Race to the Sun

by Rebecca Roanhorse

  “I thought I heard…” She cocks her head to the side, listening.

  “You ‘thought’?” Mr. Charles snaps. “Well, that’s your first problem. I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to know. So do you think you heard something, or do you know?”

  Ms. Bird’s eyes narrow. I hold my breath. And my nose.

  “Well?” he demands again, irritated. “I don’t have all day.”

  “It was nothing, sir,” she says, turning abruptly. She climbs back into the driver’s seat.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. That was close.

  I hear the engine start up, and then, with screeching tires, the SUV pulls away from the curb. Once it turns the corner, I sprint to my house.

  I open the screen door to find that the front door is unlocked. I push it in as gently as I can, but the hinges still make a squeak that seems loud in the hushed afternoon. “Dad?” I call.

  Nobody answers. I hope they didn’t knock him out or tie him up or something.

  I run through the house, looking for Dad and checking to see what’s missing.

  But everything is in its rightful place…except for my father.

  The realization hits me like a punch to my gut. Dad was in that trunk. Did they kill him?

  No, no. Charles said they were going to use Dad to make me comply.

  But was he drugged? Hurt? Where were they going with him? I wish I had taken down the SUV’s license plate number.…

  I feel panicky, and my hand shakes uncontrollably as I pick up the landline. I’m just about to punch in 911, when I imagine the conversation:

  Emergency services. Name and address, please. Nijoanie? How do you spell that? Your father’s been kidnapped by his boss, you say? A monster? Well, we all have problems at work, honey, but…

  Who are the police going to believe? Some random brown kid, or a famous executive with his blond hair and a fancy suit that reeks of money?

  No adult is going to buy this story. I’ve got to take down Mr. Charles on my own.

  There is someone who might help—the only one who seemed to know anything about fighting monsters. I rush to my room, head straight for my bookcase, and feel around the top shelf until my hand closes around a plush horned toad. I pull him out.

  “Mr. Yazzie?” I say, my voice shaking. “If you’re real and not just a dream, please wake up. I’m in trouble. The monster I was telling you about? He took my dad and said he’s going to kidnap me and my little brother, too. Or maybe just…kill me!”

  I shake Mr. Yazzie gently, but nothing happens. My breath is coming hot and fast and I want to cry, but I won’t. This is a time to be strong.

  I’m still wearing my backpack, and I place Mr. Yazzie in the big outside pocket. Might as well bring him along for luck.

  My stomach grumbles, reminding me why I came home. I’ll need my strength if I’m going to have to deal with monsters. My lunch bag is still on the counter, right where I left it. It’s lying on its side like someone knocked it over.

  I pick up the bag and an apple rolls out. A Red Delicious. Dad loves them, but he knows I can’t stand them. Why would he pack one in my lunch? I pick up the offending fruit, and I’m about to set it back on the counter when I see it: Carved into the apple, the yellow flesh showing through the red skin, is one word.

  RUN!

  My feet feel unsteady and my head gets a floaty feeling. I blink several times, take a deep breath, and look again, sure I imagined it. But the word is still there.

  R-U-N. RUN!

  My dad left me a secret message.

  Through the still-open front door, I hear the rumble of a car engine outside.

  I look out the screen door to see that the black SUV has returned, and Mr. Charles is getting out of the back seat!

  “I forgot the photo. I’ll just be a minute,” he says to Ms. Bird, and he jogs toward the house.

  The photo! The one he was so interested in yesterday, of Mac and me with my mom and dad. I don’t get why it’s so important to Mr. Charles. He probably wants to use it to track us or something. All I know is that there’s no way I’m letting him get his dirty hands on it.

  I run to the mantel and grab the picture frame.

  I hear the screen door opening.

  I race for the back door, dropping the apple as I go. I fly out into the yard just as the screen door closes. I vault the rear fence and race down the alley to school, my breath loud in my ears and my monster senses tingling. I don’t stop, and I don’t look back.

  “Mr. Charles kidnapped my dad!” I shout as I skid through the library’s double doors.

  Six pairs of eyes turn to stare at me.

