by Tawni Waters
A few minutes later we’re lying together on my rug coloring plates, and Iggy has completely forgotten about me yelling. As Xylia’s Dylan CD plays, Iggy tells me about lions, his mask pulled over his face again. “They live in families called prides.”
“That’s cool.” I give my plate red lips.
“Lions don’t have lipstick,” Iggy says.
“Mine’s not a lion.”
He scoots closer to get a better look. “What is it?”
“My muse.”
“Muses have lipstick?”
“Mine does.”
“That’s cool,” Iggy says. He tosses the lion he has been working on aside and grabs a new plate. “I’m making a muse too.” He draws a pair of crimson lips.
“Your muse looks just like mine,” I tell him.
“Nah,” he says, scribbling brown, curly hair onto his plate. “Yours is the color of rainbows.”
I stare at my mask. “No, she’s not. She has black hair and red lips.”
“In you. She looks like a rainbow in your heart.”
“What do you mean?” Stunned, I remember the poem I wrote about Xylia.
Iggy’s see-clear-through-you eyes study me from the holes in the plate. “I don’t know. I just saw colors in your heart for a minute. It was pretty.” He goes back to decorating his mask. “Did you know what lion families are called?”
I grab his hand. “Iggy, stop for a second. When you saw the rainbow, did you see my muse?”
“The rainbow was your muse. Do you know what lion families are called?”
“What do you mean the rainbow was my muse?”
Iggy has either gone deaf or isn’t interested in talking about muses anymore. “Do you know what lion families are called?” he asks again.
Giving up on getting any more information about Iggy’s apparent ESP, I sigh. “Prides.”
“Do you know why?” he asks.
“No, why?”
“I don’t know. I asked you.”
I stare at my brother, watching the sunlight falling over him, thinking there is an angel sitting beside me in a paper mask. How does he know all my secrets? “Maybe they call them that because they are proud to be related to each other.”
Carefully Iggy presses his crayon into the box and chooses another. “Maybe,” he agrees.
That night I lie in my bed, staring up at nothing, remembering the day. I try to decide whether Iggy really saw into my heart, or if he was just thinking about crayons. I hear Elijah’s ugly words, and then I hear my own: “Damn it, Iggy!”
I toss and turn all night, feeling guilty for making my brother cry. Like he doesn’t have enough problems without me making it worse. Maybe Elijah is right. Maybe I will burn in hell.
CHAPTER 17
ON THE LAST DAY OF school we learned that the same old water has been rushing along our earth ever since time began. The rain that falls from the clouds isn’t God’s tears after all. It’s just someone’s pee or old chicken soup that got sucked up into the sky, cleaned, and dropped back down again. I’m sad to know that heaven has never washed me, but I get a little thrill from thinking that when I go for a swim in the river, I might be bathing in Michelangelo’s tears, the very ones he cried when the pope locked him in the Sistine Chapel and made him paint the story of God.
There’s something about my skin that loves the feel of water. Water is silky soft, and in one little spot of water there could be up to twenty-thousand-billion-jillion little creatures slithering around. That’s what Mr. Farley said, more or less. And he proved his point by letting me look through a microscope. I gasped out loud when I saw them—dozens of little squiggly animals sliding around and dancing. Not pretty animals, mind you. Not cats or dogs or baby deer. But ugly little things with two hundred legs and no eyes. They looked the way space creatures might look if they happened to visit our planet.
It was a good way to end the school year. It made me think that our existence is bigger than I ever even imagined. I mean, if there are worlds in drops of water, imagine what else is out there. Our earth is a tiny speck in a giant universe, just the way that water drop is a tiny speck on our earth. And how can we pretend we have everything all figured out when we’re so very small, compared to all that is?
I think all this as I start to walk home from school. I could have ridden the bus, but I walk when I can these days. It’s relaxing, and I don’t have to worry about Elijah. Iggy does fine getting himself home.
Pretty soon, like always, I’m thinking about Xylia. I worry that I won’t be able to see her every day anymore. Her momma has all sorts of summer trips planned, and Daddy says I can’t join her for any of them because he needs my help around the farm. Also, she will be visiting her dad for a while.
