Rez Rebel

by Melanie Florence

  Even so, I almost tried to talk to my dad again. But I stopped myself just as he turned toward me.

  “Big plans today, son?” My dad smiled and stood back against the counter.

  “Nah. Gonna see what the guys are doing.” I handed him the newspaper and his keys. “Another day at the office, eh?”

  “Another day, another dollar,” he joked. He kissed my mother again, and pulled her against him. I looked away. Ew. I mean, it was nice that they were still in love after all these years. But come on. Did they have to grope each other right in front of me?

  Dad gave me a quick, one-armed hug before he grabbed his lunch off of the table. I was stunned. I mean, I knew my father loved me. But he usually didn’t show it with hugs.

  “You should be excited about this, Floyd. The Council meeting is next week and we’re planning something pretty big . . .” He trailed off as he walked toward the door. He waved over his shoulder at us and let the door slam shut behind him. My mother winced. She hated when he did that.

  “What was that all about?” I asked her. “What are they planning?”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  I grabbed an apple and kissed my mom on the cheek. “Be home later.” I left, careful to let the door close gently behind me.

  As I bounded down the front steps two at a time,

  my braids flew up and hit my cheek. I was glad I had tied my hair back. It was going to be a scorcher! But it was still early and the whole day was stretched out before me like deer hide on a drying rack. Late August and already fall was in the air. The leaves were starting to change into a dazzling array of reds, yellows and oranges. The rez was alive. I smelled fry bread

  sizzling in oil. I heard the sound of radios blaring hip hop music. I took in the sight of kids playing soccer, the dust rising in clouds around their shuffling feet and coating their brown skin with a thin layer of pale earth.

  “Tânisi, Floyd!” The greeting came from a small figure whose lightning-fast feet were kicking up a huge cloud of dust. His frame was swimming in an old, red David Beckham jersey from the star’s days with Manchester United and faded jeans at least two sizes too big. He broke away from the scrimmage and launched himself against my legs, sending me stumbling back a few steps.

  “Hey, Mouse. Who’s winning?” I clapped a hand on his head, messing up his already tousled hair.

  “Hey!” He smoothed a hand over his head. “We’re up by four.” Mouse fell into step beside me, taking two steps to my every one. He was fourteen but small for his age. I was aware that he took a lot of slack for that at school. But he was smart and funny. And he seemed to think I was someone to look up to.

  We turned a corner and saw Jasper leaning back against the side of the junky old car. It barely ran and made so much noise and smoke that you feared for your life every time you got into it. Charlie’s head was buried under the hood. All

  I could see of him were his jean-clad legs. There was a big oily stain on the back where you could tell he had been wiping his dirty hands. He was going to catch hell from his mom for that. I could hear him cursing loudly to himself as he tinkered with the engine.

  “Hey, Floyd!” yelled Jasper.

  “How ya doin’, Jas?”

  I leaned against the car and crossed one leg over the other. I got ready with my best old-timer Rez accent and jumped into storyteller mode. Storytelling has always been a big part of our culture. It was always me who came up with the good stories on the spot. They didn’t always have a lesson or moral or anything but they always made my friends laugh. And at that moment, we needed laughs way more than a life lesson.

  “I heard Thomas say just this morning that they were going to get the ice ready. Get the hockey team practicing for the season. Already, eh? Seems a bit early, ennit?”

  “We need all the help we can get,” said Mouse.

  “Yeah, yeah . . . I suppose. Who ever heard of Indians

  playing hockey anyway, you know? It’s unnatural. Should be

  riding horses or some shit. We’re warriors, ennit? Warriors don’t play sports, man!”

  Mouse grinned. “Floyd, you go to every game.”

  “And soccer! Jeez! Don’t get me started on soccer!”

  “How about lacrosse, Floyd? Warriors played lacrosse, right?”

  “Now you’re talkin’, man! Yeah. That’s a real Indian sport, ennit? Did you know that the Comanche invented lacrosse, man?”

  “They did not!” Mouse shot back.

