by Amy Harmon
“Why this book? Did she tell you why?”
“She told me she doesn’t usually give extra credit. I told her I would do anything. She slapped this book down and said ‘If you can get through this one I’ll know how bad you want it.’ So here I am. Now I know why she had that look on her face,” Samuel said morosely.
“Why do you care?” My question just popped out.
Samuel glowered at me. “I want to graduate,” he enunciated through clenched teeth. “I promised my grandmother I would graduate,” he said this reluctantly. “I’m going into the Marines in May, and I want my diploma. My recruiter said I’ll have a lot more opportunities if I graduate first.”
We sat quietly for a minute. Samuel stared out the window as he was prone to do, and I fingered his book, still in my lap. I thought about how proud he seemed, and how hard it must have been to go to Ms. Whitmer and ask for the extra credit.
He reached over to take the book, but I held onto it tightly and moved it away from his outstretched hand.
“I’ll read it with you,” I blurted out, surprising both of us. He stared at me suspiciously. I shrugged my shoulders. “I told you I had read parts of it. I want to read the rest.” I cringed at my lie. “We’ll read it together. We spend an hour, sometimes more, on this bus every day. I don’t mind reading out loud if you don’t.” I couldn’t believe I had been so forward. My neck got very hot underneath my hair. I hoped I wasn’t getting hives, which sometimes happened when I got really upset or nervous.
“You read, I’ll listen,” he said stiffly.
“Now?” I questioned. He just raised his eyebrows.
I opened the book, swallowed my discomfort, and began at the beginning.
Progression
I decided our little book club was incomplete without the 1828 Webster’s Dictionary, so every day I lugged the monstrous book to and from school for use on the bus. Samuel rolled his eyes when I pulled it out of my oversized bag the following morning. Every time he forgot himself and said in frustration “What does that mean?” I would nod my head toward the big green book lying between us. He would sigh and look up the word in question while I spelled it out for him. There were also words I wasn’t sure of, and would make him look those up as well, though I was pretty certain if I didn’t know what they meant, neither did he.
A week went by, and I read morning and afternoon as he sat quietly and listened. One afternoon as I was reading, I became engrossed in the story, and forgot to read out loud.
Samuel’s brown, long-fingered hand suddenly covered the page my attention had been captured by. I realized I had been reading silently for at least several seconds.
“Whoops!” I giggled. “Sorry about that.”
He reached over and took the book from my hands. “My turn,” he said without rancor. He found the place where my imagination had quelled my voice and began reading in his deep baritone. I had always been the one to read, so I was startled by his sudden willingness to be the reader.
He spoke English perfectly, but his voice had a different cadence—the words delivered almost in a rhythm—and his tone stayed constant and unvaried, without the rise and fall that a storyteller adopts to convey emotion. I found myself listening to his voice, being pulled into it as I had, just moments before, been pulled into the story.
“Josie? Are you going to look up that word?”
I shook myself out of my reverie, not wanting to admit I hadn’t the faintest idea which word I needed to look up.
“Spelling?” I said evasively to cover my ignorance.
“Where are you today?” he said. “Your mind is everywhere.”
“I was listening to your voice.” I flushed at my confession and inwardly cursed the constant blushing that gave me no privacy.
“No you weren’t. You haven’t heard anything I’ve read,” he countered mildly.
“I was listening to your voice,” I insisted again. He lowered his eyebrows in a scowl, not understanding me.
I tried to explain to him how his voice didn’t seem to rise and fall in the same patterns as mine did. When he didn’t respond, I thought perhaps I had made him angry. Samuel was very sensitive about being different, flaunting his Navajo heritage one moment with his long hair and moccasins, growing angry if someone took notice of it in the next.