  Maya drops her corn necklace. A single kernel goes clacking across the floor, the only sound in the entire room. Well, besides me.

  I’m panting and sweaty, I’m screaming about somebody kidnapping my dad, and I’m clutching a macaroni noodle picture frame in one hand. I can see how this might make me look weird.

  “I mean…uh…” I clear my throat. “Davery, can I speak to you for a minute? Alone?”

  He pushes back his chair and gets to his feet. I rush over, grab him by the arm, and pull him away from the other Ancestor Club kids.

  Their eyes all watch me, astonished. “Just kidding about the kidnapping thing. Keep going with your presentations.” I flash them a winning smile.

  “What’s happening?” Davery hisses once we’re out of earshot. “And why are you tardy?”

  “Oh my God with the tardiness. That is not important.”

  “Punctuality is always important.”

  I groan. “Focus! I saw Mr. Charles again. He was at my house.”

  “When? Wait, you left school grounds? That is strictly prohibited.”

  “Never mind that. Listen to this!” I tell him what I saw, what I heard. Everything, including the message carved into the apple.

  Little lines form on his forehead. “That is pretty disturbing.”

  “Duh.”

  “Do you have the apple?”

  “No. I dropped it. But I have the picture.”

  Davery frowns. “Well, now he knows you were there.”

  “It’s better than letting the photo fall into his hands, right?”

  “Probably,” he agrees. “But now that he knows you saw him at your house, he may not wait until after school to get you. He may come here.”

  As if on cue, the overhead speaker crackles to life. We pause, listening as our principal, Mrs. Peterson, comes on. “Would Nizhoni and Marcus Begay please report to the office?” she asks in her feathery voice. “Nizhoni and Marcus Begay. It’s a…family emergency.”

  “Oh no,” I whisper. “Mr. Charles.”

  Davery blinks. “What are you going to do?”

  “My dad said to run. So I’m going to get Mac and run.”

  “I don’t know, Nizhoni. Maybe you should go to the police. Or tell Principal Peterson.”

  “You know the police won’t take my side. Not in this town. And Principal Peterson’s already compromised. Nobody’s going to believe me when someone like Mr. Charles tells them I’m lying.”

  Davery doesn’t argue. He knows I’m right.

  “I better go,” I say. “I’ve got to stop Mac from going to the office.”

  “Do you have a plan? I mean, what are you going to do after that?”

  “Do you remember how I had you google ‘Na’ashjéii Asdzáá’?” I ask, an idea forming in my mind. “Well, it’s sort of a long story, but I need to find her. I had this dream.…Someone told me she could help me get weapons to fight monsters. Now that Mr. Charles has my dad, I think that’s what I have to do.”

  Davery doesn’t even look at me funny. He just marches us back to the computer, types in his secret password, and searches for “Na’ashjéii Asdzáá” again. “It says here that not only did she bring weaving to the Navajo people, but she is a helper and protector, too.” He scrolls some more. “Her traditional home is at the Spider Rock in Canyon de Chelly.”

 
“Oh.” I blush. “I honestly thought it would be harder to find her.”

  “Apparently not. She is near Chinle, Arizona, on the Navajo Nation.” He quickly pulls up a map. “It looks like you can take the train as far as Gallup, New Mexico. From Gallup, it’s another ninety-one miles to Chinle.”

  “Ninety-one miles?” That’s too far to walk. “We’ll just have to take the train now and figure it out once we get there. Maybe they have Uber.…”

  Davery pulls up the Amtrak schedule. “Okay, there’s a train leaving in an hour. Can you get to the station downtown?”

  “I’ll have to find Mac first, but we’ll make it.”

  I watch as he fills out passenger information forms for Mac and me. When he gets to the payment screen, he doesn’t even pause, just types in the numbers.

  “When did you get a credit card?” I ask, surprised.

  For the first time, Davery looks guilty.

  “Davery Dallas Descheny! You better explain.”

  “It’s my big brother’s,” he says sheepishly. “I use it for buying games online, and I pay him back with my allowance. But this is an emergency, right? The principal said so.”