  “Yeah, man. Some Comanche fisherman was hanging out with his brothers, you know? And they’re fishing, right? But nothing’s biting. So this one guy starts waving his net around, acting stupid. And his buddy throws a rock at him because he’s being such a jerk off. And he catches it in his net, man! And that’s how lacrosse

  was invented.”

  Jasper joined in, smirking. “By the Comanche?”

  I nodded.

  Mouse’s eyes were wide, his mouth hanging agape. “Is that true?” he breathed.

  “No way!” said Jasper. “The Iroquois invented it. And the Comanche weren’t fishermen, Floyd. They didn’t even eat fish!”

  “Details, man.” I waved my hand carelessly in Jasper’s direction, dropping the accent. Then I banged a fist on the hood. “Charlie! Haven’t you gotten this piece of crap

  running yet?”

  “It’s been acting up, Floyd. The wipers keep going on by themselves. And if we keep the heater on low, it stops.” He threw the keys over to me.

  See what I mean? Rez beater.

  Charlie stood up, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans again. Jasper walked over to look under the hood and Charlie threw an arm over his shoulder. It was a friendly enough gesture. At least it was until Charlie turned it into a headlock. Jasper yelled and clawed at Charlie’s arm while Mouse and I laughed.

  “Quit it, Charlie!” yelled Jasper. But Charlie had watched enough Ultimate Fighting Championships to have mastered his headlock technique. He also had a good six inches on Jasper, who topped out at five foot four. Jas insisted he was five foot six. But we had measured him while he was splayed out on Charlie’s floor fast asleep a few weeks ago. And we had the pictures to prove it.

  “I mean it, Charlie! I can’t friggin’ breathe, you ass!” choked Jas.

  Charlie let him go, grinning widely. “And Jasper Janvier taps out, ladies and gentlemen,” he crowed. “Charlie Trejo is still the undisputed UFC champion of the world!” He raised his arms over his head in victory as Mouse and I cheered and whistled.

  Jasper punched him in the arm. “Dick,” Jas grumbled, rubbing at his neck. He had just started wearing his hair gelled up into a spiky style that was clearly supposed to add that extra height he claimed we were robbing from him. Of course Charlie never missed a chance to mess up the ’do. Like me, Charlie wore his hair long, usually in a ponytail. In Charlie’s case it was to keep it off a face that was often buried under the hood of the beater. I guess we all looked like all the other Indian kids on the rez. Not that a lot of us still wore our hair in braids or anything. Most of my friends kept their hair pretty short. Even so, in the city, they’d be hard pressed to tell any of us apart. They certainly couldn’t or wouldn’t at school. We all looked alike to most of them.

  “All right, you guys,” I said, before another free for all started. “Let’s get going. Come on, Jas. You coming, Mouse?”

  Mouse looked at me, his eyes shining and an eager look on his face. I grinned and held open the door for him.

  Chapter 7

  Target Practice

  Charlie yelled, “Shotgun!” and stepped quickly in front of Mouse to claim the front seat. We all knew there was less chance of choking up there. The car started with a coughing roar, belching out thick clouds of smoke. Mouse and Jasper coughed loudly in the back seat. I threw them a dark glance in the rear-view mirror and they stopped, and st
arted laughing instead.

  None of us said anything. There was no point in trying to talk over the noise coming from under the hood. And from under our feet. And from somewhere in the trunk. In fact, it sounded like there was someone in the trunk, banging to get out. I saw that Mouse looked completely unnerved in the back seat and I flashed him a smile in the rear-view mirror.

  “Don’t worry, man. This old car will outlive all of us.”

  I instantly wished I could take those words back. It made me think of Aaron.

  Mouse sat up straighter. “Where we goin’, Floyd?”

  Charlie turned around in his seat and answered for me. “My uncle’s field, down at the edge of the rez.” Mouse must have looked puzzled because Charlie continued. “We do target

  practice there.”

  “You have a gun?” Mouse asked, clearly impressed.

  “It’s my dad’s,” admitted Charlie. “But he doesn’t mind if

  I borrow it as long as I replace the ammo.”

  I turned off the dirt road onto an even dustier laneway.

