by James Bird
“One hundred and fifty-four,” I say.
And before he has a chance to respond, I run out of the classroom. The trail of laughter fades as I get farther away from the class. I feel dizzy. Halfway through the hall, I see the bathroom door and dive in. It’s completely empty. Good.
I stumble to the sink and even with my shaky hands, I manage to turn the nozzle. First one, then two, now three splashes onto my face, slowly bringing my heart rate back to normal. I take a deep breath and stare at my reflection. I need to accept my defeat. And why not? Losing is what I do best.
I spend the remainder of the time hiding in a bathroom stall until I hear the bell. As guys start piling into the bathroom, I make my way out and head toward the exit of the building. I still have two more classes, but I quickly decide I’ve had enough school for today. I’m done.
I push the double doors open and march toward the bus stop. I’ll wait it out right here. My watch says 1:25, which gives me two hours to kill. I sit down on the curb and put my headphones in. I hit random, and … and nothing. What the hell? Just my luck; my battery is dead. I lose again. Earmuffs it is.
I’ll keep these on until I reach home. Just in case someone walks by and asks if I heard about the new kid that completely flipped out in class today. I know how gossip works. By this time tomorrow, I’ll already have a nickname. Let’s see how clever these Minnesota students can be.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE LONG WALK HOME (28)
The bus drops me off right where my mom said it would, but I don’t see her waiting for me. And it’s really cold out. I look around me. There are no buildings, no cars, no people. Just a sprawling forest of dancing trees in every direction.
The wind howls through the branches, swaying them back and forth like windshield wipers on my dad’s pickup during Southern California’s one rainy day a year. Oh no. I hope it doesn’t rain. I look up and scan the sky for gray clouds, but they’re all white and fluffy as cotton balls spread out across the light blue sky.
It’s strange not to hear anything besides the wind. I’m so used to constant traffic and city buzz. Maybe I should start walking? But I’m not exactly sure how to even get home. Every direction looks the same. The thought of my mom having regrets creeps into my head again. What if she’s not running late, but has no intention of picking me up at all? Maybe she already called my dad and begged him to take me back?
I shake my head to erase my thoughts, and as I turn toward the reservation, I see someone walking toward me. With the cold air stinging my eyes, the figure looks blurry. Is that my mom? Did her truck break down? Everything seems to break when I’m near, so the chances aren’t too unlikely. So I start walking toward her. And as I get close enough, I see it’s not my mom … It’s my grandma.
She’s wearing a dress that is the same cut and length as her two previous dresses, which convinces me that I was right; it’s one color-changing dress. Today it’s red. It flows across her body, seemingly not affected by the wind at all. Her long black and silver hair hangs down too, covering her shoulders. Her head must be used to this weather. Mine is not, and it whips back and forth like the leaves surrounding me.
You’d think at her age, she’d have a limp or slow walk, but she looks healthy as a horse. And as she gets closer, I see she’s smiling. I’ve noticed that my grandma always seems to be in good spirits.
“Hi, Grandma,” I shout through the cold gusts as she approaches me.
She takes a few moments, then lifts her fingers into the air, like a conductor. “Nine, I think.” She laughs.
“Ten,” I say.
“Oh, I was close,” she says.
“Eleven. No, you were right. ‘Nine, I think,’ is ten. ‘Oh, I was close’ is eleven. This will go on forever,” I warn her.
“We got nine, ten, and eleven … We need a twelve.”
“Thirty-four. Sorry, but you said too much.”
“I always say too much.”
“Seventeen. We should stop this banter soon,” I say.
“Stop? But we haven’t even started,” she says, and signals me to walk back toward home with her.
“Twenty-six. After you,” I say.
We begin walking together. The only sound I can hear is our feet crunching the fallen leaves as we enter the reservation grounds.
“All these numbers are making me hungry,” she says.
“Thirty-two. I’m pretty hungry, too. I skipped lunch today,” I say.