He seemed thoughtful as he spoke. He chose his words carefully, as if he had never considered them before. “The Navajo language is one of the most complex languages on Earth. From ancient times, it was only a spoken language, not a written language. If you don’t learn it as a child, it is almost impossible to master. Every syllable means something different. We use four tones when we speak: high, low, rising, and falling. When the voice rises or falls in Navajo, it can mean a completely different word. For instance, the words mouth and medicine are pronounced the same, but they are said with different tones. The same word, but…not the same word at all. Do you understand? Maybe that is why, when a Navajo speaks English, he says each syllable with the same intonation, because no intonation is stressed.” He thought about what he had said for a moment. Then he asked me, almost as if knowing the answer would cause him pain, “Do I sound strange to you when I speak?”
My heart twisted a little at his vulnerability. I shook my head emphatically. “It’s very slight…I don’t think most people would notice it at all. I guess I have an ear for music, and the rhythm of your voice sounds like music to me, that’s all.”
I smiled up at him, and for the first time, he smiled back.
* * *
There was a big crowd gathered after school on the wide open field that separated the junior high from the high school. I ignored the excited shouts and the kids rushing to get in on the action. I couldn’t see who the crowd had gathered around, but the bus had not arrived, so I found a spot next to the bus stop to wait, setting my backpack down on the patchy grass and sitting on it so I wouldn’t get my rear-end cold and wet. The early snowfall had melted during a stretch of warmer days, and tufts of grass stuck up here and there between icy patches. It was cold enough to be unpleasant, the wind was always worst at the mouth of the canyon where the two schools sat. Utah weather is the most sporadic, unpredictable weather in the country. Folks complain about how you can plant your crops in late spring, only to have to replant twice more because it keeps freezing and killing everything off. We’ve had snow in June and none in December in the same year. It was November now, and Mother Nature had teased us with snow in October, only to have November be sunny and dry, with icy winds shaking the bare trees and mocking the winter sun.
I had no desire to go wading into the manic fray and sat shivering, wishing the bus would come. Tara, on the other hand, had wiggled her tiny self into the middle of the action, witnessing the fist fight firsthand.
“Mr. Bracken is coming!” a frantic shout went up across the field. Mr. Bracken was the principal of the high school and was a pretty genial and likeable sort, but no one doubted that anyone found fighting would be expelled upon discovery. The kids scattered immediately, not wanting to be questioned or reprimanded, and descended upon the bus stop in droves. The bus lumbered to a stop and a hasty line formed, kids shoving and jostling for position. I was not aggressive enough to maintain my place in the line and fell back to wait until the writhing mass thinned.
Tara came running towards me, backpack bobbing, hands hanging onto her thick shoulder straps to keep it in place.
“Oh, my gosh!” Tara gushed when she was still several feet away. “That Indian kid was fighting three different boys. Joby Jenkins and a couple of his friends were calling him half-breed, and he went crazy. Joby’s friends tried to hold his arms but he just let loose, swinging at all of them. One guy has a chipped tooth and Joby has a bloody nose. The Indian kid must have caught his hand on the kid’s tooth because his hand was all bloody!”
Tara was using too many pronouns, so I wasn’t sure which injury belonged to whom and which guy had done most of the swinging, but my stomach lur
ched at the mention of “the Indian kid.” That could only be Samuel.
“Where are they now?” My eyes scanned the area where the circle around the fighters had formed, not seeing Samuel, Joby, or Mr. Bracken, for that matter.
“When someone yelled that the principal was coming, Joby and his friends took off toward the junior high. The Indian kid picked up his backpack and headed this way with everybody that was running towards the bus. I don’t know where he went.” She looked around, jumping up and down to gain enough height to see over the swarm of kids. “I don’t know if Mr. Bracken was actually even coming. Somebody might have yelled that just to stop the fight.”
“So you never saw Mr. Bracken?” I hoped Samuel wouldn’t end up expelled. Word usually made its way around, and news of the fight would fill the halls tomorrow. But maybe if he made it home without being caught, the principal might not get wind of it until after the fact, making expulsion less likely.
The bus had quickly inhaled her anxious passengers, and Tara and I climbed up the steep steps, Tara chattering all the way.
