The Brave

by James Bird

FLYING ON A SHEET OF PAPER   (32)

  I sit somewhere between the wing and the back of the plane. Seat 26A, to be exact. And even though I’m kind of nervous, this being my first time in a plane, I’m happy I got a window seat. I mean, if we’re going to crash, I want to at least see it coming. I want to see that mountain get closer. I don’t want to be sitting there staring at some guy’s bald head and then—bam—I’m extra crispy. I want to have time to draw it before we explode into a million pieces.

  I guess Minnesota isn’t a very popular place, because half of the plane is empty. I hope Seven is okay down below in the cargo area. But she’s always been braver than me, so I bet she’s already making friends with the other dogs. Even cats like her. It’s weird.

  We take off. I watch the land get smaller and smaller. What was once home is now a white clouded floor that looks thick enough to walk on. When you look up from the ground, the clouds are in the shapes of animals and pirate ships, but from up here, they’re just an endless blank sheet of paper waiting for someone to draw on.

  So that’s what I do. I reach down and pull out my backpack.

  Before I draw, I take notice of a few things. The plane doesn’t sound quite how I imagined it would. I expected a cool whooshing sound as we barreled through the sky, but sadly, it’s as smooth as a car, and it just sounds like we’re inside an elevator: just a low buzz with the occasional hiccup.

  It all happened so fast, but now that I have time to think about it, my dad looked kind of sad as he walked me through the airport. He even wore a button-down shirt for some reason, like this was an important event for him. And not one word about my all-black outfit. Maybe there’s a part of him that will miss me. He didn’t give me some important parting speech like they do in the movies. He just said, “Be good and be safe.” To which I replied, “Fifteen.”

  A tall woman wearing a blue uniform approaches me. Her blond hair is pulled back, and her smile looks exactly like a billboard ad for a dentist. Her teeth are as white as the cloud sea we are flying on.

  “Would you like a drink?” she asks.

  “Eighteen,” I say.

  She laughs. “Let’s just start with one, shall we?”

  “Twenty-seven. Apple juice?”

  Now she looks confused. Not knowing what to say, she pours me an apple juice and flashes me her smile again. I must look a bit nervous, because she kneels down and speaks in a whisper. I hope she doesn’t have much to say.

  “First time on a plane?” she asks.

  “Seventeen. This is my seventeenth flight,” I say, which makes her eyebrows lower.

  Before she can respond, I speak. She looks too nice to interrupt someone, so as long as I keep talking, she won’t be.

  “I guess I am a bit nervous. How often do planes crash?” I ask.

  She stands up and gives me a wink. “Just once,” she says.

  “Eight,” I say, and laugh.

  I like her. She’s funny. She hands me a napkin for my apple juice. “Don’t worry. This is my nine hundredth flight,” she says and smiles.

  “Thirty-six,” I say, but she is already handing a tomato juice to the man behind me.

  I down the apple juice in two huge gulps and pull out my notebook. I dig through the bottom of my bag to find a pencil. Got it. I lean back and flip through a few drawings and get to a fresh blank page. I stare at it and decide it’s an already completed drawing. It’s the sheet of cloud. It looks perfectly accurate, and I didn’t even have to lift a finger to draw it. I flip to the next blank page.

  I know exactly who to draw. The butterfly from last night. I put pencil to paper and begin. Once I have her wings fully outlined, I start to draw her body. But before the drawing is complete, a rather small brown-haired girl in a denim dress approaches me.

  “A butterfly?” she asks.

  “Ten. Yes.”

  “How did you know I was ten?”

  “Twenty. A lucky guess.”

  “You’re twenty?”

  “Eleven.”

  “You’re funny.”

  “Ten. You’re funny too.”

  She laughs. Little kids are much better conversationalists for someone like me. They just laugh and get over it. Adults try to problem solve, which only creates a bigger problem. I hand her the drawing before she can say anything else.

  “For me?

  “Five. You like butterflies, don’t you?”

  “Yes. They’re so pretty.”

