The puppies jostled his legs, yipped for attention.
“She says the musical is all that matters.”
I glanced at my heavy rattan bookcase. Mostly contemporaries, a little mystery, a little urban fantasy, a little romance. My biography of Oglala Lakota Billy Mills, who went to KU and won a 1964 Olympic gold medal in track. My all-time favorites: Y. S. Lee’s The Agency series, my Libba Bray novels, and my collection of titles by Choctaw Tim Tingle.
No Baum.
That said, my inner teacher-pleaser understood what Mrs. Q meant when she said “off tone, off focus.” The rest of Hughie’s text was straightforward, less personal and emotional.
His use of the word us jumped out at me. I asked, “Where’s this coming from?”
“Baum’s editorials,” Hughie said, his voice stronger. “Sitting Bull, Wounded Knee.” He’d abandoned the chair in favor of the Berber carpet.
Bilbo climbed into his lap. Frodo knocked over the wire trash can under my wicker desk and began digging. “It’s all there,” Hughie added.
I leafed through his clipped printouts from the web, reading the headlines:
Oz Author Advocated Native American Genocide
Racist on the Yellow Brick Road
Baum Descendants Apologize for Editorials
It was a lot to process. “What editorials?”
“They’re there.” Hughie was scratching behind Bilbo’s ears. “Flip to the back.”
I did. This is what L. Frank Baum, as an editor and publisher, wrote for his South Dakota newspaper.
I couldn’t bring myself to read the words out loud.
The Aberdeen (SD) Saturday Pioneer, December 20, 1890
Sitting Bull . . . is dead. . . . With his fall the nobility of the Redskin is extinguished, and what few are left are a pack of whining curs who lick the hand that smites them. The Whites, by law of conquest, by justice of civilization, are masters of the American continent, and the best safety of the frontier settlers will be secured by the total annihilation of the few remaining Indians. Why not annihilation? Their glory has fled, their spirit broken, their manhood effaced; better that they die than live the miserable wretches that they are.
The Aberdeen (SD) Saturday Pioneer, January 3, 1891 (following the massacre at Wounded Knee, wherein U.S. soldiers brutally murdered upward of three hundred Lakota people — men, women, and children)
Our only safety depends upon the total extirmination [sic] of the Indians. Having wronged them for centuries we had better, in order to protect our civilization, follow it up by one more wrong and wipe these untamed and untamable creatures from the face of the earth.
“It was a long time ago?” Hughie asked, not like that would make what happened less awful, but clearly struggling to wrap his mind around it. My brother averaged Bs in regular History — though he’d never have heard about Wounded Knee at school.
My AP brain in gear, I replied, “Between the U.S. Civil War and World War I.”
Hughie’s brow puckered, and I tried again.
“About fifty years after the Trail of Tears?”
That didn’t seem to help, either.
“Twenty to thirty years before the setting of the first Gal Gadot Wonder Woman movie. Great-Grandpa Lucas wasn’t born yet, but his parents were alive.”
We talked until dawn. When my brother finally stood to leave my room, I caught a glimpse of his inner superhero.
A hand waved in front of my face. Shelby’s. “Hello, Louise. Am I boring you?”
“Sorry, what were you saying?” I asked as we pulled into the Grub Pub parking lot. According to a new roadside sign, a plant nursery would open soon nearby, and this patch of country storefronts and eateries would be that much closer to being fully swallowed by suburbia.
I yawned. It had been a struggle for me, staying awake through the day’s classes.
L. Frank Baum’s words kept cycling through my mind.
This is Kansas. Odes to Oz are everywhere.
Through them, Baum lives on.
“Nothing.” Shelby parked her dad’s station wagon, littered with fast-food bags, empty paper cups, and containers. It smelled like stale chewing tobacco. “Nothing but tuition, money, or my lack of it, and the rest of my pathetic life.”
As we got out of the car, she added, “I’m sick of worrying. Tell me about the sparkly world of Lou.”
