penelope came up to me last. 
 She was WEEPING. Snot ran down her face and it was still sort of sexy. 
 "I'm so sorry about your sister," she said. 
 I didn't know what to say to her. What do you say to people when they ask you how it

feels to lose everything? When every planet in your solar system has exploded?

�

�

CH13: Remembering Today my mother, father, and I went to the cemetery and cleaned graves. 
 We took care of Grandmother Spirit, Eugene, and Mary. 
 Mom had packed a picnic and Dad had brought his saxophone, so we made a whole day

of it. 
 We Indians know how to celebrate with our dead. 
 And I felt okay. 
 My mother and father held hands and kissed each other. 
 "You can't make out in a graveyard," I said. 
 "Love and death," my father said. "It's all love and death." 
 "You're crazy," I said. 
 "I'm crazy about you," he said. 
 And he hugged me. 
 And he hugged my mother. 
 And she had tears in her eyes. 
 And she held my face in her hands. 
 "Junior," she said. "I'm so proud of you." 
 That was the best thing she could have said. 
 In the middle of a crazy and drunk life, you have to hang on to the good and sober

moments tightly. 
 I was happy. But I still missed my sister, and no amount of love and trust was going to

make that better. 
 I love her. I will always love her. 
 I mean, she was amazing. It was courageous of her to leave the basement and move to

Montana. She went searching for her dreams, and she didn't find them, but she made the attempt. And I was making the attempt, too. And maybe it would kill me, too, but I knew that

staying on the rez would have killed me, too. 
 It all made me cry for my sister. It made me cry for myself. 
 But I was crying for my tribe, too. I was crying because I knew five or ten or fifteen more

Spokanes would die during the next year, and that most of them would die because of booze. 
 I cried because so many of my fellow tribal members were slowly killing themselves and

I wanted them to live. I wanted them to get strong and get sober and get the hell off the rez. It's a weird thing.

Reservations were meant to be prisons, you know? Indians were supposed to move onto reservations and die. We were supposed to disappear.

But somehow or another, Indians have forgotten that reservations were meant to be death camps.

I wept because I was the only one who was brave and crazy enough to leave the rez. I was the only one with enough arrogance.

I wept and wept and wept because I knew that I was never going to drink and because I was never going to kill myself and because I was going to have a better life out in the white world.

I realized that I might be a lonely Indian boy, but I was not alone in my loneliness. There were millions of other Americans who had left their birthplaces in search of a dream.

I realized that, sure, I was a Spokane Indian. I belonged to that tribe. But I also belonged to the tribe of American immigrants. And to the tribe of basketball players. And to the tribe of bookworms.

And the tribe of cartoonists. 
 And the tribe of chronic masturbators. 
 And the tribe of teenage boys. 
 And the tribe of small-town kids. 


And the tribe of Pacific Northwesterners. 
 And the tribe of tortilla chips-and-salsa lovers. 
 And the tribe of poverty. 
 And the tribe of funeral-goers. 
 And the tribe of beloved sons. 
 And the tribe of boys who really missed their best friends. 
 It was a huge realization. 
 And that's when I knew that I was going to be okay. 
 But it also reminded me of the people who were not going to be okay. 
 It made me think of Rowdy. 
 I missed him so much. 
 I wanted to find him and hug him and beg him to forgive me for leaving.

�

CH14:Talking About Turtles The reservation is beautiful. 
 I mean it. 
 Take a look. 
 There are pine trees everywhere. Thousands of ponderosa pine trees. Millions. I guess

maybe you can take pine trees for granted. They're just pine trees. But they're tall and thin and green and brown and big.

Some of the pines are ninety feet tall and more than three hundred years old. Older than the United States. 
 Some of them were alive when Abraham Lincoln was president. 
 Some of them were alive when George Washington was president.

Some of them were alive when Benjamin Franklin was born. 
 I'm talking old. 
 I've probably climbed, like, one hundred different trees in my lifetime. There are twelve

in my backyard. Another fifty or sixty in the small stand of woods across the field. And another twenty or thirty around our little town. And a few way out in the deep woods.

And that tall monster that sits beside the highway to West End, past Turtle Lake.

That one is way over one hundred feet tall. It might be one hundred and fifty feet tall. You could build a house using just the wood from that tree.

When we were little, like ten years old, Rowdy and I climbed that sucker.

It was probably stupid. Yeah, okay, it was stupid. It's not like we were lumberjacks or anything. It's not like we used anything except our hands, feet, and dumb luck.

But we weren't afraid of falling that day.

Other days, yeah, I'm terrified of falling. No matter how old I get, I think I'm always going to be scared of falling. But I wasn't scared of gravity on that day. Heck, gravity didn't even exist.