  She takes the butterfly with a huge grin on her face.

  “Thank you.”

  “Twenty-five. You’re welcome. Make sure to color her wings brown and yellow.”

  Her mother swoops in and takes her daughter’s hand.

  “Sorry if she was bothering you.”

  “Twenty-five. She was no bother,” I say.

  Her mother tilts her head at my response but says nothing. She doesn’t have to. I know that look all too well.

  She escorts her daughter back to her seat. This reminds me to put on my earmuffs. No one will try to talk to me if I’m wearing those. I don’t know why I gave her my drawing, but hopefully she’ll hang it on her bedroom wall, and over time the butterfly will get to watch that little girl grow up and turn into a young woman.

  I put on my earmuffs on, plug the cord into my phone, and hit PLAY. As a pop song begins, my eyes catch a fly buzzing by and landing on one of the seats. I lean closer to get a better look, but it sees my movement and takes off toward the front of the plane. If I was that fly, I’d go find a seat in first class. I’d be a fly that flies in style. Plus, the food looked way better than the crackers they give back here.

  I wonder which state we are flying over? At thirty thousand feet in the air, it’s hard to get a sense of the rest of America. This is my first time traveling, and to be honest, this feels more like sitting in a bus, near the window, parked at the top of a very tall building. I was hoping we’d be zigzagging through clouds as the captain would list off every city we flew over, but I guess he has better things to do, like fly a metal box carrying a hundred people through the air at hundreds of miles per hour.

  I start drawing another animal. This time a stork. But this stork is in the shape of a plane. And this stork-plane is carrying a boy to Minnesota and is running twelve years behind schedule, to finally deliver him to his mother.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MINNESOTA GROWS YOU UP   (29)

  I once heard that it’s not the destination that matters, but the journey getting there, and I just slept through most of the journey. Shoot. Now we’re here. Now I’m nervous.

  How can it be that I am almost thirteen years old and about to see my mother for the first time? I wonder how much I look like her? The only thing I inherited from my dad was his pale skin and stubbornness. Once, when I was nine years old, he told me that I have my mother’s cheekbones and her almond-shaped eyes. I never understood if he was saying that to be nice or to be mean. Comparing eye shape to a type of nut doesn’t seem like a compliment, but I like almonds, so I’ll take it.

  Now I get to see for myself what a real Native American looks like, not just the ones you see on screen. I shake my head to wash out the stereotypes embedded in my mind from the countless Western flicks I watched growing up. My mother will not jump out from a bush armed with a tomahawk. She will not be covered in war paint with eagle feathers framing her head. She will not raise her hand to me and say, “How.”

  But I do have a question for her, and it isn’t how. It’s why. Why did you give me away so easily? In cartoons, Native Americans are always so tuned in to nature. Perhaps it’s true, and the animals spoke to my mom and told her I’d be too much of a hassle to live with? Is it possible some messenger bird reported my condition to her? I know the Spartans threw away their defective babies, but did Native Americans, too?

  I should have read more about my people. My people? My half people? I never had a people before. It’s always just been Seven and me … and my dad passed out on the couch.

/>   I step off the plane and instantly see the difference between California folk and Minnesotans. Everyone here is bundled up in scarves and coats like puffy birds. And to my surprise, there are even people walking around this airport with earmuffs. That’s a plus. In California, I was the only person wearing earmuffs.

  Wearing mine, I blend in with the people around me for the first time in my life. I know the Minnesotans are doing it to keep their ears warm, but I can’t help imagining that perhaps I just landed onto a planet where everybody counts letters like I do.

  What if this is where they send people like me?

  I ask an airline attendant for directions to the gate where they release the animals. I can’t wait to see Seven. I always feel better when she’s by my side. Especially in new places, and this is the newest place I have ever been. This is my new life, and I need her with me more now than ever.

