jagged fingernails and handed me a bunch. I hesitated, dubious.
"What?" he said. "You let me draw all over your arm in permanent ink, but I hand you a vegetable and you chicken out?"
I pressed my mouth into a thin line, unamused, but resolved. I snatched a leafy stalk from his hand and bit into it. It was pretty spicy, I found, but not at all bad.
"Told you," Rafael said.
I grinned at him and shoved his shoulder. He shoved back.
The men packed up their fishing gear and started to leave. I saw Mr. Little Hawk frown at me but pretended not to have noticed. Rafael had brought his notebook with him; arms wet, he propped it open on his knees and fished a pencil out of his pocket. I leaned over his shoulder, curious, to see what he was sketching.
"Dunno yet," he said. "Don't ask me."
He showed me old sketches of his, of coywolves and jumpseeds and an older girl he said was his sister, Mary, who had left the reserve a year ago to join a rock band. I counted thirty-six chain links running up his right arm. There could have been more, I realized, on the underside. Thirty-six times or more he had wanted to hurt someone and had hurt himself instead. For a moment I had a horrific flashback of his father, opaque as the memory was; how his father hadn't hesitated to hurt whomever he wanted; how different father and son were. Rafael caught me counting the chain links and shot me a perplexed look. I smiled, trying to throw him off my trail.
He smiled back.
I can't possibly describe the effect that a simple smile had on his face. I can try, but even now I know I won't do it any justice. Because when he smiled, he showed all his teeth--like a wolf--but it was inexplicably innocent, free from ferocity. When he smiled, there was a light in his eyes that didn't usually occupy his visage. When he smiled, his dimples were deep, like laugh lines, and I saw the missing tooth at the back of his mouth and the hidden laughter he had bottled up for years.
I noticed for the first time that his eyes weren't black as I had thought, but dark blue.
"There's gotta be something you like besides playing housewives with Annie Little Hawk," Rafael said.
I wrinkled my face at his description. Now that he had mentioned it, I didn't have anything I would have called a hobby. I'd enjoyed watching baseball with Dad, but not because I especially liked baseball; mostly because I liked the way Dad would scream and cuss and carry on like a ten-year-old.
I shrugged.
"Books?"
I tilted my hand.
"You're boring."
I glanced at him from the bottoms of my eyelids and hoped I looked more threatening than I felt. Probably not, because I couldn't keep myself from cracking a grin.
"Dancing, then."
I wasn't sure whether he was poking fun at me or not.
"No, listen," he said. "Do you know what a grass dance is?"
I shook my head but propped my chin on my hands, curious.
"We have a story," Rafael said. "Don't know how true it is. Long ago, there was a boy who wanted to dance. More than anything, he wanted that. But he was badly crippled. His legs didn't work right. Dancing was impossible for him."
As I listened, I felt myself rooted to the soil, transfixed by an unspoken familiarity.
"His mom spoke to a medicine woman, and the wise woman said to leave him out in the prairie for three days without food or drink. So that's what his mom did. While the boy was out there, he had a dream that he could dance like the tall grass in the wind. He woke up cured. And he went back to his tribe and taught his people to dance like the grass."
Unconsciously, I touched my fingers to my throat.
I've wanted to sing since I was a little boy. It's something I try not to think about, because unless medicine gets a whole lot better any time in the future, it'll never happen. Often I've wondered what my voice might
"What?" he said. "You let me draw all over your arm in permanent ink, but I hand you a vegetable and you chicken out?"
I pressed my mouth into a thin line, unamused, but resolved. I snatched a leafy stalk from his hand and bit into it. It was pretty spicy, I found, but not at all bad.
"Told you," Rafael said.
I grinned at him and shoved his shoulder. He shoved back.
The men packed up their fishing gear and started to leave. I saw Mr. Little Hawk frown at me but pretended not to have noticed. Rafael had brought his notebook with him; arms wet, he propped it open on his knees and fished a pencil out of his pocket. I leaned over his shoulder, curious, to see what he was sketching.
"Dunno yet," he said. "Don't ask me."
He showed me old sketches of his, of coywolves and jumpseeds and an older girl he said was his sister, Mary, who had left the reserve a year ago to join a rock band. I counted thirty-six chain links running up his right arm. There could have been more, I realized, on the underside. Thirty-six times or more he had wanted to hurt someone and had hurt himself instead. For a moment I had a horrific flashback of his father, opaque as the memory was; how his father hadn't hesitated to hurt whomever he wanted; how different father and son were. Rafael caught me counting the chain links and shot me a perplexed look. I smiled, trying to throw him off my trail.
He smiled back.
I can't possibly describe the effect that a simple smile had on his face. I can try, but even now I know I won't do it any justice. Because when he smiled, he showed all his teeth--like a wolf--but it was inexplicably innocent, free from ferocity. When he smiled, there was a light in his eyes that didn't usually occupy his visage. When he smiled, his dimples were deep, like laugh lines, and I saw the missing tooth at the back of his mouth and the hidden laughter he had bottled up for years.
I noticed for the first time that his eyes weren't black as I had thought, but dark blue.
"There's gotta be something you like besides playing housewives with Annie Little Hawk," Rafael said.
I wrinkled my face at his description. Now that he had mentioned it, I didn't have anything I would have called a hobby. I'd enjoyed watching baseball with Dad, but not because I especially liked baseball; mostly because I liked the way Dad would scream and cuss and carry on like a ten-year-old.
I shrugged.
"Books?"
I tilted my hand.
"You're boring."
I glanced at him from the bottoms of my eyelids and hoped I looked more threatening than I felt. Probably not, because I couldn't keep myself from cracking a grin.
"Dancing, then."
I wasn't sure whether he was poking fun at me or not.
"No, listen," he said. "Do you know what a grass dance is?"
I shook my head but propped my chin on my hands, curious.
"We have a story," Rafael said. "Don't know how true it is. Long ago, there was a boy who wanted to dance. More than anything, he wanted that. But he was badly crippled. His legs didn't work right. Dancing was impossible for him."
As I listened, I felt myself rooted to the soil, transfixed by an unspoken familiarity.
"His mom spoke to a medicine woman, and the wise woman said to leave him out in the prairie for three days without food or drink. So that's what his mom did. While the boy was out there, he had a dream that he could dance like the tall grass in the wind. He woke up cured. And he went back to his tribe and taught his people to dance like the grass."
Unconsciously, I touched my fingers to my throat.
I've wanted to sing since I was a little boy. It's something I try not to think about, because unless medicine gets a whole lot better any time in the future, it'll never happen. Often I've wondered what my voice might
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