Rez Rebel Page 9

  “Well who did he want her to fight? At least tell me that?”

  “Oh man, I don’t remember. I think he had her going up against Iron Man or something.”

  “Well that’s just stupid. He’s not even a real superhero. He just has a lot of money and a cool suit.”

  I was pretty sure I had a dopey smile on my face by then.

  I tried to rearrange my features into something slightly cooler.

  I failed.

  She kicked at a stone with the toe of her shoe, then kicked a bigger one to me. I dribbled it from foot to foot and sent it back. She stopped it, then drew her leg back and sent it flying into a tree with a powerful kick.

  “Whoa! A soccer player like your brother?” I applauded loudly.

  “Who do you think taught him how to play?” She leaned her shoulder against me for a second. Before I could react to the unexpected contact, I felt her tiny, soft hand slip into mine.

  I glanced at her in surprise. Okay, more like in total and utter shock. I couldn’t have been more surprised if . . . I don’t know. If I found out the zombie apocalypse was real. Or if I won a thousand dollars a week for life on one of those lottery scratchers or something.

  She was looking down at her feet as we walked. Her cheeks were pink and she was clearly avoiding eye contact.

  I squeezed her hand gently and smiled. Our eyes met. I don’t think it would be a lie to say that I definitely heard music . . . and saw a few fireworks. And that was just from holding her hand.

  I suddenly realized that we had been quiet for a few minutes . . . and I didn’t want her to feel awkward.

  “So . . . uh . . . you’ve been back for the whole summer?” Why hadn’t I seen her before now?

  “No. I spent some time with my Aunt and Uncle in Toronto.

  I got into a summer arts program there.”

  “Art? That’s cool. Do you paint?” This girl just kept getting better and better. She laughed that tinkling laugh that made me feel like I was the greatest man alive.

  “No, it’s an acting program for First Nations youth.”

  “Right! Of course. You’re in theatre school. That sounds cool.”

  She smiled up at me. It was amazing that she didn’t seem to think I was an idiot.

  “Performing arts school,” she corrected. “And it was.

  I was doing a lot of plays at my school and a few productions

  outside of it too. But this summer program was so much better. Everyone was so talented! They made us work harder than I thought was possible. But it was so worth it. I loved it.” She was glowing. I could see her passion in her face. I felt like I could almost reach out and touch it.

  “That’s amazing,” I said. The funny thing was that I meant it with all my heart.

  “Yeah. We had the most incredible guest teachers. Adam Beach and Jennifer Podemski worked with us. We worked on some movement exercises with Michael Greyeyes. And they even had Tomson Highway come in!”

  I perked up. I actually knew those names! Especially

  the last one. “You’re kidding! Tomson Highway is my favourite writer!”

  She looked surprised, but I forged on. “I mean, I loved The Rez Sisters. But Dry Lips Oughta Move to Kapuskasing is the funniest play I’ve ever read! I actually thought about trying to get some of my friends together for a reading or something. Tomson Highway is the reason I want to be a writer!”

  Oops. Ah hell. Did I just say that out loud? I flushed, looking away.

  Kaya stopped in her tracks and faced me. “You’re a writer?”

  “No. I mean, I’d like to be. I read a lot. I do some writing at night sometimes. Short stories. And I have a journal. I’m not sure I’m any good at it. I just . . .” I trailed off, not looking at her. “I’ve never really talked about it . . . the writing,” I finished lamely.

  “Maybe you’ll write a play for me someday.” She smiled.

  “Maybe I will,” I told her. Hey, you never know. “I’d write something important, just like Tomson. He knows, man.

  He knows how important it is to tell our stories, you know?”

  “That’s why the summer arts program was so important to me. I was learning from Indigenous artists who want to pass on our culture and tell our stories!”

  “Yes! Tomson Highway writes about people just like us.

  All of this?” I spun my arms around in a circle, taking in the rez around me, all the people living on it. “All of this, everyone we see every single day and all the boring old stuff we do? It’s real. All of our stories should be told! And it’s people like us who need to tell them.”

  “Maybe we could work on something together,” Kaya ventured.

  “Definitely!”

  “I think we should write about Aaron . . . and those five girls . . . and everyone we’ve lost. We could tell their stories.

  Not just with words, but with music and movement and art. Telling the rest of the world the things that are a part of who we are . . . that’s how we honour all of them.”

  I was nodding. “Yes. We honour them by sharing who they were to us. But also by giving them a voice they didn’t feel like they had.”

  “Right. And not just who they were. Who we are. The people they left behind. How they left us. How we’re still here. Hoka Hey!”

  I looked at her, surprised. “Today is a good day to die,”

  I said.

  She tilted her head and studied me. “Not today, Floyd. Today we live. For them and for us.”

  She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek.

  As she turned to continue our walk, I reached out and grabbed her hand. I didn’t think. I didn’t consider the consequences. For once, I just acted. I pulled her back toward me. As she looked up curiously, I reached out and brushed the hair away from her face. I had wanted to touch her face since I saw her open the door at her house. Before I could think or change my mind, I leaned down and kissed her.

