Living with the hawk by Robert Currie Page A

locker, both hands pressed to his groin.
    They ran past me and up the stairs. Man, I thought, she is something else, tying into him like that — and she’s beautiful.
    Jordan must have seen me then. He dropped his hands, straightening his back, sliding up the locker till he was upright. His face was dark with shame or anger — yeah, anger would be right. “Bitch,” he said, “she’s just asking for a good banging.” His right hand dangled at his side, knuckles rapping the locker.
    If I got my books now, I’d have to go right by him.
    Okay, I could do that. Besides, he couldn’t know how much I’d seen. I started past him.
    â€œYou smile just once,” he said, “I’ll knock your stupid head off.”
    And she’d kneed him in the balls, a dark fire in her eyes, blazing still when she came by me.
    â€œYou know something?” I kept walking towards my locker.
    â€œShe had it right — you are an asshole.”
    The second before I slammed into my locker, I felt his hands flat on my back, driving me forward. I managed to turn my head before I hit, taking the blow on my chest, the locker rigid against me, my cry lost in the collision of body and metal. I swung around, and he was coming at me, both fists ready, and I was going to get it now, but there, behind him, was my math teacher, Mr. Ambrose, turning toward us, Mr. Ambrose on noon duty, yelling, “Hey! What’s going on here?” He marched right up to us, his eyes darting from me to Jordan and back again. “No fighting, you understand?”
    Jordan grinned at him — he actually grinned. “Sorry, sir” he said. “We weren’t mad — just horsing around is all. Guess, maybe, we got carried away.”
    â€œSounded like someone busting lockers.” Mr. Ambrose didn’t look convinced. “I catch you two fooling around down here again, it’s detention next time. Now clear out.”
    â€œSure thing, Mr. Ambrose.” Jordan gave him a little nod as he went by him.
    â€œYou heard me.” Mr. Ambrose was glaring at me.
    â€œI need into my locker. For my homework.”
    â€œUh-huh,” he said, “leave it till the last minute, do we?”
    He stood there, watching while I opened my locker and dug out my books. I wondered if he’d noticed my fingers shaking as I turned the dial of my combination lock.

F OUR
    M y brother asked me what the hell I was doing, trying to cream him like that at practice, the snap barely in his hands when I hit him.
    â€œYou don’t like getting hit,” I said, “maybe they’ll take you on the chess team.”
    â€œUp yours. You were a mile offside. Besides, you hit like a cream puff.”
    We let it go at that. He didn’t ask again why I wanted to hit him, and I wasn’t going to tell him. If he had half a brain, he probably knew why. Neither of us spoke of what had happened that Saturday night on Fosters’ back lawn. In fact, we seldom talked anymore — except, of course, at meals. We both thought it politic to strive for something like normal conversation in the presence of our parents, but at supper that night, I wanted to talk.
    As soon as our father had asked the blessing, I said, “Guess what? There’s a native girl at school.”
    My mother was passing around the bowl of potatoes. She paused, a little gob of potato stuck on her thumb. She set the bowl down in front of me, wiped off the potato with her serviette. “Only one?” she asked. “I understand in Regina some of the inner city schools have more natives than whites.”
    â€œShe’s the only one I’ve seen. Don’t know who she is, but I saw her in the hall again today at noon. She’s . . . kind of pretty.”
    â€œAnna Big Sky,” said my brother.
    â€œYou know her?”
    â€œSure. She’s in my history class.” He cast a quick glance at my father, and for