For the first time ever I’m sad that summer vacation is here. I already feel the loss of her. She and her momma left this afternoon to go to Albuquerque and see a production of Angels in America, which is apparently a play about a gay man dying of AIDS. It sounds depressing, but Xylia saw it once. She told me I would like it and I should really, really, really ask my parents if I could come. “There’s this part where an angel comes down from the ceiling!” she said. “It’s crazy beautiful.” I told her I couldn’t because Iggy was graduating. I didn’t tell her the part about my daddy maybe killing me if I asked to go see a play about gay people.
“Mara!”
I hear Henry’s voice behind me. I stop and wait, watching a tiny finch hop from branch to branch overhead.
“I just wanted to say good-bye,” Henry says out of breath when he catches up with me.
“I thought you were gone,” I say. He’s going to stay on the reservation with his aunt for the summer.
“Not yet.”
“You’re lucky you get a fun vacation.” I kick at a pebble, jealous that everyone but me is going somewhere.
“You’ve obviously never been to the res.”
“Does it suck?”
Henry thinks about my question before he answers. Henry always thinks before he speaks. I like that about him. “No. It’s slow paced, but at least I won’t get bleached there. Maybe I can get some clothes without freckles.” He smiles.
“You wouldn’t be you without freckled clothes,” I say, laughing. “When are you leaving?”
“Not for a couple of weeks,” he says. “But I wanted to say good-bye just in case I didn’t see you again.”
“Well, good-bye,” I say. “I hope you have the best summer ever.”
“Frankly, that wouldn’t take much. Summers haven’t always been kind to me.”
I think back to last summer, to Iggy’s broken brain. “Me either,” I say.
I hug Henry good-bye, but he doesn’t leave. Instead he walks me all the way home. We don’t say much. That’s one thing I like about me and Henry. We can be quiet, and it doesn’t feel weird. It’s like we both know what the other one is thinking without saying anything. When we get to my doorstep, I get nervous because I wonder if he’s going to ask to come inside. I can’t say yes. No way will Daddy be okay with a heathen being in the house. I mean, my birthday was one thing, but this is quite another. Thankfully, Henry doesn’t ask.
“Well, catch you on the flip side, Mara,” he says.
I wonder where he heard that. “Adios, amigo.”
Henry wanders off down the road, getting tinier and tinier. I sit on the porch and watch until he’s gone, making sure he’s not coming back to piss Daddy off.
When I finally go inside, Iggy’s skipping around the kitchen, wearing Daddy’s best suit, singing, “No more school, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks.” Seeing him in Daddy’s clothes makes me realize how big he’s gotten. The polyester pants are too short, and his arms stick out from under the jacket sleeves. Still, he looks good. His hair’s gelled back, and his eyes are shining, the way they do when he’s happy.
“I’m gonna be a graduate, Momma,” he says. He pronounces “graduate” wrong, like a verb instead of a noun. Grad-u-eight
.
Momma’s looking at her reflection in a window, patting her hair. “That’s right, Iggy.” She says this funny, out of the side of her mouth. Since she got home from the hospital, she says everything out of the side of her mouth. She’s still pretty though, when she isn’t talking.
Daddy shakes his head and flaps the newspaper he’s holding. I wonder why he’s still sitting at the table, not gussied up and ready to go like Momma and Iggy, but I don’t ask.
“Don’t these kids have to pass some tests or something before they can graduate?” he laments.
Momma turns away from her reflection and walks to Daddy’s side. “He was special ed, honey,” she whispers, as if Iggy doesn’t know already that he was special ed.
“Special ed,” Iggy repeats. “I was special ed, Daddy.”
Daddy glares and goes back to his paper. “These goddamn terrorists blew up another bus full of goddamn innocent children.”
“Goddamn terrorists,” Iggy repeats.
“Don’t swear, Iggy,” Momma says, reaching down to adjust her sandal strap.
“He can goddamn swear about the goddamn terrorists if he wants to goddamn swear about the goddamn terrorists.” Daddy pounds the table with his palm for emphasis.