  There’s a small woman at the cargo gate handing over the pets to their owners. I watch her lift two cat carriers at once. Wow. She’s stronger than she looks. When the cats’ owner chats briefly with the cargo handler, I’m disappointed that I don’t hear numbers, even though the cat lady has earmuffs hanging around her neck. I guess people here just wear them for the weather. Too bad.

  I step forward and hand the airline woman the paper that joins Seven and me together. She accepts it and smiles. I pull down my earmuffs and smile back. Hopefully this will be the extent of our conversation … But instead …

  “How was your flight?” she asks with an accent I can’t quite place.

  “Sixteen. It was good,” I reply.

  “Sixteen?”

  “Seven. My dog’s name is Seven. Wow, it’s cold in here,” I say, and put the earmuffs on, in hopes that she’ll get the hint.

  It works. She heads back behind the gate to find my girl. Even though I don’t want to talk to this woman, she is very nice to look at. Her skin is much darker than mine, and her accent sounds like she came from somewhere far away, much farther than California. Her hair is covered in a floral fabric that wraps around her head, almost resembling an upside-down beehive.

  I wonder if she had to take a plane to America, and maybe she loved the flight so much that she made sure to get a job that kept her close to planes. She looks happy. Way happier than my dad ever looked when he was working. He hated his jobs, and he had a lot of them. Maybe I’ll tell him to apply at the airport. Maybe he could be as happy as this lady.

  But there is one person who is happier than her right now. Me, because I can see Seven running toward me, dragging the small happy lady behind her. I squat down, and Seven barrels into my body, licking my entire face, knocking my earmuffs from my ears, bringing all the airport noise back to me. I’m not counting the licks, but the number is certainly high.

  “You two have a nice day,” the lady says as she hands me the leash.

  I am close enough to read her name tag. SHIMAH. It’s six letters.

  “Eighteen. Thank you, Shimah,” I say, and leave before she can respond.

  Seven and I stand and wait for my suitcase at baggage claim. There are so many people here, but luckily for me, no one is talking. Everyone is either looking at their phones or eyeing the conveyer belt, searching for their stuff like it’s a race to see who can get out of this airport the fastest.

  After a few minutes, I pull my suitcase off the belt and head outside to the area where people get picked up.

  I see boyfriends embracing girlfriends, wives embracing husbands, and parents scooping up their little traveling children. It’s like one of those commercials on TV where everyone is paid to be overly happy. But I don’t see anyone who could be my mother waiting to greet me.

  I look at my watch and see that I’m right on time, to the exact minute.

  It’s much colder than what I’m used to. It kind of stings my nose, but I’m not sure if it’s because of the temperature or the fact that I was punched the other day. Whatever the case, it hurts, so I lift up the collar of my shirt and cover my nose. I probably look like a bandit, but even bandits need to stay warm.

  I wonder if Seven likes this new cold feeling. Her nose is much bigger than mine, so she must be feeling it more. But she looks excited as she sniffs the air. It smells much cleaner than in California. I guess I got so used to the smog that I started to believe all air is dirty, but the air here actually smells nice, like the first few seconds after a shower. It’s crisp and fresh.

  As the crowd dwindles, I see an empty bench and walk toward it. But on the way, Seven jolts me to a stop. I turn around to see what grabbed her attention.

  Standing before me is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Is this my mom? Her skin is like what a fire would look like if it were perfectly still. It’s the color of darkened flames, brown, orange, and red mixed together to make one color: fire-skin. I’ve seen many skin colors before, living in California, but never fire-skin.

  And her long black hair is like the heavy smoke above the fire. It drapes down and crawls away from the sky as she walks toward me. I should probably say something, but I don’t.

  My dad was telling the truth when he said that her cheekbones look as if they were chiseled by an artist. But the most beautiful part about her is her eyes. They are every shade of brown, swirling around in circles. Speckled with tiny gold dots. I feel dizzy staring at them. But maybe that’s because I’m so nervous. This woman gave birth to me. When you’re born, the first way you greet your mom is with a loud cry, but what do you do twelve years later? I can’t start wailing. That would be weird. So what do I say? What do I do?

