The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian

In Like a Lion

I'd never guessed I'd be a good basketball player.

I mean, I'd always loved ball, mostly because my father loved it so much, and because

Rowdy loved it even more, but I figured I'd always be one of those players who sat on the bench and cheered his bigger, faster, more talented teammates to victory and/or defeat.

But somehow or another, as the season went on, I became a freshman starter on a varsity basketball team. And, sure, all of my teammates were bigger and faster, but none of them could shoot like me.

I was the hired gunfighter.

Back on the rez, I was a decent player, I guess. A rebounder and a guy who could run up and down the floor without tripping. But something magical happened to me when I went to Reardan.

Overnight, I became a good player.

I suppose it had something to do with confidence. I mean, I'd always been the lowest

Indian on the reservation totem pole—I wasn't expected to be good so I wasn't. But in Reardan, my coach and the other players wanted me to be good. They needed me to be good. They

expected me to be good. And so I became good.

I wanted to live up to expectations.

I guess that's what it comes down to.

The power of expectations.

And as they expected more of me, I expected more of myself, and it just grew and grew

until I was scoring twelve points a game.

AS A FRESHMAN!

Coach was thinking I would be an all-state player in a few years. He was thinking maybe I'd play some small-college ball.

It was crazy.

How often does a reservation Indian kid hear that?

How often do you hear the words "Indian" and "college" in the same sentence?

Especially in my family. Especially in my tribe.

But don't think I'm getting stuck up or anything.

It's still absolutely scary to play ball, to compete, to try to win.

I throw up before every game.

Coach said he used to throw up before games.

"Kid," he said, "some people need to clear the pipes before they can play. I used to be a yucker. You're a yucker. Ain't nothing wrong with being a yucker."

So I asked Dad if he used to be a yucker.

"What's a yucker?" he asked.

"Somebody who throws up before basketball games," said.

"Why would you throw up?"

"Because I'm nervous."

"You mean, because you're scared?"

"Nervous, scared, same kind of things, aren't they?"

"Nervous means you want to play. Scared means you don't want to play."

All right, so Dad made it clear.

I was a nervous yucker in Reardan. Back in Wellpinit, I was a scared yucker.

Nobody else on my team was a yucker. Didn't matter one way or the other, I guess. We

were just a good team, period.

After losing our first game to Wellpinit, we won twelve in a row. We just killed people, winning by double figures every time. We beat our archrivals, Davenport, by thirty-three.

Townspeople were starting to compare us to the great Reardan teams of the past. People

were starting to compare some of our players to great players of the past.

Roger, our big man, was the new Joel Wetzel.

Jeff, our point guard, was the new Little Larry Soliday.

James, our small forward, was the new Keith Schulz.

But nobody talked about me that way. I guess it was hard to compare me to players from

the past. I wasn't from the town, not originally, so I would always be an outsider.

And no matter how good I was, I would always be an Indian. And some folks just found

it difficult to compare an Indian to a white guy. It wasn't racism, not exactly. It was, well, I don't know what it was.

I was something different, something new. I just hope that, twenty years in the future, they'd be comparing some kid to me:

"Yeah, you see that kid shoot, he reminds me so much of Arnold Spirit."

Maybe that will happen. I don't know. Can an Indian have a legacy in a white town? And

should a teenager be worry about his fricking legacy anyway?

Jeez, I must be an egomaniac.

Well, anyway, our record was 12 wins and 1 loss when we had our rematch with

Wellpinit.

They came to our gym, so I wasn't going to get burned the stake. In fact, my white fans were going to cheer for like I was some kind of crusading warrior:

Jeez, I felt like one of those Indian scouts who led the U.S. Cavalry against other Indians.

But that was okay, I guess. I wanted to win. I wanted revenge. I wasn't playing for the fans. I wasn't playing for the white people. I was playing to beat Rowdy.

Yep, I wanted to embarrass my best friend.

He'd turned into a stud on his team. He was only a freshman, too, but he was averaging

twenty-five points a game. I followed his progress in the sports section.

He'd led the Wellpinit Redskins to a 13-0 record. They were the number one-ranked

small school in the state. Wellpinit had never been ranked that high. And it was all because of Rowdy. We were ranked number two, so our game was a big deal. Especially for a small-school battle.

And most especially because I was a Spokane Indian playing against his old friends (and enemies).

A local news crew came out to interview me before the game.

"So, Arnold, how does it feel to play against your former teammates?" the sports guy asked me.

"It's kind of weird," I said.

"How weird?"

"Really weird."

Yep, I was scintillating.

The sports guy stopped the interview.

"Listen," he said. "I know this is a difficult thing. You're young. But maybe you could get more specific about your feelings."

"My feelings?" I asked.

"Yeah, this is a major deal in your life, isn't it?"

