The Brave

by James Bird

  “Twenty-four. My name is Collin. I just moved in next door. I just met my mom. I had my first day of school today, and that didn’t go too well. What else? Oh, I have a dog named Seven. And my grandma likes to lock me out of the house. That’s me,” I say.

  “Oh yes, I heard about you,” she says.

  Great. Word travels fast around here. One day at school, and I’m already the talk of the town. How gossip found its way up into a tree house, I don’t know.

  “Nineteen. Don’t believe everything you hear. I mean, maybe you heard I was weird or a freak or whatever, but did you also hear I was kicked out of my old school for fighting? I bet you didn’t hear that,” I say, trying for the less of a freak and more of a rebel angle.

  Wow. Was that my attempt of trying to sound cool? Please don’t ask me if I won the fight or not. Saying I lost will immediately make me uncool.

  She clasps her hands together and smiles like I just said something interesting.

  “A rebel! And I thought I was the only one left around here,” she says.

  “Forty-five. Yep. That’s me. I’m a rebel. I fight. I trespass through people’s backyards, I even break into tree houses, but technically, this time, you invited me in by dropping down the rope, so I’m a guest right now, not a bandit,” I say.

  She laughs. “Who still uses the word bandit?” she asks.

  “Twenty-five. Rebels do.”

  “Twenty-five rebels?” she says and laughs again.

  “Sixteen. No. All rebels say bandit. I think,” I say, watching this conversation potentially flush down the toilet.

  “I see. So I take it you won?” she asks.

  “Nineteen. Won the fight? Sadly, no. But you can’t win them all, right?”

  “I can help you, you know.”

  “Eighteen. You can teach me how to fight?”

  “Yes. I can help you with your number thing. I can train you to fight it, if you’re not too scared, that is.”

  I’ve heard this from so many doctors that I’ve lost count. Imagine that. Me, losing count. But it’s cute coming from a girl in a tree house that I just met. Naive, but cute.

  I count her letters and offer her some friendly advice. “I think you’d have an easier time teaching me how to fight people instead,” I say.

  Her eyes widen like she was just offered a challenge and happily accepts it. “You don’t think we can defeat it?” she asks.

  “Twenty-five. You know how many doctors have tried?” I respond.

  “Doctors try to fix whatever breaks. But as far as I can see, you’re not broken. Look at me. They tried to fix me, but I’m not broken either,” she says, and slaps her lap, all matter-of-fact-like.

  She watches my eyes shoot up into her wooden sky above us and count the invisible letters.

  “And how do you plan on beating it exactly?”

  “Well, all we need to do is teach you how to be as brave as a brave. How we do that, I have no idea yet, but it will come to me. Don’t you worry. I win all my fights. Even when I’m outnumbered,” she says with a grin.

  “So … what about you?” I ask.

  “What about me what?”

  “What’s your story?”

  She takes a deep breath and cracks her knuckles the way people do right before fistfights begin. I should know.

  “One story at a time, buster. We aren’t done with yours yet,” she says.

  “I’m really not that interesting.”

  “Well, that’s because your story isn’t finished yet.”

  “Well … I’m new here, so maybe my story has just started.”

  She claps three times. For no apparent reason.

  “Stories need exciting titles. And Collin doesn’t seem to fit you. I think the main character in your story needs a better name.”

  “One hundred and one.”

  “‘One Hundred and One’ is a horrible title,” she says with a smirk.

  “So what’s my title?”

  “Let’s see … In my mind, I was referring to you as the wingless bird boy, but now that you’re here, up close, you don’t really resemble a bird,” she says, and puts her hand over her chin, massaging it while she thinks. Tracking more red paint onto her face.

  “Why wingless bird boy?” I ask.

  “Well, the way you tried to fly out the window last night … Splat! Like a wingless bird,” she says, mashing her palms together the way my face met the dirt.

  She saw that. Did she see everything? Everything? I was naked. I’m so embarrassed. I need to brush this thought away. I need to focus on something else and not my nakedness tumbling out of the window. I stare at her hands.

