Race to the Sun

by Rebecca Roanhorse

  I jerk my head up so fast I almost drop the Spaghettini Macaravioli to the floor. Dad is talking about Mom! “What?! You never told me that.”

  “She was an artist, and artists need big imaginations. That’s probably where you get it from.”

  “Dad,” I say, setting my food aside, “this is serious. I need to know everything about Mom seeing monsters. Because I—”

  “I always knew Mac had a big imagination,” he goes on, “but I think you do, too. Both my kids are artists at heart.”

  “Dad, you’re not listening!” I say, irritated. “About Mom and the monsters—”

  “But no matter what, Nizhoni,” he says, his tone sharpening, “you can’t go around attacking people. Fortunately, I was able to smooth things over at dinner.…”

  I moan in frustration, but it doesn’t register with him. It’s like he can’t even see or hear me. Did Mr. Charles do something to him, or is he just my normally self-absorbed dad who never listens when I talk about my problems?

  “I think I’m done,” I say, thrusting the Pasta Palace container back at him.

  He takes it and carefully puts the lid back on. “I’ll save this for tomorrow’s lunch.” He stands up. “Oh, and here’s your phone.” He pulls it out of his pocket and puts it on my nightstand. “But I don’t want you to use it tonight. Get some sleep, and we can talk more later.”

  But we never do talk, because by tomorrow, it’s too late.

  Dad’s already gone to his job at the state surveyor’s office by the time Mac and I walk to school in the morning. Mac’s going on and on about how great Pasta Palace was and how I missed out on the best night ever, and it takes all my patience not to roll my eyes.

  “I can’t believe you sat across the table from a monster and you don’t even care.”

  “I care,” Mac says, defensively. “I just don’t think he’s a monster.”

  I stop in my tracks. “What? Now you don’t believe me, either?”

  “Mr. Charles was a pretty nice guy. He asked me tons of questions, and he even wanted to see my drawings.”

  I throw up my hands and start walking again. “Because he was trying to figure out if you have a special power!”

  Mac perks up. “Cool! Hey, if I do have a special power, I wonder if I could use it on Adrien Cuttlebush.”

  “What special power?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the one who just said I had it.”

  “Mr. Charles said…Oh, never mind.” It isn’t worth telling him more if he isn’t going to believe me.

  “You don’t have to worry about him, anyway. He and Mr. Rock and Ms. Bird are going back to Oklahoma today.”

  “They are?” That’s unexpected. Why would they give up so easily?

  No, I don’t believe it. They’re up to something.

  “You worry too much, Z,” Mac says. “Always seeing things that nobody else does. I think it makes you a little…” He widens his eyes and twirls a finger next to his temple.

  I was about to describe my dream about Mr. Yazzie, but now I don’t want to. If Mac already thinks I’m nuts, what would he say about a stuffed horned toad that came to life?

  School comes into view and Mac speeds up. “I want to make it to class before Cuttlebush gets here,” he explains as he fast-walks to the front doors. “Catch you later. And don’t worry about being cray-cray. All the best people are!”

  “Thanks,” I mutter as I watch him go off to wherever sixth-graders go. Part of me is shocked that Mac doesn’t believe me anymore, but the other part suspects it has something to do with his being around Mr. Charles last night. The monster must have some powers of his own.

  I head straight for the school library. Davery is already there, setting up a display on the big table in the middle of the room. He’s putting out little cardboard cutouts of a hogan and a Popsicle-stick corral full of cotton-ball sheep. In front of his display is a sign that says: TRADITIONAL DINé (AKA NAVAJO) HOUSE. He steps back, admiring his crafty work.

  “We need to talk,” I say, grabbing his bicep.

  “Whoa!” he protests. “I’m working here.” He shakes me off and does an arm flourish like a talk show host. “Ta-da! What do you think?”

  “It’s important.”

  “No, no.” He flourishes again. “This is important.” He holds a hand to his chin and squints. “Do you think I got the sheep right? Are they too fluffy?”

  “There’s no such thing as too fluffy.”