  My mouth is open; I can feel the chilly breeze hitting my tongue, but no words are coming out. I need to say something. But despite everything that has gone on for the last forty-eight hours, I failed to ask my dad one very important question … What is my mom’s name? I can’t believe I don’t know it. That’s horrible, but it’s not all my fault. My dad did brush away every question I ever asked about her. Over time I gave up on asking.

  “One thing you will enjoy about our family is we only speak when we have something to say,” she says after she removes my earmuffs from my head, placing them around my neck.

  Her words drift like boats from one end of my mind to the other. Oddly, I don’t mind counting her letters. I’m sure I will later, but not right now.

  “Seventy-one,” I say.

  She smiles. “That many?”

  “Eight,” I say.

  Her voice is soft and soothing. The kind of voice that might make you smile for no reason. Which is probably why I’m smiling now. And she does have an accent, but not like one I’ve ever heard before. It’s nothing like Shimah’s or any of the Spanish accents I heard in school. It’s more like she adds two spacebars after every word instead of one. They are more pronounced and meaningful. It’s almost as if everyone else speaks in italics and she speaks in bold. She grabs the leash from my hand and kneels down to Seven.

  “And you must be his best friend, which now makes you my best friend,” she says, and cradles Seven’s face in her fire-skin hands.

  Seven’s tail goes wild. My mother stands up and extends her hand to my cheek. By instinct, I back away. I’m not used to being touched, unless it was a fist from some jerk in school. But I instantly feel bad for dodging her attempt. I know she meant no harm. But now I’ll feel stupid if I lean my face toward her. What do I do? Do I tell her to try again? Should I reach out and touch her face? Is this a Native American thing I don’t know about? I hope I didn’t insult her.

  This is not a good start.

  “Let’s go home,” she says.

  “Ten,” I say and follow her.

  My mom leads Seven and me toward the parking lot. We enter the sea of cars, and like a bonehead, I can’t help but be on the lookout for a horse. I know there won’t be one, but a part of me wishes that this one stereotype was true. I mean, it would be so cool if we rode a horse to my new home.

  She stops in front of an old, rusted red pickup truck.
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  “Here we are,” she says.

  “Nine,” I respond.

  That’s one thing my parents have in common. They both drive pickups. I don’t know if that connection warrants having a baby together, but here we are.

  She opens the back and pats the side of the truck, sending puffs of dirt into the air. Seven hops up and sits.

  “Were you expecting a horse?” she asks, smiling.

  “Twenty-two. No,” I lie.

  Wow. Can my mom read minds? If so, all she’ll see in my head is a bunch of numbers. I must be a boring subject for her.

  “Toss your stuff in the back and sit up front with me.”

  “Forty-one. Can I ride in the back with Seven?” I ask.

  “I don’t bite. I promise,” she says, showing her teeth behind her smile, and opens the passenger side door for me.

  “Seventeen. It’s just that I’ve never seen Minnesota before.”

  She shuts the door. “In that case, I’ll go easy on the bumps,” she says, and walks over to the driver’s side and climbs into her red metal steed. “It’s going to be cold, so hold on to that furry heater of yours.”

  I know I should sit up front and bombard her with the hundreds of questions I have for her, but the truth is, I don’t want her to dislike me yet. I don’t want her to second-guess her decision to take me in. Especially after leaving me twelve years ago.

  I toss my luggage over the rail and climb into the bed of the truck. And after a few jolts, the old engine roars to life like a hungry lion. Music plays from the truck’s radio. I can’t hear it well enough yet to figure out what song it is, but I’m just happy that my mom likes music. Sounds simple, right? I mean, who doesn’t like music? Well, my dad never listened to music, even though he met my mom at a rock concert. He listened to talk radio, obsessively.

  As we turn, the breeze subsides, and the music takes the lead. It’s country music. Now, I don’t know much about country, but I haven’t been impressed with what I have heard so far. But this move is all about second chances. So if I get one, then so does country music, and—to be honest—it doesn’t sound half bad.