“I know, honey,” Momma says. She keeps playing with her sandals, showing that she isn’t listening at all. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I wait for Daddy to do something awful. He doesn’t, though.
“Mara, go get dressed,” Momma tells me. “We have to leave in twenty minutes.” I do. I’m not excited about wearing a dress, but I’ll do it for Iggy. I pick the yellow one I wore on my birthday because it reminds of me of Xylia. I run my fingers through my hair and put on some lip gloss. I look pretty. I wish Xylia would be there to see me, but she’ll be off watching angels come down from ceilings.
As I walk into the kitchen, Momma click-clacks to the fridge and pulls out the pie she made for the post-graduation potluck. It’s cherry with little hearts carved into the crust. She sniffs the pie and smiles.
“I want some pie, Momma,” Iggy whines.
“It’s for the graduation, sport.”
“I’m ready, Momma,” I say.
“Good.” She closes the fridge and stands there, staring pointedly at Daddy. When he doesn’t look up, she says, “Honey, we should be going.”
“What are you talking about?” He acts like this is the first time he’s heard about Iggy’s graduation, even though we sent out invitations to everyone from church months ago. Inside each monogrammed envelope was a smiling picture of slick-haired Iggy, his chin resting awkwardly on his fist. A big version of that picture hangs on the living room wall. There’s no way Daddy could’ve forgotten.
“Iggy’s graduation,” Momma says. “We have to be there an hour early so he can get ready.”
“Oh,” Daddy says. He seems irritated. He flips to the sports section. “Go ahead without me. I’ll catch up.”
Momma opens her mouth to argue. The stiffness in her jaw must remind her that she shouldn’t talk back, because she closes it again. When we walk out the door, Daddy’s still reading his paper.
Iggy and me pile into the back of Momma’s green car, which still smells new because she almost never drives it. Iggy reaches toward the pie on the seat beside him. “I want pie, Momma.”
Momma slaps at his hand. “I said not now. Later.” She uses the rearview mirror to apply a fresh coat of candy-apple lipstick. After a minute she must feel bad for being snippy because she smiles and says, “Doesn’t anyone want to ride up front with me?” She snaps the cap on the lipstick and drops it in her purse.
“I do!” Iggy says. Instead of getting out and going around the car, he flails his way over the front seat, kicking me in the head.
“Ow,” I yell.
“Oh, Mara, stop being dramatic.” Momma blots her lipstick with a tissue, then reaches over and pats Iggy on the knee. “You’re the handsomest graduate I ever saw.”
I look at him. She’s right. All slicked up like he is, Iggy does look kind of handsome. If he’d keep his mouth shut, he might pass for normal. I rub my head and glare into the rearview mirror. No one notices. As Momma starts the car and pulls down the driveway, Iggy keeps singing about no more teacher’s dirty looks.
“That’s enough Iggy,” Momma finally says. Bits of gravel knock against the bottom of the car.
“Sorry.” Iggy looks down.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” Momma says, rumpling his hair. “You sing all you want. It’s your graduation day, for God’s sake.”
Iggy grins. “NO MORE TEACHER’S DIRTY LOOKS!” he shouts.
Momma winces, but she doesn’t say anything.
When we get to the gym, everyone from school is there, looking all shiny and new. There’s a stage where a basketball hoop usually stands, right in front of the painting of our mascot, the mighty fighting rattlesnake, who has crooked eyes and a tongue that looks too big for his head. Rows of chairs are set in front for the parents of the graduates.
Momma presses Iggy’s cap and gown into his hands. “Go make me proud,” she says.
“No more teacher’s dirty looks!” Iggy sings as he runs off to his classroom to get ready.
As Momma leads me to a place up front, I crane my neck, looking for Daddy. He’s nowhere. Momma’s watching too. Staring at the door, she drops her purse on a folding chair next to her. Her knee jostles up and down, up and down.
“He’ll be here soon enough, Momma,” I tell her, even though I’m not sure that’s true. I wonder if Daddy could be bad enough to miss Iggy’s graduation. Who knows?
It looks like he can be that bad, because when Principal Harris comes to the lectern to say an opening prayer, the chair beside Momma is still empty. She blinks a lot, but her eyes get red and teary anyway. I reach out and grab her hand.
