More Than Good Enough

by Crissa-Jean Chappell

“Because of my mom,” I said. “She’s not Indian, remember?”

  Pippa was quiet for a moment. “Does that mean you’re not part of the tribe?” she asked.

  I turned off the radio. “Depends on who you ask.”

  Next door at Uncle Seth’s, the elder ladies were having a yard sale. The aunts had set up tables on the grass, each loaded with beaded necklaces, miniature canoes, and paper plates stacked with fry bread. We parked and walked over.

  Pippa grabbed the camera and started filming. She was really getting into it, practically kneeling down to get the best angle.

  “What’s this thing?” She held up a skinny wooden racket.

  “That’s for playing stickball,” I explained. “It’s super old-school. Nobody really does it anymore. It’s kind of like lacrosse.”

  “Have you ever played it?”

  I put the racket back on the table. “Nobody does. That’s what I just said.”

  Maybe I was making her uncomfortable. Actually, I was the one getting weirded out. It wasn’t because people stared (and, of course, they did). Everybody was really nice. The aunts nodded at me, but they didn’t talk to Pippa. Maybe it was a mistake, bringing her here.

  “They probably think I’m your girlfriend,” she said.

  My face heated up. I looked down and hoped she didn’t notice.

  “Are we going to your dad’s house or what?” Pippa asked.

  I didn’t want to deal with him. Not after his little freakout this morning. At the same time, I was like, why can’t I bring somebody over? I live here too.

  “It’s part of my uncle’s place, actually. Or, my aunt’s, but she passed on. See, this is how it goes. When a guy gets married, he moves into his wife’s house. Basically, women run the show. They even get to pick your names.”

  “Names?”

  “You get a ‘baby name’ when you’re born. Only your mom knows the real name. When boys grow into men, they have a naming ceremony. It’s supposed to mean you’re an adult or whatever.”

  “Girls don’t get a new name?”

  I shrugged. “They don’t need it.”

  “So when are you getting yours?”

  I unlocked the door to the Little Blue House and kicked it open. All around the door frame were metal sculptures: a half-moon and a smiling sun, along with a polka-dotted lizard.

  “My what?” I asked.

  “Your grown-up name.”

  “Oh.” I flicked on the lights. “Most guys my age have theirs already.”

  “This is a big deal, right? The ceremony, I mean.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not in the tribe, officially. So it won’t be happening. Not for me, anyway.”

  “Maybe you can find a way in,” Pippa said.

  “Maybe.” I didn’t really feel like talking about it.

  “Is there, like, a test? Do you have to study for this naming thing?” she wanted to know.

  “You get to decide when you’re ready.”

  “That’s cool,” she said.

  “When you start asking questions, the elders say you’re good to go. It’s all about learning the songs. We’ve got a whole encyclopedia of them. Like, there’s songs to find herbs. Songs for hiding and protection. Songs to make people happy. You just have to memorize them.”

  “That wouldn’t be too hard. Music was always your special talent.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not so special anymore. That’s why I need to pass this class, right? For the win.”

  Pippa sank onto the couch and sort of collapsed into me. I’m sure she was just tired, but it felt weirdly familiar, leaning against her. Weird in a good way. I kept glancing at the door, thinking Dad would bust in here, but he was probably getting wasted. The usual Saturday routine.

  “Let’s get some B-roll footage.” I took out the camera and aimed it at my open mouth. “I’m documenting my wisdom teeth before they get ripped out.”

  “You’re not smart enough to have wisdom teeth.”

  “Don’t say mean things to me. I might cry.”

  “Aren’t we supposed to be making movies about real life?”

  “This is real life.” I lifted my Native Pride T-shirt and pointed the camera at my stomach. “Now I’m documenting my appendix scar.”

  “Gross. If I fail, it’s all your fault.”

  I dumped the camera back in its case. “This thing is a piece of crap. It won’t even turn on. And the batteries look dead.”

  “You can’t tell by looking,” Pippa said. “Did you charge the extra batteries?”