“There was so much blood! The Indian kid…”
“Samuel! His name is Samuel,” I interrupted her.
“Whatever!” Tara gestured impatiently, obviously not caring what his name was.
When I climbed to the highest stair and was able to see down the aisle, my eyes rushed to my seat. Samuel was there, eyes glued out the window, probably watching to see if he would make it home free. Tara continued talking, but I was no longer listening. I wondered how he had gotten past the bus driver without detection. I teetered down the aisle and swung in next to Samuel, my heavy pack sliding to the floor.
“Are you okay?” I asked breathlessly. I could see blood on his pants, and as I tried to get a good look at his face, I realized his lip was swollen and split as well.
“I’m fine,” Samuel said tersely, keeping his face averted.
“If you don’t stop the bleeding you’re going to give yourself away,” I insisted.
Samuel sighed in exasperation and, with one hand, unbuttoned his jean jacket. He’d wrapped his hand in the bottom of his t-shirt, baring his toned brown stomach. The light blue cotton was completely soaked through with blood.
“Oh, my gosh!” I sounded like Tara, but I couldn’t help it. He must have split his knuckles open. “I’ll be right back!” I headed back up the aisle. The bus was now in motion and Mr. Walker barked at me to sit down. I ignored him, walking purposefully, holding onto the seats to stay upright on the swaying bus.
“Mr. Walker, the kid sitting next to me has a bloody nose. Do you have a first aid kit or some paper towels?”
“Why is his nose bleeding?” Mr. Walker looked at me suspiciously.
“I don’t know. It just started bleeding,” I said nonchalantly and felt ridiculously obvious. I was a pretty pathetic liar. Acting was definitely not in my future.
“Harrumph,” Mr. Walker grumbled, pointing to where a small tin box with a red cross emblazoned across the front was Velcroed above the big front windows.
I unstrapped the box and made my way back to Samuel. He had pulled the jacket back up over his hand, hiding the bloody state of his T-shirt from the nosy kids around him. All it would take was one kid seeing the blood, shouting out to Mr. Walker, and Samuel would be ousted.
I slid down next to him, pulling the little first aid kit open and rifling through the contents. There were several good sized bandages and antibacterial wipes, as well as some gauze and some white surgical tape. I pulled my backpack up onto the seat behind me, scooting forward until I was barely sitting on the seat. I turned sideways and effectively blocked Samuel from view. I stacked his backpack on top of mine and made a little wall that would be useless if someone in front of us or behind us stood up and looked over the seat. But it was the best I could do.
“Let me see your hand,” I insisted softly.
Samuel unwound his right hand from the bloody T-shirt and held it out to me. Fresh blood immediately rose from the deep slice across his knuckles and spilled onto his fingers. I slapped a thick white gauze pad over it, pushing it down into the cut to stop the flow.
“Hold that!” I ordered him, grabbing some little butterfly sutures that I had seen Johnny use when he’d split the bridge of his nose during football practice. I pulled the tabs off and at my command, Samuel lifted the gauze pad and I swooped in, pulling the side of the gash together with the butterfly band aid. I put another one on, and the blood slowed to an ooze at the slit. I put the gauze pad over the top and again asked Samuel to hold it there.
“What happened?” I questioned lightly as I wrapped some stretchy gauze around the pad.
“Joby Jenkins needed a fist in his face,” Samuel replied shortly.
“Why?” My eyes flickered up to his.
“I got tired of his half-breed jokes.” Samuel’s well-shaped mouth was drawn into a tight hard line. “What is it with some people?”
I yanked off a piece of surgical tape with my teeth and proceeded to secure the gauze. I wasn’t very good at this, but at least he wouldn’t bleed all over himself.
“What do you mean?”
“Some people just can’t keep their mouths shut. Joby is constantly shooting his mouth off.” Samuel watched as I cleaned the blood off the fingers poking out from my makeshift mound of gauze and tape.