“Maybe his truck wouldn’t start,” I whisper.
She nods and manages a weak little smile. The high school band starts playing Pomp and Circumstance, and the graduates file in, one by one. There are eleven of them. Iggy’s near the end. Stonebrooks are always at the end. Still, he marches proudly down the aisle, wearing his cap and gown, beaming.
“Woo, Iggy!” I shriek as he passes. He looks over, grinning until he sees the empty chair by Momma. Then his face goes flat like a deflated tire.
“Woo, Iggy!” Momma echoes, raising her fist like she’s at a political rally. “Iggy is the best boy ever!” Someone behind us snickers.
I’ve never been to a graduation before, but I figure out right away that I never want to go to another one again. Principal Harris drones on and on about the future and dreams and sunrises and crap like that. Then the valedictorian does the same thing. Then the valedictorian runner-up starts in about his family and God. Then we get the mayor, who’s the keynote speaker and is only interesting when he starts to choke on a gob of spit. He recovers quickly though, and sets in again about hope. Finally, Principal Harris introduces the graduates. He tells us something about every one of them. Kitty Addison, for instance, is interested in becoming an ER nurse. Dave Bass really does like to fish. Bass. Fish. Ha! Isn’t that funny? No, it’s not. A million years later, Mr. Harris gets to Iggy.
“Iggy Stonebrook,” he calls, and Iggy shuffles to the stage, stopping at the edge of the steps to look around, like he’s not sure if he’s really allowed to go up or not. “Come on, son,” Principal Harris calls, and everyone laughs. Iggy laughs too and ascends the stairs. “Iggy,” Principal Harris calls, “may end up being one of our heroes.”
I’m surprised to hear this. I didn’t know our principal thought of him so highly. “Iggy,” he says, clapping Iggy on the shoulder, “has been speaking to recruiters about serving in our armed forces.”
The whole place erupts into applause. I feel like somebody punched me in the gut. I glance over at Momma, and she looks like she feels the same way. Her face is pale.
“What?” I whisper.
Momma shakes her head. “I don
’t know. There must be some mistake.” Her fingers are clamped around her purse strap. Her knuckles are white.
Iggy saunters to his seat with his paper, and Principal Harris babbles on. I don’t hear anything else though. I keep thinking about what Principal Harris said. I keep remembering those recruiting tables set up in the hallways. I keep wondering who Iggy talked to those days I was too busy to walk him to the bus.
When the graduation is over, Iggy comes clomping over, laughing out loud. “I’m a graduate, Momma,” he says. He says “graduate” wrong again. Momma hugs him close.
“Iggy,” she says. “Baby, what did they mean about you maybe volunteering to serve in the armed forces?”
“I’m gonna be all I can be,” Iggy says, still smiling.
“You most certainly are not,” she whispers, pulling away from Iggy and grabbing his shoulders. She shakes him. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” People stare.
I don’t know why, but my ears start to ring, and I feel dizzy. I grab the back of a chair. “It’s okay, Momma,” I say. “They can’t make Iggy go, no matter what he signs. They can’t make someone like him go to a war.”
Iggy’s face gets mad. “I can too go,” he says. “I can be all I can be.” His eyes are squinty, like he might cry too.
“Don’t worry.” I put my hand on Momma’s and squeeze. “They can’t make him go.”
Iggy’s lip quivers.
Momma looks at the ground. “At least he’d be safe if he went.”
I think she must be losing her mind. Does she know people get shot in wars? The dizziness goes away, and I let go of the chair. “They can’t make him go.” I say it louder this time.
Momma’s eyes are still teary, but she smiles her poster-girl smile. “Let’s go get some pie, graduate,” she lilts, rumpling Iggy’s hair.
At the mention of pie, Iggy forgets all about being all he can be.
We wait in line for refreshments. Looking at the rows and rows of pies and cakes and platters of cookies, Iggy grins. The whole room smells like sugar. I fill my plate high. So does Iggy. Momma skips the food and goes right for the punch. When we sit at a table, she reaches into her purse and pulls out a silver flask.