  They are covered in paint, and each second that passes, I oddly find myself growing more and more jealous of her hands. They get to touch this girl’s face whenever they want to. What lucky hands. I want to hold them. They look so soft and, at the same time, so strong. I want to trace her fingers like a kid making a paper plate turkey with crayons in kindergarten.

  Oh my God. I’m literally staring at her with a huge grin. And she sees it.

  “I wasn’t just thinking about your hands, or a turkey,” I say.

  She laughs. “Good to know, because that would be super weird,” she says.

  “Orenda!” a man shouts. “Dinner is ready.” Nineteen.

  She wheels herself over to the window and pokes her head out.

  “Coming, Papa!” she shouts back.

  She rolls toward the open hole in her floor and slowly climbs out of her wheelchair. I step back to give her room as she attaches the rope to the steel bar of the wheelchair’s frame.

  “Like a bucket sent down a well,” she says, and tosses the rope over a wooden beam above her head.

  “You need help?” I ask.

  “Nope. I do it every day,” she says, and pushes the wheelchair toward the opening. It rolls out of the floor hole and suspends in the air. She gently guides it down the tree, foot by foot, with the rope.

  Her face tightens as she lowers the wheelchair until it hits the grass below. She’s super strong. I hope she doesn’t notice how weak I am. I hope she doesn’t watch me try to get down.

  “See you tomorrow. Oh, and don’t try to fly out of here. Use the rope,” she says with a wink, and grabs hold of both sides of the rope.

  She uses her arms to climb down, as natural as can be, like a monkey down a vine. Her legs interlock as she descends, but they keep losing grip and dangling, like they aren’t fully obeying her commands. I see her get a bit flustered about it, but she doesn’t say anything.

  I tally up her letters and step forward, watching her reach the ground, but right before she does, she swings her body forward and lands directly into the seat of the wheelchair waiting for her. There should be applause for that acrobatic stunt, but nope, there’s just me smiling down at her like a goof. She takes one last look up at me, smiles back, and pushes the giant wheels through the green grass of her yard toward her house.

  Now I’m alone in her tree house. I walk from corner to corner, examining her butterfly art. I wonder why she loves butterflies so much? Even more so, I wonder why she can’t walk like a normal person. But who am I to know anything about normal people?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  LEARNING FROM WOLVES   (31)

  I must have drunk two gallons of water after I was finally let back into the house by my mom. I want to find my grandma even more now. Not to ask her why she locked me out, but to thank her for doing so. If it weren’t for her, I would have never spent time with Orenda.

  But again, I couldn’t find her. She’s like a ninja in this house.

  “Collin,” my mother calls from the kitchen.

  “Six,” I yell back, and go see what she wants.

  As I round the hall, I hear kids laughing. When I turn the corner, there are two little kids sitting at the table.

  “Collin, I’d like to introduce you to two wonderful souls, Boy Who Runs Fast and Girl with Eyes Like Eagle,” my mother says pro
udly.

  They both look at me with equally proud faces, lips pursed together like they’re holding secrets in their mouths. I count the letters as quickly as I can to not look too strange in front of these little people.

  “Eighty-three. Hello, Boy Who Runs Fast and Girl with Eyes Like Eagle. My name is Collin.”

  The boy looks at the girl, and the girl looks at the boy, then both look at Mama. Am I missing something here? Why is everyone smiling? And all at once, the three of them erupt into a deep and heavy laughter. The boy nearly falls off his seat. I look at Seven, and even she is grinning.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Those aren’t our names!” the little boy barks out, while still laughing.

  “Eighteen,” I say, and end up laughing from all their laughing.

  It grabs ahold of me in a way I’m not used to. I put both arms around my stomach to hold it in, but I can’t. I let it out. Could it be? Am I becoming … Am I happy?

  “You’re so gullible,” the little girl says, and punches me in the arm.

