by Jeff Altabef
He blows her a kiss, and she flips him the bird.
Troy smiles. “I like her. She’s a nasty shriveled up person, but at least you know where you stand. There’s no phony garbage with her.”
“Great.”
“So what gives? It’s not like you to skip school.”
I manage my best shrug with a backpack strapped on my shoulders. “My mom is out of town, so why not have some fun? Why waste such a great day by going to Bartens?”
“What’s the rest of the story, Jules? You told me last week that your mom was going away for a few days. We could have made plans then and avoided the early morning wake-up call.” He shoots me a knowing look. This is the problem with best friends. Even though we don’t hang out as often as we used to, he still knows me better than anyone else. “What happened?”
I sigh. “Mom’s got my grandfather staying with me for a few days. She should trust me.” I hope to escape with a half-truth. He doesn’t need to know about my problems at school. He’ll take them poorly. He’ll say I should be proud of my roots and tell the others to piss off. He might even stop by Bartens with some of our other Native American friends just to make a point. He could be like that sometimes—full of surprises, a little dangerous.
“Right,” he says in a tone of voice that tells me he doesn’t really believe me. “I don’t understand what the problem is. Your grandfather is cool, way cooler than mine.”
“Let’s roll.” I step past Troy and toward the bike. “Slippery River is calling us.”
He tosses me his heavy all black behemoth of a helmet with a plastic face shield.
I catch it, but keep it at arm’s length. “Where’s the other helmet? I’ll use that one.” I wrinkle my nose at the odor. Troy’s spare helmet is small and light and doesn’t have a face guard or the sweaty smell.
“The chin strap snapped on that one.” He smiles. “I need to fix it. This is all I’ve got.”
“You wear it.” I shove the monster in his direction. “You’re the one who’s driving.”
He jumps on the bike and melts into the seat. “The way I see it, your grandfather will kill me if anything happens to you anyway. At least one of us will survive if we crash.” He starts the bike with a kick. The engine roars as he revs it with a sly grin on his face and a glance at Mrs. Jones. “Put it on or we can hang out here all day with your neighbor gawking at us. It’s your choice.” He beams a smile at me.
A tickle climbs up my back. Sometimes his smile does that to me. I reluctantly strap on the helmet and hop on the back of the bike. Troy blows Mrs. Jones another kiss and glides us out of the driveway. We leave the gated community behind and travel in the opposite direction of Bartens. I love the rush that comes with riding Troy’s bike, so my arms wrap around his waist and a smile slowly sneaks on my face.
Anything is possible on a day like this one.
Freedom has a certain smell—sweet and fresh like dew on a spring day. It lingers in your nose and lungs and fuels your soul. I sniff a heavy dose as we reach Slippery River and the promise of a lazy afternoon. It chases away the guilt I feel over cutting school.
Twenty-five years ago, the Tribe owned Slippery River. The town took over the land to increase tourism and pays the Tribe only a third of what they make in admissions fees during a year. A bad deal, but the judge ruled in the town’s favor. The weather is supposed to turn hot, so tourists flock to the park in disorderly groups of loud, sunburned, flip-flop wearing beer guzzlers.
Troy drives us through a little used side entrance to avoid the main gate and the fifteen-dollar entrance fee. He parks the bike off the pavement on the far end of the lot and secures it to a tree with a heavy chain. Dozens of tourists meander toward the middle of the park. A mild expression of disgust sprouts on my face. One twenty-something-year-old guy, wearing a ripped Black Sabbath t-shirt, huffs along while dragging a dented cooler I imagine is crammed full of beer for him and his two buddies. All three are pale like ghosts and will burn within the hour. As locals, we have the right to feel superior to tourists, so we shoot them one last disdainful smirk and flee northwest in the opposite direction, away from the marked trails and the main part of the park.
A mile upstream, Slippery River turns wide, deep, and lazy. As the river approaches the park, the water carves a path through a canyon, narrows, and picks up speed. It’s called “Slippery River” because the moss-covered riverbed makes the footing slick. Most visitors start upriver and let the water pull them downriver like a natural amusement park ride, screeching the entire way.
