Ancestor Approved

by Cynthia L. Smith

  “Do you remember if you left your bag in a place where someone could get to your stuff?” I asked.

  “Hmm,” Shana said, putting her chin on her fist. “You know, I put it down behind me when we first came in. And you know what? I did leave it when we went to go look at the vendors. Remember, I pushed it kind of under the bench.”

  I nodded. That was definitely enough time to take stuff. Especially if someone had been watching Shana.

  “Well . . . do you have any—I don’t know another way to put this, but—enemies? Especially, you know, uh . . . girl cousins your age who might be kind of jealous of you? And also, maybe jealous of the other girls who had stuff stolen?”

  “Heck yes, I do,” Shana said. “Not to sound arrogant, but I’m a good dancer, and my regalia is straight fire.”

  I giggled. “Anyone specific, though? Like really, really jealous.”

  Shana wrinkled her brow and went quiet for a sec. Then she started nodding and said, “There are three girls that are like, you know, Indian cousins—and they are jealous of me. They’ve said things to me that were out-and-out mean. And I set them straight, you know me. I don’t take anything from anyone. But let me think . . . which ones of them know all of us . . .”

  “Well, I don’t mean to interrupt you, but uh, my second question might help with that.”

  “Sure!”

  “Which of those girls also does Jingle Dance or Fancy Shawl?”

  “The only girl I can think of like that is a girl named Marisa Baudrillard,” Shana said, scrunching her eyes thoughtfully. “You know, she used to bully all of us when we were kids. I mean all the time, girl. Steal our lunches, make fun of us. The only revenge we had on her was . . . oh man . . .”

  “What?” I asked, really feeling like this was it.

  “Winning at powwow against her,” Shana finished, raising the turquoise necklace she’d just bought up from her neck and looking at it.

  “Do you have any idea where this Marisa is now?”

  Shana put the necklace down and got that same thinking expression on her face. Then she sighed and shook her head. “You know what? Never mind. I remember she told Jenny she couldn’t come today ’cause she was sick.”

  It was my turn to sigh.

  We watched Jenny dance, and then my phone went off, singing “Bread and Cheese” by A Tribe Called Red. I picked it up and talked to Mom for a minute, told her what was happening. My parents would be at the conference for a few more hours, so I had time to solve this crime. And I just had to!

  “Wait a minute!” Shana said. “There is this one girl, she’s super shy. Laura. I hate to say this, but . . . she’s always eyeballing my regalia. And . . . ugh, this makes me feel crappy to say, but their family doesn’t have a lot of money, and she really wants to dance; she’s from my Rez, and daaaang, she can’t bead. And doesn’t have the money to buy any beads even if she did. But she’s at all the powwows. She’s definitely here. And you know what?”

  My heart started to hammer.

  “She was over at my house the other day. I was helping her with math, and she just kept looking at my mocs. Like staring all rude and asking if she could touch them. And then she was wearing these barrettes. And girl, they looked just like Jenny’s! The ones that went missing! I thought I was just thinking that at the time, but now? Shoot. They looked just like them, Tokala.”

  “Okay. Okay, lemme think,” I said. I watched the dancers finish up, my mind whirring like an engine, and after a while, the whole thing came to me. “Okay. This is what we’re gonna do. Do you have pictures of the missing stuff?”

  “Hmm, I think I could get them. From pics at powwows and old texts and stuff. Just give me a minute, f’real.” Shana pulled her phone out and started going through it. After about five minutes, she looked up, her pretty brown face beaming with pride. “I got you!”

  “What we need to do is find Laura,” I said, chewing on my nails. I stopped. Mom was really trying to get me to cut that out, but it was an old habit, and I couldn’t help doing it when there was a crime to solve.

  “Then what?” Shana asked.

  “Leave that to me.”

  We got up and started walking around, seeing a few friends here and there and telling them about the missing stuff, asking them if they knew anything, while at the same time looking for Laura. The hallways were crowded, and people were trying to push to get to the vendors. It was amazing to see all the Southwestern stuff: the silver, the turquoise, the Diné black pottery, the Pueblo white-and-red pottery—all next to the Lakota and Nish beadwork and quillwork, the earrings and necklaces in every color and design you could imagine. We looked in the bathrooms and the hallways where the vendors were, walked where we could see people sitting. We were just about to give up when Shana spotted Laura in line for fry bread.

