by David Crow
Inside, I saw more kids crowded around their lockers than in all twelve grades in Fort Defiance. Taking a deep breath, I walked across the hall to the attendance office, Sam beside me. A woman with teased hair assembled our class schedules and handed us a carbon copy, along with a map. We would need it. The building had two large stories with long wings on either side of the center, as well as a basement with the gym and locker rooms.
When I walked into my algebra class, our teacher, Mr. Jones, was writing numbers, parentheses, and letters on the board. He welcomed me, assigned me a seat, and asked everyone to solve the problem. All thirty of the other students got the answer, but I had no idea why letters, numbers and parentheses would be mixed together. Was this some combination of English and math?
My next period was chemistry. The equation on the board looked like hieroglyphics. “You already know about the atomic molecular structure, the periodic table, and the basics of chemical reactions,” Mr. Klein said. “We’ll spend the next month or two learning to balance chemical equations.”
Balancing what? I stared at my desk so no one would notice my tears. My stupidity had finally caught up to me. Kids were laughing and saying the class would be an easy review of what they learned last year. I didn’t understand any of it.
At lunch, I carried a tray of food to a table of students I recognized from morning classes. They continued their conversations, ignoring me.
“Hi, I just moved here from the Navajo Indian Reservation,” I said to a pretty girl. Surely, she’d be nice to me. “Can I sit with you?”
“You already said that in class this morning. You don’t look like an Indian. Where’s your loincloth? Are you going to scalp us? Do you live in a tepee?”
Everyone laughed.
My cheeks flashed with heat. “I’m a Cherokee. Indians don’t live like that anymore.”
“I wonder how he’ll like living in Hanukkah Heights?” the boy next to her asked. “Or is it Kosher Canyon?”
“Huh?” Lunch was as confusing as my classes.
“Did your mother get those clothes at Goodwill or from a dumpster?” another girl asked. The whole table erupted with laughter again.
I looked down at my clothes and saw them through their eyes: dirty jeans with worn-out knees, a faded flannel shirt, and frayed, stained tennis shoes. A Gilbert Blackgoat pounding would have felt comforting by comparison.
I tried not to make eye contact with anyone for the rest of the day. When I got home that afternoon and said hello to Mona, she offered nothing but stony silence. If she was happier living on the East Coast, she didn’t show it.
Apparently, Dad’s day hadn’t gone so well either. “Headquarters is filled with know-it-all assholes from Harvard,” he ranted and tossed up a hand. “Oh, I mean Haahvaahd.” He stretched out the word in a snooty accent. “Those guys have their heads shoved so far up their asses, they breathe shit.” He thrust out his chest. “If they want to take it outside, I’ll show them what Haahvaahd blood looks like on their fancy shirts and tailored suits.”
In this swanky house, my siblings and I got quiet, the way we did when we arrived at Mud Flats and again after Mona first took over our lives. We said nothing at dinner, and later, Sam, Sally, and I sat shell-shocked on the couch in the family room, still reeling from our first day at school.
Sally said, “A few of the kids were nice to me but some made fun of my clothes. Class was really hard.”
“I didn’t understand my classes either,” Sam said. “One of the teachers said I may have to be held back a grade.”
“I had no idea what was going on except in PE,” I told them both. “The kids my age know so many things I haven’t even heard of. I don’t even know what questions to ask.”
That night, Sam whispered, “Maybe Dad and Mona hate it here too.”
“I hope so,” I said, but I was afraid we’d never return to Fort Defiance.
Each day felt worse than the day before as it became apparent I was several years behind. Teachers asked why I didn’t understand the subjects—every school had to have the same classes. I had no answer. They sure weren’t teaching this stuff on the reservation.
I was behind socially too. Every time I approached kids to begin a conversation, they broke it off as quickly as possible. Others walked away as if they hadn’t heard me, the way our old neighbors had ignored Mom.