Well, duh, yeah, of course it was a major deal. It was maybe the biggest thing in my life ever, but I wasn't about to share my feelings with the whole world. I wasn't going to start blubbering for the local sports guy like he was my priest or something.

I had some pride, you know?

I believed in my privacy.

It wasn't like I'd called the guy and offered up my story you know?

And I was kind of suspicious that white people were really interested in seeing some

Indians battle each other. I think it was sort of like watching dogfighting, you know?

It made me feel exposed and primitive.

"So, okay," the sports guy said. "Are you ready to try again?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, let's roll."

The camera guy started filming.

"So, Arnold," the sports guy said. "Back in December, you faced your old classmates, and fellow Spokane tribal members, in a basketball game back on the reservation, and yon lost.

They're now the number one-ranked team in the state and they're coming to your home gym.

How does that make you feel?"

"Weird," I said.

"Cut, cut, cut, cut," the sports guy said. He was mad now.

"Arnold," he said. "Could you maybe think of a word besides weird?"

I thought for a bit.

"Hey," I said. "How about I say that it makes me feel like I've had to grow up really fast, too fast, and that I've come to realize that every single moment of my life is important. And that every choice I make is important. And that a basketball game, even a game between two small schools in the middle of nowhere, can be the difference between being happy and being

miserable for the rest of my life."

"Wow," the sports guy said. "That's perfect. That's poetry. Let's go with that, okay?"

"Okay," I said.

"Okay, let's roll tape," the sports guy said again and put the microphone in my face.

"Arnold," he said. "Tonight you're going into battle against your former teammates and Spokane tribal members, the Wellpinit Redskins. They're the number one-ranked team in the state and they beat you pretty handily back in December. Some people think they're going to blow you out of the gym tonight. How does that make you feel?"

"Weird," I said.

"All right, all right, that's it," the sports guy said. "We're out of here."

"Did I say something wrong?" I asked.

"You are a little asshole," the sports guy said.

"Wow, are you allowed to say that to me?"

"I'm just telling the truth."

He had a point there. I was being a jerk.

"Listen, kid," the sports guy said. "We thought this was an important story. We thought this was a story about a kid striking out on his own, about a kid being courageous, and all you want to do is give us grief."

Wow.

He was making me feel bad.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm just a yucker."

"What?" the sports guy asked.

"I'm a nervous dude," I said. "I throw up before games. I think I'm just sort of, er, metaphorically throwing up on you. I'm sorry. The thing is, the best player on Wellpinit, Rowdy, he used to be my best friend. And now he hates me. He gave me a concussion that first game.

And now I want to destroy him. I want to score thirty points on him. I want him to remember this game forever."

"Wow," the sports guy said. "You're pissed."

"Yeah, you want me to say that stuff on camera?"

"Are you sure you want to say that?"

"Yeah."

"All right, let's go for it."

They set up the camera again and the sports guy put till microphone back in my face.

"Arnold, you're facing off against the number one-ranked Wellpinit Redskins tonight and their all-star, Rowdy, who used to be your best friend back when you went to school on the reservation. They beat you guys pretty handily back in December, and they gave you a

concussion. How does it feel to be playing them again?"

"I feel like this is the most important night of my life," I said. "I feel like I have something to prove to the people in Reardan, the people in Wellpinit, and to myself."

"And what do you think you have to prove?" the guy asked

"I have to prove that I am stronger than everybody else. I have to prove that I will never give up. I will never quit playing hard. And I don't just mean in basketball. I'm never going to quit living life this hard, you know? I'm never going to surrender to anybody. Never, ever, ever."

"How bad do you want to win?"

"I never wanted anything more in my life."

"Good luck, Arnold, we'll be watching."

* * *

The gym was packed two hours before the game. Two thousand people yelling and

cheering and stomping.

In the locker room, we all got ready in silence. But everybody, even Coach, came up to

me and patted my head or shoulder, or bumped fists with me, or gave me a hug.

This was my game, this was my game.

I mean, I was still just the second guy off the bench, just the dude who provided instant offense. But it was all sort of warrior stuff, too.

We were all boys desperate to be men, and this game would be a huge moment in our

transition.

"Okay, everybody, let's go over the game plan," Coach said.

We all walked over to the chalkboard area and sat on folding chairs.

"Okay, guys," Coach said. "We know what these guys can do. They're averaging eighty points a game. They want to run and run and run. And when they're done running and gunning, they're going to run and gun some more."

Man, that wasn't much of a pep talk. It sounded like Coach was sure we were going to

lose.

"And I have to be honest, guys," Coach said. "We can't beat these guys with our talent.

We just aren't good enough. But I think we have bigger hearts. And I think we have a secret weapon."

I wondered if Coach had maybe hired some Mafia dude to take out Rowdy.

"We have Arnold Spirit," Coach said.

"Me?" I asked.

"Yes, you," Coach said. "You're starting tonight."

