“Fine. I guess I’ll wear a nice dress.”
“You mean a black dress?” Jimmy cracks. “As always.”
“For your information, I have different shades in my closet. Ink. Spider. Coal. Oil.”
“Could you wear something pink?” Liz prods her elbow into Mike’s side. He groans and hunches over.
“See ya, guys.” Kota chuckles.
“See ya.”
“Peace out.”
Kota exits the window-filled hall and out into a manicured courtyard. He opens the Wood Shop book as he paces along ultra-green nature. Autumn trees contrast with the garden covered in yellow and orange leaves. The wind twirls the colorful leaves in a scurry. His hair ripples in the wind, catching the attention of a group of girls who pass by.
“Hey, Kota.” The clique says in unison, giggling softly.
“Hey.” Kota looks up briefly, smirking charmingly, then returns to reading the book. He skips to page 45, where a porch mailbox is displayed. I’m almost done with this one. It’s a gift for Mom. I should work on one for my sister, Dyani. Maybe a doghouse as her birthday present? A puppy? I’ll have to hide it somewhere, so the surprise isn’t ruined. I believe that’s on page 105.
Kota glides a leaf-infested sidewalk, his shoes crunching on the shriveled leaves. He nears a bus stop where other teens wait. The designation set in his mind is the Ozark Mountains—Tahlequah, where the Cherokee tribe resides. A town with a population of 1,482. Unfortunately, it’s too overpopulated, to the point that the reservation had no openings. So, he had to transfer to another school district.
He boards the bus, going to the middle to sit. The town of Tahlequah is located at the foot of a vibrant mountain. The crummy town doesn’t match the beauty of the surrounding hills. The place is in need of funding to demolish abandoned buildings and increase property value. Most citizens ride bikes since cars are too expensive. Our family car has been around for forty years. Grandad worked on it until his knees went bad; now Dad does repairs. It’s a sturdy Chevy.
The bus arrives at the main entrance of the reservation. The tribe officers wave to Kota. He returns the kind gesture. “I’m awaiting the Pow-Wow for your agitsi’s (mother’s) pudding,” one rez officer states eagerly.
“Me too! She’s making a bunch, so we can gorge out.”
“Good to know!”
Past the rez gates are cracked sidewalks and small ranch houses. The lawns are covered in vibrant leaves, giving the area an appeal despite the poorly constructed homes. The neighborhood is quiet and almost vacant. A few people occupy a park at the end of the street. He nears a one-story house paneled with white siding. Kota raises his hand above the doorframe to the ledge to retrieve a key.
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