“Hunger isn’t always about food, kiddo. I’m hungry for an adventure.”
“Fifty-two. What do you have in mind?” I ask.
“Let’s see where our feet take us,” she replies, and picks up her pace.
How does this old lady have so much energy? I’m already getting tired, and she’s kicking up leaves and practically skipping.
“Twenty-five. Does my mom know you’re here?”
“I told her I’d get you. Let’s let the adventure begin, shall we?” She heads off the main road and into the pathless forest. “Feet! Take us somewhere special!”
“Seventy-three. Okay,” I say, and follow her. Did she just talk to her feet?
About twenty steps in, she bends down and picks up a large stick. She shows it to me with wide open eyes as if it were made of gold.
“Do you know what this is?” she asks.
“Nineteen. A stick?”
She laughs as if I said something downright foolish. I don’t get it. It’s a freaking stick. She holds it up to my face, making me examine it more closely.
“Is that what you see?”
“Sixteen. That’s exactly what I see. Do you see something different?” I ask.
She points it to the ground and carves three letters into the dirt. Y-E-S.
Clever. Now I get it. “I see a stick, and you see a very large pencil. Interesting.”
She laughs and breaks the stick in half with her thigh. So she’s as strong as a horse, too.
“Want one?” She hands me one of the oversized pencils.
“Seven, thanks. What was once a stick is now two pencils. Cool.”
But she’s not done yet.
“Yes, you can give it to Seven, and she won’t see a stick or a pencil, will she?”
“Fifty-seven. Nope. She’ll see a toy,” I say.
She spins in joy, like I just solved some riddle.
“See … we all see the same thing differently, don’t we?”
And here I thought grandmas were just mean old ladies who complained when you trod mud onto the carpet or when you didn’t eat all your vegetables. But this lady is pretty cool. She probably loves mud.
“Forty. I guess we do.”
She lets me ponder that as she continues to walk down the dirt road. I stick my large pencil into my pocket and catch up to her. I even kick up a few leaves on my way just to see why she enjoyed it so much.
We saunter back home in silence. Not because we don’t want to talk anymore, but more because she said all she had to say and I heard all I had to hear, or at least I think that’s why. I hope that’s why.
When we reach the house, she points to the backyard gate.
“You go through that way. I’ll let you in from the back,” she says.
“Forty-one. Why?” I ask.
“Why not?”
Fair enough. Maybe she does care about dirty shoes on the carpet after all.
“Six,” I say, and walk toward the back gate. It’s unlocked. I step inside and see Seven sleeping in the shaded corner against the house.
“Hey, girl,” I shout, and she springs to her feet, breaking into a full gallop.
She reaches me by the time I approach the sliding glass door. I try to pull it open, but it’s locked. I wait for a few moments and press my hands to the glass to peer in, but I don’t see my grandma. Oh, great. Not again.
I rush toward the back gate, but as I near it, I hear it click from the other side. I pull at it, but now it too is locked.
“Not funny, Grandma
,” I shout.
I look through the narrow wooden gaps, but I don’t see her. Why is she always locking me out here? Is this another lesson? Being trapped in a backyard all day? That’s ridiculous. But as I think it, I also arrive to the conclusion that if it is a test, I’m not doing so well at it. Last time I ended up with a bloody leg and a bump on my head.
Is my mom home? I didn’t see the truck out front. I’m hungry and thirsty. How can I pass this test on an empty stomach? I look at Seven’s water bowl and consider drinking from it, but I’m not that desperate … yet. I walk back toward the sliding glass door and try again. Nope. It’s still locked. But then, in the reflection of the glass, something catches my eye. The fence. The hole I made in the fence is back. How is that possible? I saw that it was repaired last night. I rub my eyes to see if I’m hallucinating, either from the cold or my hunger. But it’s as clear as the blue sky above my head; the two broken pieces of wood are leaning against the fence, right next to the opening.