  I half expected her to pull away, to punch me in the face even. But I felt her lips kissing me back and I never wanted that moment to end.

  My life may not be easy and things are about as far as you can get from perfect. But right at that moment, there wasn’t a thing I’d change about it.

  My Future — by Floyd Twofeathers, Grade Seven

  I want to be a writer. I want to write down stories that people remember. I want to pass on stories just like my ancestors passed their stories on. I’m going to be a writer like Tomson Highway and share important stories about our culture. Tomson Highway says that he writes in Cree in his head and his heart. I want to write with my head and my heart too. But in English. Storytelling is an important part of my culture. Storytellers pass on history and tradition. I read somewhere that stories help us cope with adversity. I want to write stories that make a difference somehow.

  Chapter 20

  Losing the Future

  Like I had the night before, I went to bed thinking about Kaya.

  I had stayed up late, trying to find something amazing for her to read. I had a pile of notebooks full of my writing to go through. But I wanted whatever I chose for her to read to be perfect. I’m pretty sure I went to sleep with a smile on my face. I know I woke up with one.

  It didn’t last long.

  My parents were both sitting at the table when I walked into the kitchen. Breakfast together was becoming more and more rare.

  “Good morning,” I said, still smiling widely. Then I noticed the grim looks on both of their faces. I felt the smile slide off my own face. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Mary Running Wolf died last night.” My mother’s voice broke.

  “Oh no.” It was all I could manage. Mary was a healer and people came from other reserves to get her medicines and advice. I had even heard she dabbled in things like love potions but that could have just been a rumour. My mom had apprenticed with Ma
ry. She had spent years beside her,

  learning everything she knew about medicines and healing.

  “I can’t believe she’s gone,” my mother said, tears running down her face.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Was it her heart?” Mary had suffered a heart attack a few months before. But I thought my mom had told me she was doing okay.

  My mom shook her head, unable to speak.

  “She killed herself,” my father said. He put a protective arm around my mom.

  “What? Why?” I didn’t think until the words were out of my mouth. If anyone knew that you couldn’t find an answer for someone’s suicide, it was me. “I mean . . . I’m so sorry, Mom.”

  “She was sick,” my mom said. “Sicker than we knew, I guess.”

  “She left a note for your mother,” my dad added.

  “I didn’t know she was suffering like that,” my mom said, crying. “I didn’t know she felt like she couldn’t help anyone anymore.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I knew that the suicide epidemic was affecting everyone. But I never imagined that a woman like Mary — a healer — would do something like that. It scared me to think that no one was immune to this. We were losing teenagers, little kids, parents, brothers and sisters and elders. We were losing family. Our rez really was dying.

  I had spent a lot of time thinking about how kids my age felt like they had no future and nothing to live for. But it hadn’t occurred to me how their parents and grandparents might be feeling. Maybe they felt guilty for not being able to give their children more than they had. Maybe they felt like they had failed them.

  No one could do anything about sickness and age. But if an elder like Mary felt useless, then maybe it was a problem we could do something about. If we could give kids hope for some kind of future, their parents and grandparents wouldn’t feel like they were failing them. If elders could see their wisdom and learning being carried into the future by the kids, they would have something to hang on for. And maybe we wouldn’t lose anyone else.

  * * *

  I left my parents at home. I wanted to stay with my mom but she insisted I go on with my day. She had to talk to some of Mary’s friends and start making arrangements for her funeral.

  I was supposed to hang out with the guys later. But I was free as a bird all morning. So I headed over to pick up Kaya for a walk.

  I knocked on the door. I only had to wait about ten seconds before it was thrown wide open.

  “Floyd!” Mouse stood in the doorway. He looked happy as anything to see me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Uhhh . . .” I drew a complete blank. Of course I knew that Mouse lived there. But it hadn’t occurred to me that he might open the door. Or that I’d have to explain that I wasn’t there to see him.

  “Are we hanging out?” he asked hopefully.

  Ah jeez. Why hadn’t I realized this might happen?

  “Ummm. No. I mean . . .” Damn. This was not going well.

  “Hi, Floyd.” Kaya appeared behind Mouse. I felt my heart skip a beat. I glanced nervously at Mouse.

  “I’m going for a walk with Kaya now, Mouse. But I told the guys I’d meet up with them later. I’ll grab you before I head over, okay?”

  Mouse’s smiled dimmed for a second. He looked a little confused, like he couldn’t figure out why I was going for a walk with his sister. But as soon as I mentioned coming back for him, he grinned.

  “Okay. Have a good walk.” He breezed away, leaving Kaya in the doorway and me on the porch. Staring at her.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Let’s go.”

  She took my hand as soon as we got down the stairs. There was something so natural about it. She didn’t play games or try to hide how she was feeling. She was different than any other girl I had dated.

  But much as I was enjoying being with Kaya, I couldn’t stop thinking about Mary and my mom. I knew that Mary’s death — her suicide — had to have hit Mom really hard. I didn’t know what I could do for her. But I had some pretty good ideas about what I could do to help other people like Mary. If I could get anyone to listen.