"Really?"

"Really. And you're going to guard Rowdy. The whole game. He's your man. You have

to stop him. If you stop him, we win this game. It's the only way we're going to win this game."

Wow. I was absolutely stunned. Coach wanted me to guard Rowdy. Now, okay, I was a

great shooter, but I wasn't a great defensive player. Not at all. There's no way I could stop Rowdy.

I mean, if I had a baseball bat and bulldozer, maybe I could stop him. But without real weapons—without a pistol, a man-eating lion, and a vial of bubonic plague—I had zero chance of competing directly with Rowdy. If I guarded him, he was going to score seventy points.

"Coach," I said. "I'm really honored by this. But I don I think I can do it."

He walked over to me, kneeled, and pushed his forehead against mine. Our eyes were,

like, an inch apart. I could smell the cigarettes and chocolate on his breath.

"You can do it," Coach said.

Oh, man, that sounded just like Eugene. He always shouted that during any game I ever

played. It could be, like, a three-legged sack race, and Gene would be all drunk and happy in the stands and he'd be shouting out, "Junior, you can do it!"

Yeah, that Eugene, he was a positive dude even as an alcoholic who ended up getting

shot in the face and killed.

Jeez, what a sucky life. I was about to play the biggest basketball game of my life and all I could think about was my dad's dead best friend.

So many ghosts.

"You can do it," Coach said again. He didn't shout it. He whispered it. Like a prayer. And he kept whispering again. Until the prayer turned into a song. And then, for some magical reason, I believed in him.

Coach had become, like, the priest of basketball, and I was his follower. And I was going to follow him onto the court and shut down my best friend.

I hoped so.

"I can do it," I said to Coach, to my teammates, to the world.

"You can do it," Coach said.

"I can do it."

"You can do it."

"I can do it."

Do you understand how amazing it is to hear that from an adult? Do you know how

amazing it is to hear that from anybody? It's one of the simplest sentences in the world, just four words, but they're the four hugest words in the world when they're put together.

You can do it.

I can do it.

Let's do it.

We all screamed like maniacs as we ran out of the locker room and onto the basketball

court, where two thousand maniac fans were also screaming.

The Reardan band was rocking some Led Zeppelin.

As we ran through our warm-up layup drills, I looked up into the crowd to see if my dad was in his usual place, high up in the northwest corner. And there he was. I waved at him. He waved back.

Yep, my daddy was an undependable drunk. But he'd never missed any of my organized

games, concerts, plays, or picnics. He may not have loved me perfectly, but he loved me as well as he could.

My mom was sitting in her usual place on the opposite side of the court from Dad.

Funny how they did that. Mom always said that Dad made her too nervous; Dad always

said that Mom made him too nervous.

Penelope was yelling and screaming like crazy, too.

I waved at her; she blew me a kiss.

Great, now I was going to have to play the game with a boner.

Ha-ha, just kidding.

So we ran through layups and three-on-three weave drills, and free throws and pick and

rolls, and then the evil Wellpinit five came running out of the visitors' locker room.

Man, you never heard such booing. Our crowd was as loud as a jet.

They were just pitching the Wellpinit players some serious crap.

You want to know what it sounded like?

It sounded like this:

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

We couldn't even hear each other.

I worried that all of us were going to have permanent hearing damage.

I kept glancing over at Wellpinit as they ran their layup drills. And I noticed that Rowdy kept glancing over at us.

At me.

Rowdy and I pretended that we weren't looking at each other. But, man, oh, man, we

were sending some serious hate signals across the gym.

I mean, you have to love somebody that much to also hate hem that much, too.

Our captains, Roger and Jeff, ran out to the center circle to have the game talk with the refs.

Then our band played "The Star-Spangled Banner."

And then our five starters, including me, ran out to the center circle to go to battle against Wellpinit's five.

Rowdy smirked at me as I took my position next to him.

"Wow," he said. "You guys must be desperate if you're starting."

"I'm guarding you," I said.

"What?"

"I'm guarding you tonight."

"You can't stop me. I've been kicking your ass for fourteen years."

"Not tonight," I said. "Tonight's my night."

Rowdy just laughed.

The ref threw up the opening jump ball.

Our big guy, Roger, tipped it back toward our point guard, but Rowdy was quicker. He

intercepted the pass and raced toward his basket. I ran right behind him. I knew that he wanted to dunk it. I knew that he wanted to send a message to us.

I knew he wanted to humiliate us on the opening play.

And for a second, I wondered if I should just intentionally foul him and prevent him from dunking. He'd get two free throws but those wouldn't be nearly as exciting as a dunk.

But, no, I couldn't do that. I couldn't foul him. That would be like giving up. So I just sped up and got ready to jump with Rowdy.

I knew he'd fly into the air about five feet from the hoop. I knew he'd jump about two feet higher than I could. So I needed to jump quicker.

