Rez Rebel

by Melanie Florence

  Mouse smiled. “So what did you do to those boys?” he asked eagerly. “Did you beat them up?”

  “Nah. They weren’t worth it. It takes a stronger man to walk away sometimes. But I did tell them why I wore my hair long. Figured maybe if they understood, they’d leave me alone.”

  “Did they?”

  “Of course not,” I told him. My voice was light, but I knew Mouse was hanging on my every word. “Bullies get off on

  bullying people.”

  “So then what did you do?” he asked breathlessly.

  “I focused on the biggest bully. I told him if he didn’t back off and take his buddies with him, he’d wake up one day and find himself shaved bald. I told him that on the rez they teach us how to scalp people when we’re young.”

  Mouse doubled over laughing. “I bet he stopped bullying you when you said that,” he giggled.

  “Wouldn’t you?” I asked him.

  “Yeah,” he said. Then he looked thoughtful. “Do you think that would work for me?”

  “Are they still bothering you at school?” I asked.

  But Mouse didn’t get a chance to answer.

  “Jeez, we leave the car alone for fifteen minutes and a couple of thugs take it over,” Jasper’s voice called out from behind us. He was trudging toward us with Charlie, who was carrying a red fuel container.

  “What happened?” I asked. I was pretty sure I already knew the answer.

  “Ran out of gas,” Charlie hollered. “Had to walk to the station.”

  “You didn’t notice the gauge was low?” I asked. “Nah, it wasn’t. It’s stuck again,” Jasper said, dropping down on the ground beside us. “I’ll take it apart later and try to fix it.”

  “What are you guys doing here?” Charlie asked. He was filling the tank carefully.

  “I needed to talk to all of you.” I spit the blade of grass out of my mouth and wiped my hands on my jeans. “So I overhead my parents talking after we dropped off Mouse. My mom was yelling.” The guys looked surprised at this. I didn’t blame them. “I know. She never yells. But she was yelling and saying that our community is dying and that something has to be done about it. My mom thinks I should help somehow. I’ve been trying to come up with some ideas but my dad doesn’t want to talk about it.

  He thinks I’m just a kid.”

  My friends were watching me intently. I wished my father would listen as avidly as they did. It struck me that I was lucky to have these guys. They would listen to whatever I had to say. And I knew that if there was anything they could do to help, they would, without question. Something about having their attention got me thinking about the possibilities of what we could make happen. About what we could really do to help if we did it together. My dad didn’t want to listen to me but there was no way he could ignore all of us.

  So I kept going with it. “Kids . . . our friends . . . are killing themselves because they can’t see a future. They don’t see that there’s a life for them here . . . that they can do something with their lives if they stay. Or that they can leave if they really want to. We just lost four girls. We’ve been losing other kids steadily.

  We lost one of our best friends.”

  I felt tears sting my eyes and I swallowed hard. Mouse patted my back, a tear sliding down his cheek. He had loved Aaron as much as any of us. I gave him a small smile before continuing.

  “There’s got to be something we can do to show other kids that we have a future. On the rez or out there.”

  I gestured vaguely down the road, away from everything that was familiar to us.

  “Do we though?” Charlie asked. “Because there’s not much here for us. And there’s nothing for us out there. Where the hell are we supposed to go? Nowhere. Zero future, man.”

  “We have futures, Charlie,” Jasper disagreed. “We just have no idea what they are.”

  “I don’t know,” Charlie continued. “You know my cousin William?” When we all nodded, he went on. “He went to the city after high school. Lasted a few months and then came back home. He said people were awful there. He couldn’t get a job. He applied everywhere but people took one look at him and said the job was already taken. People were racist to him. Like, really racist. He got into some kind of fight with a kid who called him a savage. The kid got his friends together and they jumped William and beat him up pretty badly. William OD’d after that. Took the bottle of painkillers he got at the hospital and downed all of it. They had to pump his stomach. His parents brought him home and told everyone he had

  gotten into an accident. They swore the whole family to secrecy about the overdose.”

  “I . . . I don’t know what to say,” I told him. “I’m sorry, man.”

  Charlie shrugged.

  “But it’s not like that for everyone, right?” Jasper asked. “People leave and do okay.”

  “Like who?” Charlie asked.

  “My sister,” Mouse piped up. “She’s doing great at her school!”

  “Yeah. I guess,” Charlie said.

  “Have you ever thought about it?” I asked. “What you’ll do after high school?”

  Jasper shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess. Sometimes.”

  “Have you guys ever thought of leaving the rez? Maybe going to university?”

  Charlie shook his head. “I’d never get in. I don’t have the marks.”

  Jasper nodded at that. “Yeah, I don’t know. No one has

  ever really talked about it with me. At school, the guidance counsellor said I could do a mechanics course or something. But no one ever asked about university. I don’t know what I’d study anyway,” he admitted.

  “I always kind of wanted to go,” I told them. “I thought maybe I could be a teacher or something.”