  It led around Charlie’s uncle’s cabin and past a chicken coop, a shed and two rusted cars in the backyard. It was the perfect cliché of a little rez shack. I drove a little farther and the field came into view. Bordered by woods on two sides, it was quiet and no one but us ever seemed to go there anymore.

  “We’re here!” Charlie announced. He pulled a handgun from the glove compartment. “Smith & Wesson .22 calibre blue steel revolver,” he said reverently. We all climbed out of the car. Jasper and Mouse stood on either side of Charlie, looking at the gun in awe.

  I shook my head and walked toward the back of the car.

  I leaned against the trunk, pulling a rolled up bundle of leather out of my pocket. I strapped a bracer on my arm. It had been my Nimosôm’s — my mother’s father — and I stopped to admire the supple brown leather, worn smooth by years of use. It fit around my arm like it was made for me. I flexed my fingers, limbering them up.

  “Whatcha doin’, Floyd?” Mouse called. He walked back to where I stood, as I pulled a duffel bag out of the trunk of the beater. “Aren’t you going to shoot Charlie’s gun?”

  “I don’t like guns,” I answered. The zipper of the bag slid open with a satisfying SSSSNIIIIK. I reached in and lifted my bow carefully out of the bag. Mouse’s jaw dropped as I reached in again to pull out a leather quiver full of arrows.

  “Wow!” he breathed. “Where did you get that?”

  I grinned at the awe on his face.

  “It was my Nimosôm’s,” I said, slinging the quiver onto my back.

  I had spent hours eyeing the crossbows and compound bows on the Bass Pro Shop website. I had almost bought a new one a couple of times — once I even visited the actual store north of Toronto. But I always ended up changing my mind. My Nimosôm’s bow wasn’t fancy or expensive. But it carried a history. And its age hadn’t stopped me from winning a bunch of trophies with it. I realized it meant more to me than a brand new one ever could.

  Nimosôm was a hunter from need rather than for sport. The family ate every animal he killed, and he was a deadly shot with the bow. When everyone else was using rifles, my Nimosôm would say that hunting with a bow and arrow kept him connected to Mother Earth and the animals he hunted. “It’s important to keep our culture alive,” he’d tell me. “One foot in the past,” he’d say.

  I liked that. I tried to live that way too.

  “Come on, Mouse,” I said. I handed the bow to him. He held it gently in his hands like it was some kind of treasure.

  I couldn’t help but laugh at the expression on his face.

  Jasper was setting up a row of twelve cans on the fence at the back of the field. Charlie was flicking open the cylinder on the .22 and smacking it closed again, then spinning it against the palm of his hand.

  “Will you cut that shit out, Charlie!” I growled. I stroked the feather fletchings on an arrow and waited for Jasper to finish setting up.

  “It’s not loaded, man.” Charlie dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out a bunch of bullets. He started loading them into the chambers one by one. I shook my head and notched an arrow onto the bowstring.

  When Jasper was finished setting up, he walked back to where we were standing. Charlie finished loading and stepped up, taking position in front of the cans. He held the .22 out in front of him with one hand and turned it sideways. I rolled my eyes. He watched way too many movies about gangs.

  CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! The .22 jumped slightly in Charlie’s hand as he fired. CRACK! CRACK! Charlie tilted his head to the side and looked at the targets. Only two cans had been hit.

  “You have three more shots.” Jasper smirked.

  “I know!” CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Missed. Missed.

  And missed.

  Jasper was doubled over laughing. “My turn!” he said when he could talk again. He grabbed the gun from Charlie and popped open the cylinder. “Charlie, I need more bullets. Mouse, set up a couple more cans! Oh, wait . . . I guess we don’t need them.” He laughed at his own as Charlie scowled at him.

  “NaNaNaaaaa! NaNaNaaaaaa!” Jasper sang as he loaded the gun. Charlie, Mouse, and I watched as he bobbed his head and shuffled his feet.

  Charlie tapped him on the shoulder. “What the hell are you singing?”

  “SWAT, man! I’m a total badass!”

  “You’re a total dumbass, Jas. That’s the theme from Rocky.”

