More Than Good Enough(50)

“What is?”

“Take a guess.”

The Kawasaki was gleaming under the fluorescent lamps. Dad had repainted it black, my favorite non-color. He’d even thrown in a pair of helmets.

“This one’s yours,” I said. The helmet was decorated to look like a skull. It was totally badass.

Pippa swung her leg over the seat. “So, where are we going?”

“Anywhere you want, homeslice. You’re the boss.”

“Does this mean I get to drive?”

“It takes a little practice.”

“I can learn.”

“Of course you can.”

From then on, we would take turns. Pippa learned to speed up, steer right or left, and cruise for long stretches like we did in the Everglades. We would learn other things, too, as we kissed under the mangrove trees and swam naked in water so shallow and warm, the seagrass curled around our legs. I could wait for it, like the egrets dotting the branches, watching us with their wings folded, never making a sound.





seventeen



The fire blazes for the Green Corn Dance. It cleanses as it burns. There’s no sense of “now.” Just the smoke threading the oaks, their branches thick with ferns that wither and play dead in the rain.

I haven’t eaten for days. My head is empty and full at the same time. The medicine people are here. Uncle Seth is here, too. Everyone hunches around the fire—the boys from the skate park and me. We’ve put on our Big Shirts and jeans. Now it’s time to chant the old songs.

One by one, they call us into the circle.

They ask, “What is your clan?”

I tell them I’m a panther.

The medicine people are talking about someone who lived a long time ago. He was a good man who did many good things.

They ask, “Do you want this name?”

It’s not the “baby name” Dad gave me. The medicine people chose a man’s name for me to carry the rest my life. If I say yes, I will drink the assi and stay awake all night. No sleep. Nothing to eat. Only the music, telling stories about the Breathmaker, whose name means everything.

I stare at the flames and think about the stuff I’ve done. Feels like it happened to a kid I used to know. I’d drive around, listening to static. Crank it up real loud. When that didn’t work, I drowned myself in beer. There was never enough. So I drove a little faster.

It’s pretty obvious I was going nowhere.

The smoke rises into the trees. We’re breathing it together. The medicine people know I’m taking it real seriously, this name. It’s a chance to keep the old ways, while also moving forward. If I say yes, I will leave the childish things in the past. Walk into the sunrise as a man.

I’m wondering if I deserve it.

There was a time when the Everglades was a “River of Grass.” We called it Pahayokee. We steered our boats through still water. The shape of the mangroves was a map we could follow. We moved south like the blue heron, looking for a safe place.

The farmers tried to get rid of us. They drained the land and torched our houses. They stole our corn, but we didn’t starve. We never wanted to fight, but the anger was growing, and so was the blood.

When you give something, it always comes back. The rules are in place for a reason. That’s why we face the east, watching the colors shift on the horizon. The morning sky is a fruit that ripens, then is gone.

The medicine people wait for my answer. The man who carried this name was a hunter. He was different from me. During the war, he hid from the soldiers. They got lost, trying to find him in the maze of cypress and tall grass. He held his breath underwater, lying flat as they walked past him.

I’ve been holding my breath, too. There’s a lot I need to get done, starting with the chickee hut, built by my muscle and sweat. I can do so much with my hands now. Play songs on my bass without a pick. Sharpen knives and tie the strongest knots, the kind that never slip loose. Hold the girl I love, her hands fitting into mine.

The smoke finds a way inside me. It clears away the parts I want to forget. I stand closer to the fire, letting them know I’m ready.

Ready to say yes.