  I lean over and hug him, squeezing until he coughs. “You’re the best.”

  “Yeah, I know. So”—he hits Print—“three tickets to Gallup.”

  “Three?” I ask, confused.

  “One for you, one for Mac, and one for me.”

  “You’re coming?”

  He nods. “I can’t have my best friend running off to fight monsters by herself.” Smiling, he adds, “Besides, you might need a credit card again.”

  I grin, ready to burst with happiness and relief. He hands me two of the printed tickets.

  The loudspeaker crackles on, and Mrs. Peterson comes on again, repeating her request for Mac and me to come to the office.

  Davery’s got his thinking face on. “I’ll stay behind, try to hold them off for a while.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “I’ll think of something. You get Mac and head for the station. I’ll meet you there. You’ve got your phone?” Davery asks.

  “Yes.” I pat my pocket.

  “Text me if there’s a problem. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  I give Davery one last shoulder squeeze before I fast-walk past the Ancestor Club kids, who stare openmouthed at me again, and rush into the hallway to look for my brother.

  I can’t find Mac anywhere.

  My heart’s beating so fast it’s hard to think past the panicked thumping in my chest. What if he’s already in the principal’s office? Would she hand him over to Mr. Charles without a note from my dad? Maybe the monster forced Dad to write one.…What if I’m all alone now?

  But then the loudspeaker comes on again and Mrs. Peterson, sounding increasingly annoyed, orders Mac and me to come to the office. This time she adds, “Now!”

  I exhale, relieved. My brother’s still free.

  But if that’s the case, where is he?

  Not in the school, or he would have gone to the office.

  Which could only mean…

  Adrien Cuttlebush.

  I take my family picture out of the frame and tuck it in my back pocket along with our train tickets. I wish I could keep the frame, which I made for my dad years ago, but it’s too bulky, so I regretfully drop it into the nearest garbage can and head over to the baseball field.

  Sure enough, Adrien’s still there, along with his three friends. And in the middle of their circle stands one terrified-looking Mac. His backpack is lying by his feet with the tip of his iPad sticking out, and his new box of fancy colored pencils has spilled on the ground.

  Rage rises in me, turning my vision red. I clench my fists. Nobody messes with my little brother on my watch! But just as quickly as the rage came on, doubts begin to swirl in my mind. What if I mess this up the way I messed up the basketball game? And confronting Mr. Charles. And everything else I do.

  I shake it off. Doubts or no doubts, I have to help Mac.

  Besides, I have monster-fighting skills now. This will work!

  Right?

  “Hey!” I shout, stalking forward. “Leave him alone!”

  Adrien and his buddies turn to look at me.

  “Well, if it isn’t Nizhonee Baloney,” Adrien drawls in that irritating voice he has, deliberately mispronouncing my name. “Heard about your epic fail at the basketball game.”

  “My nose, my nose!” one of the other boys squeaks in a voice that sounds absolutely nothing like me. Okay, he sounds exactly like me.

  I can feel my face heating up in embarrassment.

  “Hey, Marcus,” Adrien sneers, “too bad you have to have your sister come and protect you. Especially when everyone knows she’s a loser, too.”

  They burst into belly-clutching laughter, as if Mac and I are the most hilarious kids they know.

  I remember what Dad said about not attacking people, no matter what, but I can’t help it. I just want Adrien to shut his stupid face. So, like I did last night with Mr. Charles, I lash out. My fist flies before I can even think to stop myself. But Adrien’s way more agile than Mr. Charles was, and he dances out of range. My glorious punch passes in front of his nose, missing by inches. Momentum makes me stumble forward. My foot gets caught on Mac’s backpack strap, and I trip. And smash! I fall face-first into the dirt with an Umphhhh!

  Adrien and his friends laugh even harder. A little blood trickles out of my nose. Visions of yesterday’s humiliation flash before my eyes.

  “Quit it!” Mac shouts. “Leave us alone!”

  “Or what, Marcus? You gonna draw mean pictures of me?”

  “Marcus Be-gay!” Adrien shouts. “Oh, please be gay!”