  I fell against Mouse, laughing as Jasper turned confused eyes up at Charlie. Charlie shook his head at him, challenging him

  to answer back. “Just shoot, man.”

  Eight quick CRACKS and four cans were thrown off the fence.

  “Better than you did, Charlie!” Jasper called in response to Charlie’s burst of laughter. “I know. Let Mouse have a turn.”

  “No!” I said so forcefully it was like the word was shot from my mouth. Visions of Aaron danced in my head.

  Mouse glanced at over at me, a hurt look on his face. His hand was already held out for the gun.

  “I’ll go.” I smiled at them, trying to make my voice sound softer. “Mouse, you can hold the arrows for me.” The smile he gave me was so blindingly bright I could have used sunglasses.

  “What do I do?” he asked, holding out a shaking hand for the quiver.

  “Just hand me another one right after I shoot, so I don’t lose my focus.” Mouse nodded and pulled out the first arrow, handing it to me.

  I took position and stood with my feet shoulder width apart.

  I breathed in slowly and pointed my bow downwards, attaching the arrow to the bowstring and holding both with three fingers. Taking a deep breath, I swung the bow up and drew the string back in one fluid motion. I stood like that for a moment. I breathed in the scent of pine from all the trees around us and the smell of the chalk I used on my hands. Then, letting out the breath slowly, I released the string. It made a satisfying TWANG and I watched as the arrow sliced through the air. It hit the tin can dead centre and sent

  it flying.

  I held my hand out for another arrow and repeated the motion smoothly. Again, and again . . . arrows flew and cans clattered to the ground. Six shots. There was silence as I lowered my bow and looked at my friends. Mouse was beaming at me and Jasper and Charlie were speechless for once. Charlie looked at the six empty places on the fence.

  “Whoa,” he breathed. He looked over at Jasper, then at Mouse and finally at me.

  “Holy cow, Floyd!” Jasper added.

  I smiled at Mouse and patted him on the back. “Thanks, buddy.”

  Mouse smiled back, his face flushed. It took so little to make Mouse happy. And when Mouse was happy, everyone around him was happy too. I could never understand why anyone would give him a hard time at school. I thought he was pretty cool.

  Chapter 8

  Grandpa's Gun

 
“Hey, Floyd,” Mouse asked, tapping me on the shoulder. “Why don’t you like guns? Is it because of Aaron?”

  Charlie and Jasper exchanged looks as I looked down at Mouse and tried to smile. I opened my mouth to answer but nothing came out.

  “Aaron used a .22,” Jasper said. He stared at the gun in his hand.

  “Yeah. It was his dad’s.” Charlie looked grimly at Mouse. “Took it and went out to the woods.”

  Mouse was looking at them, wide-eyed and tongue-tied.

  “It’s not because of Aaron,” I told him, tousling his hair gently and trying to smile. “It’s a long story, Mouse. Just something that happened to me when I was a kid. No big deal.” I walked to the car and started to pack up my stuff up.

  No big deal. Right.

  The fact was that my other grandfather — my dad’s father — had used guns. Grandpa had taught me how to shoot as soon as I was old enough to hold a gun and keep holding it when it kicked back as I fired it. He took great pride in showing me how to line up the sights and practice shooting cans off the back fence. When I turned out to be a natural crack shot, it was like he had won the lottery or something. He was so proud of my shooting abilities that he would brag to anyone who would

  listen. He signed me up for local shooting competitions with his handguns. It was the one thing he had always done with me,

  his version of grandfather/grandson bonding, I suppose.

  I hadn’t been quite as excited by it all as he was. But spending that time with him had been important to me, guns or not.

  Grandpa used to drink a lot. And when he was drinking, I tried to avoid him as much as possible. His drinking had rarely spilled over to shooting, luckily. I had loved getting all his attention when he was sober. And making him so proud of me? If there was a better feeling in the world at that point,

  I didn’t know what it was.

  That had all been when I was younger than Mouse and I had loved spending time with my grandfather. I liked shooting cans off a wall. I even liked the competitions and I had won my fair share of them.