  “Nizhoni…”

  “Fine.” My eyes want to glaze over, but Davery is my best friend, so I take a moment to look more closely at his display. “It’s actually pretty cool,” I admit. “It kinda looks like my shimásání’s place on the rez. The sheep camp, anyway.”

  He beams.

  “Okay, now can we focus on my problem?”

  “Fine, fine.” He reaches over one last time to adjust the sheep wool. “No such thing as too fluffy…” he mutters.

  “I have something important to tell you,” I say. “But it’s a secret, and you can’t tell anyone else. Do you promise?”

  I’ve been thinking about this all night and all morning, and I decided that spilling the whole truth to him is my only option. I could really use some backup. I need someone who can strategize with me, and clearly I can’t count on Mac anymore.

  Davery turns his full attention to me. He truly is the best. If anyone will believe me, it’ll be him.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, take a deep breath, and say, “I see monsters.”

  Silence.

  I wait for Davery to say something. When he doesn’t, I pry one eye open and take a peek.

  He’s got his thoughtful face on. Lips pursed, eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly to the right like he isn’t sure if I just spoke English or another language.

  “Like, right now?” he asks in a worried whisper.

  “No, silly,” I say. “In general. They’re disguised as real people. It’s the reason I messed up in the basketball game yesterday,” I rush on. “Well, not the whole reason, because honestly, I’m sort of a lousy shot. Anyway, the point is, I was totally distracted by this monster in the stands. And then, even worse, he showed up at my house last night, and guess what? He’s my dad’s new boss! He pulled a knife on me, so I used the elbow bash Coach taught us in self-defense class last year—the one I could never do—but this time I was like something out of Street Fighter! But nobody cared, and everyone thought I had lost my mind, andIdidn’tgetogotoPastaPalace!!!” I take another breath. “It was awful.”

  His thoughtful face has changed to his slightly disturbed face, which is essentially the same thing but with way bigger eyes.

  “You don’t believe me,” I say, deflated. I knew it. I should never have said anything. Better to keep my imagination to myself.

  “On the contrary,” Davery says. “I do believe you. I know how much you love that restaurant.”

  “You really believe me?!” I shout.

  “Shh!” We both turn. The librarian is staring at us, finger to her lips.

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “My apologies,” Davery adds. “No matter the emergency, there’s no excuse to disturb the sanctity of the library.”

  The librarian beams.

  “Suck-up,” I mutter, only loud enough for his ears.

  He looks slightly offended, because the truth hurts.

  “Come with me,” Davery says, marching to the reference section.

  This part of my middle school library is nothing to write home about. Two long shelves of outdated encyclopedias, a few dusty donated tomes, and three aging desktop computers. Budget crisis or something, and ICCS is a charter school, so we don’t always get the greatest supplies. Davery sits down at one of the computers and starts typing in a password.

  “This is the password for adults,” he explains in a whisper. “It’ll let us access more sites.”

  “Won’t you get in trouble?” I ask.

  Davery doesn’t even look up. “My dad
gave it to me. He’s proud that I like to research stuff outside of homework. It’s like I’m doing an extra-credit assignment.”

  “Good point. So what are you going to look up?” I ask.

  “Stories about people who have seen monsters.”

  “You’re gonna find a lot of wild stuff, I bet. How will you tell the truth from the fake news?”

  “Leave it to me,” he says, as he tap-tap-taps on the old keyboard.

  “Can’t your dad convince the school to invest in some iPads or laptops for the library?” I observe. “This is sad.”

  “I’m trying to concentrate,” he says. “Here we go!” And he pulls up the front page to the National Inquisitor. The headlines scream out at me:

  Woman Abducted by Cat-Headed Alien; Says His Name Was Marty

  “Fake news,” I murmur. Davery keeps scrolling.

  Man Spots Bigfoot at the Laundromat

  “Wait!” I say. I lean over Davery’s shoulder, reading. He leans in, too.

  The man claimed that Mr. Sasquatch, as he insisted on calling him, was washing some Spider-Man pajamas as well as a very nice pair of satin boxers.

  “Well, that one’s definitely true,” I observe.