  Wow. Even this little girl packs a punch. I really need to hit those weights soon.

  “Fifteen. Well, you look like an eagle, so…”

  They laugh again.

  “I’m Anna, and this is my brother, Nando,” she says.

  “They are clever little foxes,” my mother says, and ruffles both of their black-haired heads at once.

  “Twenty-nine. Twenty-four. Well, I know of a beast that eats clever little foxes.”

  They both sit up straight with wide, curious eyes. Seven used to love chasing me around the house. All she needs to see is feet shuffling away from her and she’ll tackle whoever owns them. It was one of our favorite games growing up.

  “Seven!” I say.

  Seven jumps up, and the kids scream and catapult out of their seats. Seven gives chase. My mother growls to help the effect, then laughs as the kids make a mad dash out of the room.

  “You know how long it took them to get into those seats?” she asks me.

  “Forty-three. Don’t worry. Seven will drag them both back any minute now.”

  We hear Nando shout from the other side of the house. Seven caught him. Good girl.

  “One down,” I say.

  My mother laughs and wraps her arms around me.

  “It’s good to finally have you home,” she says, and squeezes me tightly.

  I count her letters, and before thinking, I ask her something that has been on my mind since the moment I arrived here.

  “Why didn’t you ever come see me?” I ask.

  She pulls away to face me. I know this just took a serious turn, but serious is sometimes needed. I mean, if we laughed all day, we’d be split at the seams within a week.

  “I wanted to. But your father wanted the past to remain in the past.”

  I hear my dad’s voice as she says that. It’s something he has always said to me.

  “But you’re my mom. I should’ve known you,” I say.

  “He felt life would be easier for you out there, in a big house with nice schools. Growing up on a reservation isn’t exactly easy,” she says.

  Seriously?

  “Life wasn’t easy for me there.”

  “He said things were always going well. He sent me the pictures to prove it.”

  I know why my dad told her that. He refused to fail as a father. That’s why he kept me for so long. It’s in his competitive blood. Like I was a sport he had to win. I guess I should give him some credit. I may not have been the son he wanted, but he never threw in the towel … well, until he did.

  “He tried his best, I guess,” I say.

  “And now it’s my turn to try my best. And I will start by making sure your dog didn’t eat the neighbor’s children,” she says as she starts to leave the kitchen.

  “Eighty-six. Wait. Mama?” I say before she leaves the room.

  She stops and turns to face me.

  “What?”

  “Four. Did you tell those kids to ignore the numbers when I talk?”

  She smiles. “Why don’t you ask them?”

  “They haven’t even reacted to it. Everyone reacts to it.”

  “Maybe it’s not as big a deal as you think it is,” she says, and walks out.

  “Finally. I’m boring,” I happily say under my breath, once I count her letters.

  That’s it. It’s my turn to try my best. I’m not going to hide anymore. Maybe people here are different. Maybe my dad wasn’t lying when he said people here are more open-minded. From now on, I will make an effort. I am going to make friends and not sit alone in my room all day drawing pictures of animals. I am going to live my new life. And if people get annoyed with my numbers, so be it. If worse comes to worst, I can hang out with these two kids all day. But if better comes to best, then I’ll be spending all my time with Orenda, up in her tree house. Getting to know her story.

  The kids run back into the kitchen and take their seats. Seven follows and lies down at my feet. My mom hasn’t returned yet, but that’s okay. For the first time in my life, I want to get to know my neighbors. This is an amazing feeling. I just hope it lasts.

  “So, Anna, what do you like to do?” I ask.

  “Eat.”

  “Three. Is that all?” I ask.

  “That’s all right now. After I eat, I like to play. After I play, I like to dream,” she says, like each activity is better than the last.

  “Fifty-eight. You take your likes one step at a time. That’s smart. What about you, Nando?”

  He sits up proudly, back straight, and clears his throat. Like his hobbies are worth shouting from rooftops.

  “I like to play basketball and football and wrestle. I like eating, too.”

