The Brave

by James Bird

  “Well, let’s get you there now,” she says, and rushes toward the door.

  I can’t tell if she’s joking or not. I rush Seven out the sliding glass door and try to beat my mom to her truck. She wins.

  We get in and drive off so fast that I don’t even remember if I shut the door or not. But maybe Grandma’s home. I haven’t seen her since she locked me out.

  “Where’s Grandma?” I ask, before her radio picks up reception.

  “Around,” my mom says, before a song kicks in.

  And as we leave the reservation’s main road, a classic rock song begins to play.

  “I love this song!” Mom shouts, and jumps in, singing midverse.

  “Thirteen,” I say, but she doesn’t hear me.

  I watch her dance in her seat with so much passion, I start to think she actually believes she’s front row at the concert. Or maybe even closer. She’s on stage with the band. Singing along with them … as she drives.

  I stare at her face. I can almost see what she looked like when she was my age. Music does that to people. It reverses aging. She looked the same as she does now, just less mileage around her eyes and mouth. But I bet her eyes haven’t changed. I bet wild eyes never change.

  My mom has wild eyes. My grandma has wilder eyes. But only one person has the wildest eyes. Orenda.

  My mind fills with Orenda.

  I want to ask my mom why she doesn’t walk the way everybody else does, but I know how she’ll answer. That’s part of her story, and only she can tell it … So I don’t bother asking. My mom’s right. It’s Orenda’s story. I’ve got a counting thing, and her legs are funky. I’ll ask her about it after school. I hope she’s there. My fingers begin to slip and slide on each other, like slippery fish trying to cuddle. Why am I so nervous to see Orenda? Or am I excited? I can’t tell which one I am … Maybe both.

  We pull up to the drop-off zone, and my mom turns the radio down.

  “Same as yesterday,” she says.

  I wonder if she means she won’t be there after school and I’ll have to walk back with Grandma again. I wonder how many things Grandma will give new purposes to today? It is not a leaf, it’s an umbrella for the snails. It’s not a rock, it’s a weight to stick into your pocket in case the wind tries to blow you away.

  I leap out of the truck after I plant a quick goodbye kiss on my mom’s cheek again. I did it so fast, that I’m sure no one saw it. I’m a new confident Collin, but I still can’t have gossip going around about how I need to kiss my mom goodbye each morning.

  It’s time to turn over a new leaf. Time to be a normal student. Well, as normal as I can be. I walk up the main steps, into the sea of students, and notice everyone’s face this time. Not just their shoes. My head is up, and I’m not afraid to talk.

  But as I get closer to the building, doubt starts to set in. Am I setting myself up for more humiliation? What would Aji do? Well, I know exactly what he’d do. If someone made fun of him, he’d just throw a left cross and lay them out. Bad example. What would Orenda do? Probably the same thing.

  I’m on my own. So the burning question is, what would I do? The bell rings. I guess we’re about to find out.

  I make my way to my first class and take my seat. The same seat as yesterday. But this time I’m not late. I pull my notebook out of my backpack and grab a pen. I’m officially ready to learn. Before Mrs. Hagadorn starts the class, someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around. It’s a guy wearing a blue flannel and a peace symbol dangling from his necklace. That’s a good sign. I like peace. Peace is good.

  “Hey,” I say.

  But he doesn’t say anything. He’s just looking at me like I’m a magician on a stage and he’s waiting for me to perform my trick. By this time, a few of his friends are staring at me too. This is not good. He licks his lips like he is about to say something. Oh crap. I know this look. He’s showing off. New me, meet bully. Bully, meet the new me.

  I look to the teacher to save me but—just my luck—she informs the class she’ll be right back and steps out of the room. I’m on my own, like always.

  I focus on his short blond military buzz cut and take a deep breath. I know I’m not supposed to care what people think about me today, but this is literally the first two minutes of class. I was hoping to ease into this newfound confidence. I need to be smart and strong. I will not run away this time.

