Winter Counts(62)

THE NEXT DAY Nathan was quiet and withdrawn, even more so than usual.

“You okay?” I said, lighting up a smoke.

“Just tired.”

“Want to make sure you’re okay. We’ll get back to normal when all this is over.”

“Yeah, I been thinking about that,” he said. “Like, what happens when this stuff is done. You know, the high school sucks so bad. I’m not learning anything. The teachers don’t care, they’re just losers who couldn’t get jobs in the city, so they come here for a paycheck.”

This wasn’t really true. Rez schools got some bad apples, sure, but we also got the idealistic young teachers who wanted to change the world. Most of them burned out after a few years, but some stayed.

“Since I got arrested, the kids at school have been really shitty. Worse than before. Now even Jimmy—you know, like my only real friend—can’t hang with me, ’cause his parents think I’m a bad influence or whatever.”

I hadn’t known that.

He went on. “My only friends now are the stoners and the freaks. They’re not even really friends, just dudes I gotta rat out. The other jerks make fun of me. You know what they call me?” He hesitated, as if I’d be angry to hear of the taunts cast by his classmates.

“Chief Iyeska. Like, to ‘chief’ some weed is to smoke a bowl without passing it around. And iyeska, I been called that since the day I was born. You know, it’s like I’m not Indian enough for the full-bloods, but too Native for the white kids. I don’t fit in nowhere.”

Iyeska. Originally, the word meant “translator,” and also “speaks white.” But over time, it became a nasty insult, shorthand for half-breed.

“Nathan, listen,” I said. “I got the same sort of crap when I was in school. Plenty of assholes here, I know. They always find some way to insult you.” I tossed my cigarette butt in the trash. “But you can’t let those guys get you down. Maybe they grow up and stop being assholes, or maybe you move on with your life and ignore them. You hear me?”

“Easy for you to say,” he said. “You don’t have to be with them every day. When you were in school, they didn’t have social media stuff. Kids are on their phones all the time, posting nasty shit about people they don’t like. Everyone reads it! What’ll happen if word gets out about the snitching? Everybody will really hate me!”

He was beginning to tear up, although I could tell he was trying to fight it.

“So I guess I decided,” he said. “I want to drop out in two years. When I’m sixteen. I can get a job somewhere, maybe Rapid City. Get away from those losers.”

Drop out? He’d been talking about college just a few months ago, now he was planning to quit school and work some bottom-rung job. I wondered what sort of life he’d have if he left school. Would he end up like me, with ten layers of scars on his knuckles from punching out dirtbags?

“Nathan, I know this is a hard time. A lot of bad shit has gone down. But don’t let them win. You finish school, then you make up your mind about getting a job or going to college. You got to hang on, okay?”

A few tears spilled out. “It’s just that, you know, I can’t sleep or focus. Sometimes I wake up at four in the morning and my mind goes to bad places. Like, I think about all the stuff that’s happened, not just at school but with Mom dying and all that. Then I start thinking that maybe it would be better if I’d never been born.”

Now more tears came. He turned his head so I couldn’t see him, but I glimpsed his misery. He looked desolate and overwhelmed. I didn’t know what to say to comfort him.

Then I had a thought.

I went to the bedroom, where I had some boxes stowed in the back of the closet. It took me a few minutes to find what I was looking for, but eventually I located it, wrapped in some newspaper at the bottom of a box full of old photos and ancient comic books.

“This is for you,” I said to Nathan. “My mom—your grandma—gave it to me a long time ago. My medicine bag.”

I handed it to him, the bag I’d had since I was six years old. It was a small beaded leather pouch with a rawhide cord so it could be worn under a shirt. My mother gave it to me, said that it would bring me strength and protection. As a kid, I’d carried it daily for years, but I put it away after my father’s death. I hadn’t looked at it since then.

“What’s in it?” he asked.

“Honestly, I don’t remember. Open it.”

Inside, there was some dried-out sage, a few tiny rocks, and a small feather. Vague memories of gathering those items came back to me, half-remembered images from my childhood.

“What do I do with all that?” he asked, pointing to the little tangle of objects he’d poured out on the table.

“Give ’em to me,” I said. “You need to make your own bundle. Put stuff in there that means something to you.”

“Like what?”

“That’s up to you. Anything you care about.”

“Like Mom’s ring?”

I’d forgotten he had Sybil’s ring, a small silver piece that she’d loved and worn for years.

“Perfect.”

He ran off to his room, and I looked at the little pile of items on the table. The sage, rocks, and feather—objects I’d carried as a child faithfully. I stared at them for a moment, then scooped the pile all up and put it in the pocket of my denim jacket.