by Jeff Altabef
“Yes, but they said someone saw Sicheii arguing with Roundtree yesterday. They showed him the tip of a ceremonial hatchet that was used to murder Roundtree. It’s probably the same one Deputy Johnson found while we were at the house. They sounded suspicious.”
“There’s a long list of people who have argued with Roundtree. Don’t worry about it, Jules. People here think his murder is connected to some type of drug deal gone bad. Maybe Roundtree stumbled onto a combination of roots or herbs he made into a new designer drug. You hear about them all the time on the news. He was known to dabble in things he shouldn’t have messed with.”
“I have a bad feeling about this, Troy. After the Sheriff left, Sicheii acted weirder than usual. He seemed to know about my headache from earlier in the day.”
“You looked pale when I dropped you off. Did he ask you how you were feeling, and you said you were fine?”
“Yes, but he asked me specifically about headaches before he took off, like he knew I had been having some lately.”
“We both know you’re a terrible liar.” He chuckles but it sounds forced to me. “And Jake has been a medicine man for a long time. He’s like a natural lie detector. I’d never try to fool him.”
Troy’s not making me feel better, so I squeeze the phone harder. “He also said some weird stuff about spirits.”
Ten seconds pass before he speaks. “What... did he say?”
“Something about running out of time.” I try to remember what he said exactly, but the precise words don’t come to mind. “That the spirits are going to take over soon or something odd like that. He took off in a hurry after the Sheriff left. He never explained what the heck he was talking about. But then again, he never does.” I don’t tell him Sicheii lied about where he spent the day. I’m not sure why, but it doesn’t sound good when rummaging around in my head.
Troy hesitates again, which is unlike him. “It’s probably nothing, Jules. Your grandfather lives a complicated life and believes spirits influence everything. He probably needs to... check in at the art gallery, or maybe he wants to break the news to someone close to Roundtree.”
Both reasonable possibilities but they don’t feel right. Sicheii didn’t leave to deliver bad news and he wasn’t worried about the gallery. He looked nervous and concerned about the future. I’m lost in a maze of possibilities, so I forget that Troy’s on the phone until he says, “Juliet. Are you still there?”
“Yes. Why did you become so upset when Deputy Johnson found that ceremonial knife? Why does it matter what Roundtree was killed with?” That question had been bothering me since we left Roundtree’s house.
“I know you don’t believe in this stuff....”
“But...”
“But, the spirits didn’t just die when Steve Jobs invented Apple. They still exist today, working their magic on us. We know how things work, but not the why so much. I think the spirits cause us to take action sometimes, whether good or bad.”
“And the knife?”
“Ceremonial knives are dipped into the spirit world. They make the separation between worlds thin.”
He wants me to agree with him or, at least, open my mind to the possibility that he’s right, but I can’t wrap my arms around spirits and spirit worlds. I won’t lie to him, so I don’t know what to say.
After a long pause that feels like two lifetimes, he says, “I’ve got to go, Jules. I have a math test tomorrow and I’m pretty sure the spirits aren’t going to help me. Just chill out about your grandfather. I’m sure he’s fine.” Trace amounts of disappointment in his voice magically travel through cyberspace and brush against my ear.
“Sure. Good luck on your test.” I hang up and go online to discover what torture, disguised as homework, my teachers expect me to complete. Bartens uses an online blackboard where teachers post assignments. I throw my pillow when the two-page Global History assignment pops on the screen.
Mom calls halfway through my homework. She sounds tired. “How was your day?”
“My day was fine.” I’m determined to limit my lying, and let’s face it fine could mean anything.
“Are you minding your grandfather? He didn’t pick you up at school or embarrass you or do anything else you’ll need therapy for, did he?”
“No, Mom.” Mom stretches out in a kind of whine I’m not proud of. “Everything is good. How goes the conference?” I change the subject to avoid questions I don’t want to answer.
“Great but exhausting.” She perks up. “I moderated an outstanding panel on....” Her voice drones on. I’m not really paying attention, until she says, “Can you put your grandfather on?”
