Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Like vaccinations.
“How’d the shots go today?” I ask Wallace.
“Pretty good,” he says. “Costa Rica requires vaccines, but it’s harder to administer in some of these more remote places. Some people here have to walk hours to even reach a hospital. We’re coordinating with the Ministry of Health to get as many of these kids vaccinated as possible. I’m doing more tomorrow in another village not too far away.”
“I’ll ask if they can spare me tomorrow so I can help you. I used to want to be a clown. That should count for something. I can distract them from the needles.”
“Okay, Bozo. It’s a deal.” Wallace laughs and takes a sip of water. “So how’s your boyfriend doing?”
I don’t stop my smile in time, and Wallace, who knows me so damn well, points at my dead-giveaway grin. “Lenny’s in love!”
“Oh, good grief.” I try to erase the perma-smile that paints itself on my mouth every time I think of Maxim—of the night we had together and the morning after in Ohio. Of what we’ll have when I return. “It hasn’t even been that long since we started…”
The word dating teeters on my lips, almost falling out. I’ve gone from avoiding Maxim to tolerating him to sleeping with him and missing his arms around me. I’m afraid to admit even to myself how deep my feelings for him run. I’m certainly not admitting anything to Wallace.
“How are Viv and the baby?” I ask, hoping Wallace will let me change the subject.
He offers a you don’t fool me look but launches into his latest tale from the uncle chronicles. The students and the rest of the team finishing up their dinner laugh louder the more animated Wallace becomes. Their good humor provides great cover for my less-than-happy thoughts. I miss Maxim. The little time we had before I left wasn’t enough. My body longs for him, but it’s not just my body. My heart aches and feels like it’s barely beating with him so far away. I open my hands in my lap and follow the invisible map he sketched across my palms so long ago.
Now you have the whole world in your hands.
I caress the compass charm dangling from my bracelet. I know it’s expensive and I should probably take it off while I’m working here. If I was smart, I would have left the obviously valuable jewelry at home. But there was no way that was happening. I needed this part of him with me.
“You ready to turn in, ladies?” I ask the girls, noting the faint lines of weariness on their faces. “We all have a really early start tomorrow.”
We cross the reserve, walking leisurely over the lush green grass, the palm leaves casting shadows in moonlight. We climb the few wooden steps into our thatch-roofed hut. Five of us share it, each having a mattress on the floor and mosquito netting.
Once we’re in our pajamas and under our mosquito nets, the conversation starts. I love their questions about boys and college, love hearing their dreams and ambitions and how they want to hold on to our culture, language, and traditions even while navigating the world beyond the reservation. The same things I had to figure out.
There is a unique duality to our experience that’s sometimes hard for others to understand. Living on patches of land when all of it, by rights, belonged to our ancestors. Living in, loving a nation professing freedom, liberty, and justice for all when our traditions were suppressed and we were forced from our homes and endured unimaginable injustices. Things like Thanksgiving, Columbus Day, even Mount Rushmore, which is built on our sacred grounds—all are symbols of American tradition but also glaring examples of how we’ve been mistreated. Conquered. In America’s transition from annihilating our people to assimilating them, we lost so much. These young girls have to reconcile making peace with that truth enough to succeed there but still agitating so we don’t lose any more of the traditions and culture our ancestors entrusted to us.
If I wasn’t here, I’d be home, curled up by my fireplace in a cashmere robe, clinging to a wine glass filled with my favorite Bordeaux. Probably reviewing data and policy papers for Owen’s campaign. I love my life and can’t imagine a path more suited to who I am and how I’m made. But these trips, these nights talking with girls like these about their dreams and how to hold on to and pass on our rich heritage—I wouldn’t trade this.
“Can I ask you something, Ms. Hunter?” Anna asks after we’ve been talking for a while.
“Sure.” I stifle a yawn and force myself to focus. “What’s up?”
“Your, um…your first time,” she says in a rush and with a deep breath like she’s diving underwater. “Did you, well, did you love him?”