More Than Good Enough(22)

When I heard Pippa say that, I felt really bad. “Don’t let that noise get into your head. You just have to go for it.”

“Really?” she said.

“I believe in you,” I said. And that was the truth.

Pippa covered her face with her hands. “Now you’re making me feel all awkward,” she said, peeking between her fingers.

Could this girl be any cuter?

“Okay, Mr. Rock Star,” she said. “We need to get back to work.”

“Didn’t we shoot enough today?” I asked.

“We haven’t interviewed your dad yet.”

“Trust me. He’s not worth interviewing.” On the kitchen counter, Dad had left a boom box. I scanned past a bunch of Spanish stations and settled on Power 96. “‘Big Pimpin’.’ Yeah, that’s how I roll. This song describes my life.”

“Seriously. I don’t think this is a difficult a concept to grasp.”

“My pimp hand? I keep it strong, player.”

“Let’s wait until your dad gets back. You can hold the camera while I ask questions. I’ll edit it with the footage from the gator show. Like a montage or something.”

“Mr. Bones said no ‘talking head’ stuff.”

“It won’t be talking head. I could do a voiceover.”

“Methinks thou art cheating, fair maiden,” I said in a fake British accent. I opened the fridge, took out a can of Reddi-wip, and sprayed it into my mouth. “Nice. This thing’s down to fumes.”

“Is it weird living with your dad?” Pippa asked. “I mean, does it feel weird because you didn’t grow up on the reservation?”

“What is this? You’re interviewing me now?”

“Off the record,” she said.

“Yeah, it feels weird. I don’t even know my dad really well. Mom always talked shit about him. I guess in my mind, I had this idea he’d be different. That living here would be different. Actually, the Rez is pretty chill. Nobody acts like I’m a freak because I’m not in the tribe.”

“And you want to be in it?” she asked quietly.

“Let me check on those zombie batteries. See if they’ve risen from the dead,” I muttered, ducking out of the kitchen. Why was it so hard to answer her questions? I didn’t have answers. At least, none that Pippa needed to hear.

The tribe had its own rules. That’s the way it had to be.

My mom told me that Dad couldn’t wait to leave the Rez. As soon as he got out of school, he moved into his own place with some bandmates. He probably thought he was going to be famous. Guess he never planned on me showing up. He didn’t plan on a lot of things.

The camera batteries were plugged into the wall behind the dining room table. I had to squeeze behind it to pull them out and that’s when I saw the gun—smaller and more compact than my air rifle. I picked up the .357 Mag and felt its weight in my hands.

Dad liked to go to Trail Glades on the weekend and fire off rounds at paper targets. He was always telling me that we’d go shooting together. Of course, that never happened. Now the gun was sitting next to a stack of bills. The safety was locked. I found the carrying case—a soft, padded bag that looked like a fanny pack—unzipped on a chair.

I figured Dad had gone shooting earlier and left it on the table. Pretty typical. I fit the Mag back in its case. Now what? I felt kind of weird about it being out in the open. Meanwhile, Pippa was talking to me, but I couldn’t hear her. Without thinking, I shoved the gun in my backpack and zipped it.

“What’s going on with the batteries?” she asked.

“All charged up.” I grabbed a set of keys off the table. Then I had a brilliant idea. “Ever been on a motorcycle?”

“Lots of times,” she said. “Okay. I lied.”

“My dad’s got this Kawasaki. The engine runs kind of chunky. I think it needs the plugs changed, but he’s too lazy to deal with it.”

“Is that your half-assed version of an invite?”

“You might say that.” I spun the keys. “Besides. You could shoot a ton of amazing road footage.”

“Oh, I get it. You mean, like, those old movies where people are driving, right? And the road is, like, projected behind their heads?”

“Pretty much,” I said, throwing on my jacket.

She jabbed her thumb at my Scout badge: ON MY HONOR. TIMELESS VALUES. “Is that supposed to be ironic?”

“There should be a zombie survival badge,” I said.

“Oh my god. That would be awesome. ‘Hey, I’ve been working on this zombie movie with my friend Trent. We do all our own stunts and everything—’”

“A zombie wouldn’t have a chance around a crocodile,” I cut in. “Crocs have a thing for dead meat, you know? Nice and soft. If it’s too tough to eat now, they’ll store it for later. See, they’re different from gators. They’re kind of like the vultures of the swamp.”

“I guess that’s one way of looking at it,” Pippa said.

“Did you know that vultures defend themselves by projectile vomiting? Can you imagine sneaking up on one and he’s all freaked out and just lets loose on you, like, take that!”

Pippa followed me into the garage. It was so packed with junk, you almost missed the lime-green motorcycle tipped against the wall.