“He went... out to find a new... ice cream flavor from the Dairy Freeze. Something about... natural Indian corn.” How lame is that? Especially since a wide assortment of ice cream takes up space in the freezer, but Sicheii is generally weird, so Mom has no problem believing he wants me to try a new “natural” flavor from the Dairy Freeze.
“Okay, Jules.” She yawns. “I’m going to sleep. It’s been a long day. We’ll make up a strategy about Bartens when I come home. Love you, sweetie.”
“I love you too,” I say before hanging up and almost feel her relief through the phone that I’m no longer angry with her.
The rest of my homework takes me past midnight to finish. The orange numbers on my clock say it’s 12:25, and Sicheii is still out. My thoughts are troubled, but my pillow is soft. Sleep finds me.
My eyes open, but I’m stuck in another dream. I’m outside on a clear night under a black canvas specked with dazzling points of light. The stars are brighter than usual, which means that no man-made lights from buildings or houses dim their brilliance. Sicheii would call it a new sky.
Four men are sitting around a campfire in a loose circle. Sharp peaks of red rocks jut up around them, creating a bowl effect as if they’re in the middle of a crater. The campfire dances off of gemstones and crystals that litter the ground and reminds me of the old legend about Devil’s Peak. The crown of the Devil’s head is supposed to be covered with precious stones, but no one has ever climbed the peak, so no one really knows.
The men have long obsidian hair and wear leather shirts that are uneven on the bottom. Tan breechcloths hang from their waists. Even though the campfire is small, the gems glow red and purple around their feet, amplifying the light. One face is familiar—the man from yesterday’s daydream. He sits cross-legged with four objects placed neatly in front of him. He’s speaking the old language again. Even though I don’t understand what he’s saying, he’s clearly in charge and has the full attention of those around him.
The other faces around the campfire are all different looking, with various ages and features, but they share the same expression. They look enraptured as if they’re being told secrets that change everything. The leader lifts a small leather book and hands it to one of the men, who eagerly takes it from him. The process is repeated two other times with another journal and a small leather pouch.
My eyes strain to see the last item in front of the leader. It’s hard to make out because it lies flat on the ground. The wind puffs. The campfire flickers brighter for a moment and reveals the item’s outline. It’s a crystal, sharp and beautiful, but it’s still cloaked in shadows. A turquoise pendant dangles around the leader’s neck. It looks familiar.
I’ve seen one just like it before, but where?
This meeting affects me somehow. I don’t know how, but the feeling burrows deep into my mind. There’s a connection between these four men and me.
What is it?
A hawk circles the meeting and squawks angrily, which only grows louder until I realize my alarm has gone off. I try to smack the off button, but I miss and knock the clock off the bedside table and onto the floor. The buzzing stops when I pull the plug from the wall socket. I usually go through a couple of alarm clocks each year.
I stumble into the bathroom and start my day, brushing off the dream as just another byproduct from my active imag
ination. What could an ancient meeting among Native Americans have to do with me?
My shower is hot, and after a few minutes, the fog clears from my head. Memories of Roundtree, Sheriff Daniels, and Sicheii’s hasty departure flash through my mind. I rush through my morning routine quicker than usual and scoot downstairs, wondering whether I’ll find my grandfather.
Pueblo music, with its steady drumbeats and complicated vocals, wafts from the kitchen. Incense is burning—jasmine and cedar wood. Sicheii has definitely returned. I open the kitchen door and find him standing by the island wearing a plush white cotton bathrobe tied around his wide frame. Steam spirals above a fresh mug of tea in his hand.
He flashes a full-faced grin at me as if it’s a normal morning, as if the Sheriff never questioned him and he didn’t race off in a hurry only to return this morning. “Good morning, Little Bird. What time does your bus arrive?”
I check the clock. “7:30.” There’s plenty of time. “When did you come home last night?”
He looks at me quizzically; both eyebrows arch upward. “Did you have any problems?”