  “What do you want?” I say.

  “I want a double bacon cheeseburger, two large fries, one large Coke, three sets of chicken wings, a side of onion rings, and a tuna sandwich … to go,” he says.

  That didn’t take long.

  His friends erupt in laughter, but he doesn’t laugh. He just stares at me, eyebrows raised, waiting to see if the rumors are true. I should have known this school would be no different. Bullies are bullies, wherever you go. Their names may change, their haircuts may change, but they’re always definitely jerks.

  And as hard as I try to turn around and ignore him … I can’t. The letters flood in like an oil pipeline that burst. There’s so many of them, gallons and gallons of letters. If I don’t count them now, I might drown to death like one of those oil-covered birds, right in the middle of this classroom. I look up, take a deep breath, and count them before they kill me.

  “One hundred and fourteen.”

  As the number leaves my mouth, I exhale, and I’m finally able to breathe again.

  “That’s amazing!” he says, and looks at his friends to make sure they’re all watching.

  “Twelve,” I say, and hope he stops. But I know he won’t, his kind never do.

  “Hey, Josh, how do you know if he’s right?” his friend asks.

  “I don’t,” Josh says. “Either way, he’s a freak.”

  I turn around, hoping Mrs. Hagadorn will return and interrupt this torment, but she’s still out. Ugh. I’ve never wanted a teacher to start teaching her class so badly before.

  “Hey, freak!” Josh says again.

  But I don’t turn around. I just hold the number eight inside my head, twirling it around for as long as possible. It spins, making the infinity sign, which is exactly how long this torture feels.

  “I’m talking to you!” he says, and shoves me in the back.

  I want to whip around and punch him square in the nose, but the last thing I need is to be kicked out of this school, too, so I shove my hands in my pockets, making sure they stay put. He shoves me in the back again. I turn around calmly and imagine myself cursing him at the top of my lungs to leave me alone, but instead, all that comes out of my mouth is a gentle “twenty-two.”

  They laugh again.

  “I wanna try,” his friend says.

  I quickly slap my earmuffs on, covering my ears, and turn around. I hate this class. I hate this school. I hate every school that ever was. I hate these students, and I hate my stupid, damaged brain.

  Josh rips my earmuffs off and tosses them to his buddy, a zit-faced kid that looks exactly like a meerkat, and not a cute one.

  No. I need those. As he tosses them back even farther to another buddy of theirs, my stomach drops. Those earmuffs were my paddle. Now I’m up crap river and have no way to steer this boat. And I can feel the waterfall coming. It’s close.

  “Give them back!” I shout, watching the cord dangle above his desk as he waves the earmuffs around like a cheerleader with pom-poms.

  “Nope.”

  “Four. Please.”

  “First tell me … How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? Well, freak, the answer is, a woodchuck could chuck as much as a woodchuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood,” he says, which now has the entire class laughing with him.

  My mind nearly explodes by the plethora of letters battle-ramming my head, trying to enter like invading Vikings. There’s so many that my vision starts to blur.

  I try to stand, but I feel dizzy. I grab both sides of my desk and try to hold the door closed in my mind for as long as possible. But it’s no us
e. The letters burst in and storm my brain. It has begun. How … is three. Much … is four. Wood … is four … I launch out of my seat. I hear my chair fly back and hit another desk, but I’m too busy counting to care.

  The door opens and Mrs. Hagadorn enters her class. Too late, Mrs. H.

  They stare at me like I’m not even human. I count, count, count. My eyes move back and forth as the numbers line up, ready to depart through my lips. I count them all, hating every second of it. I need to breathe. I need to breathe now. I’m almost done counting, just a couple more.

  “One hundred and fifty-two. Now just stop, dammit!” I shout. I’m gasping for air, like I just swam 152 miles.

  The entire classroom goes silent. Mrs. Hagadorn drops the papers in her hands in shock. As my vision clears, I notice I am not just standing up, but I am standing on top of my desk. A complete silence rolls through the room like gray clouds quietly eating a blue sky.