And Rowdy rose into the air. And I rose with him.

AND THEN I ROSE ABOVE HIM!

Yep, if I believed in magic, in ghosts, then I think maybe I was rising on the shoulders of my dead grandmother and Eugene, my dad's best friend. Or maybe I was rising on my mother and father's hopes for me.

I don't know what happened.

But for once, and for the only time in my life, I jumped higher than Rowdy.

I rose above him as he tried to dunk it.

I TOOK THE BALL RIGHT OUT OF HIS HANDS!

Yep, we were, like, ten feet off the ground, but I was still able to reach out and steal the ball from Rowdy.

Even in midair, I could see the absolute shock on Rowdy's face. He couldn't believe I was flying with him.

He thought he was the only Indian Superman.

I came down with the ball, spun, and dribbled back toward our hoop. Rowdy, screaming

with rage, was close behind me.

Our crowd was insanely loud.

They couldn't believe what I'd just done.

I mean, sure, that kind of thing happens in the NBA and in college and in the big high

schools. But nobody jumped like that in a small school basketball gym. Nobody blocked a shot like that.

NOBODY TOOK A BALL OUT OF A GUY'S HANDS AS HE WAS JUST ABOUT

TO DUNK!

But I wasn't done. Not by a long shot. I wanted to score. I'd taken the ball from Rowdy and now I wanted to score in his face. I wanted to absolutely demoralize him.

I raced for our hoop.

Rowdy was screaming behind me.

My teammates told me later that I was grinning like an idiot as I flew down the court.

I didn't know that.

I just knew I wanted to hit a jumper in Rowdy's face.

Well, I wanted to dunk on him. And I figured, with the crazy adrenaline coursing through my body, I might be able to jump over the rim again. But I think part of me knew that I'd never jump like that again. I only had that one epic jump in me.

I wasn't a dunker; I was a shooter.

So I screeched to a stop at the three-point line and head-raked. And Rowdy completely

fell for it. He jumped high over me, wanting to block my shot, but I just waited for the sky to clear. As Rowdy hovered above me, as he floated away, he looked at me. I looked at him.

He knew he'd blown it. He knew he'd fallen for a little head-fake. He knew he could do

nothing to stop my jumper.

He was sad, man.

Way sad.

So guess what I did?

I stuck my tongue out at him. Like I was Michael Jordan.

I mocked him.

And then I took my three-pointer and buried it. Just swished that sucker.

AND THE GYM EXPLODED!

People wept.

Really.

My dad hugged the white guy next to him. Didn't even know him. But hugged and kissed

him like they were brothers, you know?

My mom fainted. Really. She just leaned over a bit, bumped against the white woman

next to her, and was gone.

She woke up five seconds later.

People were up on their feet. They were high-fiving and hugging and dancing and singing.

The school band played a song. Well, the band members were all confused and excited,

so they played a song, sure, but each member of the band played a different song.

My coach was jumping up and down and spinning in circles.

My teammates were screaming my name.

Yep, all of that fuss and the score was only 3 to 0.

But, trust me, the game was over.

It only took, like, ten seconds to happen. But the game was already over. Really. It can happen that way. One play can determine the course of a game. One play can change your

momentum forever.

We beat Wellpinit by forty points.

Absolutely destroyed them.

That three-pointer was the only shot I took that night. The only shot I made.

Yep, I only scored three points, my lowest point total of the season.

But Rowdy only scored four points.

I stopped him.

I held him to four points.

Only two baskets.

He scored on a layup in the first quarter when I tripped I over my teammate's foot and fell.

And he scored in the fourth quarter, with only five seconds left in the game, when he

stole the ball from me and raced down for a layup.

But I didn't even chase him down because we were ahead by forty-two points.

The buzzer sounded. The game was over. We had killed the Redskins. Yep, we had

humiliated them.

We were dancing around the gym, laughing and screaming and chanting.

My teammates mobbed me. They lifted me up on their shoulders and carried me around

the gym.

I looked for my mom, but she'd fainted again, so they'd taken her outside to get some

fresh air.

I looked for my dad.

I thought he'd be cheering. But he wasn't. He wasn't even looking at me. He was all quiet-faced as he looked at something else.

So I looked at what he was looking at.

It was the Wellpinit Redskins, lined up at their end of the court, as they watched us

celebrate our victory.

I whooped.

We had defeated the enemy! We had defeated the champions! We were David who'd

thrown a stone into the brain of Goliath!

And then I realized something.

I realized that my team, the Reardan Indians, was Goliath.

I mean, jeez, all of the seniors on our team were going to college. All of the guys on our team had their own cars. All of the guys on our team had iPods and cell phones and PSPs and three pairs of blue jeans and ten shirts and mothers and fathers who went to church and had good jobs.

