Bone Dance by Martha Brooks Page A

talk to you about something. I’ve set up a trust fund for you. With the money Earl left. I didn’t want to just leave it in a bank somewhere, hardly collecting any interest.”
    Alex squirmed away. She went and sat down on the futon with the gold-colored throw. Shivering, she drew the throw around herself. She thought she might be sick.
    â€œAnytime I bring up the property or the money,” Mom said, pushing a tired hand through her hair, “you run away.” She turned back to her computer, squinted her eyes painfully.
    Two days later, Francine stood in the middle of the parking lot at Wal-Mart, where she had just purchased another set of towels that she didn’t need. “Alex,” she said, poking the key into the car door, “she’s worried about you. And, of course, she comes to me about it. Why do you two always pussyfoot around each other’s feelings? For goodness’ sake, your mother isn’t that fragile.”
    When Mom brought the subject up again, Alex said she was tired. “And I have a headache,” she added, watching her mother’s face crumple in disappointment.
    She turned, made her way up the stairs, and could feel her mother, below, still watching her. Then just as she reached the bedroom door, Mom called out,“You’re going to have to start making some decisions. Have you picked up your University of Manitoba application yet?”
    â€œI’ll do it tomorrow.”
    â€œDeadline for application is March the third.”
    â€œI know that, Mom. I said I’ll do it.”
    Her walking-around visions were frost laced. In biology lab she delicately dissected a frog, and all the while, dancing green northern lights crackled and whispered and invaded her nostrils with ozone.
    Standing in the middle of Harmony Drugs one slushy day, balancing a box of tampons in one hand and a bottle of hair spray in the other, she had a vision of her grandfather as a young man, dressed in caribou skins and wearing his red Tansi Lumber cap. He walked right past her and joined the old raven man, his spirit friend in the black coat, who floated down aisle four and pointed incredulously at his own image on the TV monitor.
    It was almost one o’clock. She had a class first period in the afternoon. Her legs felt leaden as she made her way toward the front. She was startled to see Peter standing at the checkout counter.
    He turned around, looked at her over his sunglasses, turned back to the flirty candy-colored cashier, handed over a few bills and some change, turned around again. This exchange was all very surreal, like a painting she once saw, in blazing southwestern colors, of a coyote driving a red convertible past lime green cactus plants.He had a balloon coming out of his mouth that said, “Hey, baby, what’s new?” The painting cost thousands of dollars.
    â€œWant a ride back?” he offered, leaning against the checkout counter.
    â€œNo,” she said.
    â€œSure you do. Please?”
    In his car, on their way to school, the dream catcher on his rearview mirror swayed hypnotically back and forth.
    â€œCan’t we at least be friends?” he said at last.
    She looked straight ahead.
    â€œThings are in a mess,” he said, adding softly, “I don’t know what to do about Serena. I started something I can’t handle. My life’s one big lie. The only time I ever feel like myself is when I’m dancing.”
    â€œPeter,” she whispered, turning her face away, “why don’t you just grow up?”
    In her dreams she searched beyond concrete and city noise and chalk-smelling school corridors, beyond weekends during which her arms ached from her parttime job at Cuppa Java, beyond history and English and chemistry tests, all requiring at least a
B
. She managed an
A
in two and scraped up a
B
in chemistry.
    She went to bed earlier and earlier. Made her room a sanctuary. Burned sage and sweetgrass on a