It was July. Crazy hot and dry. It hadn't rained in, like, sixty days. Drought hot. Scorpion hot. Vultures flying circles in the sky hot.

Mostly Rowdy and I just sat in my basement room, which was maybe five degrees cooler than the rest of the house, and read books and watched TV and played video games.

Mostly Rowdy and I just sat still and dreamed about air-conditioning.

"When I get rich and famous," Rowdy said, "I'm going to have a house that has an air conditioner in every room."

"Sears has those big air conditioners that can cool a whole house," I said. "Just one machine?" Rowdy asked. 
 "Yeah, you put it outside and you connect it through the air vents and stuff." "Wow, how much does that cost?"

"Like, a few thousand bucks, I think." 
 "I'll never have that much money." 
 "You will when you play in the NBA." 
 "Yeah, but I'll probably have to play pro basketball in, like, Sweden or Norway or Russia

or something, and I won't need air-conditioning. I'll probably live in, like, an igloo and own reindeer or something."

"You're going to play for Seattle, man." "Yeah, right."

Rowdy didn't believe in himself. Not much. So I tried to pump him up. "You're the toughest kid on the rez," I said. 
 "I know," he said. 
 "You're the fastest, the strongest."

"And the most handsome, too." 
 "If I had a dog with a face like yours, I'd shave its ass and teach it to walk backwards." "I once had a zit that looked like you. Then I popped it. And then it looked even more

like you." 
 "This one time, I ate, like, three hot dogs and a bowl of clam chowder, and then I got

diarrhea all over the floor, and it looked like you." 
 "And then you ate it," Rowdy said. 
 We laughed ourselves silly. We laughed ourselves sweaty. 
 "Don't make me laugh," I said. "It's too hot to laugh." 
 "It's too hot to sit in this house. Let's go swimming." 
 "Where?" 
 "Turtle Lake." 
 "Okay," I said. 
 But I was scared of Turtle Lake. It was a small body of water, maybe only a mile around.

Maybe less. But it was deep, crazy deep. Nobody has ever been to the bottom. I'm not a very good swimmer; so I was always afraid I'd sink and drown, and they'd never, ever find my body.

One year, these scientists came with a mini-submarine and tried to find the bottom, but the lake was so silty and muddy that they couldn't see. And the nearby uranium mine made their radar/sonar machines go nuts, so they couldn't see that way, either, so they never made it to the bottom.

The lake is round. Perfectly round. So the scientists said it was probably an ancient and dormant volcano crater.

Yeah, a volcano on the rez!

The lake was so deep because the volcano crater and tunnels and lava chutes and all that plumbing went all the way down to the center of the earth. That lake was, like, forever deep.

There were all sorts of myths and legends surrounding the lake. I mean, we're Indians, and we like to make up shit about lakes, you know?

Some people said the lake is named Turtle because it's round and green like a turtle's shell.

Some people said it's named Turtle because it used to be filled with regular turtles.

Some people said it's named Turtle because it used to be home to this giant snapping turtle that ate Indians.

A Jurassic turtle. A Steven Spielberg turtle. A King Kong versus the Giant Reservation Turtle turtle.

I didn't exactly believe in the giant turtle myth. I was too old and smart for that. But I'm still an Indian, and we like to be scared. I don't know what it is about us. But we love ghosts. We love monsters.

But I was really scared of this other story about Turtle Lake. 
 My dad told me the story. 
 When he was a kid he watched a horse drown in Turtle Lake and disappear.

"Some of the others say it was a giant turtle that grabbed the horse," Dad said. "But they're lying. They were just being silly. That horse was just stupid. It was so stupid we named it Stupid Horse."

Well, Stupid Horse sank into the endless depths of Turtle Lake and everybody figured that was the end of that story.

But a few weeks later, Stupid Horse's body washed up on the shores of Benjamin Lake, ten miles away from Turtle Lake.

"Everybody just figured some joker had found the body and moved it," Dad said. "To scare people."

People laughed at the practical joke. Then a bunch of guys threw the dead horse into the back of a truck, drove it to the dump, and burned it.

Simple story, right?
 No, it doesn't end there. 
 "Well, a few weeks after they burned the body, a bunch of kids were swimming in Turtle

Lake when it caught fire." 
 YES, THE WHOLE LAKE CAUGHT ON FIRE!
 The kids were swimming close to the dock. Because the lake was so deep, most kids

swam close to shore. And the fire started out in the middle of the lake, so the kids were able to safely climb out of the water before it all went up like a big bowl of gasoline.