  “Was I supposed to?”

  Pippa sighed. “We can’t film anything else until it charges.”

  Okay. Now we had to charge the stupid batteries. I needed to get Pippa out of the house before Dad got back.

  “Come on,” she said. “Pass me the worksheet. We have to make a shot list.”

  “A shit list?”

  “Oh, you’re so funny I forgot to laugh.” She gave me a push and my skin heated up again. I looked down at my sneakers, the thumbtack wedged in my heel. Maybe if I pried it out, I would fly around the room like a balloon.

  “Let’s work in the kitchen,” I told her. At least if Dad pulled up in the driveway, I would spot him through the window.

  The kitchen looked like it had been attacked by velociraptors. PlayStation games were scattered all over the table, along with a flattened bag of chips. Neon orange crumbs were smashed deep into a place mat. I flipped it over, finding a half dozen pennies and a wrinkled magazine—Winds of Change: Your Number One Source for Indigenous News.

  Pippa wanted something to eat, so I wasted fifteen minutes trying to microwave a Hot Pocket.

  “I really can’t afford to fail this class,” she said.

  “Yo. Chill,” I said, licking the grease off my fingers. “Got it covered. Out of everything I’m taking this semester, it’s like the only class I really care about.”

  “That’s sad,” Pippa said.

  “Know what’s even sadder? I’m probably going to drop out anyway.”

  “You mean, drop out of Filmmaking?”

  “Out of everything.”

  “I won’t let you,” she said. “That’s not going to happen. Swear?” She held up her fists. “Or I’ll have to track you down and kill you.”

  “Okay. I’m freaking out now.” I laughed.

  “I didn’t hear you swear.”

  “I swear all the time. It’s a bad habit.”

  Pippa got all serious. “I mean it. For real. You can’t drop out of school. You’re too smart.”

  “Just a second ago, you were saying the opposite.”

  “Why are you giving up so easily?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Well, that’s what it looks like,” she said, frowning. “You always had better grades than me. You didn’t even study. That’s what got me so mad.”

  “Yeah, well. Maybe I stopped caring.”

  “So what happened? Is there a reason you don’t care anymore? Or is it just easier?”

  “What’s easier?” I asked.

  “Not caring.”

  She didn’t understand. It was a lot harder pretending to care.

  “School feels like a big waste of time right now,” I told her. “Even when I was trying to work on my music, it all seemed so fake. When you’re a kid, everybody says, ‘You can be anything you want.’ But that’s a total lie.”

  “I know what you mean,” she said. “My mom is always going on about my GPA, like, if I just work hard enough, I’ll be set for life. But there’s so many amazing things I want to do. Like, I have this master plan. I’m going to direct music videos, right? And make horror movies and stuff. But let’s be real. Most of that will probably never happen.”

  When I heard Pippa say that, I felt really bad. “Don’t let tha
t noise get into your head. You just have to go for it.”

  “Really?” she said.

  “I believe in you,” I said. And that was the truth.

  Pippa covered her face with her hands. “Now you’re making me feel all awkward,” she said, peeking between her fingers.

  Could this girl be any cuter?

  “Okay, Mr. Rock Star,” she said. “We need to get back to work.”

  “Didn’t we shoot enough today?” I asked.

  “We haven’t interviewed your dad yet.”

  “Trust me. He’s not worth interviewing.” On the kitchen counter, Dad had left a boom box. I scanned past a bunch of Spanish stations and settled on Power 96. “‘Big Pimpin’.’ Yeah, that’s how I roll. This song describes my life.”

  “Seriously. I don’t think this is a difficult a concept to grasp.”

  “My pimp hand? I keep it strong, player.”

  “Let’s wait until your dad gets back. You can hold the camera while I ask questions. I’ll edit it with the footage from the gator show. Like a montage or something.”

  “Mr. Bones said no ‘talking head’ stuff.”

  “It won’t be talking head. I could do a voiceover.”