  “Fifty-six … Do you wonder why I said fifty-six?” I ask them both.

  They both look at each other like they are keeping a secret.

  “It’s okay. You can tell me,” I add.

  Anna places her elbows on the table like a miniature businessperson addressing the boardroom.

  “It’s weird, but I think everyone is weird,” she says.

  If people thought like this back in California, I might have had an awesome childhood.

  “Thirty-two. That’s a good way to look at it. What about you, Nando?”

  “How do you know it was thirty-two?” he asks.

  “Twenty-six. I just do. I see it. In my head.”

  “But what if you’re wrong?” he asks.

  “Nineteen. If I’m wrong, then that means something is wrong with the calculator inside me.”

  He laughs and looks at my head, as if he expects to see an actual calculator protruding from under my hair.

  “Can I try?” he asks.

  “Seven. Yeah. Give it a try,” I tell him.

  He tries to count my sentence by sealing his eyes shut as hard as he can.

  “You’re not even counting. You’re just closing your eyes,” Anna says.

  “I’m waiting for it to come to me,” he replies.

  I laugh.

  “So if you think everyone is weird, how are you weird?” I ask her.

  “I need a night-light to sleep,” she answers.

  “Twenty-three. I think that’s pretty normal.”

  “It makes no sense,” she says.

  “Fourteen. Explain.”

  “I know there’s no monster under my bed, but at night I think there is, so I turn on a night-light, and it keeps the monster away,” she says.

  “Ninety-seven. Okay, I get that.”

  “My mom is different, too,” Nando says.

  “Nineteen. She is?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Her hands shake a lot.”

  “Twenty-one,” I say.

  “Her whole body shakes,” Anna says.

  “Eighteen.”

  “But she doesn’t like being called Lady Earthquake,” Nando adds.

  “Forty-one. No. I bet she doesn’t.”

  “That’s why I like wrestling. If anyone calls her
Earthquake again, I’m gonna beat them up,” Nando says like a fearless warrior.

  “Seventy.”

  “No one is beating up anybody,” my mother says as she reenters the kitchen.

  “Twenty-three. I thought you disappeared like Grandma,” I say.

  She ruffles my hair as she passes me. “I wouldn’t leave you alone with these two wolves,” she says.

  “Thirty-nine. I thought they were clever little foxes?”

  “A wolf can change into whatever it wants, right, kids?”

  They both point their faces toward the ceiling and howl to an unseen moon.

  Between these kids, my mom, and my grandma, I’ve already learned a lot about life. I’ve learned that I take it way too seriously. I shouldn’t be worried about what other people think when I count their letters. I should be howling at the moon and seeing sticks as pencils and singing along to all the songs on the radio.

  Man, I wish more people looked at life through the eyes of wolves and foxes.

  “You never told me how your first day of school was,” my mom says.

  “Forty. It didn’t go as well as I hoped.”

  “Well, starting is the hard part. Everything that follows is easier,” she says as she walks the little wolves out of the kitchen.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A FEARLESS WARRIOR, NOT SO MUCH   (40)

  Yesterday doesn’t count. Even though it was technically my first day of school, that was before I had this revelation about not caring what people think. So I should get a do-over. Today counts. Today is my second first day of school. Second day, second chance. I’m a different person now. I’m a confident Collin. I’m ready to make friends and not hide out in bathrooms until the bell rings.

  I check myself in the mirror. I’m still in all black, but this time I’m slicking my hair back. No more hiding my face. I’m almost surprised by my reflection. I’m smiling at me.

  I eat my breakfast and even wash my plate before my mom finishes her eggs. She can see the difference in me. I’m smiling way too much. I hope it’s not freaking her out.

  “Someone’s in a good mood this morning,” she says.

  “What can I say? I’m excited to go to school.”

  She tosses her last egg off of her plate straight to Seven, who catches it and eats it in one bite. But I don’t have time to be impressed, because my mom launches out of her seat and grabs her keys.