I completely agreed with him about Joby. “Joby picks on whoever he thinks is weak,” I replied, absentmindedly wiping.
“If he thinks I’m so weak, why did he come at me with two other guys?” Samuel retorted angrily, misunderstanding my words. “Why didn’t he fight me one on one?”
“I didn’t mean physically weak,” I protested. “You’re different, so you’re an easy target. Other kids don’t know you, so it’s easier for him to talk trash and turn them on you. He was embarrassed when you pushed him off the seat. I think he’s just been biding his time, don’t you?”
“Probably. I broke his nose. I’m going to be expelled. It’ll be just like the reservation school. I got the half-breed comments there too. Only at the reservation I was too white.” His voice was bitter, his mouth drawn down at the corners.
“Didn’t you grow up with all the kids you went to school with on the reservation?”
He dipped his head in a slight nod.
“So what was the big deal with being half white…I mean, was your skin color really an issue after all that time?”
“For most kids it wasn’t,” he admitted then, somewhat begrudgingly. “I had friends, a girlfriend.” His eyes shifted to me briefly.
“I think most people aren’t really so biased if you let them get to know you,” I volunteered.
“It’s not my job to make sure people know me or like me,” Samuel said proudly.
“Well that’s silly,” I huffed.
Samuel’s eyes flashed, and he clenched his jaw.
“I’m not exactly what you would call outgoing,” I continued. “I kind of prefer being by myself, but I can’t expect anyone to want to get to know me if I purposely keep myself separated.” I paused as his face remained stony. “Mrs. Grimaldi says you can’t build walls and then be mad when no one wants to climb over them.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Samuel sneered as his eyes flew over my blond hair and then met my blue eyes with a black glower.
“Oh, please Samuel!” I protested. “I may not have brown skin, but I am plenty peculiar,” I rebutted. “And don’t pretend you haven’t noticed it.”
Samuel shook his head in disgust and pulled his hand from mine. I was finished anyway. I gathered the bloody towelettes and wrapped them in several paper towels.
“How many other kids have you talked to since you came here?” I asked Samuel quietly. “Besides me?”
Samuel didn’t respond, and I didn’t really expect him to.
“People can be jerks. Joby is a creep, and he probably had that broken nose coming to him,” I soothed. “But don’t just assume that people don’t li
ke you because you look different. I, for one, like the way you look.”
I blushed furiously and grabbed the first aid box and escaped to the front of the bus to return it to the Velcro straps, throwing the bloody wipes away while I was at it.
“Everything under control?” Mr. Walker questioned me as I stuck the box back where it belonged.
“Huh?”
“The bloody nose?” Mr. Walker prodded.
“Oh, yeah. All done. It stopped,” I stammered.
Samuel had his arm back in his sleeve when I returned, his jacket buttoned back up to cover the stained shirt underneath. He had Wuthering Heights opened on his lap. I sat down and he began reading without preamble. I pulled out the big green dictionary, and that was the end of our discussion, for the time being.
* * *
“What kind of name is Heathcliff anyway?” Samuel grumbled as we labored through another day of reading. We had less than five pages left, and it had been tough.
“I think his name is one of the nicest things about him,” I said sincerely. “At least it isn’t something boring like Ed or Harry. It’s kind of a romantic name.”
“But that’s his only name…no last name, no middle name, just Heathcliff. Like Madonna or Cher.”
I was a little surprised that Samuel knew who Madonna and Cher were. It didn’t seem like his type of music, though I had no idea what his type was.
“I think the fact that he didn’t have a last name made him seem more alone in the world,” I mused thoughtfully. “Everybody had these full English names, and Heathcliff was a gypsy without roots, without family, without even a name of his own.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Samuel nodded his head in agreement. “Names are a big deal to the Navajo. Every Navajo child is given a secret Navajo name when they are born. It is known only by the child, the family, and God. You don’t share it with anyone else.”
“Really?” I asked in awe. “So what’s yours?”