A Different Blue(41)

porcupine man than the hawk.”

I didn't understand what he meant and laughed uproariously at his joke. “Icas is the porcupine

man!” I said, pointing at the lazy dog with the shaggy coat. Icas raised his head and looked at

me, as if he knew what we were talking about. He ruffed and turned away, as if offended by the

comparison. Jimmy and I had both laughed then, and the conversation was forgotten.



“Once upon a time there was a little blackbird who was pushed from the nest, unwanted.

Discarded. Then a Hawk found her and swooped her up and carried her away, giving her a home in

his nest, teaching her to fly. But one day the Hawk didn't come home, and the little bird was

alone again, unwanted. She wanted to fly away. But as she rose to the edge of the nest and

looked out across the sky, she noticed how small her wings were, how weak. She was trapped. She

could fly away, but where would she go? She was afraid . . . because she knew she wasn't a hawk.

”





“Jimmy?”

The trailer was dark around me, and I listened to see if I could hear the sounds that Jimmy was

still sleeping. Rain was pushing down on us from what felt like all sides, the little trailer

rocking slightly from the water and wind.

“Jimmy?” I said it louder.

“Hmmm?” His reply was immediate this time, like he too lay listening in the dark.

“Did my mother look like me?”

Jimmy didn't answer right away, and I wondered if he was going to entertain this conversation in

the middle of the night.

“She had dark hair like you,” he responded quietly. “And she reminded me of someone I used to

know.”

He said no more, and I waited in the silence, hoping for crumbs.

“Is that all?” I said finally, impatiently.

“She didn't really look like you,” he sighed. “She looked more like me.”

“Huh?” I hadn't anticipated that response at all.

“She was Native, like me,” he grunted. “Her eyes and hair were black, and her skin was much

browner than yours.”

“Was she Pawnee?”

“I don't know which tribe your mother belonged to.”

“But I'm still Pawnee?” I persisted. “Because you're Pawnee?”

Jimmy grunted. I hadn't recognized his discomfort for what it was. I hadn't realized what he

wasn't telling me.

Jimmy sighed. “Go to sleep, Blue.”





Chapter Eight





When I heard the first shot I thought of the fireworks that had cracked and sizzled throughout

the neighborhood on New Years Eve. It startled me, but it didn't occur to me to be scared. The

parking lot around my apartment complex had been lit up for the last two days with residents

setting off bottle rockets and spinners and kids running around with sparklers, and I was almost

used to the sound. I slammed my locker shut and headed toward my seventh hour class as another

shot rang out.

And then kids were screaming and people were yelling that someone had a gun. I rounded the

corner on the way to Mr. Wilson's room and saw Manny, his arm raised like the Statue of Liberty,

a gun clutched torchlike in his hand. He was shooting at the ceiling and striding toward

Wilson's door demanding to know where Brandon Bates was. Horror slammed into me like a runaway