  “Methinks thou art cheating, fair maiden,” I said in a fake British accent. I opened the fridge, took out a can of Reddi-wip, and sprayed it into my mouth. “Nice. This thing’s down to fumes.”

  “Is it weird living with your dad?” Pippa asked. “I mean, does it feel weird because you didn’t grow up on the reservation?”

  “What is this? You’re interviewing me now?”

  “Off the record,” she said.

  “Yeah, it feels weird. I don’t even know my dad really well. Mom always talked shit about him. I guess in my mind, I had this idea he’d be different. That living here would be different. Actually, the Rez is pretty chill. Nobody acts like I’m a freak because I’m not in the tribe.”

  “And you want to be in it?” she asked quietly.

  “Let me check on those zombie batteries. See if they’ve risen from the dead,” I muttered, ducking out of the kitchen. Why was it so hard to answer her questions? I didn’t have answers. At least, none that Pippa needed to hear.

  The tribe had its own rules. That’s the way it had to be.

  My mom told me that Dad couldn’t wait to leave the Rez. As soon as he got out of school, he moved into his own place with some bandmates. He probably thought he was going to be famous. Guess he never planned on me showing up. He didn’t plan on a lot of things.

  The camera batteries were plugged into the wall behind the dining room table. I had to squeeze behind it to pull them out and that’s when I saw the gun—smaller and more compact than my air rifle. I picked up the .357 Mag and felt its weight in my hands.

  Dad liked to go to Trail Glades on the weekend and fire off rounds at paper targets. He was always telling me that we’d go shooting together. Of course, that never happened. Now the gun was sitting next to a stack of bills. The safety was locked. I found the carrying case—a soft, padded bag that looked like a fanny pack—unzipped on a chair.

  I figured Dad had gone shooting earlier and left it on the table. Pretty typical. I fit the Mag back in its case. Now what? I felt kind of weird about it being out in the open. Meanwhile, Pippa was talking to me, but I couldn’t hear her. Without thinking, I shoved the gun in my backpack and zipped it.

  “What’s going on with the batteries?” she asked.

  “All charged up.” I grabbed a set of keys off the table. Then I had a brilliant idea. “Ever been on a motorcycle?”

  “Lots of times,” she said. “Okay. I lied.”

  “My dad’s got this Kawasaki. The engine runs kind of chunky. I think it needs the plugs changed, but he’s too lazy to deal with it.”

  “Is that your half-assed version of an invite?”

  “You might say that.” I spun the keys. “Besides. You could shoot a ton of amazing road footage.”

  “Oh, I get it. You mean, like, those old movies where people are driving, right? And the road is, like, projected behind their heads?”

  “Pretty much,” I said, throwing on my jacket.

  She jabbed her thumb at my Scout badge: ON MY HONOR. TIMELESS VALUES. “Is that supposed to be ironic?”

  “There should be a zombie survival badge,” I said.

  “Oh my god. That would be awesome. ‘Hey, I’ve been working on this zombie movie with my friend Trent. We do all our own stunts and everything—’”

  “A zombie wouldn’t have a chance around a crocodile,” I cut in. “Crocs have a thing for dead meat, you know? Nice and soft. If it’s too tough to eat now, they’ll store it for later. See, they’re different from gators. They’re kind of like the vultures of the swamp.”

  “I guess that’s one way of looking at it,” Pippa said.

  “Did you know that vultures defend themselves by projectile vomiting? Can you imagine sneaking up on one and he’s all freaked out and just lets loose on you, like, take that!”

  Pippa followed me into the garage. It was so packed with junk, you almost missed the lime-green motorcycle tipped against the wall.

  “The kickstand’s busted,” I said. “It’s a sweet bike, though. My dad treats it like garbage.”

  “And he doesn’t care if you steal it?”

  “Steal? It’s called borrowing.” I lifted the seat and took out a helmet, which was like something an astronaut would wear. “It’s all good. Mucho good, in fact,” I said, passing it to her. “This will keep your zombie brains from splattering all over the concrete.”