  As Laura left the line, we joined her while she walked back to the gym. She was kind of hunched over, and constantly pulling at her purple Minnie Mouse shirt.

  She was wearing the beaded barrettes.

  When we caught up to her, Shana introduced me, and I asked her if she could help me with something.

  “Sure,” Laura whispered, running her hands over her hair, which was up in braids. She had freckles and really did seem shy. I felt bad.

  “So, we’re trying to solve a crime,” I said. She cocked her head, and I didn’t see any flicker of guilt. Hmm. That was interesting. Laura seemed like the kind who’d wear her guilt on her face. “Some regalia is missing, and we’re checking everyone’s bags. Is it okay if we check yours?”

  “Sure! Oh man, that’s so sad. Who would steal regalia? That’s just wrong, you know, to do to another Native,” she said, shaking her head.

  If she had taken those mocs, it was maybe forty-five minutes ago. There was no way she’d have had time to hide them. We walked back to the gym with her, and she let us go through her bags, and we talked and I told her how much I liked her barrettes. If Laura was guilty, there was no way she wouldn’t reveal herself there.

  “Thank you. My auntie gave them to me. She got them from the same lady that Jenny got hers from. You know how much I love hers,” Laura said shyly. She didn’t even hesitate when she said it. And there was nothing in her bags. Just nothing. We even showed her the pictures of the missing stuff, and she said she hadn’t seen any of it, and again, she just didn’t look guilty at all.

  We thanked her and walked back over to where we’d been sitting down before.

  “Shoot! I was just sure it was her!” I said, pulling my nail up to chew and then stopping. Gah, it was such a hard habit to break!

  “Girl, I was totally sure,” Shana said. We were quiet as the Jingle Dress dancers came on, and I could tell Shana was angry, not getting to dance.

  “Wait—wait a dang minute!” Shana said. “That’s Marisa.” She leaned forward and squinted. “And those look just like my mocs!”

  “I guess she wasn’t sick after all,” I said, shaking my head. The gall of her wearing mocs she’d just stolen!

  “Are you sure? Like, sure?” I asked.

  “I’m one hundred percent sure. And one hundred percent pissed off,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

  “Any idea what she’s doing after she finishes dancing?” I asked.

  “Helping her mom man her booth. They sell shell earrings. ’Cause they can’t bead.”

  “Okay, let’s go to the booth when she’s done. We can ask to look through her bags. Show her the pictures. See what she says,” I said.

  We watched the Jingle Dress dancers finish up, the nice, rhythmic sound of their jingles something that otherwise would make me feel really good and cheerful.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  We got off the benches and were silent as we made our way to Marisa’s mom’s booth. I was thinking about my tactic. I had one way to go, and if it didn’t work, I’d have to rethink.

  I was used to this kind of thing by now, but I had to admit, my heart was hammering again as we made our way throug
h the crowd and approached the booth, which was full of pink and white shell earrings and necklaces, all spread out on a small table, a paisley cloth covering the whole thing. Marisa was there, and she was a super-beautiful girl, tall, with long, thick hair and big black eyes. Though she’d changed out of her regalia, she’d kept her hair ties in. They were floral pattern but not pastel. Her mom was beautiful, too, and looked a lot like Marisa. They were staring at their phones, occasionally looking up to see if there was someone interested in the merchandise.

  “Hang back,” I told Shana, and she nodded and walked over to a nearby booth, one that was full of silver and coral jewelry, close enough to observe.

  “Hi! My name is Tokala,” I said, sticking my hand out to Marisa’s mother. She looked up from her phone suspiciously and eyed me up and down.

  “Marna,” she said, without extending her own hand. I let mine drop. Marisa continued to look at her phone.

  “So, there have been some crimes,” I said, and suddenly, Marisa’s head shot up.

  Marna stared at me, silent.