  My friends looked at me in complete shock. I had never talked to them about what I wanted to do after high school. I had kind of been afraid to admit it to myself. But I thought maybe I could be the kind of teacher who inspired kids to be more than they ever imagined they could be. I had watched that old movie, Dead Poets Society, with my mom and wished

  I had a teacher like that. That’s the kind of teacher I’d be. Maybe I could write books at night and teach kids during the day. That sounded pretty much perfect to me.

  Maybe I could teach. Maybe my storytelling could go beyond shooting the shit with my friends and writing in my diary. Journal. Whatever. I wasn’t ready to admit that to my friends though. The whole teacher thing was enough for now.

  “I think you’d make a great teacher, Floyd,” Mouse told me.

  “Thanks, buddy.” I focused on him. “What about you? What do you think you’ll do after school?”

  He ducked his head shyly. “I don’t know. I’d really like to be an artist. I think I could make really good comic books. I want to create a Native superhero who would rescue kids like us, who would save the world! But I could do that anywhere.” He tugged self-consciously at his braid. “If I did leave . . . I think I’d like to go to art school.”

  We were all gaping at him. I knew Mouse liked to draw. But I had no idea how big his dreams actually were.

  “A Native superhero, eh? I’d love to see some of your art,”

  I said. I watched as his entire face lit up.

  “Really, Floyd?”

  “Yeah, me too,” Jasper added. “You should make him look like me.” He struck a pose and smiled at Mouse.

  Charlie slapped Mouse on the back and grinned widely. “You definitely have to show us, man. I wish I could draw!”

  It sounds corny, but I really loved my friends at that moment.

  “Well . . . maybe I could teach you,” Mouse suggested.

  Charlie nodded. “What I’d really like to see is a story about —” and Charlie dove into an animated conversation with Mouse. He talked about his favourite comic books and superheroes and the Native twist he thou
ght Mouse could put on them.

  I watched Mouse talk, his face open and excited. All of a sudden, he was so confident. He was listening to Charlie and telling him about his own ideas for his comic books. There was no sign of the bullied kid when he talked about art and comics. I vowed then to do everything in my power to support this kid so I could see him come alive like this all the time. If we could bring that out in Mouse, maybe we could find a way to do the same for the other kids on the rez.

  Chapter 11

  Tradition

  I use my writing to vent and to work out different things that are floating around in my head. When I’m upset, I write angry poetry and horror stories à la Stephen King. When I’m happy, I write funny stuff — short stories or quirky haiku poems.

  And when I’m sad, I write depressing stories about loss and

  heartache. If I can write out my feelings and actually create

  something that makes me feel better . . . then maybe other kids could too. Not necessarily just with words. But maybe they could draw like Mouse, or paint or sing. Or maybe they could do something more traditional, like beadwork or wood carving. Maybe some of them worked out their emotions by kicking a ball around.

  It was the start of what I thought was a really great idea. And the more I thought about it, the more I liked it.

  Art didn’t have to be just a way for kids to work out their emotions or whatever. It could also be a way to connect all of us with our culture. We needed to find ways to stay alive as a

  community. Maybe it would help us find our way back to what we were in the first place: speaking our languages, creating our art, and writing our stories.

  We needed to remember where we came from.

  But it wasn’t just about creating art or stories. It was about making a life for ourselves that celebrates our history. What about sports? What about hunting? We needed to be turning our guns on something other than pop cans and ourselves. If we used our traditions to communicate and work out what we were feeling, maybe we wouldn’t be so quick to self-destruct.

  * * *

  “Soccer and lacrosse would be awesome!” Charlie crowed. “We could start a team. Give those townies a run for their money.”

  “We could make money?” Jasper asked. “Like gambling?”

  “It’s a figure of speech, Jas. Although . . . a couple of bucks on a game here and there . . . you never know.”

  “I like the idea of art classes,” Mouse volunteered. “Maybe we could have a cartooning class. Or comic book art.” His ears were turning a little pink — like he was embarrassed to be

  suggesting it.

  “Yeah!” I said, wanting to keep him involved. “Maybe you could teach it, Mouse.”

  “Me? Really?”

  “We’re all going to need to pitch in. You guys can coach sports teams,” I told Jasper and Charlie.

  “And you could teach writing,” Mouse said.

  I nodded. This could work. We could really bring our friends together and try to keep them safe.

  We ended up staying out and talking a lot longer than

  I meant to. I missed dinner, but had sent my mom a quick text to let her know. So I knew I wasn’t going to be in trouble or anything. She’d have gone to bed already but I knew she’d have left a plate for me to heat up.

  The walk across the rez was quieter than usual. On a summer night, there were usually people sitting outside their houses on lawn chairs, gossiping and having a drink. Some of the kids would still be up, running around and screaming while their mothers yelled that it was way past their bedtime. But it had gotten pretty sombre around here lately. I knew that news of the suicide pact had gotten around. Parents were holding onto their kids a little tighter tonight. I was anxious to get home and talk to my dad about the ideas the guys and

  I had come up with.

