We move to the table and I split a can of Sprite into two glasses. “I don’t have anything stronger.”
“I’m glad you don’t drink. I don’t like it much myself . . .” He lapses into silence and we sit without talking, sipping our sodas.
“I’ve got an idea,” I say. “Why don’t we break in my new bed?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
It starts with a back rub. “It’s all over campus that you spent the night in jail. You must be tense, let me loosen you up.” He turns me on my belly, straddles my ass, and skillfully kneads my neck and shoulder muscles.
It progresses to a front rub. Now, I’m the one on top and my hands and, increasingly, my mouth are doing the work. I start with his shoulders and kiss my way down.
It evolves into a groin rub. He enters slowly and I respond the same way. We let it build gradually, then progress almost to the point of no return. He withdraws and we lay side by side, exploring, stroking, massaging, faster and faster with our hands, and mouths. He turns me over, gets on top, and enters all of me with one powerful lunge. “Now? Now, Layla,” he screams.
“Oh . . . yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . now.”
We cuddle and soak up the afterglow. After a half-hour, I sense he’s ready for another round. I’m more than ready. This time we’re more relaxed, go slower, kiss more. I doze off. I wake to the smell of bacon frying and the clattering of dishes.
“I don’t know about you, but all that breaking in makes me hungry,” he says. “Slim pickings in that little refrigerator of yours. Bacon and eggs will have to do.”
“I’m not much of a cook. Eat most of my meals at school or the casino. I remember, you liked to cook, even in high school.”
“That’s me, Mr. Domestic.”
“You’re sure talented in the bedroom part of that role.”
We gobble our out of sequence breakfast like a pair of starving north woods brush coyotes. “Let’s take a little walk, I want to show you something,” I say.
* * *
We take a twisting trail through the swamp, up a long hill, reach the top, make a sharp left turn, zigzag up a steep trail and step out on my private thinking spot. Desperation Hollow is a low expanse of poor land surrounded by Tamarack swamps. The only views are dented trailers surrounded by rusted out cars and trash. My thinking spot is different. When the glaciers came through here over ten thousand years ago, one gouged out a hill and left a flat slab of granite that forms a hidden observation platform. I look to my left and see the setting sun through the budding birches and green pines. The bench I’ve made from a cedar log faces northwest. We sit looking at undulating ranks of pine forest that flow unimpeded all the way to Canada.
I start a small fire in the rock fireplace I’ve built and we nestle under the down blanket I’ve carried along. “It’s beautiful, so peaceful,” he says.
“I stumbled on it when I was a kid. I don’t think anyone else comes here. I call it my thinking spot. Sometimes I read, but mostly I think.”
“What do you think about?”
“The current topics are you, who I am, where I’m headed, why someone tried to kill me on the logging road, and what possible reason someone had for breaking in mom’s trailer.”
“And?”
“I can’t figure the attack or the break in and I go in circles about me. It’s more than this half Ojibwe, half Scandinavian stuff. All I know is that I need to get out of the hollow, figure out how to lead a normal life.”
“Where’s the Nigerian trip fit in?”
“It’ll give me a chance to help others—not just be on the receiving end where rich Anglos try to help us poor Indians—learn to be more like you—be seen as more than a tough half-breed girl from the hollow. Making that trip has developed a life of its own. I can’t drop it. Can’t really explain it. It’s kind of an obsession. I have to go.”
“I like you just the way you are. I want to be your obsession.” He puts his arms around me and we sit holding each other watching the sun set.
* * *
We turn in early Saturday night but don’t waste all of the long night sleeping. Sunday morning we take his Prius to the Triple P for breakfast and don’t stray far from my new bed the rest of the day.
It’s six. He has to leave for the nursing home job his dad got him and we’re kissing goodbye outside the trailer. “I wish you could stay longer,” I say.
“My dad thinks I’m in Minneapolis. He’s got this thing about your family. I feel like a teenager, lying and sneaking away.”
“Why do you do it?”
“Mom died when I was in grade school. I’m all he’s got and neither of us can let go. I went with Julie to please him. Looks like I’m headed to medical school for him, not because that’s a real passion for me.”
“Probably can’t have us both. Better make up your mind where your real passion is.”
“I love you, Layla,” he whispers. “I want to be with you always.” He looks up at me, expectantly.
I pause for too long and feel him stiffen. Finally, I blurt out, “Yeah . . . me too . . . but—”
He walks to his car, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look back, and drives away.
That’s not what he wanted to hear—not what I wanted to say either. I head through the swamp to my thinking spot. Tonight’s agenda is whether I deserve someone like him and if someone like me has the right to screw up his life. I take the 30-30 in case someone still wants to end mine.
Chapter 12
It’s Monday morning and the big event today is the Nigerian orientation and ticket distribution. I get there early and my friend Sammy Phillips is waiting for me outside the door. He’s wearing another one of his Gay Pride t-shirts.
“How many of those you got?”
“Bought a dozen last year in San Francisco.”
“Why?”
“It pays to advertise. Never know how many of these macho frat boys are in the closet.” When I don’t return his smile he says, “No, seriously my hard earned gaydar tells me that there’s one super-jock that’s living a lie, over-compensating. Word is, he made a run at you at Sharon’s party.”