  “Gay! Gay! Gay!” they chant, like the brainless homophobes they are.

  Mac growls. Like, literally growls. I’ve never seen him this angry before. His hair is hanging down over his eyes, but I can tell he’s been crying, and he wipes his runny nose violently on the sleeve of his jacket. His whole body is shaking.

  “You’re a joke,” Adrien says. “You and your loser sister.” He reaches down and scoops up Mac’s colored pencils, the special ones like our mom used to use. Mac saved up for them all last year. They are his favorite things in the world, even more precious than his iPad, and when I hear Adrien snap one between his fingers, it feels like something just snapped inside me, too.

  Mac screams, an animal-like, bloodcurdling cry of rage. He slams his hand onto the ground, palm flat.

  And it might be my imagination, but I swear the ground shakes under my feet.

  A low rumble rolls across the baseball field, like an army of badgers tunneling through the earth, and then, suddenly, all the sprinklers turn on. There have to be a dozen of them, and they burst into life, shooting water in thin razorlike streams right at Adrien and his friends.

  “Ow!” one of the boys says as the malevolent sprinkler rips across his chest with a pointy blast. “That hurts!”

  “What the heck?” Adrien says as water beans him right in the eye.

  “Are the sprinklers…attacking us?” the other boy says incredulously.

  And I realize that’s exactly what they’re doing. The jets are all pointed at them, zipping back and forth in sharp slashing cuts, or pulsing bursts aimed at their eyes. Adrien stares, jaw gaping, and one sprinkler shoots a stream right into his mouth. He sputters and spits, stumbling backward. Another sprinkler pops out of the ground just as his heel hits the edge, and Adrien Cuttlebush goes sprawling on his back into the fresh mud around home base.

  He scrambles to his feet, trying to fight off the water assault. His friends attempt to help him stand, but they are all slipping and sliding now, the ground soaked through. The four of them go down in a big splat. Adrien has to crawl to the dugout fence before he can pull himself up.

  Once he’s on his feet, he looks back at us with terrified eyes.

  I shrug. It wasn’t me.

  Mac still has his
palm on the ground and a determined look on his face, confirming that it was him. Adrien must realize it, too, because he and his friends start running across the field, back toward school, clearly shaken. The only problem is, there are sprinklers all over the field, so every few feet, they get creamed by another burst of water, and then another, until they practically fall over the outfield fence trying to escape.

  I want to laugh, but Mac’s eyes are glazed over like he doesn’t even know I’m here.

  “Mac,” I say, shaking my brother’s shoulder gently. “They’re gone. You can stop now. Mac? Mac!”

  He blinks like he’s coming out of a trance, then looks up at me. His face is wet with tears and he’s got a serious snot bubble, but I don’t say anything mean, because, duuuude! What just happened?

  “You just made the sprinklers attack them, right?” I ask, my voice hesitant. I mean, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it.

  He swallows hard and then nods.

  “Have you ever done anything like that before?”

  He shakes his head.

  And I realize that whatever Mac did to control the sprinklers must be related to the powers Mr. Charles was talking about last night.

  “I—I’ve made water move before,” Mac confesses. “Like in the bathtub. B-but I thought maybe I was just imagining it.”

  “You weren’t imagining it,” I whisper, a smile breaking over my face. “You have a special ability. Just like I do.”

  He sniffs up the snot bubble (thank God!) and brushes his hair from his face. “The monsters…So you really can see them?”

  “And fight them.” Although, admittedly, my trying to hit Adrien didn’t work. But maybe it was because, as much of a jerk as he is, he’s just human, and not an actual monster.

  “Cool,” says Mac.

  “Not necessarily,” I say. “Mr. Charles knows about our powers. They have something to do with Mom’s side of the family. And I’m pretty sure he wants to kidnap you.”

  “Me?” he squeaks. “What did I do?”

  “It must have to do with all this.” I gesture to the sprinklers that are now gently watering the outfield like they weren’t tiny mutant water warriors five minutes ago. “Part of his company’s business is fracking. You need a lot of water for that. I think that’s why he wants you.”