  “Thanks.” Pippa slid the helmet on. It was way too big for her, but she looked totally badass. Not to mention, super cute.

  I grinned. “You ready?”

  eight

  The pavement flew beneath us. We were going faster than the cars, zipping in and out of lanes. It was just me and Pippa and the bike. All the pines on the side of the road smushed together like backgrounds in cartoons.

  As we picked up speed, my T-shirt flapped against my skin. I was freaking out. Not gonna lie. When I gunned the engine, my pulse jumped. No going back now. Pippa wrapped her arms around the space above my jeans and squeezed.

  We were totally in the open. No protection if we wiped out. The bike rumbled under me like it might burst into flames. That would be cool, but not exactly convenient.

  We rode to Everglades National Park and rolled straight through the entrance. Just waved as we passed the ranger station. The guy inside waved back. I kept cruising down this wide, curvy path. There was nobody around except for a lonely backpacker marching into the swamp.

  “This is the perfect place for my zombie movie,” Pippa screamed into the wind.

  “The army used to hide missiles out here,” I told her.

  She wasn’t really listening. That’s when I pulled off the road.

  Pippa squeezed tighter. “We’re stopping?”

  I glanced at the sky. Vultures circled like punctuation marks. I remembered what I’d told Pippa. They defended themselves by vomiting. Nature was so weird.

  “Don’t you want to check it out?” I asked.

  “Check what out?”

  “The abandoned missile base.”

  “Okay.” I could tell she was trying to hold it together. “Are there any snakes around?”

  “Burmese pythons, mostly.”

  She shuddered. “Lots of them?”

  “Trust me. You don’t want to know. Even the park rangers lost count. That’s because stupid people buy them as pets. When the python grows to be, like, twelve feet long, they throw them away. Kind of messed up. I mean, it’s not the snake’s fault … ”

  I swung my leg over the bike. Pippa almost fell, but I helped her down like a true gentleman.

  “Watch out for the tailpipe,” I said,
grabbing a backpack from under the seat. “The metal gets so hot, you could torch the skin off your leg. That’s what happened to my dad. Third-degree burns. He’s got a scar and everything.”

  The stripes in the pavement were so faded, I wondered how long ago anybody had driven over them. We walked to a fence snarled with barbed wire. Behind it, a sign said: U.S. ARMY RESTRICTED AREA. USE OF DEADLY FORCE IS AUTHORIZED.

  “This is crazy.” Pippa was talking so fast, it sounded like she was on crack. “Oh my god. I can’t believe we’re doing this. Are you sure we won’t get caught?”

  I was already climbing the fence. I tossed my jacket over the barbed wire so Pippa wouldn’t get cut. She hauled herself over like it was nothing. It took me a couple tries just to dig my sneakers into the links without slipping.

  Once I reached the top, I was super proud of myself. No joke.

  Getting down was another thing.

  “Now what?” I shouted.

  “Just move fast and don’t think.”

  “I’m not very good at that.”

  “Which one? Moving fast? Or thinking?”

  “Both. There’s a certain part of my anatomy that … um …

  I don’t want to mess up.” Did I just say that out loud?

  I managed to scramble over the barbed wire. Once I was halfway down the other side, I jumped and hit the ground so hard a jolt of pain blasted through my knees.

  “Nice,” Pippa said. “Are you just going to leave the bike there?”

  “Oh, right. The swamp apes might steal it. Quit your bitching. Nobody’s gonna find it.”

  The road curved toward a building in the distance. The missile base was just a row of cement blocks, like the ones we used to stack in the backyard, pretending we were Storm Troopers defending the Death Star. This thing was for real, though it was all boarded up with plywood and the bolts in the DANGER sign had rusted.

  A burnt-looking tree was the only semi-living thing in sight. Pippa took a composition book out of her bag. She sat down, right there on the grass, and started writing. It was kind of geeky and adorable at the same time.

  “Taking notes?” I asked.

  “For my zombie screenplay. I want to remember what this place looks like. It’s kind of epic.”