The Brave

by James Bird

  The door closes before I can give her the number of letters in her last sentence, but that’s okay; no one wants to hear it anyway. But after I release it under my breath, I take another look at the book I’ll be reading.

  I’ll read this if it gets me closer to my brother … The moment I think that thought, I smile. Even though my brother is gone physically, Orenda just showed me that there are still ways to get to know him. He’ll be beside me as I punch the bag and read the book. I can still have a brother. Orenda is a genius.

  I want to jump up and tell her that I get it. I see why reading is a part of my warrior training. Reading is just as important as punching the bag. In fact, maybe even more important. I will get as strong as Aji. My brain will be like a huge crocodile, and my arms will be like … two more crocodiles. (I admit, I need to work on my creativity. But books should help that too.)

  This is weird. I mean, I am legitimately excited to read a book! And if I don’t give up, I’ll soon be a brave. And braves fight. I’ll be able to defeat my counting condition.

  All this wonderful news engulfs me. I can’t keep it in, so I spring up to my feet and run after Orenda. I barrel through the house and head out to the backyard, where I see her slipping through the fence. I run up and squeeze through, scraping my elbow on the wood.

  “Orenda!” I yell.

  She turns around. “You read the book already?” she asks jokingly.

  “No, I just wanted to say I get it.”

  She smiles and plops down into her wheelchair like it is a loyal horse waiting for her.

  “Right now, you’re so afraid of words. They terrify you because you trained your brain to count the letters. I figure, if you fill your head with an entire book, your brain might forget about counting, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll listen to the story the words tell instead.”

  Her letters swirl above and behind my eyes like kids on a merry-go-round. There are so many of them. I wait for them to stop, and when they do, I tally them up as quickly as I can. Orenda knows patience. She watches me and waits for my response.

  “Two hundred and fifteen,” I say.

  “Wow. That’s a lot.”

  “I know.”

  “But did you hear what I said?” she asks.

  “Twenty-two. I did. And I promise you, I will read the book. It may take me a while, but I won’t give up.”

  She smiles again and folds her arms, waiting for me to do something. But what? Her eyes shift to the handle of the wheelchair. It finally clicks.

  “You want me to push you to your tree?”

  “We’re still training you, aren’t we?” she says with a smirk.

  “Twenty-seven. Yes, we are,” I say, and begin pushing her through the yard.

  “Watch out for the peaches,” she warns.

  The wheelchair glides easily over the grass, which is good because my arms aren’t offering much help right now. I blurt out “Twenty-one” as we stop in front of the tree. She climbs out and grabs hold of the rope. It still amazes me how strong she is.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I say, even though I just did ask her a question, technically.

  “Shoot.”

  “Five. Were you always like this?” I ask.

  She begins her climb. “Like what?” she asks.

  “Eight. Not able to walk, like other people,” I say.

  Before she reaches the top, she stops and looks down at me.

  “No.”

  “Two. Then what happened?”

  “I’ve already told you … I’m changing,” she says, and disappears into her tree house.

  I wonder if I stepped over the line by asking her again. If she wanted to tell me what’s going on with her, she would. Is she sick? I hope not. And what does “I’m changing” even mean?

  Seven greets me as I walk back into my yard. She’s hungry. I don’t read many books, but my dog’s eyes are an easy read. Together, we enter my house, and she leads me into the kitchen. I open a can of dog food my mother got from the market and dump it into her bowl. Within seconds, the food is scarfed down and Seven takes off.

  “How was school today?”

  I turn around and see my mother walk in with an armful of groceries. She sets them on the counter and hugs me. Do I look like I need a hug? Maybe I’m an easy read too.

  “Seventeen … It was fine.”

  “Fine?” she presses. “I guess that’s a step up from ‘worst day of my life.’”

  “Forty-two. How many steps are there? I’m exhausted,” I say, and mimic taking large steps up an invisible staircase.

  “Maybe forty-two steps?” she says and laughs at her own wordplay.

  She begins to put the groceries away. I stop my exaggerated steps and linger in the kitchen with her. “Eighteen,” I say while I watch her place the peanut butter onto the shelf.

  She turns to me, smile paused. “Just ask,” she says.

  “Seven. Do you know what’s wrong with Orenda?” I ask.

  She places the almond milk into the fridge and shuts the door. But before grabbing the bread, she touches my nose, trying to gauge my level of worry.

  “What do you mean, wrong?”

  “Eighteen. Come on. Obviously, something’s wrong with her.”

  Am I the only one that thinks that an otherwise healthy-looking girl being bound to a wheelchair for the rest of her life is strange?

  “Something’s wrong with everyone, Collin,” she replies.

  “I know that. But why can’t she walk?” I ask.

  “What did she tell you?”

  “She said she’s changing. But I don’t know what that means.”

  My mother pauses, carefully choosing her words. Then smiles, like she just dug up a fond memory from the storage room in her brain.

  “Her mother is a great woman. Did she tell you about her?” she asks.

  “No. What about her mom?”

  “She changed too.”

  “I don’t understand. Where is her mother now?”