To escape the loneliness and confusion, I turned to running and reading again—as I had in Gallup and Fort Defiance. After school, I ran through the lush neighborhoods along Rock Creek Park just outside our subdivision, often not returning home until dark. Within a couple of weeks, a paper route became available to deliver the Washington Post and the Washington Evening Star.
Every day, I read the entire Post, fascinated with national politics, which was local politics in Washington. I wanted to know all about it. As was my habit, I asked my customers about their days, and they gave me extra change in appreciation for my service. I wanted to be a part of their lives, but fitting in with them didn’t seem possible.
IN KENSINGTON, THERE WAS NO Tommy, Henry, Jim, or Richard. The only kids who spent time with me were outcasts themselves—like James and his brother, John. I met them while airing up my bicycle tires at the gas station.
“I bet you never do anything bad,” James teased. “You’re just a good little paperboy.”
“Yeah?” My face stretched into a smile. “Wait here a second.”
I checked to make sure the gas station attendant was occupied with the Chevy engine he’d been working on. Then I snatched two valve core removers from an open toolbox behind him, put them in my pocket, and grabbed my bike, telling my new friends to meet me down the street.
In the bank parking lot, I showed them the tools. “We can use these to flatten tires.” I demonstrated how they worked, the way Dad did the night of the Window Rock hayride. “The air will escape in just a couple of minutes. We’ll take the valve cores, so even if they fill the tires, they’ll go flat again. Believe me, no one keeps spare cores.”
“How’d you learn to do that?” James asked. “This is really cool. We should flatten every tire in Kensington. Let’s start with the PTA meeting tonight.”
I laughed. “That will be fun. See you in a couple of hours. We can hit the neighbors you don’t like another night.”
“Most of them will be at the meeting,” he said. “I can’t wait.”
Shortly after the PTA meeting began that evening, James showed up at the junior high school without his brother. Cars lined both sides of the road for more than half a mile. The working conditions were perfect: a dark sky with just enough brightness from the streetlights and no adults anywhere.
I handed James one of the valve removers. “You take the tires on the passenger side, and I’ll take the ones on the driver side. In less time than it takes for the rich bastards to brag about their genius kids, we’ll flatten every tire. If we have enough time, we’ll get the buses.”
Crawling on our hands and knees, we removed every valve core, filling two paper lunch bags. We hit dozens of cars. Then we moved on to two of the buses.
“Let’s dump the cores in the creek and come back to watch the parents try to drive home,” I said.
We hid behind a tree when the meeting ended. Parents streamed from the building. Taillights flashed and engines started. A few cars made it to the end of the block, the tire rims grinding on the asphalt. Everyone got out and milled around, chattering up a storm, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Too bad—it would have been funny.
Tow trucks started appearing, but there weren’t enough, so people had to wait in line. Some of them walked away and didn’t come back. When the last adult left, we returned to our respective houses, laughing our fool heads off.
The incident made the front page of the Montgomery County Sentinel.
I felt powerful and invisible again.
CHAPTER 38
SOON AFTER CHRISTMAS, SAM, SALLY, and I were washing dishes wh
en Mona summoned us into the living room.
“My father had a heart attack, and my mother needs my help. Your father has been given leave, and we’re all going to my house in Hatteras in North Carolina until my father recovers enough to go home. A month, maybe a month and a half. Pack your things, and tell your teachers tomorrow you’re leaving.”
“I can’t miss that much school,” I said. “I don’t understand my classes as it is. Can’t the three of us stay home?”
“No. I can’t trust you, and we don’t know anyone you can stay with. Get your assignments and do the work while we’re gone.”
The next morning, I told my math teacher I had to miss school for a while due to a family illness. Mr. Jones sighed and tilted his head. “I know this probably wasn’t your decision,” he said, “but you won’t be excused for more than a week unless you’re the one who’s ill.”
He gave me my assignments for the next several weeks, as the other teachers did, but I didn’t bother reading them. I was too far behind for it to matter and couldn’t do most of the work anyway.