  “And before we call the police, a bunch of kids told me about it. They reported the crimes to the people in charge of all of the powwows that the stuff was stolen at, but nothing was done.”

  “You?” Marna said, smirking. “A kid? Why they tell you?”

  Marisa gave an uncomfortable chuckle, though it sounded more like she was choking on mac ’n’ cheese or something.

  “Yeah, I know it’s weird, but I’m good at this. And if we call the police”—and here I could see the panic on Marisa’s face—“that could get someone who just made a small, bad decision in real trouble for the rest of their lives.” It took all my willpower not to look right at Marisa.

  Marna was silent for a long time. Then she set her phone down and crossed both her arms over her chest. She had one of those expressions on her face that adults have when they don’t want you to question them. “What you want from me?” she finally asked.

  “Oh, I’m hoping you can help. And not just you. The stuff that was stolen was girls’ regalia. Hair ties and barrettes. And lastly, here, a pair of mocs. Boots. And all Anishinaabe florals. All pastel. So I’m just going around asking if people will let me look in their bags, and anything else they’ve got with them that’s big enough to hold any of that stuff.”

  Marna snorted. “How you gonna know if it’s the stuff you’re looking for?”

  “I have pictures of the stolen items. And, of course, I’ve narrowed it down to Anishinaabe girls who do Jingle or Fancy, though of course I could be wrong about that.”

  “You could be. Could be anyone stealing that stuff and selling it.”

  “You’re totally right! The only reason I think maybe that’s not the case is, like I said, that it’s all Anishinaabe florals, and all pastel. If someone just wanted to make money from selling Indian stuff, they’d just steal the most valuable stuff they could get their hands on.”

  I was being real careful now not to look at Marisa, who was staring at me with her mouth fully open.

  I thought Marna was going to refuse, but after a few minutes, she said, “Sure. I ain’t got nothing to hide.”

  “Mom!” Marisa said, and then shut her mouth, hard.

  “Enough!” Marna said. “You let that girl see your backpack, and show her the blanket you keep your regalia in. We got nothing to hide.” She looked at me here and continued, “And we don’t need the police up in our business.”

  Marisa sighed heavily, and reluctantly got up and placed her backpack and blanket on the table.

  I searched through all of it but found nothing I was looking for. Maybe I was wrong? Maybe I should search through every Anishinaabe girl’s stuff who was doing Fancy and Jingle? If I could find the mocs, I would be able to prove that that person was the one who had stolen the rest.

  I thanked both of them, and me and Shana went back to where we’d been sitting to talk over our game plan.

  “I was sure it was her!” I said, shaking my head. “But then again, I was sure it was Laura.”

  “I know it’s her, girl,” Shana said. “I been thinking about it. Not only was she a dang bully, and not only did we beat her butt at competition, but she was always talking about our florals, always checking them out way close and criticizing them. And not only that, but I know she and her mom were trying to make some. They didn’t know how, unlike me. I got skillz.”

  We got up and started marching back to Marisa’s mom’s booth. I was thinking about another tactic. But we stopped halfway there. Marisa was running, full-on running, down the hallway with what were clearly mocs with pastel floral regalia in her hands, toward the exit!

  “Marisa!” Shana yelled, and started running after her with me following, barely avoiding knocking people over as they went.

  “Where’s the fire?” an old uncle said as we ran past him, and then down the stairs.

  “Man, she’s fast,” I said, out of breath, and watched Marisa burst through the front doors.

  We made it all the way to the parking lot, where Marisa was about to jump into a big ol’ powwow van.

  That’s when I got really mad! Maybe madder than I ever have been in my whole life. I stopped in the parking lot, put my hands on my knees, and yelled, “Marisa, are you really going to get into that van and drive away with other people’s stuff?”

  Marisa scrambled to open the door.

  “Aren’t you embarrassed? JEEZ!” I yelled.

  Marisa stopped. She hung her head, and though I could hear her friend yelling, “C’mon, get in, what are you waiting for?” Marisa turned around.

  Me and Shana started walking toward her, and I could see how red her face was. And wow was I tired from running.