Did Grandma seriously repair it last night only to break it again today? That doesn’t seem likely. Maybe it never was fixed? Maybe I thought I saw it repaired? I mean, honestly, how could an old lady fix a fence all by herself? I know she’s strong, but still. And I did tell her I would fix it. Great. Now I not only look clumsy, but also unreliable. Maybe this is why she locked me out here again, to do what I said I’d do.
I approach the fence and peek my head through the opening and can’t believe my eyes. The neighbor’s yard, which was as dead as ours was, is now covered in healthy green grass. How can an entire yard just completely bloom into life overnight? I feel like I’m a character in a fantasy novel. What is going on? What is with this strange place called Minnesota?
Then it hits me. Maybe I’m dehydrated. That’s it. I just need to get into my house and drink a gallon of water.
So, just like yesterday, I step through the fence and squeeze my entire body through. I reach back and place the two wooden boards over the opening so Seven can’t follow me through this time. And speaking of this time … this time, I’ll be ready for any projectile being launched down toward my head.
I creep through the fresh grassy yard as quietly as possible. I notice many random orange pieces of fruit scattered throughout the yard. Are those peaches? In October? What’s that about? As I get near a peach that has been cut in half, I see a butterfly on it, eating. In fact, as I look closer, most of the peaches have butterflies feasting on them. I didn’t even know butterflies ate fruit. Seeing a peach at this time of year is odd enough, but isn’t it way too cold for butterflies to still be around? It’s fall. I should be staring at pumpkins and, I don’t know, crows?
As I pass each peach, the butterflies take flight and dance around the yard. It feels like a fairy tale. In every direction I look, there are happy little butterflies with peach-filled bellies dancing to a song only they can hear.
I keep my eyes upward, to avoid any baseballs being hurled down, and reach the back gate. Just my luck; hers is locked too. Now I need her to let me out. I’m pathetic. I don’t even know how to successfully sneak through a yard without asking for help. I walk over to the thick trunk of the tree. There aren’t any wooden blocks nailed into the tree, or even a ladder propped against it. So how does she get up to her tree house?
“Orenda?” I shout.
I wait for a few moments, but there’s no movement from above. I shout her name again. Just as I’m about to give up, a thick white rope drops down and nearly lands on my head.
I jump out of the way and look up to a square opening in the floor of her tree house, but from where I am, it’s too dark to see inside. I grab the rope and tug on it. It feels secure enough. I hoist my body onto the rope and wobble a bit as I try to balance my weight on it.
I begin my climb, and halfway up, I realize two things. One, I have no idea what I’m getting into. And two, I really need to start working out.
The last time I interacted with this girl, she threw a baseball at my head. I hope she doesn’t have the baseball bat up there. I go nice and slow. Easy does it.
I finally reach the top. I’m not really afraid of heights, but if I were to fall from this height, I’ll definitely break a bone or two, so I don’t look down. I grab the wooden floor opening of the tree house, lift my body up, and crawl inside.
It’s like a large bedroom in here, much bigger than it looks from the outside. The wooden walls are all plastered with colorful paintings and hanging figurines of butterflies. Her bed is against the wall, covered in a large red blanket with a huge yellow and brown butterfly knitted onto it.
“Hi,” she says from behind me.
I turn around and see her sitting in a shadow near the corner, wearing a white hooded sweatshirt and black jeans. It looks like her hoodie is splattered with every color of paint, either that or she just recently hugged a rainbow. Her long black hair flows out from a white knitted beanie. It’s still a little too dark to see if she’s holding a weapon in her hands, but it’s safe to say that if she were holding a large baseball bat, I’d be able to see it.
“Two. Hi,” I say, and shift the rest of my body to face her. She leans forward, revealing a thin red line of paint running from under her right eye to her right ear.
We stare at each other for a good twenty seconds. I guess this is what an awkward silence must be. It’s hard to tell, because I’m always awkward.