Crossing the cracked asphalt, I summed up my conversation with my brother about Baum’s editorials. “I’ve never heard Hughie talk like this,” I said. “He’s frustrated and —”
“Seriously?” Shelby exclaimed on our way in. “You’re upset that your brother is upset about something that somebody wrote about something that happened over a hundred years ago in South Dakota?”
She picked up the pace at the SEAT YOURSELF sign. The happy-hour rush had hit early. “That’s not even your Indian tribe.” She paused. “Is it?”
“No.” I imagined that Lakota kids learned about Baum and Wounded Knee the way I learned about Andrew Jackson and the Trail of Tears. From their own community.
But it was all brand-new to Shelby. Not her fault, but there wasn’t time to explain.
She had to clock in, and — merde!— I had to study for tomorrow’s French quiz.
I somehow doubted that I could make her understand what Hughie and I were feeling. It was what had happened at Wounded Knee, what Baum had done to fuel it and validate it, and that a teacher, Hughie’s Theater teacher, had acted like it wasn’t important.
Still, Shelby was my best friend. If I couldn’t reach her, what hope did Hughie have with Mrs. Q? “Want to come home with me for dinner later?” I asked. “My dad’s stirring ground turkey into the mac and cheese.” That was his version of cooking fancy. “We’ll have to study after, but I’d like to —”
“Can’t,” Shelby replied. “I’m working until close again, remember?”
Based on informal chatter and a dozen or so Hive interviews, my sense was that well over half of the student body either supported Mrs. Q’s vision for The Wizard of Oz or didn’t care one way or the other.
The students of color I’d spoken with tended toward the more enthusiastic, though Monica Suresh said that “maybe it all happened too fast” and Gabriel Ríos-Collins said that “talking about it all the time just stirs up trouble.”
I wanted an on-the-record statement from at least one elected student representative.
Having struck out on the school bus with Stu-Co VP Tanner Perkins, I’d asked Alexis if she could help me score a quote from Isaac Olson, who’d beaten out Karishma for the top spot.
“Sorry,” Alexis told me in the newsroom later that week. “I tried, but this semester Isaac’s been willing to give me one lousy quote on how — gasp — Homecoming is a proud tradition. That’s it. I told him I could get his message out to the student body, but he said, ‘Why bother? I’m already the president. All colleges care about is that you run and win.’ ”
I tapped my pen. “What about Erin Gray, the Stu-Co secretary?”
Alexis flipped through her notes. “Isaac and Erin were a couple last year, right up until their ticket won the election. Then he dumped her for Mackenzie Quisenberry after Mackenzie made Varsity Cheer. And after Erin had done most of the grunt work for the campaign.”
“Erin is better off,” I concluded as, across the room, Nick and the editors debated a handful of technology-related updates to the Hive’s in-house style guide.
“That’s not all,” Alexis replied. “From what I understand, she’d been promised the VP slot when she signed on, but then Isaac and Tanner told her that they’d rearranged the slate after the first round of posters had been printed.”
Over the past couple of months, Alexis had grown into a journalistic force to be reckoned with. She really knew her beat. I leaned back in my chair. “You don’t say . . .”
“I do say,” Alexis confirmed. “I also say that Erin has a free period right now and likes to hide out, do her homework, and listen to
music in the courtyard.”
I found Erin perched on a wood-plank bench with concrete legs. As I moved toward her, from one stepping stone to the next, she looked up like she’d been expecting me.
“Karishma sent you?” Erin asked. “After you talked to Tanner, I figured I’d be next.”
She had on reflective royal-blue sunglasses. I couldn’t see her eyes.
“I sent myself,” I replied, noting that the Stu-Co officers had discussed me or at least the story I was reporting on. At that point, there seemed no reason to ease into it. “Do you have a comment about the casting of the musical? Or anything else about the musical?”
The Stu-Co secretary patted a spot next to her on the bench, inviting me to sit. “During Isaac’s official campaign debate with Karishma, he didn’t put forth any ideas. He just kept asking people if they really wanted someone like her representing the entire student body.”
Meaning someone who was brown or a girl or both.