  “What the heck, Marisa!” Shana said, when we caught up to her. “How would you like it if we stole your stuff?”

  Marisa opened and closed her mouth a few times. “I just . . . your families were always better than mine, and always like, winning at everything and made the best beadwork and I just . . . got . . . jealous!” she said, bursting into tears. “I’m sorry.” She handed the mocs back. Then she pulled the barrettes and hair ties out of her pocket and handed them back too, her long hands shaking.

  “It’s okay, Marisa, daaaang,” Shana said, shaking her head. “We can teach you how to do beadwork, and even find out what kind of patterns your family does. We could meet at my house every other Saturday and bead together. It’ll be fire.”

  Marisa’s lip started trembling, and I pulled an old tissue out of my pocket, pulled some lint off it, and handed it to her. She used it to wipe her eyes and the rest of her face where the tears had run down. I felt really bad for her. All of her meanness was just ’cause she hadn’t learned how to bead and wanted to. And Shana was being so nice.

  “Thanks, you guys,” Marisa said, only sniffling a little now. “I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have done it, and I never will again.”

  “Girl, come and sit down with us,” Shana said. “And why don’t I get you some fry bread?”

  We walked back to the auditorium, my thighs still burning from my run, while Shana and Marisa talked about beading, and boys, and school. A good feeling came over me, and I could see the sun right behind the auditorium, beaming light all around it. It was really beautiful. I sighed, feeling satisfied and proud. Another crime solved by Tokala! Yes!

  The Ballad of Maggie Wilson

  Andrea L. Rogers

  I sat down in a cold metal folding chair and opened my book. For the first time since before dawn, I had a moment to myself. My aunt Mabel’s a nurse for Indian Health Service, and weekends are big community outreach days. Plus, my little sister, Virginia, was going to dance in a jingle dress for the first time, which was a pretty big deal. Me, I was just helping my aunt with the raffle at the IHS health booth.

  My only plan was to read and watch the people I didn’t know walk by. I liked to try to guess their tribes from what they wore. I hadn’t danced in the year since my father h
ad died.

  We’re Cherokee Nation—from Oklahoma. As my uncle Roy says, we are not a powwow people, but we’re an adaptable people. There are loads of great Cherokee powwow dancers, though.

  Uncle Roy got into powwow dancing when he roomed with a fancy dancer at Haskell Indian Nations University. Now he mostly emcees. He is funny. And sneaky smart. It’s a job requirement. Uncle Roy and Virginia decided to go visit his friend Sheldon Sundown, who is the emcee for this weekend’s powwow.

  One of our tables was covered with pamphlets and health-related giveaway items. The other table featured three raffle prizes. A large purple shawl with pink ribbon work and white fringe took up half the table. A silver concho-style belt buckle sat in the middle of a donated Pendleton on the other half.

  “How much for this?” A skinny Indian kid picked up the belt buckle. It was a rectangle stamped with geometric designs emanating from an oval reddish coral stone in the center.

  “It’s a raffle,” I said. I pointed at the sign. I had scribbled it at five in the morning, but I was pretty sure Raffle tickets $1 was readable.

  The kid would have fit in great at a rodeo. That didn’t mean he wasn’t Indian. Not every boy can be a fancy dancer, I guess. I was leaning toward a Plains tribe. If we’d been in Oklahoma, I might have guessed Kiowa. Up here, maybe Dakota or Potawatomi or Odawa. Maybe one of the Ojibwe tribes. It was hard to say. There are a lot of tribes at these powwows.

  He held the silver belt buckle in his hand the way you hold a kitten that’s too small. I looked at him over the top of my book and took out my earbuds.

  After the funeral, my sister and I moved here to Ann Arbor with my aunt. Mom stayed in Tulsa to focus on nursing school and work extra at the hospital. She’s always at work or school, so she gave me my dad’s old phone to stay in touch. There are recordings of him playing guitar and singing on it. His reedy voice had been singing “Wichita Lineman” when the kid got my attention. It was a song Glen Campbell made famous, about a man repairing and stringing power lines for Wichita County.