That night at the dinner table, Dad read the newspaper and Mona gazed at her plate, taking bites of meat loaf as if we weren’t there. Sam and Sally looked up at me with sad eyes.
“The teachers won’t accept an excuse unless I’m the one who’s sick,” I said into the silence, as Sam and Sally nodded vigorously.
Dad didn’t respond. I took a chance and pushed the paper away from his face and tried again.
“Tell the dumb bastards you’ll learn a hell of a lot more in Hatteras being with me than you will in their uppity-ass eastern classrooms where everyone thinks they are so very much better than the rest of us. Who gives a damn what they think? They teach because they can’t do.” He pulled the newspaper back to his face.
“Well, maybe you could help me since you’re so smart,” I said, doing my best to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“I was in and out of school, so I taught myself everything. Math explains itself. Biology, geology, science, and literature are part of a natural, logical system. Read it, and you’ll understand it.”
“That doesn’t work for me. Maybe I’m stupid like Mom.”
“The IQ tests showed you’re not too bright, but you can talk your way out of anything, and you’re funny.” He forced a smile.
“No one thinks I’m funny here, and I can’t talk my way out of anything at this school.”
“I’ll give you a note to give to your teachers,” he said, flipping the page on the newspaper. “You’ll be fine.”
Justifying my absence was the least of my worries. Nothing in Kensington was working for me except my paper route. I belonged on the Navajo Indian Reservation—that was the only place where my life made sense.
MY MANAGER AGREED TO DELIVER my newspapers while we were in Hatteras. Every minute there lasted an eternity. Some local kids caught the school bus in front of Mona’s house, and as I watched them board in the morning and get off in the afternoon, I felt as if we had been removed from the world.
When we returned to Kensington, we moved to an even bigger rental house with the exalted address of 9715 Kingston Road. For the first time, Sam and I didn’t share a room.
At school, I felt like a new student again. In English, Mrs. Ralph walked up and down the aisles, passing out blue books for an exam. I gaped at her, wondering why she had given me one when I hadn’t been there. She read Dad’s note before we left—she knew I would be away for at least a month.
She stood at the front of the room. “As you recall, your test assignment is to write a critical essay on the nature of man’s struggle against himself. You can use any of the examples we’ve discussed in class.”
All the students started writing frantically. Panicking, I went up to her desk. “Can I take the test another time? It isn’t my fault that I was gone.”
She leaned toward me, a snarl on her face. “You were taking care of your grandfather? Why? Did the Indians hurt him?”
The class laughed.
I stared at her tiny, mean eyes and beefy jowls, hating her as much as I hated Mona.
“I gave you the assignment. Unless you were ill, your absence is unexcused. I told you that before you left, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise. You weren’t doing very well anyway.”
“What kind of struggle do you mean?” I asked. “Is the man afraid of being eaten by a lion or being shot at in a war, or is he starving?”
“I’ve explained this many times, so just take the test.”
Feeling powerless, I slowly walked to my desk. Ten minutes went by, and I still hadn’t written a word. The only book I’d read in Hatteras was a silly science fiction novel called The Shrinking Man that I’d found at Mona’s house in a box of junk. I tried to use the main points to describe the man’s struggle, having no knowledge of Mrs. Ralph’s lessons:
One man, unfairly hit by radioactive fog, that only God understands, begins to shrink, slowly at first, and then rapidly. Until he shrinks down to the size of an atom. No one can see him.
I paused and looked at my classmates, scribbling away in their blue books. We had nearly forty minutes left, but I had little to add.
When the papers came back, Mrs. Ralph singled out several “brilliant essays,” one discussing Michelangelo’s personal struggle while painting the Sistine Chapel and another describing how Helen Keller overcame being deaf, blind, and mute. I knew then what I should have written.