“I read Karishma’s editorials,” Erin added. “She would’ve taken a stand on PART’s petition. A stand on behalf of the student government, the entire student body. That would’ve had more impact than the Hive speaking out — no offense.”
Our entire editorial board was made up of Karishma and Daniel. “None taken.”
As I pulled my notepad from my purse, Erin asked, “Could you hold off on that? I was elected under Isaac and Tanner. I’m in no position to speak for the whole council.”
Yet it was the council’s job to represent the students, and she was still an officer.
“Hold off until when?” I asked, standing. This was a waste of time, I thought.
“Karishma would’ve been a real leader,” Erin added.
I itched to rip off her sunglasses. “She is a real leader. What are you?”
I jogged to KC Fitness. I met Mama at the smoothie bar, and we hopped onto side-by-side treadmills facing a row of big-screen TVs, half turned to sports, half to news.
A NFL player had been caught on camera shoving his girlfriend into a wall. A mosque in Ohio was burning to the ground. Neo-Nazis were marching at a college in Florida.
As we walked, Mama told me about the Native Heritage Month panels at KU and nearby Haskell Indian Nations University. She mentioned in passing that, in Con Law that day, her prof had led a discussion of libel and other legal limits on free speech and the press.
(She was still, not so subtly, urging me to consider majoring in journalism — partly because the William Allen White School at Kansas is one of the top programs in the country.)
Finally she said, “Lou, is there something weighing on your mind?”
I’d swear the woman is psychic. I lowered the incline and filled her in on Hughie, L. Frank Baum, and the Theater teacher. “Sounds like Mrs. Q just shut Hughie down.”
“I doubt Mrs. Qualey expected such a huge pushback against her casting decisions,” Mama mused aloud. “No matter how committed she might feel, it’s still been a stressful ordeal. The last thing she probably wants is to hear about any other issue with the musical.”
“Mrs. Q isn’t speaking out,” I observed.
“The show is her statement,” Mama countered. “It’ll speak for her.”
I took a drink from my water bottle. “Finding out about Baum changes how Hughie feels about playing the Tin Man.”
“Baum was a monster.” Mama wiped her neck with a white hand towel. “But, if you break it down, the musical isn’t the Oz books, and neither of those are the man himself.”
She sounded so matter-of-fact.
A spin class had begun on the other side of the weight machines. I had to raise my voice to be heard over the instructor on the speaker system. “Is that really how you feel about it?”
“That’s what I think,” Mama replied, lowering the incline. “It’s how my lawyer brain breaks down and analyzes conflicts from different angles.”
I tightened my grip on the handrails. “But how do you feel?”
She exhaled. “I feel like there’s too much wrong in this world to fix, but I’m determined to fight. I feel like shining a spotlight on . . . what certain people try so hard not to see.”
Mama had wanted to go public about the malicious notes, I realized. She must’ve been outvoted. Mama added, “I’m proud of Hughie for trying to do that in his own way, with his write-up for the program for the musical. But this isn’t about me.”
She tapped Stop on the control panel. “So far as his role as the Tin Man is concerned, Hughie’s entitled to his own opinions. His own decisions.”
His own heart.
On Veterans Day, Joey and I covered the ceremonial planting of an oak tree in front of our high school. An alumnus, Specialist William “Liam” Fisk, had recently died in Afghanistan. Army National Guard. He’d graduated five years earlier.
“That’s the sister,” I whispered, nodding toward her. “She’s a junior.”
The family was leaving. I called to the grieving girl. I asked if there was anything she wanted to say about her brother. She said no.
I’d never been to Joey’s apartment before. It was townhouse-style, located at the end of a row with five other units. Living room, powder room, kitchen, and dining nook downstairs. Two bedrooms and a full bath up. A mix of Pottery Barn furniture, punctuated by antique lamps and showcasing Joey’s own framed photography. He and his mom still had boxes of books shoved under the floating staircase and stacked in his bedroom.
Joey stowed his camera, backpack, and shoulder bag in the corner.
I studied the hedgehog’s habitat. “Hello, Ernest.”