Okay, so maybe my white teammates had problems, serious problems, but none of their

problems was life threatening.

But I looked over at the Wellpinit Redskins, at Rowdy.

I knew that two or three of those Indians might not have eaten breakfast that morning.

No food in the house.

I knew that seven or eight of those Indians lived with drunken mothers and fathers.

I knew that one of those Indians had a father who dealt crack and meth.

I knew two of those Indians had fathers in prison.

I knew that none of them was going to college. Not one of them.

And I knew that Rowdy's father was probably going beat the crap out of him for losing

this game.

I suddenly wanted to apologize to Rowdy, to all of the other Spokanes.

I was suddenly ashamed that I'd wanted so badly to take revenge on them.

I was suddenly ashamed of my anger, my rage, and my pain.

I jumped off my white teammates' shoulders and dashed into the locker room. I ran into

the bathroom, into a toilet stall, and threw up.

And then I wept like a baby.

Coach and my teammates thought I was crying tears of happiness.

But I wasn't.

I was crying tears of shame.

I was crying because I had broken my best friend's heart.

But God has a way of making things even out, I guess.

Wellpinit never recovered from their loss to us. They only won a couple more games the

rest of the season and didn't qualify for the playoffs.

However, we didn't lose another game in the regular season and were ranked number one

in the state as we headed into the playoffs.

We played Almira Coulee-Hartline, this tiny farm-town team, and they beat us when this

kid named Keith hit a crazy half-court shot at the buzzer. It was a big upset.

We all cried in the locker room for hours.

Coach cried, too.

I guess that's the only time that men and boys get to cry and not get punched in the face.

Rowdy and I Have a Long and Serious Discussion about Basketball

A few days after basketball season ended, I e-mailed Rowdy and told him I was sorry that we beat them so bad and that their season went to hell after that.

"We'll kick your asses next year," Rowdy wrote back. "And you'll cry like the little faggot you are."

"I might be a faggot," I wrote back, "but I'm the faggot who beat you."

"Ha-ha," Rowdy wrote.

Now that might just sound like a series of homophobic insults, but I think it was also a little bit friendly, and it was the first time that Rowdy had talked to me since I left the rez.

I was a happy faggot!

Because Russian Guys Are Not Always Geniuses

After my grandmother died, I felt like crawling into the coffin with her. After my dad's best friend got shot in the face, I wondered if I was destined to get shot in the face, too.

Considering how many young Spokanes have died in car wrecks, I'm pretty sure it's my

destiny to die in a wreck, too.

Jeez, I've been to so many funerals in my short life.

I'm fourteen years old and I've been to forty-two funerals.

That's really the biggest difference between Indians and white people.

A few of my white classmates have been to a grandparent's funeral. And a few have lost

an uncle or aunt. And one girl's brother died of leukemia when he was in third grade.

But there's nobody who has been to more than five funerals.

All my white friends can count their deaths on one hand,

I can count my fingers, toes, arms, legs, eyes, ears, nose, penis, butt cheeks, and nipples, and still not get close to my deaths.

And you know what the worst part is? The unhappy part? About 90 percent of the deaths

have been because of alcohol.

Gordy gave me this book by a Russian dude named Tolstoy, who wrote: "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Well, I hate to argue with a Russian genius, but Tolstoy didn't know Indians. And he didn't know that all Indian families are unhappy for the same exact reason: the fricking booze.

Yep, so let me pour a drink for Tolstoy and let him think hard about the true definition of unhappy families.

So, okay, you're probably thinking I'm being extra bitter. And I would have to agree with you. I am being extra bitter. So let me tell you why.

Today, around nine a.m., as I sat in chemistry, there was a knock on the door, and Miss Warren, the guidance counselor, stepped into the room. Dr. Noble, the chemistry teacher, hates being interrupted. So he gave the old stink eye to Miss Warren.

"Can I help you, Miss Warren?" Dr. Noble asked. Except he made it sound like an insult.

"Yes," she said. "May I speak to Arnold in private?"

"Can this wait? We are going to have a quiz in a few moments."

"I need to speak with him now. Please."

"Fine. Arnold, please go with Miss Warren."

I gathered up my books and followed Miss Warren out into the hallway. I was a little

worried. I wondered if I'd done something wrong. I couldn't think of anything I'd done that would merit punishment. But I was still worried. I didn't want to get into any kind of trouble.

"What's going on, Miss Warren?" I asked.

She suddenly started crying. Weeping. Just these big old whooping tears. I thought she

was going to fall over on the floor and start screaming and kicking like a two-year-old.

"Jeez, Miss Warren, what is it? What's wrong?"

She hugged me hard. And I have to admit that it felt pretty dang good. Miss Warren was, like, fifty years old, but she was still pretty hot. She was all skinny and muscular because she jogged all the time. So I sort of, er, physically reacted to her hug.