“One student made a mockery of this assignment,” Mrs. Ralph said, holding up the blue book with my name on the front. I wanted to crawl under my desk. She read my essay aloud, and everyone roared with laughter. When she tossed it on my desk, the big red F stood out like a neon sign.
I kept my eyes down, not moving until every student had left the room.
After that, I didn’t speak to anyone unless spoken to. Part of me understood how helpless Mom must have felt in the abandoned house in Gallup. Another part related to the shrinking man, becoming smaller and smaller until no one knew I existed.
With each passing day, my classmates seemed happier and more certain of a bright future. They talked about going to college in a few years and taking fancy vacations to Europe. They went on dates and had fun. I fell further behind.
Other than throwing papers, reading, and running increasing numbers of miles every day to exhaust myself, I did nothing but dream of returning to Fort Defiance. Dad and Mona talked about staying in the East permanently, but we just couldn’t.
In March, we were summoned to the living room once again. Sam, Sally, and I sat on the same red couch we had in Albuquerque, now squeaky and threadbare. Other than the Rambler, this piece of furniture represented the only recognizable part of our old world.
“My six-month assignment is over,” Dad said, “and I put in for a permanent job at the BIA headquarters. My boss said they’d hire me, but first I have to train my replacement in Fort Defiance. We’ll get back here in time for you to finish school. Remember to read your assignments so I don’t get any more notes saying you’re failing. Not that I give a damn.”
I jumped to my feet. “You can’t mean it. We hate it here. You do too. You hate the know-it-alls at headquarters, the Harvard assholes. We belong in Fort Defiance. That’s where our home is, where our friends live.”
“Your father can’t advance any further in his career in Fort Defiance,” Mona said. “And I need to be closer to my mother and father in Hatteras. We have to do what’s best for the family.”
She meant what was best for her family, not ours.
MY MANAGER SAID I HAD to give up my paper route, but I could apply for a new one when we got back. The drive west seemed to take forever, even though Dad drove his usual fourteen-hour days.
We arrived in Fort Defiance in the middle of the night. Our old apartment was waiting for us. I was too excited to sleep and bounded out of bed early the next morning to get to the bus stop. Friends greeted me with warm smiles. Richard, Henry, and Jim slapped my back an
d said, “Gáagii’s back.” My coaches asked me to try out again for baseball and track. Even the teachers were happy to see me.
Every cell in my body wanted to rebel. I belonged in Fort Defiance at Window Rock High School and would never feel that way in Kensington. If I’d stayed, I would have studied hard and looked forward to the future.
But that didn’t happen. The five weeks went by in a flash. As my miserable luck would have it, the day I returned, Mrs. Ralph handed out blue books for another English exam. Before we left for Fort Defiance, she had assigned Silas Marner, a novel by George Eliot. I never cracked it open. I had no intention of trying to succeed in a world that had nothing to offer me.
“Your test assignment is to write an analytical review of Silas’s personal struggles, his growth, and the lessons one might glean from his life,” Mrs. Ralph said, looking into a sea of students with bright faces, their sharpened pencils at the ready.
Again, I went up to her desk. Before I could open my mouth, she said, “You were with the Indians this time, right?” She knew the answer, of course, since Dad had written her a note saying we had to leave because of his job.
I nodded. “I was in school at Window Rock High.”
The students snickered. A fat kid with thick glasses and zits shouted a mock Indian war cry. Mrs. Ralph giggled then turned serious. “I gave you the book before you left, so go complete the test.” She shuffled some papers, dismissing me.
I went to my desk and watched students’ pencils fly across their blue books. I didn’t care what the teachers or my classmates thought of me, so it was time to have some fun:
Silas Marner was a conscientious objector living in England during World War II. Hiding from the military, and life itself, he spent long hours in the public library. It was a safe refuge where he could read stacks of anti-war literature and fantasize about the lovely, full-breasted librarian. Her name was Sarah Saddly, and he wanted to bang her like a loose corral gate in a stampede.