  Even Mrs. Hagadorn is speechless. This is my only chance to get out of here. I leap off of my desk, grab my earmuffs from the now open-mouthed kid, slap on my backpack, and rush toward the door.

  Mrs. Hagadorn takes a step toward me. I hold up my hand, stretching out all five of my sweaty fingers to her.

  “Not a word. Please,” I say and I run out of the classroom.

  How did this happen? My second first day of school is even worse than my first. Confidence sucks. Turning over new leaves sucks. The new me sucks. He’s just like the old me. Damaged. Defective. Broken. What was I thinking?

  I skip the bathroom and head toward the exit. My brain is freaking out, and I find myself counting my steps. No. I’m done with numbers. I hate numbers. I hate every single number from one to a zillion. I’m going home. And I’m never coming back.

  I should have punched that guy in the face. I wish my brother was still around. He would have stepped in and mopped the floor with those jerks. But my brother is dead. And just like every other school I have ever attended, I’m on my own and will forever be the freak.

  My heart is still beating a mile a minute. I’m not even sure how to get home. So I choose to go left and keep running. Once I’m past the campus grounds, I slow down to a walk. I’m exhausted. My breath plumes with each step I take. The coldness was kind enough to not bug me while I ran, but now it’s buzzing around me, stinging my exposed hands, neck, and face like invisible frozen bees.

  * * *

  It seems like hours before I finally reach the sign to the reservation. A few minutes in, at the exact same spot as yesterday, there she is. My grandma is walking toward me.

  But wait … How did she know I left school already? Did the school call our house and tell her?

  I hurry toward her wearing a cheap smile, trying to hide how upset I am about what happened in school. I don’t want her to know I was laughed at. I don’t want her to know that I’m weak. I want her to keep thinking I’m special, even though I know I’m not.

  “Hey, Grandma,” I say, when she’s close enough to hear me.

  “Your school called,” she says.

  Well, there you go. (Sixteen.) But the thought of being grounded for ditching school doesn’t seem so bad when you don’t have any friends. In fact, punishing me would be forcing me to go to school and try to get along with people. Actually, that would be punishing them, too.

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” I say.

  But she doesn’t look mad. She looks pretty happy, actually. Then again, she always looks happy.

  “Want to talk about it?” she asks.

  “Seventeen. Not really,” I reply.

  “Good. Because we got more adventures to go on, you and me,” she says, and turns off of the path and into the forest.

  “Forty-four,” I say, and follow her.

  We walk. My grandmother steps with such determination, weaving among the tall trees like we are walking toward nothing and everything at once. I stare at the ground to see what she plans on picking up this time, but her eyes are fixed toward the sky. After a few minutes, I break our silence.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Beats me. I’m following the clouds. They’re so indecisive today,” she says.

  “Fifty,” I say, look up to the sky, and laugh.

  The clouds are almost covered by the outstretched branches above us, but I see that they are moving fast. “Why are we following clouds?” I ask.

  “Why not? Wait. Maybe they are following us. Let’s head this way,” she says, and turns again, in the direction of our home, I think. I’m getting kind of dizzy from looking up while walking.

  “Forty-eight. Does my mom know I ditched school today?”

  My grandma licks her fingertip and holds it up to the air. What is she doing?

  “She knows,” she says while holding her finger still, analyzing the wind to the touch.

  “Eight. Is she mad?” I ask.

  “No. Disappointed, maybe, but not mad,” Grandma replies.

  Ugh. There’s nothing worse than disappointing someone. I should know. I’m an expert at it. And the thought of my mom being disappointed in me makes my stomach churn.

  “Twenty-eight. Are you mad?” I ask.

  She squints her eyes up at the sky and lets her finger linger there a bit longer.

  “Me? No way. I like rebels,” she says.

  Eighteen. Yeah, my grandma is pretty badass.

