Between Earth and Sky(41)

William’s face turned from pink to crimson. “Sss . . . chhh . . . oool?”

“School. The last word is school.” slammed the edge of her hand atop her palm like an ax. “As a second year, you should know this word by now. Repeat the phrase in full.”

“G-g-god b-b-bless our s-k-k-k—” William stopped and took a deep breath.

Alma bit her lip and looked down. William never stuttered when he spoke in Potawatomi.

Renewed buzzing broke the painful silence.

“Sk-k-k—”

“School!” Miss Wells shouted.

The class jerked to attention. Alma blinked and swallowed. The teacher smoothed her hands down the front of her dress and breathed in deeply through her nose. She turned back to the board and wrote the word school in big letters. “Everyone take out your slates and write out this word a hundred times.”

“There isn’t room,” Catherine said.

“Write. Small.”

George shook the box again.

Miss Wells spun around, eyes bulging. “Where is that noise coming from?”

After a moment, she seemed to catch the sound’s origin and crossed to George.

As she neared, George let his arm fall to his side, the white paper box cupped in his hand. Walter, seated directly behind him, grabbed the box and hid it in his lap.

“Show me your hands, young man,” Miss Wells said to George.

He placed his hands, palms up, atop his desk. The corners of his lips twitched, as if fighting back a smirk.

The Skunk’s eyes narrowed. She pursed her lips and moved on to Walter. “Hands.”

Having passed the box behind him to Frederick, Walter produced his hands.

Giggles erupted like popping corn around the classroom. Miss Wells raised her head, her gray irises blazing like a firebrand, and the room went silent.

The buzzing box passed covertly from one student’s hand to the next, always a step or two ahead of the fuming teacher. When reached them, the Indians would hold up their empty hands and shrug, their round faces beaming with a practiced look of innocence.

The prank continued for several minutes. Gone was the pretense of study. Miss Wells stalked up and down each aisle. “All of you—fifteen demerits, unless someone tells me who is making that hideous noise.”

Without even a twitch of a smile, Alice raised her hand. “I don’t hear no noise, Miss Wells.”

The teacher’s lips turned purple. Her neck muscles bulged beneath her sallow skin. “It’s any noise. I do not hear any noise.”

More hushed laughter. Even Alma had to bite down on her tongue to keep from giggling. She felt a tug on her sleeve and turned. From across the aisle, Minowe thrust the offending box in her direction. Alma’s eyes widened and she shook her head.

“Odaapinan,” Minowe hissed. Take it.

Alma’s gaze flickered to Miss Wells. She had resumed her desk-by-desk inspection, winding her way toward them. Any moment she would look up and see the box in Minowe’s outstretched hand.

With a scowl, Alma snatched the box and hid it in her hands beneath her desk. It was made from thick foolscap paper. George had probably filched the paper from her father’s office. Alma pulled back one of the side flaps and peered inside.

A hornet!

She slapped her palm over the opening to keep the insect from flying out and looked up. George leered at her from the front of the room. He lounged like a tramp behind his desk, arm lolling over the back of his chair, legs protruding into the aisle.

A sharp pain stung her palm. She clamped her lips around a scream, but a tiny squeak escaped. George smirked. Miss Wells spun toward her.

“Miss Blanchard, whatever is the matter?”

Alma fumbled with the box flap, closing it just before the hornet escaped. “What? Um . . . nothing’s the matter.”

The insect buzzed angrily in the box. The teacher stepped forward, her eyes hungry like a bloodhound tracking a scent. “Do you hear that?”

Alma looked past the teacher at George. How had he even found a hornet midwinter? His smug expression made her blood crackle. She could show the box to Miss Wells, tell her George was to blame for the entire escapade. The thought brought an inward smile. But his was not the only face turned in her direction. The entire room, all her friends and classmates, stared, watching what she would do.

She shoved the box between her legs, burying it in the folds of her skirt to muffle the sound. “A horsefly was buzzing at the windowsill a while back.” With a quick squeeze, she crushed the box between her knees. The noise deadened. “It must have flown out into the hall.”

Miss Wells tilted her head, as if combing the silence for some lingering trace of sound. After a long moment, the madness drained from her face. “Back to your studies, class.”

Everyone turned forward, save for George. Alma held his stare, matching his scowl with a smug smile. She tossed the crumpled box over her shoulder, sat up extra straight, and dusted off her hands with exaggerated show. His frown deepened a moment, then morphed into a lopsided grin. He chuckled silently and turned forward while Alma preened.





CHAPTER 19


Minnesota, 1906



The small gathering of tents and teepees she and Stewart had seen on the edge of White Earth Village the day before had grown into a bustling encampment. Mule-drawn carts and rusted buggies choked the thoroughfare. Their shaggy horse lurched and ambled as people on foot, even those carrying heavy packs or canoes, passed them on either side. How would she and Stewart find the men they needed to interview—the “witnesses” listed in the investigation report—amid this crowd?