Nathan (preview)

PREVIEW

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ABOUT THE BOOK
Ten year-old Nathan has a number of big challenges to overcome. One is the school bully who
delights in tormenting him. Another is Nathan’s Grampa who has Alzheimer’s. When Grampa
moves in with Nathan, he introduces him to a part of his heritage he knew nothing about: a First
Nations ancestor whose story of hope inspires Nathan to face himself, and the future.
Both inspired by the revelation of an Indigenous link in her own heritage and frustrated at the
seeming impossibility of tracking it to its source, Susan Ouriou has written a compassionate story
of a boy and his grandfather and their brushes with friendship, adversity, and wisdom.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Susan Ouriou is a Calgary-based fiction writer, literary translator and
conference interpreter. Her first novel Damselfish was short-listed
for the City of Calgary W.O. Mitchell Best Book Award and the Writers
Guild of Alberta Georges Bugnet Award for Fiction.
Susan has numerous published short stories, including Violette
Bicyclette, which won the Western Canadian Magazines Award
for Fiction. Four of her translations have been selected for the
International Board on Books for Youth (IBBY) honour list: Naomi and
Mrs. Lumbago, This Side of the Sky, Pieces of Me, and Jane, the Fox and
Me, which she co-translated with Christelle Morelli.
Susan has interpreted for national and international conferences
including The Banff Centre’s Indigenous Writers Program and
Edmonton’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission event. In 2010, she
was awarded the Governor General’s Award for Literary Translation
and named a Chevalier in France’s Ordre des Arts et des Lettres.
Susan Ouriou
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Photo courtesy of Joël Ouriou

PRAISE FOR NATHAN
“Nathan is a tender coming-of-age story about a boy facing hard facts
about aging and bullying. In writing that is fluid and compassionate, Susan
Ouriou explores the power of human relationship.”
— Kim Echlin, Under the Visible Life
“Nathan is a book that delves into the depths and complexities of everyday
life and a young person who, despite the obstacles (the torment of bullying
and the ravages of a beloved grandfather’s Alzheimer’s), learns the delicate
skill of navigation and discovers, in part through the affirmation of his
world’s Indigenous past, the treasure of wisdom.”
— Joan Crate, Black Apple
Red Deer Press
www.reddeerpress.com

one
The car’s barely slowed to a stop before I’ve got one
foot out the back door.
I’m sorry I ever asked to hitch a ride to the
school near Grampa’s place—I should have walked.
The tension in the car’s so thick it’s making it hard
to breathe. Grampa can’t stop asking, “What are we
doing?” Mom’s got her hands wrapped so tight around
the steering wheel, I think she could yank it off.
Air fills my lungs when I step outside. I’m here.
It’s summer and it’s time to play. In a schoolyard with
no bullies.
5

I shut the car door, but Mom buzzes down Grampa’s
window and leans across him to talk. “Remember, I
don’t want to hear any complaints when I swing by
to pick you up again. It won’t take me long to finish
packing Grampa’s suitcase and I want you to be ready.”
I nod. Grampa shoots me a What suitcase? look. I
give Grampa a thumbs-up: Everything’s gonna be okay.
As if leaving the house you’ve lived in for over fifty
years can be okay. Then I turn and head for the school
compound and the hoop.
I twirl the basketball on my finger. I’ve been
practicing the finger twirl. This’ll be my first try at
shooting hoops since I got the ball. I guess the hoop’ll
be for next year’s birthday.
I start with a warm-up, running in circles,
breathing easy. All right, now! Dribble, set up shot,
throw. Dribble, set up shot. Throw. Yay, a basket! I
push back my glasses, give an imaginary high five.
Then bend over again. Dribble …
I hear his voice then, straight out of my worst days.
6

“Hey, nothin’!”
I stop dead, still bent over, the ball frozen in my
hands. Adam. Here. No teachers, no recess supervisors
to stop him. Just me and Adam. What’s our school
bully doing in this other schoolyard?
I’ve gotta run. But my legs won’t move.
He swats the ball from me, catches it mid-air, and
starts tossing it between his hands. “I’ll give you to
three,” he says, real tight. Then he holds up the ball,
closes an eye, and takes aim at my face. Pulls back for
the throw.
Now I run. And run. Behind me, I hear him laugh.
I expect his footsteps next, but hear the ball bouncing
against the pavement instead. I pound down the
compound and set my sights on the break in the
fence, just past the space-theme playground. If only a
spaceship could swoop down and fly me to the other
end of the universe.
I hear a front door slam in the distance and angry
shouting.
7

“Get back inside, right now!” The bouncing stops.
With a big stitch in my ribs, my breath coming out
ragged, I’ve got to stop, too. So I do. I’m behind a
space-shuttle jungle gym where I’m mostly hidden.
The shouting starts up again, covering the distance
between us, and I peek round the side.
The voice belongs to a man who’s already halfway
from his house across the street, the front door still
swinging, taking extra-long strides. I can see the
man’s a bigger version of Adam, same no-neck and
barrel chest. He’s loud enough for me to hear.
“Forgot you’re grounded, did you?”
For half a second, Adam looks like he’s about to
run, but then the man’s on him.
Adam lifts an elbow up in front of his face, but
the man bats it away. “This’ll help you remember!”
He gives him a wicked clout, whipping Adam’s head
to the side. To my side. The basketball drops. Adam
stares straight in my eyes.
I flatten back behind the jungle gym, inch sideways
8

for a step or two, then break into a run again, legs
shaking. This time, my mind replays over and over
Adam’s eyes locked on mine. Warning me how sorry
I’ll be that I ever stopped to look.
9

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