“Levi? You’ve got to be kidding. He’s very strange, into pain but he doesn’t strike me as gay.”
“I’m no shrink, but that may be some weird form of self-inflicted guilt—same reason he’s always calling me queer or a faggot. Anyway, the real reason I wear these t-shirts is to make a point—one that, if I’m right about Levi he needs to learn—it’s okay to be who you are, gives you the power of authenticity.”
“Power of authenticity? You English majors sure use big words.”
“Double major—chemistry too. It’s hard to get in med school with just English.” He pauses, stands back, raises his head to make better eye contact and says, “The reason I’m here so early is to give you a heads up.”
“About?”
“Everyone knows you and your hoodlum brother kidnapped Chuck. Took Karen, too. The rumor is Jack tried to rape her. I know that’s not true—even Jack’s got better taste. Chuck flew home to Fargo but even though Karen’s not taking the trip, she’s coming to orientation. Word is, she’s really, really pissed.”
“That story’s mostly bullshit. How’d it get out so fast?”
“Levi put it on Facebook, mobilized his frat and football network to forward and embellish the story. I can’t wait to hear what really happened. We’ll talk afterword. You’re all set, right?”
“Paid my money, got my passport, got my visa. I’m good to go.”
* * *
I’m killing time before orientation in the math faculty lounge. Dr. Shay lets me use it because I help him teach dummy calculus. Karen tracks me down, barges in and gets in my face.
“You arrogant bitch, you’re going to pay for what you did,” she screams, stepping forward and slapping me with her left hand. When I don’t do anything, she does it again with her right. When I still don’t react, she lifts up her hands and comes a
t me with her fingernails. I push her back and she trips and falls against a couch.
I keep the couch between us. “Sorry about what happened but you brought it on yourself. You should do yourself a favor and stop hanging around with that lout, Chuck.”
“That lout was supposed to be my boyfriend until graduation. Now he’s dropped out, went home to Fargo to get his fingers fixed and won’t be back until fall. “Sorry won’t cut it.” Her voice is now controlled and icy. “You’ll have something bigger to be sorry about soon.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“See me after the African orientation if you haven’t figured it out,” she says, slamming the door.
Dr. Shay’s office adjoins the lounge. “I’ll forget I saw that if you’ll take some advice,” he says, crossing the room.
“It’s a deal, sorry you saw it, too.”
“Layla, you’re the most promising math student our department has ever experienced. You could get in any graduate program and make important contributions to our field but, if you’ll excuse my non-professorial language, your fucked up personal life, your tendency toward violence and your refusal to compromise, have the distinct possibility of derailing you. That would be a waste. I’m taking you out of calculus class. You’ve lost your credibility and some of the students are afraid of you. As your academic advisor and as your friend, I have one last observation. There are two Layla Petersons and they’ll destroy each other unless you find a way to reconcile them.”
“I get that a lot,” I say as I leave his office.
Chapter 13
The Nigerian trip orientation is in the library. I’m one of the twelve students who made the cut. I sit down next to Andy.
“Welcome. This will be our last meeting before we leave for Nigeria,” announces Mrs. Selby. She teaches in the education department and will be our leader. “You’re a special group. You need to be a raising senior, have good grades, a recommendation by a faculty member, and a useful skill. You also need to come up with the bucks to pay a portion of your travel costs.”
Several laugh. I’m not one. Neither is Mia who’s sitting across the room staring daggers at me. Her dad is with her. He’s staring, too. How long is knocking her down at that damn party going to plague me?
“Get ready for a long trip. After we land at Lagos, we catch another flight to the capital, Abuja. From there, it’s a long bus ride to North Star Girl’s School. We’ll be there for three weeks. There are two projects: building the school addition, and helping teach the kids. We’ll be using your brains and your muscles. Your professors tell me most of you have both.”
More laughter. I spot Levi and Karen standing next to some faculty members in the back of the room. They’re both looking back and smirking.
“These girls range in age from eight to thirteen. Most are very poor. Education isn’t a priority for girls in many parts of that culture and this will be the only chance for some of them. They really need your help. I can’t think of a better way you could spend your spring break.”
With Mia and her dad glaring at me from one side of the room and Levi and Karen sneering in the other, I’m feeling jumpy. Andy senses it and puts a warm hand on my arm. I was worried about his reaction to our awkward parting yesterday but, at least on the surface, he seems fine.
“I’ve got a packet for each of you with your plane tickets, itinerary, and emergency contact information” continues Mrs. Selby. The bus for the airport departs from the education building at 8:00 a.m. Saturday. Be on time and bring your passports. But, before I pass them out, Dr. Armstrong has an announcement.”
“I’m happy to announce that Olson Enterprises has donated and paid for the shipping of all the building material needed for the school,” says Armstrong, beaming at Mia’s dad. “Mr. Rolf Olson has even agreed to come along to supervise the project. In addition to Mr. Olson, a second member of our college’s board of trustees, Dr. Howard Mason, will be joining the group to provide vaccinations and check the student’s health. They’re both coming at their own expense.”