  “Yeah,” Davery agrees. “Everyone knows Bigfoot is real.”

  “But Mr. Charles is not a Sasquatch, so keep looking.”

  Davery scrolls some more, but none of the stories are helping. “Maybe we should try something else.”

  “Try googling his name: Mr. Charles. And the name of his company: Landrush Oil and Gas.”

  Davery types the information in and hits Enter. The screen fills with all kinds of articles and photos. Stories about Mr. Charles meeting the president of the United States, with shots of them shaking hands. Several pieces about Mr. Charles and Landrush Oil and Gas being sued by tribal governments to stop them from using their land for fracking. And more pictures of protesters outside the Landrush headquarters with banners and signs that say things like NO PIPELINES ON SACRED LANDS and HONOR THE TREATY RIGHTS.

  “He seems like a really bad dude,” Davery observes.

  “There’s one other thing I want you to look up. Na’ashjéii Asdzáá.”

  “Can you spell that?”

  I do my best to spell out the name Mr. Yazzie told me in the dream. I must do a good job, because Davery hits Enter, and over six hundred entries come up.

  “Spider Woman?” Davery asks.

  “One of the Navajo Holy People,” I say, reading over his shoulder. “Oh, great. How am I supposed to find her?”

  Davery starts to say something but is cut off by the first-period bell. Students begin to stream into the library. He hits the red X in the corner to close the browser before anyone can see what we were researching. A boy in a blue hoodie asks if we’re done with the computer, so Davery slides out of his seat and we head for the door.

  “So,” Davery says nonchalantly, “if you’re googling Spider Woman, does that mean you’re coming back during lunch period for Ancestor Club?” He excitedly points to his display, and now I notice his Navajo sheep camp sits next to three others made by different kids: a Pueblo plaza scene, a Lakota tipi, and a Haudenosaunee longhouse.

  “I forgot about Ancestor Club,” I admit, feeling slightly ashamed. “But in my defense, I’ve been focused on the monster.”

  Davery crosses his arms, unconvinced. “You know this is important to me,” he says. “I’ve been trying to get the club together for ages. It’s only our second meeting and you’re trying to bail?”

  “No offense, Davery, but it’s not normal for seventh-graders to be so obsessed with their ancestors.” I think fleetingly of what Mr. Yazzie said about young people no longer learning the stories, and I wince at my words.

  “I am not obsessed. I started a club. It’s no big deal. Are you going to come or not?” He might have been saying it was no big deal, but I can tell by the tone of his voice that it’s a Really Big Deal.

  “Of course I’m coming,” I say in my most chipper voice. “Wouldn’t miss it!”

  He grins, looking relieved. “It’ll be great. Maya’s bringing in a corn kernel necklace her Pueblo grandmother taught her how to make.” His brow crinkles. “You should start thinking about what you’re going to contribute. You can’t just keep coming and eating the free cookies, even if you are the best friend of the club president.”

  Ugh. Being Davery’s best friend and the promise of free cookies were the only reasons I went to the first meeting of the Ancestor Club. This Apache kid named Darcy brought these chocolate chip triple-chunk lumps that her mother made, and they were to die for. It was a very convincing argument to learn more about my culture.

  Come to think of it, maybe it could be helpful. “Mr. Charles also said some strange things about my mom,” I tell Davery. “I think maybe she could see monsters, too.”

  “That sounds like another good reason to come to Ancestor Club, Z. We could try to find out more about your family.”

  Second bell rings and I let out a groan. I am so late for homeroom. “Gotta go, but I’ll be back,” I promise. “Any chance Darcy’s bringing more chocolate chip pieces of heaven?”

  “Actually,” Davery says, “I brought the cookies today. They’re vegan. And organic. And sugar-free.”

  “That’s not a cookie, that’s a pile of sawdust!” I mime choking and falling over until Davery rolls his eyes.

  “See you at noon, Z.”

  I stop pretending to gag and wave Davery good-bye. As if the monster wasn’t enough, now Davery is trying to kill me with his cookies, too.