“No, nothing happened.” My face flushes with color. It’s not my place to question him. Besides, do I really want to know what he was doing? So I drop it. He seems relaxed and unworried, which puts me at ease.
He claps his hands together. “Good, now let’s enjoy our morning meal.” He sweeps his hands at the kitchen table. A bowl of yogurt, fresh strawberries and blueberries, granola, and two glasses of orange juice await us.
I have no intention of sharing that meal with him, so I walk into the pantry, grab a box of Kellogg’s cornflakes, find a bowl, pour, and go to the refrigerator for some milk. When I return to the kitchen table, he’s already sitting with a spoon in his hand. He shoots me an annoyed look, then closes his eyes and starts humming and meditating. I follow along and force my mind to go blank. I don’t want a repeat of yesterday. I don’t want to see Roundtree again. When he stops humming, I open my eyes.
I dive into my cereal with feigned enthusiasm and peek at him across the table. He starts singing along with the music, his mug held steady in front of him. His singing voice is rich and strong, but he can only reach two notes. It works when he performs ceremonies, but he’ll never make it on American Idol. I told him this once, and he told me true music comes from the heart, not the voice.
I smile at him, but after a few minutes, his singing grates. “How is the art gallery? Was there an emergency last night?” I’m not sure why I start down this road, but once the words start coming out of my mouth, they keep tumbling out as if it’s a jailbreak.
Sicheii glances at me, his expression blank. “The gallery is fine. All is as it should be.” He deliberately places his mug on the table without taking his eyes from me. “Why don’t you ask me about what is really on your mind, Little Bird?”
My chest tightens. “I was just thinking about Roundtree. Who could have killed him?”
“Roundtree was a complex person. He lived life in accordance with his own rules and the spirits he sought guidance from.” Sicheii slides his mug away from himself. “He made many enemies. It’s hard to say who could have wanted to eliminate his spirit. I’m sure the Sheriff will figure out who’s responsible for his murder.”
Normally, that explanation would be enough for me, but I am still anxious and want more. “Sheriff Daniels seemed eager to talk to you.” I gulped down half my glass of orange juice. “What did he want?”
“You have excellent hearing, Little Bird.” He chuckles. “I’m sure you heard exactly what he wanted.” He tosses a few blueberries in his mouth. “Why did your mother think I went out to buy ice cream?”
Of course she would try his cell phone. Sometimes, I can be so stupid. “She called and I didn’t know what to say. She wanted to talk to you.”
“The truth is usually best.” A sly expression twists his lips and brightens his eyes. “She might be stuck in Scottsdale for a few extra days. She’s meeting with a new client.”
My heart sinks. Sicheii glances at the kitchen clock. “You’d better catch the bus, or I’ll have to drive you.”
I leap to my feet. Sicheii driving me to school would be a major disaster. My head aches as I snatch my backpack from the floor and march out the front door. The smell of incense lingers in my nose as the morning sun temporarily blinds me.
This day is going to be a bad one. Sometimes you just know.
Bartens uses the same beaten down yellow buses as my old school. It’s the only similarity between the two places. Sure, they teach some of the same subjects, but that’s in name only. Bartens specializes in AP or college level courses we’ll never receive college credit for anyway. It seems like they want to skip high school altogether and make believe they’re something they’re not, a college. It’s all smoke and mirrors—the illusion of harder class work to slip as many students as possible into the Ivies. The more Bartens students that go to Harvard, the more they can charge in tuition. You don’t need to be a genius to figure that out.
I trudge my way on the bus, and tap George, the bus driver, on the shoulder. A storm cloud hovers over him, and I see the score of the Suns game in my mind’s eye. The Suns lost big. I get the feeling he bet a bunch on the game.
“Tough game last night?”
“Tell me about it.” George closes the doors with a hard yank.