Sicheii took me to the main part of the park a long time ago, but we came at night during a full moon when no one else was around. We never told Mom. She would have thought our sortie was too dangerous. Sicheii’s definition of dangerous is different from hers.
My legs start to burn as we squeeze our way along a narrow game trail, and I scrape my elbow on a rock jutting into the path. When we reach a particularly steep stretch, Troy pulls me up effortlessly with one strong hand. Fifteen minutes later, we find our favorite spot underneath a soapberry tree with just enough leaves to shade us from the worst part of the morning sun.
From the lofty perch, we stare down at the river far below. I glance at Troy and let him decide if he wants to keep going since I dragged him out of bed this morning. We can continue to the top of the cliff, but the rest of the climb is steep and it’s not worth it.
“Why don’t we stop here? There’s plenty of room to stretch out under the tree.”
I nod, toss down the backpack, and settle under the soapberry’s branches. “What’s the latest between Ella and Marlon?”
“They’re still in love.” He shakes his head and his braid flops from side to side on his back. “They’re the most unlikely couple in the universe of unlikely couples. Ella is still on track to be valedictorian and Marlon’s majoring in shop. And majoring is being generous.”
I smile and time slows. Since we don’t see each other in school every day, I miss these conversations. “What’s the latest about the casino? Are they paying bonuses this year?”
“My dad says the casino is packed every night, but you know the management company.” He rolls his eyes. “Somehow they always just barely break even, so they never have to pay bonuses. We should have listened to your grandfather. He said they’d steal from us. They’re supposed to give the Tribe part of the profit, but we haven’t seen a dime in five years.” He unzips the backpack and takes out a bag of Doritos and a tin of chocolate chip cookies.
I grab a handful of chips before he munches through them all and look out across the canyon. Devil’s Peak spirals dangerously high in the near distance on the other side of the river. No one’s ever climbed the soaring collection of red rocks. My mouth drops a little as it always does when I gaze at it. It’s beautiful and dangerous at the same time. I point to the crest of the formation. “It looks like Satan is watching us today.”
As a young girl, Sicheii showed me how the rock formation changes with the light. We had climbed to the top of the cliff opposite Devil’s Peak. When we reached the edge, he pointed out the profile of the Devil’s face carved into the rock, complete with horns at the peak. Then he made me close my eyes and told me a long winding tale of how the Great Wind Spirit defeated the Devil when time began. At the end of the story, he let me open my eyes and pointed to the rock formation with a sly smile on his face. The Devil’s face was gone and replaced by ordinary rocks. “The Great Wind Spirit was victorious again,” he pronounced with a wry smile.
Troy huffs. “I don’t know why we call it Devil’s Peak. The face looks like Coyote to me.”
“What’s the difference, Coyote or Devil? Either way, it’s a dark spirit.”
“They’re different. Coyote is our dark spirit. The Devil has nothing to do with us.” His voice has an edge to it. He grabs another handful of Doritos and glares out into the distance.
Troy is right. Coyote is different from the Devil. He’s a dark spirit who tricks people into
bad behavior, but he’s not all bad. Sometimes he protects animals and Mother Earth from humans, but it seems like he’s fallen down on the job lately. Either way, I’m not going to challenge him on dark spirits. They’re all the same to me.
I pull a sketchpad from my backpack and notice a handful of fishermen by the base of the rock formation. Among the fisherman, a father is teaching his young son how to cast a rod. I start drawing them both while Troy closes his eyes and listens to his iPod, which is really my old iPod. Mom bought me a new iPhone for Christmas.
Time stretches on quietly while I sketch. A smile sticks to my face as a warm sensation fills my body like the inside of a jelly donut. “What has Ms. Combs been up to?”
“She’s been promoted to the principle of the middle school.”
My sketchpad drops in my lap. “No, it can’t be. She was a horrible teacher! She never liked me.”
