More Than Good Enough (21 page)
Read More Than Good Enough Online
Authors: Crissa-Jean Chappell
Tags: #reservation, #Indian, #native america, #teen, #teen lit, #Young Adult, #YA, #Young Adult Fiction, #young adult novel, #ya novel, #YA fiction, #teen fiction, #teen novel
“That’s how you build an audience,” I said.
“Obviously you have it all figured out.”
“With our skills combined, we could be a superforce.”
“Unless we stop talking again.”
I put my hand on her knee. “We’re never going to stop talking.”
She laughed. “Yeah, right.”
“Listen. I refuse to let that happen. You understand? I mean, I can’t look into the future or whatever. But when I imagine it, I see both of us. That’s the way it has to be.”
Pippa was staring at me so hard, I looked away. There was a poster of the Color Wheel behind her head, along with a map of Venice, a city I’d never visited in real life. I wanted to see it before it sank underwater. And at that moment, anything seemed possible.
“Let’s hear what the spirits have to say.” Pippa reached into her bag and took out her phone. “I downloaded this app called Ghost Radar. It’s supposed to pick up supernatural voices.”
“Does it ever talk to you?”
“Sometimes.”
I glanced around the art room. “Hey, Mr. Ghost. What’s shaking?”
We waited.
“Guess he doesn’t like me.”
“He’s just shy,” Pippa said. “Hold on a second.” She put her phone on the table. Out of nowhere, a voice droned as the screen lit up:
JAM
“That’s because you’re sweet,” I said.
“No, I’m not. And that’s been on there a while.”
TRICKY
“See? It’s definitely talking about you.”
“Because why?”
“Because you’re a tricky and complicated girl.”
“Oh god, Trent. Where do you come up with this stuff?”
“The spirits don’t lie.”
Pippa scrolled down the list. “Most of these words don’t make sense.”
“You have to make your own sense. That’s the secret to the universe. In other words, the answer to everything.”
I was getting kind of deep tonight, even though we were sitting in the art room, drawing our names on a stupid balloon. Guess that’s what happens when school ends. You’re forced to deal with reality.
The balloon reminded me of the
For Sale
sign at my mom’s place. Maybe she and Mr. Nameless had already moved away. I’d spent so much time wishing I could be somewhere else, it was pretty weird to think I wasn’t ever going back to my old house. Next year, me and Pippa would be seniors. We were almost free. At least, one step closer to freedom.
When the class met outside on the football field, everybody drifted over to their parents. I couldn’t believe it when I saw Mom standing near the bleachers. She’d actually shown up. And she was talking to Pippa’s mom like they were old friends. Of course, that was the actual truth.
My mom started walking across the field, sort of pecking her way in these strappy sandals. As a kid, I used to think she was glamorous. Now I wasn’t so sure.
“Congrats. You guys were fab.” Mom swooped me into a hug. She smelled exactly the same, like the herbs at the health food store, all those dead plants to cure your problems. “I’m really impressed with your hard work. Especially the music in Pippa’s film. Was that you, love?”
I nodded.
Mom smoothed my hair with her long fingers. “It sounded a lot like your dad.”
“He doesn’t play anymore,” I said flatly.
“Well, that’s a shame.”
She pulled me close and I sort of collapsed against her, like I was finally letting go.
Cookie was talking to Pippa. “Hope to see you on the reservation. You’re always welcome there.” She tied a bracelet on Pippa’s wrist. It was strung with tiny plastic beads. “If it don’t fit, I can make another.”
I knew that Pippa couldn’t deal with bracelets clacking up and down her arms. But the beads fit snug against her skin and stayed quiet and still.
“It’s perfect,” she said.
“See? You’re not totally allergic to jewelry. I knew it all along,” I said, making her laugh.
We watched the balloon get passed around. Everybody wanted to hold it for some reason. And when it finally came to me, there was nobody else left.
“Let it go,” Pippa whispered.
“Isn’t that, like, bad for the environment?”
“Probably. But I can think of worse things. Come on. You’re the last one.”
“How did I get into this?”
I shoved the balloon away from us. It sort of hovered in midair, then wobbled upwards, gaining speed the higher it got. The crowd cheered, as if I’d done a good job. Everybody raced toward it, like they could actually lift off the field and catch it. Or maybe it was more about running, just for the feel of it.
I tugged Pippa into the parking lot. “Got a surprise for you.”
“I’m not sure I can handle your surprises.”
“Oh, you’ll like this one. It’s mine now,” I said.
“What is?”
“Take a guess.”
The Kawasaki was gleaming under the fluorescent lamps. Dad had repainted it black, my favorite non-color. He’d even thrown in a pair of helmets.
