shop.” Josey left Livvy in charge of painting the walls and headed out into the hall. Ben followed—close, but not too close. Just within hand-holding range. Not that she would dare hold his hand within the same area code as Don.
The moment she opened the front door, the wind barreled across the hot grass, further demolishing her braid. “This way.” She moved quickly through the grass before he could change his mind and bail on the tour.
The shop, if one could call it that, was a little ways off from the school. The bigger kids were sawing away at the two-by-fours while the smaller boys held the wood steady. Don saw them coming. Heck, everyone saw them coming—the whole lot of them froze.
“This is a concrete foundation.” He seemed surprised about that.
“Classrooms have a higher priority than the shop.”
“I guess.” Josey pulled up short to look at him. Not what she’d expected to hear a valedictorian say. Ben shrugged, but they were within earshot of the still-motionless kids, so he didn’t clarify.
Professional. Be professional. “Much like the cafeteria, this building will serve several purposes. In addition to housing the shop classes, we’ll use it for storage and for the school vehicle.”
“Why aren’t they looking at me?” Crud. He’d noticed. “Do they have a problem with white people?”
How could she tell him that the only time most of these kids saw white people was when their parents were arrested for drug and alcohol violations? Or when social services came to take someone else away from the rez and the tribe—the only family most of these kids had? How could she possibly explain that some Lakota people refused to acknowledge white people at all—by not looking at them, they could pretend white people didn’t exist?
How could she hope to explain that’s why it was her job to be the face of the tribe to “outsiders”—because her grandfather had been an outsider himself? How some people still treated her and her mother like bastards at a family picnic? How some still whispered about her grandmother’s “betrayal” of the Lakota Nation, all because she’d dared to fall in love with a white man? How it would never matter how much her grandfather had given to the tribe, because he would always be a white man from New York?
She couldn’t. No one could ever understand how freaking hard it was to walk in both worlds—one where she was too Indian, the other where she was too white. She’d tried to explain it once—once, she’d been in love—and what had it gotten her? Nothing but heartbreak.
“No,” she said, trying to keep herself together. “They’re just not used to outsiders.”
Ben regarded her with open curiosity, like he was trying his darnedest to make sense of this strange new world he’d casually wandered into. But she wasn’t going to give him anything else.
He nodded. He was going to let it slide—this time. “Why are they using handsaws?”
Reality sucked. That’s all there was to it, but that’s not what she said. No, she was a professional, darn it. “I was attempting to negotiate for some power tools, but most shops operate on razor-thin margins and are unable to part with any equipment.”
Ben’s eyes narrowed as his nostrils flared. So maybe that wasn’t the most professional thing she’d ever said. Too late. It was out there now, and there was no taking it back.
Josey gave Don the most meaningful look she had. The old coot seemed to get the message. He said something in Lakota under his breath, and everyone started moving again. They didn’t look at Ben, but at least they weren’t frozen in a workshop tableau.
“We should let them get back to work.” She headed back to the building, but stopped short when she caught sight of the motorcycle. “Is that yours?”
“Built it myself,” he said with obvious pride. “You like it?”
“It’s beautiful.” She’d looked at the Crazy Horse website, seen all the wild bikes
The moment she opened the front door, the wind barreled across the hot grass, further demolishing her braid. “This way.” She moved quickly through the grass before he could change his mind and bail on the tour.
The shop, if one could call it that, was a little ways off from the school. The bigger kids were sawing away at the two-by-fours while the smaller boys held the wood steady. Don saw them coming. Heck, everyone saw them coming—the whole lot of them froze.
“This is a concrete foundation.” He seemed surprised about that.
“Classrooms have a higher priority than the shop.”
“I guess.” Josey pulled up short to look at him. Not what she’d expected to hear a valedictorian say. Ben shrugged, but they were within earshot of the still-motionless kids, so he didn’t clarify.
Professional. Be professional. “Much like the cafeteria, this building will serve several purposes. In addition to housing the shop classes, we’ll use it for storage and for the school vehicle.”
“Why aren’t they looking at me?” Crud. He’d noticed. “Do they have a problem with white people?”
How could she tell him that the only time most of these kids saw white people was when their parents were arrested for drug and alcohol violations? Or when social services came to take someone else away from the rez and the tribe—the only family most of these kids had? How could she possibly explain that some Lakota people refused to acknowledge white people at all—by not looking at them, they could pretend white people didn’t exist?
How could she hope to explain that’s why it was her job to be the face of the tribe to “outsiders”—because her grandfather had been an outsider himself? How some people still treated her and her mother like bastards at a family picnic? How some still whispered about her grandmother’s “betrayal” of the Lakota Nation, all because she’d dared to fall in love with a white man? How it would never matter how much her grandfather had given to the tribe, because he would always be a white man from New York?
She couldn’t. No one could ever understand how freaking hard it was to walk in both worlds—one where she was too Indian, the other where she was too white. She’d tried to explain it once—once, she’d been in love—and what had it gotten her? Nothing but heartbreak.
“No,” she said, trying to keep herself together. “They’re just not used to outsiders.”
Ben regarded her with open curiosity, like he was trying his darnedest to make sense of this strange new world he’d casually wandered into. But she wasn’t going to give him anything else.
He nodded. He was going to let it slide—this time. “Why are they using handsaws?”
Reality sucked. That’s all there was to it, but that’s not what she said. No, she was a professional, darn it. “I was attempting to negotiate for some power tools, but most shops operate on razor-thin margins and are unable to part with any equipment.”
Ben’s eyes narrowed as his nostrils flared. So maybe that wasn’t the most professional thing she’d ever said. Too late. It was out there now, and there was no taking it back.
Josey gave Don the most meaningful look she had. The old coot seemed to get the message. He said something in Lakota under his breath, and everyone started moving again. They didn’t look at Ben, but at least they weren’t frozen in a workshop tableau.
“We should let them get back to work.” She headed back to the building, but stopped short when she caught sight of the motorcycle. “Is that yours?”
“Built it myself,” he said with obvious pride. “You like it?”
“It’s beautiful.” She’d looked at the Crazy Horse website, seen all the wild bikes
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