And the thing is, Miss Warren was hugging me so tight that I was pretty sure she could

feel my, er, physical reaction.

I was kind of proud, you know?

"Arnold, I'm sorry," she said. "But I just got a phone call from your mother. It's your sister. She's passed away."

"What do you mean?" I asked. I knew what she meant, but I wanted her to say something else. Anything else.

"Your sister is gone," Miss Warren said.

"I know she's gone," I said. "She lives in Montana now."

I knew I was being an idiot. But I figured if I kept being an idiot, if I didn't actually accept the truth, then the truth would become false.

"No," Miss Warren said. "Your sister, she's dead."

That was it. I couldn't fake my way around that. Dead is dead.

I was stunned. But I wasn't sad. The grief didn't hit me right away. No, I was mostly

ashamed of my, er, physical reaction to the hug. Yep, I had a big erection when I learned of my sister's death.

How perverted is that? How inappropriately hormonal can one boy be?

"How did she die?" I asked.

"Your father is coming to get you," Miss Warren said "He'll be here in a few minutes.

You can wait in my office."

"How did she die?" I asked again.

"Your father is coming to get you," Miss Warren said again.

I knew then that she didn't want to tell me how my sister had died. I figured it must have been an awful death.

"Was she murdered?" I asked.

"Your father is coming."

Man, Miss Warren was a LAME counselor. She didn't know what to say to me. But then

again, I couldn't really blame her. She'd never counseled a student whose sibling had just died.

"Was my sister murdered?" I asked.

"Please," Miss Warren said. "You need to talk to your father."

She looked so sad that I let it go. Well, I mostly let it go. I certainly didn't want to wait in her office. The guidance office was filled with self-help books and inspirational posters and SAT

test books and college brochures and scholarship applications, and I knew that none of that, absolutely none of it, meant shit.

I knew I'd probably tear her office apart if I had to wait there.

"Miss Warren," I said, "I want to wait outside."

"But it's snowing," she said.

"Well, that would make it perfect, then, wouldn't it?" I said.

It was a rhetorical question, meaning there wasn't supposed to be an answer, right? But poor Miss Warren, she answered my rhetorical question.

"No, I don't think it's a good idea to wait in the snow," she said. "You're very vulnerable right now."

VULNERABLE! She told me I was vulnerable. My big sister was dead. Of course I was

vulnerable. I was a reservation Indian attending an all-white school and my sister had just died some horrible death. I was the most vulnerable kid in the United States. Miss Warren was obviously trying to win the Captain Obvious Award.

"I'm waiting outside," I said.

"I'll wait with you," she said.

"Kiss my ass," I said and ran.

Miss Warren tried to run after me. But she was wearing heels and she was crying and she was absolutely freaked out by my reaction to the bad news. By my cursing. She was nice. Too nice to deal with death. So she just ran a few feet before she stopped and slumped against the wall.

I ran by my locker, grabbed my coat, and headed outside. There was maybe a foot of

snow on the ground already. It was going to be a big storm. I suddenly worried that my father was going to wreck his car on the icy roads.

Oh, man, wouldn't that just be perfect?

Yep, how Indian would that be?

Imagine the stories I could tell.

"Yeah, when I was a kid, just after I learned that my big sister died, I also found out that my father died in a car wreck on the way to pick me up from school."

So I was absolutely terrified as I waited.

I prayed to God that my father would come driving up in his old car.

"Please, God, please don't kill my daddy. Please, God, please don't kill my daddy. Please, God, please don't kill my daddy."

Ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes went by. I was freezing. My hands and feet were big blocks of ice. Snot ran down my face. My ears were burning cold.

"Oh, Daddy, please, oh, Daddy, please, oh, Daddy, please."

Oh, man, I was absolutely convinced that my father was dead, too. It had been too long.

He'd driven his car off a cliff and had drowned in the Spokane River. Or he'd lost control, slid across the centerline, and spun right into the path of a logging truck.

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy."

And just when I thought I'd start screaming, and run around like a crazy man, my father drove up.

I started laughing. I was so relieved, so happy, that I LAUGHED. And I couldn't stop

laughing.

I ran down the hill, jumped into the car, and hugged my dad. I laughed and laughed and

laughed and laughed.

"Junior," he said. "What's wrong with you?"

"You're alive!" I shouted. "You're alive!"

"Rut your sister—," he said.

"I know, I know," I said. "She's dead. Rut you're alive. You're still alive."

I laughed and laughed. I couldn't stop laughing. I felt like I might die of laughing.

I couldn't figure out why I was laughing. Rut I kept laughing as my dad drove out of

Reardan and headed through the storm back to the reservation.

And then, finally, as we crossed the reservation border, I stopped laughing.

"How did she die?" I asked.

"There was a big party at her house, her trailer in Montana—," he said.

Yep, my sister and her husband lived in some old silver trailer that was more like a TV

dinner tray than a home.