“This one’s yours,” I said. The helmet was decorated to look like a skull. It was totally badass.
Pippa swung her leg over the seat. “So, where are we going?”
“Anywhere you want, homeslice. You’re the boss.”
“Does this mean I get to drive?”
“It takes a little practice.”
“I can learn.”
“Of course you can.”
From then on, we would take turns. Pippa learned to speed up, steer right or left, and cruise for long stretches like we did in the Everglades. We would learn other things, too, as we kissed under the mangrove trees and swam naked in water so shallow and warm, the seagrass curled around our legs. I could wait for it, like the egrets dotting the branches, watching us with their wings folded, never making a sound.
seventeen
The fire blazes for the Green Corn Dance. It cleanses as it burns. There’s no sense of “now.” Just the smoke threading the oaks, their branches thick with ferns that wither and play dead in the rain.
I haven’t eaten for days. My head is empty and full at the same time. The medicine people are here. Uncle Seth is here, too. Everyone hunches around the fire—the boys from the skate park and me. We’ve put on our Big Shirts and jeans. Now it’s time to chant the old songs.
One by one, they call us into the circle.
They ask, “What is your clan?”
I tell them I’m a panther.
The medicine people are talking about someone who lived a long time ago. He was a good man who did many good things.
They ask, “Do you want this name?”
It’s not the “baby name” Dad gave me. The medicine people chose a man’s name for me to carry the rest my life. If I say yes, I will drink the
assi
and stay awake all night. No sleep. Nothing to eat. Only the music, telling stories about the Breathmaker, whose name means everything.
I stare at the flames and think about the stuff I’ve done. Feels like it happened to a kid I used to know. I’d drive around, listening to static. Crank it up real loud. When that didn’t work, I drowned myself in beer. There was never enough. So I drove a little faster.
It’s pretty obvious I was going nowhere.
The smoke rises into the trees. We’re breathing it together. The medicine people know I’m taking it real seriously, this name. It’s a chance to keep the old ways, while also moving forward. If I say yes, I will leave the childish things in the past. Walk into the sunrise as a man.
I’m wondering if I deserve it.
There was a time when the Everglades was a “River of Grass.” We called it
Pahayokee
. We steered our boats through still water. The shape of the mangroves was a map we could follow. We moved south like the blue heron, looking for a safe place.
The farmers tried to get rid of us. They drained the land and torched our houses. They stole our corn, but we didn’t starve. We never wanted to fight, but the anger was growing, and so was the blood.
When you give something, it always comes back. The rules are in place for a reason. That’s why we face the east, watching the colors shift on the horizon. The morning sky is a fruit that ripens, then is gone.
The medicine people wait for my answer. The man who carried this name was a hunter. He was different from me. During the war, he hid from the soldiers. They got lost, trying to find him in the maze of cypress and tall grass. He held his breath underwater, lying flat as they walked past him.
I’ve been holding my breath, too. There’s a lot I need to get done, starting with the chickee hut, built by my muscle and sweat. I can do so much with my hands now. Play songs on my bass without a pick. Sharpen knives and tie the strongest knots, the kind that never slip loose. Hold the girl I love, her hands fitting into mine.
The smoke finds a way inside me. It clears away the parts I want to forget. I stand closer to the fire, letting them know I’m ready.
Ready to say yes.
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to Kate Lee and Tina Wexler for their encouragement and wise insight, and to my editor, Brian Farrey-Latz, whose vision for this book helped me discover its shape. Thanks also to Sandy Sullivan, Mallory Hayes, and everybody at Flux. Big hugs to the Chappell family, Team 305, Jonathan (“the moon followed him”), Mom and Dad for always being there, and Harlan, who listens when I need it most. I am very thankful to Dr. Bill Rothman, Professor Ed Talavera, and to Ranaria for our conversations about film and philosophy.
Buffalo Tiger: A Life in the Everglades
by Buffalo Tiger was helpful to my research. Finally, I owe many thanks to Houston Cypress (Otter Clan) for showing me the Rez and the tree islands of
the Everglades, and for your patience in answering my questions. Your kindness was a gift—and so was my glimpse into that special world.
About the Author
Crissa-Jean Chappell is the author of
Narc
(Flux 2012) and
Total Constant Order
(HarperTeen 2007), which earned a bronze medal from the Florida Book Awards, received a VOYA “Perfect Ten,” and was named a New York Public Library “Book for the Teen Age.” For ten years, she taught creative writing and cinema studies in her hometown, Miami. Visit her online at CrissaJeanChappell.com.
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