“She didn’t like me any better. At least she won’t be dividing kids into reading groups and sorting some in the D group like she did for us. What did Matt Flynn tell you again?”
I chuckle and answer even though he knows exactly what he said. “He said D was for dummies, so I told him K was for kick, right before I kicked him in the nuts.”
Troy laughs a full body laugh. I can’t help but join. His laugh is contagious.
“He was twice as big as you. If I didn’t jump on him, he might have sat on you and squashed you.”
“Yes, you were my hero.” I playfully bat my eyes at him.
“That’s not the only time I’ve saved you from fights.” He starts ticking off names with his fingers and chuckles as he goes. “Joyce Janice, Michael Rivers, Michele Mason, Jason Hill—”
“You had better stop right now, or we’re going to have a problem. It’s not my fault they pissed me off.”
He lifts his fists in a play-fighting stance. “I’m ready for you.” We both burst into combustible laughter. It feels good to laugh with him, like I’m wearing my most comfortable sweatshirt. I can just be when we’re together. Why is it so hard for me to be that way with other people?
I turn back to my drawing before the fishermen leave, add some finishing touches, and close my eyes to enjoy the warm sun on my face. The heat overpowers me as I slip into a daydream.
I’m in a cave, standing close to a small fire. Flickering firelight swirls along the cave walls. Jagged rock configurations appear and disappear with the fire’s dance. White wisps of smoke spiral upward and vanish into an opening in the craggy ceiling. Next to the fire sits an old man, cross-legged, a stoic expression on his lined face. Sweat coats his face and bare chest. He wears only a leather wrap connected at his waist, and his long gray hair is tied behind his neck. His back is straight and stiff, but his eyes dance around the cave nervously. Still, strength lives in him, in his sharp jaw, bright eyes, and broad shoulders. I sense movement and know we are not alone, but I can’t turn.
The old man speaks, his voice strong and clear. The language is old and weathered, like something Sicheii might say during a ceremonial feast, but I’ve never learned the old language, so the words drift toward me, meaningless syllables in the flickering light.
A long metal brand emerges from the fire, glowing angrily. The unseen guest must be holding it. Smoke swirls around the end of the marker, masking its shape. The old man tenses but does not budge. The brand inches toward his chest. Violet colored eyes, intense and demanding, reflect off the long metal rod. The brand scorches the old man in the chest. It sizzles when the marker kisses his skin, but he doesn’t cry out. Tears flow from his eyes, but they don’t look sorrowful. The stench of burned flesh fills my nose. It smells rank, like death and responsibility. I jolt awake, body trembling, breath rapid.
I glance around, relieved to find the soapberry tree and Troy and Slippery River, all as they should be. People say you can’t smell while you sleep, but I don’t believe them. Smells often linger after my daydreams, like they do with this one.
I push the last vestiges of the daydream from my mind with a mental shove. Luckily, they fade quickly from my consciousness. One time, Sicheii suggested I study them to understand my ancestors’ messages, but I’d rather push them from my mind. Who wants messages from their ancestors like texts from the grave? Life should be lived in the present and the future, which, as far as I can tell, has little to do with my heritage or my ancestors.
An empty bag of Doritos rubs against Troy’s sneaker. His head rests against the backpack, eyes closed as he listens to his music. The light bounces off his hair, which has grown longer from the last time we were together almost two weeks ago. I miss seeing him every day and knowing the important things going on in his life that we never text or talk about—whether his father is hassling him, or which girls have crushes on him.
For a moment I imagine him with short hair and in a Bartens uniform. The fuzzy image refuses to focus in my mind mostly because he would never cut his hair or wear the stupid uniform. I shake my head and frown. I’m being selfish. He’d be miserable without the Tribe or the rush of wind on his bike that ruffles his hair or his mysterious camping trips.
I yank one of his ear buds from his ears. He’s not listening to music, but an audio book instead.
“Hey!” Troy swivels his head toward me.
