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)
“As you know,” my father takes up where my mother left off, “we’ve been discussing where you should attend school next year.”
“You know I love having you here on the rez and in our school,” Mama says. “Learning our traditions.”
“And you know that I want you to take advantage of every opportunity available to you,” Dad adds, his face schooled into a neutral expression. “Even if some of those take you beyond the reservation, like the private school near my house that I believe would stretch you—even better, prepare you for college and a scholarship.”
“She can go to college free based on federal funding for the tribes,” Mama reminds him. “She doesn’t need the private school for that.”
“Yes, but statistically only about 20 percent of Native students finish the first year of college,” Dad says, “Why not prepare Lennix for what lies beyond the reservation while still keeping her connected to her community? Can’t she be prepared for both worlds?”
It sounds reasonable.
And scary.
I’ve only ever attended the schools on our reservation. As empowered as I feel with Changing Woman’s strength, the prospect of something new still intimidates me. This conversation has been my life in many ways. Loved by them both and splitting my life between their two homes.
“There’s a lot to consider,” Mama says, a little impatience creeping into her low voice. “But the point is, we think you should make the decision.”
I look from my mother, who is an only slightly older version of me, to my father, whom I look nothing like except for my gray eyes. I carry them both in my heart, though, and I think my greatest fear is actually hurting one of them with my choices.
“We can discuss it more when I get back,” Mama says, running a soothing hand down my back. “I’m off to Seattle tomorrow. There’s a protest for that new oil pipeline they’re proposing. They’re so shortsighted. Money today won’t mean much when the water is polluted and the land is beyond repair.”
“So true,” Dad mutters. They are united in their love for me and, though he isn’t Native, their passion for tribal issues. “Just be careful.”
Some of the old affection I glimpsed between them when I was younger gathers in her eyes. “I’m always careful, Rand. You know that, but there is so much to do and no time to waste. Injustice doesn’t rest, and neither will I.”
I wish she would rest sometimes. There’s always a cause, a protest, a pipeline. Something that takes her away. I can’t complain, though. She’s the person I admire most in the world, and she wouldn’t be who she is without that passion for others.
“We’ll talk more about this when I get back from Seattle,” Mama says. “How’s that sound?”
I look between them and nod, a knot of dismay forming in my belly at the thought of displeasing one of them.
They leave me to shower and change, and when I go downstairs, my friends, family, and community overflow from our small living room. The joy on their faces is worth all I’ve endured the last four days. The Sunrise Dance is a celebration we were denied for years when the government outlawed it. We had to practice it and so many of our traditions in secret. We’ll never take it for granted again, the privilege of celebrating in the open. We owe it to ourselves, but it’s also an homage to all those who came before us. It’s a thread that ties us to them.
Mena Robinson, Mama’s best friend, stood as godmother to me during the ceremony, a role that strengthens our bond even more than before. She and Mama could be sisters in appearance but also in closeness.
“I’m so proud of you,” Mena whispers.
“Thank you for everything,” I tell her, tears in my eyes. For some reason, in her arms, surrounded by everyone who bore witness to my transition from girl to woman, the emotion of the last four days cascades over me.
“Mena, Lennix,” Mama calls, glowing and aiming her camera at us. “Smile!”
I grimace, so tired of pictures and of being the center of attention, but Mama takes many more photos. And she hovers, touching my hair, hugging me, forcing me to eat. Her love and pride wrap around me, almost smother me. By the end of the evening, I want to be in my bed and alone.
I should have made Mama take a dozen more pictures. I should have given her a thousand kisses. I should have slept at her feet.
I would have if I’d known I’d never see her again.
“A riot is the language of the unheard.”
—Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
CHAPTER 1
MAXIM
FOUR YEARS LATER
I am my father’s son.
I’m the spitting image of Warren Cade. Dark, russet-streaked hair with a slight wave just like his. Identical light-green eyes. Same wide stretch of back and shoulders. Toe to toe, nose to nose, we both stand six feet, three and a quarter inches. Notwithstanding the striking physical similarities, beneath our skin, inside our bones—we’re the same. Considering my father is one of the most ruthless sons of a bitch you’ll ever meet, that should scare me.