  I somehow make it through the morning’s classes, although all I can think about is Mr. Charles, my mom, and my weird Mr. Yazzie dream. Well, that should be all I can think about, but the truth is, by 10:30 a.m., my mind is focused only on food. Because in my hurry to get out the door, not only did I skip breakfast, but I forgot to grab my lunch of leftovers from the kitchen counter. By the time the bell rings at 11:45 a.m., my stomach is making rude noises and visions of ravioli are dancing in my head.

  With no bag lunch and no money for school lunch, I’ll be stuck eating Davery’s super-healthy sawdust special, and that is just not going to work for me. Whatever the opposite of mouthwatering is, that’s what my mouth starts doing whenever I think of his cookies.

  We are strictly prohibited from leaving school during the day except in the case of emergency. And even then, you have to be signed out by a parent. But I can’t think of a bigger emergency than getting a decent lunch, and there’s no way I’m calling my dad to have him come and sign me out. He’s probably out in the field doing a survey anyway, and cell service can get spotty in the wilds of New Mexico. Even if I could get through to his phone, he’d be too far away to come back to school and he’d be mad at me for forgetting my lunch to begin with. No, if I want to eat, I’m going to have to break a few rules.

  I decide to sneak off campus. My house isn’t that far. It’s a fifteen-minute walk, which would be a five-minute run, and I can be back for Ancestor Club before Davery even notices I’m late. Well, not too late, anyway.

  Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. I decide the best escape route is out the side exit and across the baseball field. It’s not a foolproof way. Sometimes a few kids hang out there—the ones who like to ditch classes—but they usually stay behind the bleachers. If so, they’ll be easy to avoid.

  No such luck today. Near the backstop behind home plate, I think I spy Adrien Cuttlebush, the bully who gave Mac a black eye. He’s there with his friends, laughing about something. I skirt the field, hoping he’s too busy showing off to notice me. If it were any other time, I’d stop and give him a piece of my mind.

  Once I’m free of school grounds, I break into a jog. I don’t mind running. I may not be as good at team sports as I want to be, but I’m a pretty good long-distance runner. I don’t get tired easily, and it feels good once my blood starts moving and I shake off that initial sluggishness. I check my watch: 11:52 a.m. My house comes into view in
eight minutes flat.

  I’m so busy thinking about my impressive running time that I almost don’t register the big black SUV parked in front of my house. As soon as I notice it, I pull up short and look around for cover. The only hiding place is my neighbor’s overgrown chamisa bush. I duck down behind it. But then I remember I’m mildly allergic to chamisa.

  Great.

  I can feel a sneeze coming on, but I pinch my nose to hold it back.

  My dad’s car is in the driveway. Why is he home in the middle of the day?

  I hear a door slam. My front door? I peek around the bush and my stomach drops. There’s Mr. Charles, on his smartphone, striding away from my house. So much for him going back to Oklahoma. Close behind, Mr. Rock is rolling a trunk on a dolly. Ms. Bird clicks the key fob and the SUV’s back pops open. Mr. Rock heaves up the trunk and pushes it into the car.

  Where’s my dad? I wonder.

  “Careful,” Mr. Charles says absently as Mr. Bird opens the back seat door for him. “We don’t want to damage the merchandise.”

  Merchandise? What kind of merchandise does an oil executive need?

  Then I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Maybe they’re robbing us!

  Mr. Charles turns back to his phone conversation. “The boy won’t be a problem. He fell right into my hands last night. We should be able to secure him easily enough.…”

  Secure him?

  “The girl, however…”

  He means me!

  “…she recognized me from the beginning. Takes after her mother—a real fighter. But if her father asks her to come along peacefully, she’ll comply.” He climbs into the car and Ms. Bird slams the door closed.

  Little puffs of yellow chamisa pollen drift down into my face.

  I grab for my nose a second too late.

  Achoo!

  I freeze, wincing. Ms. Bird could have heard—she’s still outside the car. I wait for a second. Then I peek around the corner, and sure enough, Ms. Bird is staring right at my shrub.

  Don’t notice me, don’t notice me.

  Mr. Charles rolls down his window and leans out. “Is there a problem?” he demands impatiently.