I frown, and he pulls off the other ear bud.
“Still having a difficult time with the dyslexia?” Even with the reading disorder, Troy is incredibly smart. He can perfectly recall everything he hears, but his teachers give him a hard time about his reading, so he constantly struggles in school. If his family was rich and he went to Bartens, the school would find a way to get around his learning disability and he’d be an A student.
He shrugs. “If I listen to the books, at least I’ll pass English.”
“You need to work on those exercises the school counselor gave you.” I shoot him my most disappointed scowl. He can be so pigheaded. He spent three months finding the exact original color paint to fix his bike, but he refuses to work on his dyslexia. “You’re not going to make it through college by listening to books on your iPod.”
“I’m not going to college, Jules.” He glances farther up the rock canyon away from me. “We both realize it. I’ll work as a mechanic in town with my uncle. There’s not a car that’s ever been made that I can’t fix.”
“You’re too smart to give up on school. If you do the exercises, you can overcome the dyslexia. Other people get past it.” We’ve had this argument in one fashion or another dozens of times over the past five years. He deserves a future brighter than anything this small town could offer him. We deserve something better, and I can’t imagine my future without him in it.
“I’ve tried, but the letters mix up. There’s nothing I can do about it.” He balls his hands into fists and pounds his right hand into his thigh.
I’m about to start round two of our fight when a high-pitched shriek startles me. A red shouldered hawk circles through the air currents high above us. This type of hawk is Sicheii’s animal guide. He believes hawks warn him about pending trouble, so I always pay close attention to them. Something about the call strikes me as odd. A bush sways awkwardly in the ridge above us, but there’s no wind. A biting chill runs through me.
No one else can see us from our remote location, and no one knows we’re at Slippery River. Suddenly, I feel vulnerable, like we’ve strayed too far from the herd. “Let’s get out of here.”
Troy squints at the sun, which has traveled well past midday. “Sure, it’s getting late. I’ve got to help my uncle in the garage later anyway.” He rises and stretches with a soft groan.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I stuff our trash into the backpack. Faint noises that sound like footsteps come from the ledge above us. I swing the backpack on my shoulders and walk to the edge of the cliff. We need to get to the river fast, and the trek down will take too long. “Lets dive.” I smile at him. It’s forced, but luckily he doesn’t notice.
He peers o
ver the cliff and shrugs. A deep river pocket is right below us where we can safely land. “We’ll have to dive over seventy feet to the river.”
I know the jump is good with him. He’s a great cliff diver, but the shrug leaves the window open for me to back out.
Another high-pitched hawk call shrieks from above. Something or someone is closing in on us. It might sound ridiculous, but Sicheii taught me to trust my instincts. He believes they come from spirits we cannot see.
“Are you chicken?” A shadow appears on the ledge just above us. There’s only one way to ensure that he’ll dive, so I cram my iPhone in a waterproof pocket in my backpack, take a few steps back, and run for it. I kick up stones and leap with a screech. I’m suspended in air for a second, and then plummet to the river. Wind whips through my hair as my long legs knife into the water and the cool river embraces me. Two kicks and I break the surface with a smile on my face.
Troy follows with a loud splash. He clears the water smoothly and chops water at me with both of his hands. I laugh and forget what compelled me to jump in the first place and counterattack with a two-handed splash of my own.
All is good until the hawk calls one last time. I glance up as the bird flies north and get that same unsettling feeling as before.
We splash the river at each other for a few more minutes, but the water is frigid, so we swim to the bank. Without a towel, the sun will have to dry us. Luckily, it’s still hot as we follow a trail toward the parking lot.
When we near Troy’s Honda, we turn a corner in the game trail and hear beer cans crunch, rock music blare, and something that sounds like water flowing from a hose—all signs drunk college students are hanging out by his bike.
We share a look, and he says, “Crap” right before he sprints ahead. I race a step behind. Drunken college kids are worse than nasty raccoons, and our town collects them like a cactus does needles.