  She hears something my ears don’t pick up. Her eyes widen, she smiles and stomps her feet in joy.

  “Grandma, what are you doing?” I finally ask.

  “Listening.”

  “Nine. Listening to what?” I ask.

  “The clouds. I was right. They’re lost.”

  When people get old, they lose their minds a bit, or at least that’s what we’re led to believe, but I can’t help but think this incredibly strange cloud conversation must have a point.

  “Twenty-eight. I’m not sure what you mean,” I say.

  She drops her finger, walks up to me, and whispers, “Lean closer.”

  “Ten,” I whisper, and lean down to her face, within inches.

  My grandma lifts her wet finger and sticks it in my ear. I jump back and shake my head.

  “Grandma! That’s so gross!” I yelp.

  But she doesn’t care. She’s too busy laughing.

  “Why did you do that?” I ask, holding back my grin, even though, let’s be honest, it was funny.

  “Wet fingers attract air. Air attracts clouds. Clouds jump on finger. Finger goes in ear. Clouds are now in your head.” She explains like it’s all so obvious.

  “And why would I want clouds in my head?” I ask.

  HOLY CRAP!!!! My eyes widen, and I jump up and down in pure excitement. And so does she! “That’s why!” she shouts up to the sky.

  I can’t believe it. This is the first time I have ever started a sentence without using numbers. I didn’t count her letters at all. How is this possible?

  And just like that, she stops jumping.

  “Why did you stop? I’m talking like a normal person, Grandma!” I say.

  “Clouds never last too long. After a few moments of puffy happiness, they just … poof. Disappear,” she says.

  And she’s right. Her letters pour into my head this time, making little white clouds of their own. My brain falls right back into line and counts them.

  “Seventy-five. But how did it work? You need to do it again. Grandma, you can fix me,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “You’re not broken, son,” she says.

  “Seventeen. But you did something to me. You planted clouds inside my head. You sent them to take away all the numbers.”

  I realize how crazy I sound, and so does she.

  “Don’t be silly. I just gave you a wet willy,” she says with a smile.

  “Thirty-two. Then how did I not count your sentence?” I ask.

  “Maybe you got distracted. Clouds can be distracting,” she replies.

  “Forty-three. Teach me how to do it again, ple
ase.”

  “Okay. Lick your finger and stick it in your ear,” she says.

  So I do it. I stick my index finger into my mouth and collect a fair amount of spit on it. Then I stick my finger in my ear. She awaits my response.

  “Thirty-seven. It didn’t work.”

  She laughs. “Not enough clouds out, I guess. Come on, we’re home,” she says.

  “Thirty-eight,” I say, and follow her toward our house.

  I’m not sure what the lesson was today, but there definitely was one. I mean, this is a huge breakthrough for me. I now know it’s possible to not count. I have no idea what a wet willy has to do with it, but all I have to do now is figure it out. And the only clue I have to go on is clouds.

  We reach the house, and my grandma stops and delivers a kiss onto my cheek.

  “Go around back, and I’ll let you in,” she says.

  “Twenty-six. No, you won’t. You’re just gonna lock me out again,” I say.

  “I know. But that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “Thirty. What makes you say that?” I ask.

  “Because I’m not the only one who likes rebels,” she says, and gives me a wink.

  My mind immediately shoots to Orenda. My grandma is helping me out. I may not have a lot, but who gets to say that their grandma helps them with girls?

  “Thirty-six. Thanks, Grandma,” I say as she walks toward the front of the house.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FIRESTARTER   (28)

  I squeeze through the broken part of the fence and approach her tree.

  “Orenda,” I shout up to her, and after a few moments, the rope drops from the hole in her tree house. I smile. Has she been waiting to see me the same way I’ve been waiting to see her? I climb up as fast as I can, which is not very fast at all—but better than last time.

  Once I’m inside, I see her painting near the corner. She’s on her knees. The red paint splatter definitely looks like a butterfly now. Her black hair is twisted into one long braid today, slithering down her back.