Between Earth and Sky(27)

“Soon we’ll run out of space.”

“Father’s already talking about adding new buildings.”

A call from Mrs. Simms cut short their conversation. “Harry, dear, come help me move this table out of the sunlight. The butter’s melting and dribbling all over the linen.”

Asku set his duffle at the base of the steps and jogged over to Mrs. Simms while Alma went inside to change out of her church clothes.

These past weeks, when the creaking wood floors of Stover were largely silent, Alma had slept in the small bedroom across from her parents’ room at the opposite end of the hall from the girls’ dormitory. This morning she had awakened early, taken her black school dresses from the carved armoire in the corner of her temporary bedroom, and moved them back to their rightful place in the simple chest resting at the foot of her dormitory bed.

Though she had drawn back the drapes and flung open the window before leaving for church, the dormitory still smelled musty. In the golden afternoon light the empty room begged for life, for rumpled bed covers and furniture set askew, for laughter and whispers and pattering bare feet.

Alma hurried through the buttons trailing down the bodice of her gown and threw open the lid of her bedside chest. The inside was empty. She glanced at the washstand. Her silver comb and mirror were gone as well. Holding the front of her dress closed, she leaned out the window.

“Mother!”

“What’s happened to your Sunday dress? The hem is caked in mud!”

Her mother’s voice behind her made her start, and she whirled around. “I—ah—”

“Your father should never have let you walk back from town alone.”

“I wasn’t alone; Harry was with me.”

Her mother’s eyes bulged. “You’re far too old to be gallivanting about with young men, Indian or not.”

Alma swept the folds of her soggy skirt behind her in a futile attempt to conceal the full damage of her afternoon romp.

“Don’t stand there by the window in a state of undress. Go change. And be sure to bring your skirt to Mrs. Simms forthwith for cleaning.”

“I can’t find my uniform. I moved it here this morning, but my trunk’s empty.”

“You’ll be staying in your own room this year.”

“What? No!”

Her mother’s expression hardened. “Like it or not, you’re a young lady now, Alma. It’s not proper for you to be living like a common boarder among these Indians.”

“What about being an example?”

“You can do that from a distance.”

“I promise, Mother, I won’t go walking alone anymore. I’ll behave like a lady. Please, I’ll be so lonely in my own room.”

“You’ve become too familiar with these savages.”

“They’re not savages. They’re my friends.”

Her mother’s expression turned rueful. She cupped her hands over Alma’s cheeks. “I know this pains you, dear, but it’s high time you cultivate more respectable friends—friends equal to your worth and breeding. Like Miss Lily Steele. She’s a fine young lady. And no doubt able to keep her skirts above the mud.”

Alma sulked past her mother and down the hallway to her new prison of a room. She had plenty of “respectable” friends. Why did it suddenly matter if she had Indian friends, too? She cast off her muddied dress and donned her uniform. That word Lily had used—unnatural—came to her mind. Was it true? She closed her eyes tightly and imagined something wonderful happening—her father bringing home a litter of kittens or a brand-new pair of ice skates. It wasn’t Lily she’d run and tell, but Minowe and . And now, sleeping by herself in this awful room, she’d miss out on their late-night stories, the funny faces they made when Miss Wells turned her back during morning inspection, the secrets whispered through the darkness in their unique blend of Indian and English.

The sound of approaching wagons rattled her window. Alma’s spirits buoyed at the sight of her friends. Natural or not, she didn’t care. She bounded down the stairs and out to greet them.

Minowe leapt from the back of the first wagon. Though they’d been apart less than two months, her friend looked different. Her soft form had filled out, her hips wide, her chest round and full beneath her blouse. Her bronze face had thinned, drawing attention to her lovely, wide cheekbones and darkly lashed eyes.

Alma felt a tickle of envy. “Gimiikawaadizi,” she said, trying not to let it show in her voice. “How pretty you look.” A tight hug and the feeling left her.

They found and all exchanged quick accounts of their weeks apart. Then they walked arm in arm toward the picnic. When Alma explained her exile from the dormitory, her friends immediately offered suggestions on how she could escape to join them on the roof or at their secret stomp dances in the forest. Maybe she wouldn’t miss too much after all.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two boys—no older than six—hanging back from the crowd gathered around the picnic spread. Judging by their shaggy hair, bright clothes inlaid with ribbons, beaded moccasins, and wide, fearful eyes, they were among this year’s new enrollees.

She left her friends and walked toward the boys. Crouching before them, she offered each a hand.

she said, greeting them in Menominee. It was just a guess, but since that was the only tribe to send more than one new student this year, it seemed like a good one. Before she could finish her introduction, a shadow fell over her. An older boy she didn’t recognize stood above her. Thick black hair brushed his shoulders. He wore a red shirt—the same vivid color as a nearby maple—and navy brocade vest. A beaded belt cinched his waist. From his neck hung a necklace of alternating beads and quills. He put his hands on the younger boys’ shoulders and pulled them back.