  My mom has the same look in her eyes that she had when I asked where Aji was. It’s a mixture of happy and sad. Which makes me think that Orenda’s mom is also dead. And if that’s true, does that mean Orenda is dying?

  “Ask her to take you to see her mother tomorrow,” my mom says, and continues to put the groceries away.

  Take me to see her mother? So maybe she’s not dead? Or maybe she’s in an urn too? As Mama turns away from me, I notice her touching her face. I have my answer. My mom is wiping away tears, which means Orenda’s mom is dead. And she thinks Orenda is dying. To change must mean to die. Change is not good.

  But I refuse to believe it. My mom must be wrong. How can Orenda be dying? She is by far the most alive person I have ever met.

  I should run back to Orenda and find out what is exactly going on with her. No more riddles, I’ll say. I want the truth. Just tell me what’s what. I should tell her all of this now … But … I also swore to her that I’d read that book. I need to keep training. And I need to remember that Orenda will tell me what she wants me to know. I can’t force her to tell me about her legs or her mom, and I certainly can’t go over there and ask her if she’s dying. She’s currently the only friend I have, so I better not scare her away by asking her too many personal questions. I need to be smart about this. I need to be strong, which brings me back to training.

  I decide that I’ll do what my mom suggested, I’ll ask her to introduce me to her mom tomorrow. And whatever happens happens. Right now, I have a book to read.

  I grab the book that she left me in the garage and carry it to my room. Reading is fun, I keep telling myself as I pace back and forth near my bed, but my mind is too occupied with Orenda.

  The thought of her being sick makes me want to punch the walls, but my arms are too weak and I’ve already damaged this house enough. So I grab my pillow and scream as loudly as I can into it.

  It doesn’t help. Orenda is still sick. And the worst part is, there is nothing I can do about it
. Or is there? I can keep boxing and start reading. Maybe if I read this book, I’ll be working to defeat my counting condition, but also, perhaps, my body and mind will be strong enough to help her in some way?

  I’ve been here less than a week, and I already didn’t count two sentences. That’s huge. Is it my Native American blood waking up after being dormant for all these years?

  Is that even possible?

  The strange thought makes me realize that Minnesota is getting to me. In a good way.

  I collapse onto my bed and open the book. The first couple pages are about the Salem Witch trials in 1692. I don’t see how this story will help me, yet, but I remember learning about this back in California. And if anyone was bullied, it was these women and men who were accused of witchcraft. I turn to the first chapter and begin reading.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  GUN THREAT   (25)

  The alarm on my watch goes off at seven fifteen. I immediately regret putting it across the room, but I guess that’s the point. I have to get up to make it shut up. I wipe the sleep from my eyes, yawn, and sit up. The book falls off my chest. I stayed up most of the night reading it. I usually don’t remember my dreams, but last night, mine were filled with ghosts, witches, Salem, and magic.

  I see why Orenda chose this book. It puts into perspective how gossip travels as fast as fire and spreads from home to home, causing friends to not trust each other, neighbors to turn on each other, and an entire town to be overly suspicious of strangers. Gossip sucks. A few years back, a rumor started that my counting condition was contagious. No one would come near me for the rest of the year.

  This book also showed me that I don’t have it all that bad. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I absolutely hate my counting problem, but at least I’m not being accused of witchcraft and getting executed. If this was a few hundred years ago, that would be my fate.

  I’m sure the lesson Orenda wants me to take away from this book is that we all have a past, but the past doesn’t determine our future. I’ve been called a freak for so long that I actually started to believe it. But I don’t have to anymore.

  Maybe counting isn’t the curse that I think it is. I mean, it’s no gift either, but maybe I don’t need to fear words and letters as much as I do. There will always be bullies. But that doesn’t mean I will always be bullied. I need to ignore what people say about me and just work on being the best me I can be. Plus, bullies exist because people give them power. They feed off the attention.

  From now on, I’m not going to give them any power. I’m just going to … be late for school! Crap! It’s now seven thirty. I finally leap out of bed, turn off my alarm, and get dressed as quickly as possible. As I hop through the hallway, trying to fit both my shoes on, I take a quick glance at my brother’s photograph.

  “Good morning, Aji,” I say.

  I enter the kitchen and feed Seven before I feed myself. I’m so hungry that I scarf down my bowl of cereal almost as quickly as Seven finishes her breakfast. My mom walks in and eyes my outfit: black pants, black shirt, black hooded sweatshirt, black hat, and black shoes. Even though I’m always in black, she examines me more than usual this morning.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You ever notice you look remarkably like a witch?” she says, while chomping on a banana.

  I tally up her sentence and grab the broom that rests beside the fridge. I put it in between my legs and strike the witchiest pose I can.

  “Hop on. I’ll drive,” I say.

  She laughs and grabs her car keys. And like every day, we race to the truck, and like most days, she wins.

  As I get into the truck, I realize that my dad hasn’t checked on me since I began my new life without him. To be fair, I haven’t called him either. I guess this is how it’s always been between us. We never talked. Now that we’re two thousand and eighty-six miles from each other, why would that change? But there is a nagging feeling tugging at the back of my head. It’s a feeling that’s kind of new to me. I want to tell my dad everything that’s happened to me so far. The good and the bad. And I want to talk about Orenda. I want him to know that there’s a girl who actually talks to me. I wonder if he’ll believe me.