  I looked up and noticed that I was walking past Aaron’s place. I hadn’t been inside since he died. But I had spent half my childhood at that house. It was as familiar to me as my own home. I stopped out front without even thinking.

  I still missed Aaron every single day. I had known he was unhappy. He had taken a lot of crap from the kids at school and even from some of the boys on the rez. He had told me he was gay a few years ago. I was cool with it. I had pretty much known since he was a little kid anyway. As far as I was concerned, it didn’t change anything between us. He was still the same guy to me. But not everyone felt that way about him. Particularly his father. Aaron had taken a beating from his dad that left him bruised for a week after he came out to his family. But I had thought he was doing okay. I really had.

  Then I had received a call from his mom, asking if he was with me.

  He wasn’t.

  I stared at the front door. I remembered heading over that morning and talking to Aaron’s mom, hearing how he hadn’t come home the night before. I remember telling her that he was probably just hanging out in the woods. He used to do that, especially when his dad was on his case. I had gone out to check the places I knew he hung out when he needed to get away. I never thought for a second that anything was wrong.

  Not until I had found him by the river. He had still been holding the gun he had used to kill himself.

  I took one last look at Aaron’s house and started walking, faster and faster. I was trying to outrun the cloud of grief that threatened to take over again.

  I had tried to write about Aaron after he died. But every time I picked up a pen, I’d just stare at my notebook and see his face; the blood and leaves in his hair. I had no words that could erase that picture. No story could change that.

  Until I finally sat down and forced myself to write a letter to him. I didn’t need to look in my notebook to remember it. Every word was etched into my brain.

  Dear Aaron,

  I wish I had written this a week ago. Two weeks ago. A year ago. I wish I had just talked to you. Just listened better. Asked more questions. Told you that it doesn’t matter who you want to have sex with. You’re still my best friend.

  I still can’t believe that you’re gone. You’ve been gone for a week. But it still feels like you’re going to climb in my window and crash on my floor, eating Oreos, and talking late into the night.

  I still walk past your house and expect to see you sitting on the porch, waiting for me. Or I hear my phone and expect it to be a text from you.

  Even though I know that you’re gone.

  Because I’m the one who found you. Found you lying on the ground with a gun in your hand. I still see you lying there every single time I close my eyes.

  I hate you for that.

  But I miss you way more than I could ever hate you.

  I loved you like a brother, Aaron.

  Still love you.

  Even now.

  Always.

  I wish I had told you that.

  I wish I could have saved you.

  Your friend forever,

  Floyd

  I didn’t mind walking in the dark. I had lived here all my life. There wasn’t anywhere I wasn’t comfortable and there was no corner I wasn’t familiar with. But it just didn’t feel the same since Aaron died.

  Our house was dark when I got home. My parents had been going to bed early lately. I knew they were under a lot of stress. So was everyone else. That accounted for the eerie quiet on a warm summer night.

  I didn’t really have a curfew in the summer. But with everything that was going on . . . my mom liked me home at a decent hour. I didn’t want to wake her or my dad up and since the front door squeaked like crazy, I went around the back.

  I unlocked the door super quietly and tiptoed into the kitchen.

  Made it.

  As I made my way carefully toward my bedroom, I heard a sound coming out of the living room. I stopped in the doorway and peered into the darkness. I could make out the outline of my father sitting
in his favourite chair, facing the front window. I was going to step into the room but a sound stopped me cold. It was my father’s sobbing. I had never heard my father cry before. I was sure he wouldn’t want anyone to hear him now.

  I took a step back and turned toward my room. I moved silently away from my father and left him alone with his grief.

  Chapter 12

  Big Plans

  I walked into the kitchen the next morning. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to find. Would my dad still be sitting in the living room, crying? Would my mom be with him? Would one of them — or both — be yelling? Probably not, since I would have heard them from my room. Maybe they were finally talking. Maybe he’d finally listen to me.

  My father was sitting at the table. He was smiling widely and talking to my mom. There was absolutely no sign of the distraught man from last night. Unless you looked closely. He may have had a smile on his face but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  “I really think we’re on the right track here,” he was saying. “The Council and I have something big planned. I think it’ll really make a difference.”

  “What will?” I asked. I sat down across from him and

  studied his face. He somehow managed to look like he had slept for twelve hours.

  “I can’t tell you yet, Floyd,” he said, sipping his coffee. “We have a few more loose ends to tie up first. But I think it’ll really do some good.”

  “Ummm . . . that’s . . . good.” I had no idea what he had planned. But anything that would help the community had my support. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Sure. Sure. I’m off to meet the Council now. We’re going to make some big decisions today.” He stood up and grabbed my mom. He spun her around, dishwater flying as he dipped her and went in for a kiss. He left in a cloud of optimism that didn’t seem entirely real.

  “So . . . he’s in a good mood,” I said to my mom.

  She nodded and sat down beside me, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Yes. I guess he thinks the Council is going to start fixing some of our problems.”