Inside, loud music bumps—Witch Queen of New Orleans by Redbone. He closes the door and goes to the kitchen. His sister washes dishes, swinging her short hair side to side to the beat. Her bronze skin and defined cheeks resemble his. “Hey.”
Dyani glance sideways at him and stops her dancing. “You saw nothing!”
“Five bucks and I’ll wipe my mind clean of it.” He pokes. “Is Mom in?”
“No. She went shopping for the Pow-Wow. Dad said to put away his tools. For some reason, he thinks if I touch them, I’ll end up in the hospital.”
“You do trip while you walk.”
“That was one time! My pants were too long!” She cups bubbly water in her palm and tosses it his way.
Kota dodges the foamy streak, using his book as a shield. “Hmm…I’m gonna side with Dad, kamama (butterfly).”
“Asdudi galvladitlv.” (Shut up.)
“Tla.” (No.)
“Go do what Dad wants!”
“I will… when I want to.”
“You keep forgetting I’m older. That means I hold authority when Mom and Dad are out.”
“Does that mean I can go to the dance?”
“No… you’re too annoying.”
“I think that’s a yes.”
Dy goes back to scrubbing dishes. “Why do you want to go, anyway? Once a spot opens, you’ll be gone from that school.”
“That’s a big if. The rez doesn’t even have a spare desk.”
“For now.”
“I doubt the classrooms will get roomier.”
She dries a stack of plates one at a time, placing each in a cabinet bearing rose wallpaper. “Still… you shouldn’t get attached. You’ll be where you belong soon.”
“I have no issues fitting in. I’m pretty popular.”
Dyani rolls her eyes. “If you say so.”
“I am!” He defends while laughing.
“Even if you are, I don’t want you there.”
“Why not?” His soft voice drags out the question.
“Have you ever heard of bigots?” Dy asks while lathering cups with a sponge.
“It’s not that bad. One teacher is rude… a few guys glare. Other than that, everyone else is nice.”
“Or they’re pretending nice when you’re around.”
Hmm… is that true? Kota ponders, then shrugs. “My friends don’t. That’s all that counts. We’re partying tonight.”
“A school dance is nowhere near a party.” She snickers.
Should I tell Dy about the bonfire? Or would she rat me out? I’m not sure if I can trust her. My sis usually gets payback when I annoy her. “Depends on who you go with, clumsy.”
“Okay… you’re getting on my nerves!” Dy dunks a cup into the bubbly water and charges at her brother.
Kota jets from the kitchen, hackling like a hyena. He makes it outside and swings the door shut just as the liquid splats it. He paces to the garage with a goofy smile. The unit is compact, big enough for one car and tiny storage. He reminisces, remembering him and his dad placing the shingled roof and molding the windows to their panes. The interior holds oak walls and a concrete floor. There are tools on the counter, far from their shelves. Kota goes to collect them and pack them back where they belong.
Dad finally fixed that grandfather clock. It took him ages. Now I can finally get around to finishing the mailbox since the workspace is clear. He opens a cabinet below the shelves and pulls out a letterbox with the name Ahoka engraved on its front. He uses a screwdriver to twist hinges onto the back, then sets a flap of wood atop it to connect the piece. After the roof of the mailbox is complete, Kota spray paints it pure white. The chemical dye mists the air.
At 6:00 p.m., he goes to his room—gray walls and a blue twin bed. A narrow closet is his destination. Kota browses for a casual outfit, believing a formal suit would be over the top. He decides on a simple style with a hint of class: a dress shirt with buttons undone, dark denim flare pants, and jacket. The last accessory are mid-rise boots. On his way out, he writes a note and pins it to the letterbox: Nasginai Unitsi (For Mother). He treks down the block to the park. Kota lifts the flimsy gate and crawls underneath to escape.
ns216.73.216.238da2