  The moment we drive off of the reservation, the radio kicks in. I quickly switch the station from a country song to the local hip-hop station before my mom can stop me. I gave country a shot; now she’ll give rap a gander.

  Even though my mom definitely has never heard this song before, it doesn’t matter. Just like every other song on this planet, she sings along—loudly. She makes me forget about school, which is maybe her plan, because I cannot stop laughing at her attempts at rapping.

  We pull into the parking lot and sit. I really wish I was brave enough to go to class without needing a pep talk, but here I am, looking at my mom, who pulls out a stick from the back seat and hands it to me.

  “I already played this game with Grandma,” I say.

  “Then you should be good at it,” she says.

  I tally up her letters and examine the stick.

  “A very long pencil,” I say.

  She smiles. “A microphone,” she says, and uses it as the song on the radio comes to an end.

  “A guitar,” I say, and take it back, strumming it in my hands.

  She laughs, claps in excitement, and snatches it from me.

  “Let’s see … A telescope!” she says, and holds it to her eye, aiming it up to the sky.

  “Good one. A sword!” I say as I take it from her and slice through the air, cutting it in half.

  “A fishing pole!” she says, and mimics someone fishing. She even pretends to catch a fish and struggles with bringing it up. “But we catch and release. Fish have families too, ya know,” she says, and tosses the invisible fish out of the window.

  She hands me the stick. I think hard. “A magic wand,” I say, and point it toward her. “You will turn this truck around and take us both to the movies,” I say, and zap her with the wand.

  She laughs. “Are you a Jedi using the Force or a wizard using a wand?”

  “Whichever gets us out of here,” I say after tallying up her letters.

  She snatches the wand out of my hand and pretends to run in place. She moves her arms like she’s sprinting, breathing in and out, tiring. She hands me the stick. “I’m having a wonderful morning … I pass you the baton, so you can have a wonderful morning … at school!” She finishes her run-in-place.

  I take the stick and nod. There’s no way out of running this race. I open the door, and my mom takes the stick from my hand.

  “This stick was a dozen different things. So can be this school. Is it prison? Is it camp? Is it a theme park? Hogwarts? Or maybe just an average school where kids go to learn stuff. It’s what you want it to be, Collin. Have whatever kind of day you want to have … Which is?” she asks.

  “A good day,” I say.

  She smiles, and I step out of the truck. I turn to face my school and the bustling sea of students. “Walk,” I tell myself and take a step, but I hear a loud honk behind me.

  I turn around and see my mom stop the truck and get out with the stick. And it’s not just me who’s watching her. Heads turn. What is she doing?

  “Last one! It’s a horse!” she shouts, and places the stick in between her legs and rides it like it’s a wild horse in a full circle around her truck. My jaw drops. I can’t believe my mom just did that. I turn and see everyone staring at her. This is so embarrassing. But as soon as she gets into her truck and drives off, people go about their business, like nothing happened.

  Huh. Maybe I do care what people think too much. I should be more like my mom. That doesn’t mean I’m going to pick up a stick and ride it like a horse to class, but no one really cared when she did it. And that’s the point. Maybe I make everything a bigger deal than it actually is. Imagine that.

  Halfway to my first class, a group of four kids approach me, blocking my way to the main building. I recognize one of them. It’s Josh. T
he buzz cut who messed with me the other day.

  “Hey, freak,” Josh says.

  “Eight,” I say, and I immediately put my earmuffs on. I hit PLAY on my phone and crank the music up to its loudest volume.

  I watch them laughing, but all I hear is the song blaring into my skull. One of the guys tries to grab my earphones, but I step aside, and he nearly trips down the steps. I know I just punched a bag for three full rounds yesterday, but punching a person is very different; they punch back. And I really don’t want to get in another fight this soon. My nose has just barely recovered from the beating I received in California.

  I see my opening and run up the remaining steps. I can’t help but feel like the lucky gazelle that just evaded a pack of laughing hyenas.

  When the coast is clear, I remove my earmuffs and make a beeline to my first class. I start to take a seat, but no one is sitting. The teacher looks a bit shaken up. What’s going on?

  Mrs. Hagadorn grabs her purse and snaps her fingers to get everyone’s attention.

  “Class … there’s been another gun threat today. We all need to go outside,” she says.

  Another gun threat? We had a few drills in California, but I don’t remember ever being evacuated because of a real threat.

  Our class merges with the rest of the classes as we all shuffle down the halls. The students are a mixed bag of walking emotions. Some are anxious; some appear to go about their day like this is nothing out of the ordinary. Some students seem bored, and some are smiling as if they enjoy this time out of actual class.

  Me, well, I’m hoping whoever they think has a gun is actually just carrying around a stick.

  There’s an eerie feeling in the air. We are all escorted off campus and into the parking lot. The teachers look nervous.

  As we wait for the police to search the campus, the principal and an officer approach us. The cop looks on edge, like this is a part of his job that he wishes wasn’t. But the principal looks relieved. He forms a small circle of teachers, and they huddle for about a minute before they break back into their class sections.