"It burned for a few hours," Dad said. "Burned hot and fast. And then it went out. Just like that. People stayed away for a few days then went to take a look at the damage, you know? And guess what they found? Stupid Horse washed up on shore again."

Despite being burned at the dump, and burned again in the lake of fire, Stupid Horse was untouched. Well, the horse was still dead, of course, but it was unburned. Nobody went near the horse after that. They just let it rot. But it took a long time—too long. For weeks, the dead body just lay there. Didn't go bad or anything. Didn't stink. The bugs and animals stayed away. Only after a few weeks did Stupid Horse finally let go. His skin and flesh melted away. The maggots and coyotes ate their fill. Then the horse was just bones.

"Let me tell you," Dad said. "That was just about the scariest thing I've ever seen. That horse skeleton lying there. It was freaky."

After a few more weeks, the skeleton collapsed into a pile of bones. And the water and the wind dragged them away.

It was a freaky story!

** *
 "Nobody swam in Turtle Lake for ten, eleven years," Dad said.

Me, I don't think anybody should be swimming in there now. But people forget. They forget good things and they forget bad things. They forget that lakes can catch on fire. They forget that dead horses can magically vanish and reappear.

I mean, jeez, we Indians are just weird.

So, anyway, on that hot summer day, Rowdy and I walked the five miles from my house to Turtle Lake. All the way, I thought about fire and horses, but I wasn't going to tell Rowdy about that. He would've just called me a wuss or a pussy. He would've just said it was kid stuff. He would've just said it was a hot day that needed a cold lake.

As we walked, I saw that monster pine tree ahead of us. 
 It was so tall and green and beautiful. It was the only reservation skyscraper, you know? "I love that tree," I said.

"That's because you're a tree fag," Rowdy said. 
 "I'm not a tree fag," I said. 
 "Then how come you like to stick your dick inside knotholes?" 
 "I stick my dick in the girl trees," I said. 
 Rowdy laughed his ha-ha, hee-hee avalanche laugh. 
 I loved to make him laugh. I was the only one who knew how to make him laugh. "Hey," he said. "You know what we should do?" 
 I hated when Rowdy asked that particular question. It meant we were about to do

something dangerous. 
 "What should we do?" I asked. 
 "We should climb that monster." 
 "That tree?" 
 "No, we should climb your big head," he said. "Of course, I'm talking about that tree. The

biggest tree on the rez." 
 It wasn't really open to debate. I had to climb the tree. Rowdy knew I had to climb the

tree with him. I couldn't back down. That wasn't how our friendship worked. "We're going to die," I said.

"Probably," Rowdy said. 
 So we walked over to the tree and looked up. It was way tall. I got dizzy. 
 "You first," Rowdy said. 
 I spit on my hands, rubbed them together, and reached up for the first branch. I pulled

myself up to the next branch. And then the next and the next and the next. Rowdy followed me. Branch by branch, Rowdy and I climbed toward the top of the tree, to the bottom of the

sky.
 Near the top, the branches got thinner and thinner. I wondered if they'd support our

weight. I kept expecting one of them to snap and send me plummeting to my death. But it didn't happen.

The branches would not break.

Rowdy and I climbed and climbed and climbed. We made it to the top. Well, almost to the top. Even Rowdy was too scared to step on the thinnest branches. So we made it within ten feet of the top. Not the summit. But close enough to call it the summit.

We clung tightly to the tree as it swung in the breeze. 
 I was scared, sure, terrified... but it was also fun, you know? 
 We were more than one hundred feet in the air. From our vantage point, we could see for

miles. We could see from one end of the reservation to the other. We could see our entire world. And our entire world, at that moment, was green and golden and perfect.

"Wow," I said. 
 "It's pretty," Rowdy said. "I've never seen anything so pretty." 
 It was the only time I'd ever heard him talk like that. 


We stayed in the top of the tree for an hour or two. We didn't want to leave. I thought

maybe we'd stay up there and die. I thought maybe two hundred years later, scientists would find two boy skeletons stuck in the top of that tree.

But Rowdy broke the spell. 
 He farted. A greasy one. A greasy, smelly one that sounded like it was half solid. "Jeez," I said. "I think you just killed the tree." 
 We laughed.

And then we climbed down.

I don't know if anybody else has ever climbed that tree. I look at it now, years later, and I can't believe we did it.

And I can't believe I survived my first year at Reardan.

After the last day of school ended, I didn't do much. It was summer. I wasn't supposed to do anything. I mostly sat in my room and read comics.

I missed my white friends and white teachers and my translucent semi- girlfriend. Ah, Penelope! 
 I hoped she was thinking about me. 
 I'd already written her three love letters. I hoped she'd write me back.