"They had a big party—," my father said.

OF COURSE THEY HAD A RIG PARTY! OF COURSE THEY WERE DRUNK!

THEY'RE INDIANS!

"They had a big party," my father said. "And your sister and her husband passed out in the back bedroom. And somebody tried to cook some soup on a hot plate. And they forgot about it and left. And a curtain drifted in on the wind and caught the hot plate, and the trailer burned down quick."

I swear to you that I could hear my sister screaming.

"The police say your sister never even woke up," my father said. "She was way too drunk."

My dad was trying to comfort me. But it's not too comforting to learn that your sister was TOO FREAKING DRUNK to feel any pain when she RURNED TO DEATH!

And for some reason, that thought made me laugh even harder. I was laughing so hard

that I threw up a little bit in my mouth. I spit out a little piece of cantaloupe. Which was weird, because I don't like cantaloupe. I've hated cantaloupe since I was a little kid. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten the evil fruit.

And then I remembered that my sister had always loved cantaloupe.

Ain't that weird?

It was so freaky that I laughed even harder than I'd already been laughing. I started

pounding the dashboard and stomping on the floor.

I was going absolutely insane with laughter.

My dad didn't say a word. He just stared straight ahead and drove home. I laughed the

whole way. Well, I laughed until we were about halfway home, and then I fell asleep.

Snap, just like that.

Things had gotten so intense, so painful, that my body just checked out. Yep, my mind

and soul and heart had a quick meeting and voted to shut down for a few repairs.

And guess what? I dreamed about cantaloupe!

Well, I dreamed about a school picnic I went to way back when I was seven years old.

There were hot dogs and ham burgers and soda pop and potato chips and watermelon and

cantaloupe.

I ate, like, seven pieces of cantaloupe.

My hands and face were way sticky and sweet.

I'd eaten so much cantaloupe that I'd turned into a cantaloupe.

Well, I finished my lunch and I ran around the playground, laughing and screaming,

when I felt this tickle on my cheek. I reached up to scratch my face and squished the wasp that had been sucking sugar off my cheek.

Have you ever been stung in the face? Well, I have, and that's why I hate cantaloupe.

So, I woke up from this dream, this nightmare, just as my dad drove the car up to our

house.

"We're here," he said.

"My sister is dead," I said.

"Yes."

"I was hoping I dreamed that," I said.

"Me, too."

"I dreamed about that time I got stung by the wasp," I said.

"I remember that," Dad said. "We had to take you to the hospital."

"I thought I was going to die."

"We were scared, too."

My dad started to cry. Not big tears. Just little ones. He breathed deep and tried to stop them. I guess he wanted to be strong in front of his son. But it didn't work. He kept crying.

I didn't cry.

I reached out, wiped the tears off my father's face, and tasted them.

Salty.

"I love you," he said.

Wow.

He hardly ever said that to me.

"I love you, too," I said.

I never said that to him.

We walked into the house.

My mom was curled into a ball on the couch. There were, like, twenty-five or thirty

cousins there, eating all of our food.

Somebody dies and people eat your food. Funny how that works.

"Mom," I said.

"Oh, Junior," she said and pulled me onto the couch with her.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I'm so sorry."

"Don't leave me," she said. "Don't ever leave me."

She was freaking out. But who could blame her? She'd lost her mother and her daughter

in just a few months. Who ever recovers from a thing like that? Who ever gets better? I knew that my mother was now broken and that she'd always be broken.

"Don't you ever drink," my mother said to me. She slapped me. Once, twice, three times.

She slapped me HARD. "Promise me you'll never drink."

"Okay, okay, I promise," I said. I couldn't believe it. My sister killed herself with booze and I was the one getting slapped.

Where was Leo Tolstoy when I needed him? I kept wishing he'd show up so my mother

could slap him instead.

Well, my mother quit slapping me, thank God, but she held on to me for hours. Held on

to me like I was a baby. And she kept crying. So many tears. My clothes and hair were soaked with her tears.

It was, like, my mother had given me a grief shower, you know?

Like she'd baptized me with her pain.

Of course, it was way too weird to watch. So all of my cousins left. My dad went in his bedroom.

It was just my mother and me. Just her tears and me.

But I didn't cry. I just hugged my mother back and wanted all of it to be over. I wanted to fall asleep again and dream about killer wasps. Yeah, I figured any nightmare would be better than my reality.

And then it was over.

My mother fell asleep and let me go.

I stood and walked into the kitchen. I was way hungry but my cousins had eaten most of

our food. So all I had for dinner were saltine crackers and water.

Like I was in jail.

Man.

Two days later, we buried my sister in the Catholic graveyard down near the powwow

ground.

I barely remember the wake. I barely remember the funeral service. I barely remember

the burial.

I was in this weird fog.

No.

