LaRose(38)

Rain surged down in sheets and waves, pounding on the roof like people trying to get in. This scared Maggie but not LaRose. His father had put an eagle feather up in the lodge for him and talked to the Animikiig; he had explained to the thunder beings where LaRose lived so that they wouldn’t shoot lightning and hit him or anyone else in that house.

Nothing’s gonna happen, LaRose said to Maggie. He put his hand on her cheek. Maggie stopped jittering when LaRose touched her cheek. LaRose knew she loved when he was fearless. It was a burden for her always to be the fearless one. Because of what Maggie had said about his father killing Dusty, he didn’t tell her why they were safe.

Maggie clung to him while Nola made their sandwiches and poured their milk. LaRose watched the rain ripple back and forth.

Let’s eat back here, Nola said, nodding at the couch.

The dog raised his head at the proximity of food to cloth but tried to conceal his shock.

They sat with their food and looked out the window from against an inner wall. Sometimes the house vibrated with sound. Maggie quailed deeper into the cushions and pressed against the dog. When LaRose looked up at Nola, she made a funny face, a confusing face, a face LaRose hadn’t seen before. Nola’s eyes went shiny as she looked back at the streaming glass doors. She seemed mesmerized by the branches violently whipping. The face she’d made at him had been a smile.

At school, in LaRose’s combined K–1 class, there was a bigger, older first grader named Dougie Veddar. He throttled kids and gave them what he called the Dutch Rub—grinding his knuckles into their skulls. Twisting their ears. He turned his attention to hating LaRose. Tripped him, pushed him, called him Rosy Red Ass.

Can I borrow your pencil? Dougie asked LaRose during class. When LaRose gave him the pencil, Dougie snapped off the end and handed it back. LaRose sharpened the pencil.

Can I borrow your pencil? Dougie asked when LaRose sat down.

No, said LaRose.

Dougie made a sad face and raised his hand.

Mrs. Heaper, Mrs. Heaper! LaRose won’t let me borrow his pencil!

You have your own pencil, Douglas, said Mrs. Heaper.

Dougie grabbed LaRose’s sharpened pencil when Mrs. Heaper wasn’t looking, and drove it into LaRose’s arm so hard the tip broke off under the skin. Dougie laughed and said he’d given LaRose a shot. That night, LaRose showed his shoulder to Maggie, the pencil tip driven deep.

Her face swelled up. Her lips tightened. Her golden eyes went black.

When she was six years old, her teachers started calling Maggie “a piece of work.” But after her brother died, her work came together. She revved up the other kids by picking friends, rejecting those who displeased her, pitting them against each other for her favor. Although she didn’t exactly talk back to the teachers, there was sarcasm in the elaborate politeness she showed.

Yes, Miss Behring, she would say, and in a whisper only the other children heard, Yes, Miss Boring.

She rolled her eyes, made spasmodic faces, behind her teachers’ backs. They never caught her when she periodically dropped a BB from her jeans pocket and it rolled around and around on the unlevel floor. It made a high, thin, zinging sound that kept everyone in suspense. She kept it up, flicking a BB out every few days until Miss Behring searched everyone’s pockets. Maggie’s were empty like the others. She told nobody what she’d done so that nobody could rat her out. She was a disciplined piece of work.

Maggie had a list.

Dougie Veddar was now on it.

Recess came. He ran thumpingly around thinking he was safe, with his blond crew cut and rabbity teeth. Maggie was friends with an older girl, Sareah, who was fast and tough. The two girls closed casually in on Dougie and herded him away from the other boys.

Wanna share?

Maggie waved a candy bar from her lunch. He came around the playground tree. Sareah stepped behind him and pinned back his arms. Maggie had worn her hard-soled shoes for this. She reared back and kicked him between the legs. Then as he doubled over she stuffed back his shriek with the candy bar.

Don’t touch my brother, she said in that scary-nice way she had, her eyes turning gold with satisfaction. Please?

Sareah dropped Dougie and they ambled off, talking. I mean, what’s he gonna do? Go whine? Two girls dropped me. Kicked my nuts off. He’s gonna lay there, maybe puke. I dunno. They puke in movies when you kick their nuts off. Let’s go see if there’s chocolate milk left.

They paused to watch the action before they ducked into the lunchroom.

Maggie had made sure LaRose was on the other side of the tree, that he saw what happened. But she told him to be running past and just watch out of the corner of his eye. He should disappear immediately to the other side of the playground. LaRose saw it as he ran past them and then pulled himself high into the monkey bars. He sat on top, pretending to pay attention to the children around him, but watching as the girls sauntered slowly back inside.

There was a stir of energy. The teachers ran past. They were running toward Dougie; some kid said in awe, He’s blue, he’s blue. The teacher hefted Dougie. Heimliched Dougie. Two teachers held him upside down by the legs and shook him. Finally, a scream from Dougie, Whoa, whoa, whoa. Relief and cynicism settled once more over the teachers as they threw playground sand on a puddle of Almond Joy.

Maggie now slept in Dusty’s old room, and LaRose had a bunk bed, new. It was red metal and the bottom was a double. Just right for sleepovers, said Nola. When she said that, LaRose looked away from her. He knew that she meant other kids from school while his first thought was sisters and brothers. Anyway, some nights Maggie would come sleep with him. She’d sneak away before morning because her mother had made a rule about them not sleeping in the same bed anymore.