I glance down the length of the bus and a pit grows inside me. I’m used to the feeling by now. The same pit grows every time I step on the bus, every school day for the past two years. Only three other students take the ride. Each sits alone, and each looks as miserable as I feel. The bus could hold fifty students, yet the most it ever takes is five. No one wants to take the Loser Limo as the other kids call it. It smells—part sweat and part rotten food, as if old sandwiches are stuck in the seats. Katie sits toward the back. At least she’ll share the trip with me. I sigh and plop down on the bench behind her.
“Hey, are you feeling better?” Concern is scribbled onto her round face in small lines that ring her eyes and mouth. “I texted you last night, but you never got back to me.”
Guilt jabs me, and I smile weakly. “It must have been a twenty-four hour thing. My stomach feels much better.” Katie is a straight arrow and would never have approved of my cutting class yesterday, so I fib to avoid the topic.
When the bus bounces along our way, she flops next to me, filling up her seat and overflowing into my space a little. She’s slightly overweight. Nothing extreme, but in the perfect world of Bartens, she stands out, and no one wants to stand out. I’ve threatened more than one person about calling her names, like Katie the Cow or Weighty Katie. Luckily I haven’t had to hit anyone yet, but I’ve come close.
Dark circles smudge underneath her bloodshot eyes, new tear tracks mark her cheeks, and she sniffles. This is bad. “What’s up? Are you okay?”
She whispers even though no one can hear us anyway. “Channel Seven News did a special on my dad.” She bites her nails—her nervous habit. They look like stubs. “The trial hasn’t even started yet and they’ve all but convicted my dad of these terrible crimes. They say he ran the largest Ponzi scheme ever.” New tears brim her eyes.
I wrap my arm around her shoulders as fresh tears start dribbling down her face. “You shouldn’t watch those shows. They’re idiots. They’ll say anything to trick people to tune in.”
As the bus turns left through the arched brick entranceway into Bartens, Katie pulls out a tissue from her backpack. Going into school with watery eyes would be like spilling blood in shark-infested waters. The other kids are already vicious toward her. Some of their families lost a bunch in funds her father managed.
The bus lumbers toward the back of the main building past a half dozen different brick structures with tall windows, white wood trim, and even a round glass English conservatory where we eat lunch. The design might work for our sister school in England, but the Arizona heat makes it totally ridiculous.
We pull to a st
op on the south side of campus, away from our lockers. A gust of hot air smacks us in the face when we hop off the bus. I check her face—all evidence she had been crying is gone, so we amble our way to first period, Global History.
Ms. Arnold stands in front of the classroom waiting for her students to arrive. She started teaching this year and bubbles with energy. Apparently no one has told her yet that she’s supposed to hate the students like the other teachers. She’s the assistant tennis coach, has curly blonde hair that bounces to her shoulders, and is in great shape. All the boys have a crush on her—it’s easy to understand why.
As I walk past, she asks, “Are you feeling better, Juliet?”
I sniffle, slump my shoulders, and frown slightly. “I’m feeling better.” I add a slight cough for effect. “Yesterday was a little rough.”
Small class sizes suck. There’s no place to hide. Teachers always know who’s absent, who didn’t finish the homework, or who’s distracted by some crisis or another. I hate it. I want to blend in the back of the room, be anonymous, but how can I disappear when the class only has three rows of seats?
She smiles and nods, but her eyes linger on me. She studied Native American culture at Arizona State, which explains why she stayed behind in our little town. A few months ago, she stopped in my grandfather’s shop when I was there and talked to him about some of the antique tools. She stood in the back of the shop and pointed to a case with some arrowheads, a knife, and two hatchets.
I freeze and my throat tightens. There were two hatchets.
One of the kids on the football team bumps into me on the way to his seat, so I remember to keep moving as the rest of the students file into the room and class begins. Ms. Arnold wanders around the class, asking questions, prying open ideas and comments from students who’d rather keep them hidden. Global is my favorite class even if she gives a horrendous amount of homework.
The bell rings and she grabs my arm as I leave. “If you’re still not feeling well, you should go to the nurse’s office. I’m off next period and can take you.”