Gordy wanted to come to the rez and stay with us for a week or two. How crazy was that?

And Roger, heading to Eastern Washington University on a football scholarship, had willed his basketball uniform to me.

"You're going to be a star," he said. 
 I felt hopeful and silly about the future. 
 And then, yesterday, I was sitting in the living room, watching some nature show about

honeybees, when there was a knock on the door. "Come in!" I shouted.

And Rowdy walked inside. 
 "Wow," I said. 
 "Yeah," he said. 
 We'd always been such scintillating conversationalists. "What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I'm bored," he said. 
 "The last time I saw you, you tried to punch me," I said. 
 "I missed." 
 "I thought you were going to break my nose." 
 "I wanted to break your nose." 
 "You know," I said. "It's probably not the best thing in the world to do, punching a hydro

in the skull." 
 "Ah, shoot," he said. "I couldn't give you any more brain damage than you already got.

And besides, didn't I give you one concussion already?" 
 "Yep, and three stitches in my forehead." 
 "Hey, man, I had nothing to do with those stitches. I only do concussions." 
 I laughed. 
 He laughed. 
 "I thought you hated me," I said. 
 "I do," he said. "But I'm bored." 
 "So what?" 
 "So you want to maybe shoot some hoops?" 
 For a second, I thought about saying no. I thought about telling him to bite my ass. I

thought about making him apologize. But I couldn't. He was never going to change. "Let's go," I said.

We walked over to the courts behind the high school. Two old hoops with chain nets.

We just shot lazy jumpers for a few minutes. We didn't talk. Didn't need to talk. We were basketball twins.

Of course, Rowdy got hot, hit fifteen or twenty in a row, and I rebounded and kept passing the ball to him.

Then I got hot, hit twenty-one in a row, and Rowdy rebounded for me. "You want to go one-on-one?" Rowdy asked. 
 "Y eah." 
 "You've never beaten me one-on-one," he said. "You pussy."

"Yeah, that's going to change." 
 "Not today," he said. 
 "Maybe not today," I said. "But someday." 
 "Your ball," he said and passed it to me. 
 I spun the rock in my hands. 
 "Where you going to school next year?" I asked. 
 "Where do you think, dumb-ass? Right here, where I've always been." 
 "You could come to Reardan with me." 
 "You already asked me that once." 
 "Yeah, but I asked you a long time ago. Before everything happened. Before we knew

stuff. So I'm asking you again. Come to Reardan with me." 
 Rowdy breathed deeply. For a second, I thought he was going to cry. Really. I expected

him to cry. But he didn't. 
 "You know, I was reading this book," he said. 
 "Wow, you were reading a book!" I said, mock-surprised. 
 "Eat me," he said. 
 We laughed. 
 "So, anyway," he said. "I was reading this book about old-time Indians, about how we

used to be nomadic." "Yeah," I said.

"So I looked up nomadic in the dictionary, and it means people who move around, who keep moving, in search of food and water and grazing land."

"That sounds about right." 
 "Well, the thing is, I don't think Indians are nomadic anymore. Most Indians, anyway." "No, we're not," I said. 
 "I'm not nomadic," Rowdy said. "Hardly anybody on this rez is nomadic. Except for you.

You're the nomadic one." "Whatever."

"No, I'm serious. I always knew you were going to leave. I always knew you were going to leave us behind and travel the world. I had this dream about you a few months ago. You were standing on the Great Wall of China. You looked happy. And I was happy for you."

Rowdy didn't cry. But I did.

"You're an old-time nomad," Rowdy said. "You're going to keep moving all over the world in search of food and water and grazing land. That's pretty cool."

I could barely talk. 
 "Thank you," I said. 
 "Yeah," Rowdy said. "Just make sure you send me post cards, you asshole." "From everywhere," I said.

I would always love Rowdy. And I would always miss him, too. Just as I would always love and miss my grandmother, my big sister, and Eugene.

Just as I would always love and miss my reservation and my tribe. 
 I hoped and prayed that they would someday forgive me for leaving them. 
 I hoped and prayed that I would someday forgive myself for leaving them. 
 "Ah, man," Rowdy said. "Stop crying." 
 "Will we still know each other when we're old men?" I asked. 


"Who knows anything?" Rowdy asked. 
 Then he threw me the ball. 
 "Now quit your blubbering," he said. "And play ball." 
 I wiped my tears away, dribbled once, twice, and pulled up for a jumper. 
 Rowdy and I played one-on-one for hours. We played until dark. We played until the

streetlights lit up the court. We played until the bats swooped down at our heads. We played until the moon was huge and golden and perfect in the dark sky.

We didn't keep score.