It was more like I was in this small room, the smallest room in the world. I could reach out and touch the walls, which were made out of greasy glass. I could see shadows but I couldn't see details, you know?

And I was cold.

Just freezing.

Like there was a snowstorm blowing inside of my chest.

But all of that fog and greasy glass and snow disappeared when they lowered my sister's coffin into the grave. And let me tell you, it had taken them forever to dig that grave in the frozen ground. As the coffin settled into the dirt, it made this noise, almost like a breath, you know?

Like a sigh.

Like the coffin was settling down for a long, long nap, for a forever nap.

That was it.

I had to get out of there.

I turned and ran out of the graveyard and into the woods across the road. I planned on

running deep into the woods. So deep that I'd never be found.

But guess what?

I ran full-speed into Rowdy and sent us both sprawling.

Yep, Rowdy had been hiding in the woods while he watched the burial.

Wow.

Rowdy sat up. I sat up, too.

We sat there together.

Rowdy was crying. His face was shiny with tears.

"Rowdy," I said. "You're crying."

"I ain't crying," he said. "You're crying."

I touched my face. It was dry. No tears yet.

"I can't remember how to cry," I said.

That made Rowdy sort of choke. He gasped a little. And more tears rolled down his face.

"You're crying," I said.

"No, I'm not."

"It's okay; I miss my sister, too. I love her."

"I said I'm not crying."

"It's okay."

I reached out and touched Rowdy's shoulder. Big mistake. He punched me. Well, he

almost punched me. He threw a punch but he MISSED!

ROWDY MISSED A PUNCH!

His fist went sailing over my head.

"Wow," I said. "You missed."

"I missed on purpose."

"No, you didn't. You missed because your eyes are FILLED WITH TEARS!"

That made me laugh.

Yep, I started laughing like a crazy man again.

I rolled around on the cold, frozen ground and laughed and laughed and laughed.

I didn't want to laugh. I wanted to stop laughing. I wanted to grab Rowdy and hang on to him.

He was my best friend and I needed him.

But I couldn't stop laughing.

I looked at Rowdy and he was crying hard now.

He thought I was laughing at him.

Normally, Rowdy would have absolutely murdered anybody who dared to laugh at him.

But this was not a normal day.

"It's all your fault," he said.

"What's my fault?" I asked.

"Your sister is dead because you left us. You killed her."

That made me stop laughing. I suddenly felt like I might never laugh again.

Rowdy was right.

I had killed my sister.

Well, I didn't kill her.

But she only got married so quickly and left the rez because I had left the rez first. She was only living in Montana in a cheap trailer house because I had gone to school in Reardan. She had burned to death because I had decided that I wanted to spend my life with white people.

It was all my fault.

"I hate you!" Rowdy screamed. "I hate you! I hate you!"

And then he jumped up and ran away.

Rowdy ran!

He'd never run away from anything or anybody. But now he was running.

I watched him disappear into the woods.

I wondered if I'd ever see him again.

The next morning, I went to school. I didn't know what else to do. I didn't want to sit at home all day and talk to a million cousins. I knew my mother would be cooking food for

everybody and that my father would be hiding out in his bedroom again.

I knew everybody would tell stories about Mary.

And the whole time, I'd be thinking, "Yeah, but have you ever heard the story about how I killed my sister when I left the rez?"

And the whole time, everybody would be drinking booze and getting drunk and stupid

and sad and mean. Yeah, doesn't that make sense? How do we honor the drunken death of a young married couple?

HEY, LET'S GET DRUNK!

Okay, listen, I'm not a cruel bastard, okay? I know that people were very sad. I knew that my sister's death made everybody remember all the deaths in their life. I know that death is never added to death; it multiplies. But still, I couldn't I stay and watch all of those people get drunk. I couldn't do it. If you'd given me a room full of sober Indians, crying and laughing and telling stories about my sister, then I would have gladly stayed and joined them in the ceremony.

But everybody was drunk.

Everybody was unhappy.

And they were drunk and unhappy in the same exact way.

So I fled my house and went to school. I walked through the snow for a few miles until a white BIA worker picked me up and delivered me to the front door.

I walked inside, into the crowded hallways, and all sorts of boys and girls, and teachers, came up and hugged me and slapped my shoulder and gave me little punches in the belly.

They were worried for me. They wanted to help me with my pain.

I was important to them.

I mattered.

Wow.

All of these white kids and teachers, who were so suspicious of me when I first arrived, had learned to care about me. Maybe some of them even loved me. And I'd been so suspicious of them. And now I care about a lot of them. And loved a few of them.

Penelope came up to me last.

She was WEEPING. Snot ran down her face and it was still sort of sexy.

"I'm so sorry about your sister," she said.

I didn't know what to say to her. What do you say to people when they ask you how it

feels to lose everything? When every planet in your solar system has exploded?