Dr. Mason’s not here, but Rolf Olson stands while the students clap—all but me. I’m not clapping for anyone associated with Mia.
“Stay calm,” Andy whispers, squeezing my arm.
Mrs. Selby moves to a table and begins to hand out the travel packets. She does it alphabetically. The process reminds me of a graduation ceremony. Zoe Aaronson is first. She crosses the room, takes her packet, shakes Mrs. Selby’s hand, and goes back to her chair. I wait my turn. I come after Mia.
When it’s her turn she calls, “Mia Olson.” Mia turns her head toward me and scratches her ear as she walks by. Her middle finger is extended.
“Samuel Phillips” There must be a mistake. I’m next.
“Levi Quinn” Wait a minute. Levi’s never been part of the group. He doesn’t have the grades.
“Sophie Reed.” I jump to my feet. Andy tries to pull me back but I push him away.
“Nathan Steele.” I charge to the front of the room.
“Ella Wilks.”
I wait until Ella gets her packet and face Mrs. Selby. “You forgot mine.” I keep my voice calm.
“No, sorry I didn’t get to you earlier but it was a last minute decision.”
“What was?”
“Not here, not in front of the whole group. We need to discuss it in Dr. Armstrong’s office.”
“Discuss what? Damn it, just give me my packet.”
“You can’t go,” she whispers.
“Bullshit,” I shout.
The room goes silent. I watch the volunteers look at each other in confusion. I was in all the meetings, always part of the group. Mia isn’t confused, she’s happy. She looks at me with a cross between a grin and a sneer and flips me the bird again. Karen gives me an evil smile.
* * *
Mrs. Selby takes me to Provost Armstrong’s office. “We didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of the group but the bottom line is that you can’t go, can’t represent the school.” He hands me a check. “Here’s your money back.”
I feel my nose starting to run and my eyes getting damp. I swallow hard and ignore the tissue box Mrs. Selby tries to hand me. “Why?”
“We feel it’s in the best interest of the school and the image of the project.”
“Why, goddamn it, why?” This time it comes out more like a growl than a question. I snatch the tissue box out of her hand and throw it across the room.
Armstrong grabs the index finger of his left hand with the right. “First, you participate in illegal boxing matches and one of your opponents is severely injured. That’s a horrible reflection of the values of this college.” He grips the next finger. “Then, you attack two of your fellow students at a party where there was alcohol, marijuana and cocaine. He takes a third finger. “Finally, you abduct two other students, injure one to the extent he needs to take a semester off to recover, spend the night in jail, and only get off on a technicality.”
With each tick of his fingers, my hopes drop and my frustration raises. The harder I try to fit in, the deeper hole I dig for myself. There’s a tribal saying that translates into something like “Lower than a snake’s belly.” That’s where I am.
“Who are the we?” I ask, this time very quietly. Dr. Armstrong has been a friend, even a cheerleader at times. I understand that he has to go through the motions but I don’t believe his heart is in it.
“The board of trustees had an emergency meeting. They made the decision and chose Levi Quinn to take your place. The chairman even personally paid for him.”
“The chairman still Mia’s dad?”
“Yes.” They both refuse to make eye contact.
I walk out the door, start Jack’s jeep, cross the river, climb the hill and descend into Desperation Hollow. I’m not sure if I’ll ever go back up.
Chapter 14
The sweat pours down into my eyes and my arms feel like led pipes. It’s 2:00 a.m. and I’ve been working the heavy bag non-stop
for a half-hour. Only, it’s not the heavy bag, I’m hitting, it’s Mia, her dad, and all the others who sabotage my dreams.
Andy wanted to spend the night but he burned out trying to cheer me up and went home. His parting words were that I’m too hard-wired toward anger to be happy for long. He may be right.
I look up and see Gus watching. “Take it easy girl, gym’s closed and those bags are expensive.”
“How long you been here?”
“Long enough to see that you’re hurting and, as the witness-for-hire shrinks used to say in court, externalizing your emotions.”
“Got a lot of them to eternize. Been around this godamn reservation my whole life.”
“You want to move across the river, up the hill? You think that will solve your problems, eternizing your emotions up there?”
“I don’t know what I want, Uncle. They screwed me out of that trip. I don’t know if I’ll even go back to school.”
“That won’t give me any return on my investment—you know I’ve been footing some of the tuition—your scholarship doesn’t pay everything. Besides, you may not be as screwed as you think.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You still want to go on that African spring break trip?”
I give the heavy bag two left jabs and finish it off with a hard right hook. “Not in the cards, Gus. The deck is stacked—always has been—they already replaced me.”
“Stacked decks can always be shuffled if you know how to do it. I’ve got something for you.” He pulls a large, thick envelope out of the battered gym bag he uses for a briefcase and hands it to me.
It’s the travel packet with my airline tickets. “You have to tear up that refund check because they need the money.”
For the second time in two days I taste the salt of tears. He throws me a sweat soaked towel. “Use this kid, don’t allow no tissue in my gym.”
“What . . . what . . . happened?”
Squaw Girl: A Boxer's Battle for Love Page 6