“Careful,” Joey said. “He’s a charmer.”
“So’s my boyfriend.” I urged him to the unmade twin bed, longing for a reprieve from the day’s sorrow, and he was inclined to oblige.
We got as sexy as we could with our jeans on. Bare chested, breathing heavy, forehead dotted with sweat, Joey was — so far as I was concerned — pretty damn magnificent.
Aching to see all of him, I dragged my hand down to the top button of his Levi’s.
Downstairs, the front door opened. A voice called, “Joey, can you move your Jeep?”
“Oh, shit,” he muttered. Then, in reply, he yelled, “Just a minute!”
I pushed up from the bed. “Where’s my bra?” I whispered. “Damn it, Joey, where’s —?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” he replied, momentarily disoriented. “How should I know?”
“You’re the one who took it off!”
“Relax.” Joey cupped the nape of my neck. His kiss was firm, reassuring.
“My mom’s been asking to meet you.” Pulling on his shirt, he added, “She’s been anxious about how I’m adjusting to everything.”
The divorce, their move, the new school. Not to mention Joey’s own messy breakup.
“You, Louise M. Wolfe, are a polite, churchgoing, straight-A student from a fully intact nuclear family. You’re proof that she hasn’t failed as a mother and scarred me for life. She and her shrink are your biggest fans.”
Joey tore out of there. He thundered down the stairs, calling, “On my way!”
I found my bra under the bed, wiggled into it and my mauve cotton sweater, and made a run for the living room.
Combing my disheveled hair with my fingers, I positioned myself in the most nonchalant manner I could muster on the loveseat. Then I grabbed a Bible from the lower shelf of the glass coffee table and pretended to read.
Overkill. And use of the Bible as camouflage for accidentally foiled almost-sex might constitute a sin I was right there inventing.
I put it back and grabbed a magazine with Oprah on the cover instead.
“You must be the amazing Louise!” Coming through the front door, Joey’s mom pronounced me the guest of honor and insisted I stay for delivery egg rolls and Hunan shrimp.
It had been a month since I’d found the latest hateful note, the one in my locker. Emily had remained sidelined from the casting-controversy story. Daniel hadn�
��t mentioned Wrestling since movie night at Nick’s. I could only hope that PART had run out of tricks.
The Hive buzzed on. After school, Joey sent me a rough file of his video interview with Garrett Ferguson, the charismatic redhead who’d been cast as the Wizard.
Once Joey finished editing, it would go live the next day, one week from opening night.
Given the way Garrett had talked to Hughie, I’d decided to pass on the assignment.
Garrett had dressed up, worn a black turtleneck and slacks. It was supposed to be a personality profile, a puff piece, because Mrs. Q had complained to Ms. Wilson that the controversy wasn’t more important than the musical itself and our coverage should reflect that.
But then Garrett brought it up, and Joey didn’t hesitate to dig in.
“I’ve had a major role in every school performance since sophomore year,” Garrett said into the camera. “I’m a senior, and suddenly, some freshman waltzes in and takes my part.”
Was he the one behind the hate mail? I wondered.
Garrett had a motive and clearly held a grudge.
“Was it ever your part?” Joey’s voice countered. “Or did you just audition for it?”
In the background, the crew constructed apple-tree bases out of heavy plywood and galvanized steel pipes. “I’m stuck playing the Wizard,” Garrett said. “That’s barely a role.”
“It’s the name of the title character,” Joey pointed out.
“Look, I’ve got a lot of friends in Theater.”
(If that fake smile was supposed to win this viewer over, Garrett could think again.)
He added, “The kid’s not a terrible singer. All I’m saying is that some freshman shouldn’t get whatever he wants just because of how he looks. Like it’s not cool to be white anymore.”
Garrett didn’t stop there. “All these people barging into our country, taking over. We’re practically an endangered species.”
Barging in? That was my brother he was talking about. A tribal member, an Indigenous kid. I couldn’t help thinking it’s a hell of a time to be Native.
Hearts Unbroken Page 12