“Is that war paint on your face?”
She raises her hand and touches her face, smearing the line under her finger. After examining it, she smiles, revealing her teeth, which are as white as snow.
“Are you and I at war?” she asks.
“Fifteen. No. Of course not.”
“Then it’s not war paint. I’m just a messy painter,” she says, and points to an unfinished painting leaning against the wall.
Red paint is splattered against a white canvas. It doesn’t yet resemble a butterfly, but I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what it will soon be.
“It’s pretty,” I say.
“You really like numbers, don’t you?” she asks.
“Twenty-seven. They’re kinda my thing. You really like butterflies, don’t you?”
“They’re kinda my thing,” she replies.
“Eighteen.”
We stare at each other, like animals waiting for one to pounce so the other can run. I need to stop looking at her face. She’s so pretty, and I’m afraid I’ll start drooling soon or my eyes will bug out like they do in cartoons. And why is my heart beating so fast? I tell my eyes to turn away, but they don’t obey me.
“You’re weird,” she says.
“Ten. At least I don’t throw balls at people,” I say.
She laughs. “No, you throw numbers at people,” she fires back.
“Twenty-five. I guess I do.”
I finally pull my eyes off of her face. I see a wheelchair in the corner, splattered with paint and adorned with glitter, beads, shells, and colorful rocks glued on to it.
“Isn’t it dangerous to have a wheelchair in a tree house?” I ask.
“Dangerous? How so?” she asks.
“Fourteen. Well, for one, wheelchairs have wheels, and we are pretty high up. It could roll right out of the hole in the floor. Then boom! You’d need the wheelchair for the rest of your life,” I say.
She laughs, grabs a cane from the shaded corner, and lifts her body to a standing position. The cane wobbles before going stiff, and she slowly walks toward me. I mean, really slowly.
“I already need it for the rest of this life,” she says as she passes me and reaches the wheelchair. I watch her position her body just right, before sinking into the seat. I’m such an ass. I feel horrible. I need to say something nice to fix this. Quick! Think!
“Thirty-four. Oh.”
No, I can do better than that. I need to apologize without apologizing.
“Sorry.” Ugh. I just apologized with one meaningless word.
She’s smiling, though, somehow finding th
is all very amusing.
“Don’t be sorry. This is all part of my metamorphosis,” she says.
“Forty-one. What do you mean?” I ask.
“I’m changing. What else could I mean?” she says.
It dawns on me that I am right now talking, actually talking to a girl. And to top it off, she doesn’t look annoyed in the slightest. And to top off the top off, I’m picking up absolutely zero pity from her.
What were we talking about? Oh yes. She’s changing.
“Twenty-eight. How … are you changing?” I ask.
“That’s a long story. To tell it to you, I first gotta know yours,” she says.
“That’s exactly what my mom said,” I say, laughing after I count her letters.
“Your mom’s a smart cookie. Now, spill the paint,” she says.
I count her letters and look at her strangely, then I shift my eyes over to her tubs of red paint lining the wooden shelves nailed into the wooden walls.
“Thirty-six. You want me to spill some of your paint?” I ask.
Her eyebrows rise. “I meant, spill the beans,” she corrects herself.
Wait (nineteen). So, the prettiest girl on earth has just asked me to tell her something about myself. This has never happened before. What do I say? What do people in tree houses talk about? I look down and notice that I’m repeatedly rubbing my hands together. They’ll start a fire soon. I’m so nervous. I grab both of my knees and hold on tight.
“Nineteen. Well, what do you want to know?”
“Well, for starters, who are you?” she asks.
Her letters parade through my head like a marching band. I’ve never really enjoyed this counting thing, but her words, I don’t know, I’d count them all day if it meant I could look at her all day. Maybe because they exited her lips. Oh yes. Look at them. They are so beautiful. I should probably stop staring at them. This is tough.