  I walked through the rez, holding Kaya’s hand and really looking at the people we passed. I noticed that there were more men than I had seen in a long time wearing their hair cut short, when there had always been a fair number of them who kept it long. When I pointed it out to Kaya, she nodded.

  “Yeah, I noticed that as soon as I came home. They cut their braids off. They’re all in mourning.”

  I was quiet for a minute, thinking about that. So many of us had lost someone. With the rez being such a small community, there was not a single person who hadn’t been affected by suicide.

  “Somebody needs to do something,” Kaya was saying. “Something better than bringing Kevin Feldman in to shoot a movie.”

  She was right. But I still felt like I had to defend my dad. Even if I didn’t fully believe in him myself right now.

  “I think my dad is trying to come up with something to bring money in,” I said, starting with what I knew was true. “And maybe . . . maybe that’ll at least start to help? I think he wants to get some media attention. I’m sure he thinks that shooting a Hollywood movie here would do that?” It had turned into a question. Even I didn’t think his grand plan with the big Hollywood has-been was going to do anything except

  embarrass all of us.

  “How will that help, Floyd?” she asked softly. She wasn’t trying to be unkind. But she didn’t have any misplaced loyalty to my dad like I did.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  Her voice stayed soft and kind, but she carried on. “How is that going to help save people like Mary? And those poor girls? And Aaron?” she asked. I squeezed her hand and walked on.

  I nodded at Mr. Henry watering his lawn and tried to ignore his missing braid.

  When I was younger, five or six I think, kids used to bug me about my hair. “Why do you wear it long?” they’d ask. “Do you want to be a girl?” They’d laugh at me, pulling my hair when I walked past and calling me Floydina.

  I hated it. I was just a kid and I still cared what people thought. I’d ride the bus home, tears in my eyes.

  “I want to cut my hair,” I told my father one night. I was sure that cutting off my hair to look like the other kids would make them accept me.

  My father looked up from whatever he was reading. He studied me for almost a minute. A minute is a long time for a little kid.

  “Sit down, son,” he finally said. He nodded toward a chair. “If you want to cut your hair, you can.”

  “Good,” I said. I was all ready to make a break for the bathroom and grab the scissors.

  “Do you know why we grow our hair and braid it?” he asked before I could escape and start cutting.

  I shrugged. I didn’t care. I just wanted to fit in with the other kids.

  “Some people think it connects us with Creator. Some think that a braid is a symbol of strength and wisdom. Braided hair sets us apart and shows us as being a part of our culture. I think it’s all of those things. But for me, it’s also a symbol of pride. When I went away to school,

  I was forced to cut my hair. So was your grandfather. They cut our hair to strip us of our identity. When I left school, I grew it out again. I wanted to make some kind of statement. I was still the same person I had been. They hadn’t taken that away from me. They may have tried to oppress us. But they couldn’t take who I was away from me. Do you understand?” he asked softly.

  I nodded slowly. “I think so,” I told him.

  “So if you want to cut your hair, it’s your decision. But think about it first, okay?”

  I promised him that I would. I meant it. I spent a long time that night lying in bed and thinking about what he had said.

  I braided my hair the next morning and went to school with my
head held high. I never thought about cutting my hair again.

  Chapter 21

  Man to Man

  I loved being with Kaya. I was quickly finding that I enjoyed it way more than I enjoyed anything else in my life. But I couldn’t turn off my brain. Feldman was going to be here that night and I needed to talk to my dad about it. He was about to make a huge mistake that would affect everyone. Including him.

  I walked to the Council office with more purpose than my usual meandering. I had to get to Dad before Feldman arrived. As I opened the door, I was met with what could only be described as a din. People were running around and yelling to each other.

  I had never seen the Council office like this. Half the people there weren’t even on the Council. I saw Ben’s father and nodded at him.

  He didn’t look happy.

  I followed the noise to my dad’s office. He was yelling into his cellphone. I sat down and waited while he finished up his call.

  “Floyd!” My dad slapped a hand on my back. Apparently his sadness at the loss of Mary had worn off. “To what do I owe this honour?” He was glowing. I had never seen him glow before. Then the smell of alcohol, masked by an overpowering scent of Listerine strips, hit me.

  “Dad, I need to talk to you about this Kevin Feldman meeting,” I said nervously. My dad never drank. I was so shocked, I almost changed my mind about talking to him. Almost.

  “I really don’t have time to talk, Floyd. We’re going crazy around here trying to get ready for the meeting. What is it?”

  “You can’t do this, Dad. I know you’re going to let him make a movie. But I also know what the movie is about. He’s using us for publicity and you’re letting him. It’s going to make us look bad. It’s going to make Indigenous people look stupid. And it’s not going to bring attention to the real issues here. And while he’s ruining us, he’s going to destroy all the land around the lake.” I blurted it all out. I hadn’t even taken a breath.

  My father looked at me, studied me. Then he stood up and held the door open. “Thanks for coming by, Floyd.”

  I didn’t know what was happening. I had come to talk to him and he was dismissing me?