Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir

green branches that break under me and release still
more acrid oil. Then I cry.
My cousins think I’m not tough; but Mama strokes
my hair and says to Aunt Carole, “If she has Al’s
blood, she can take care of herself. You just wait.” I
wonder if she knows. I’m so careful not to let it
show; clench my jaw, my tongue pressed into the
roof of my mouth. If she knows the bad things I
think, she might leave again. Or I might be the one to
disappear. At night I grind my teeth. Nobody says
anything about the sharp hungry part of me.
III. Whetstone
Except Buddy. Buddy must know. He’s a friend of
my mama’s. I’m seven years old now. My stepfather
isn’t home much, drives trucks to places with names
like Tiger Mountain, Woodinville, North Bend.
Buddy, who lives close to our neighborhood, is at our
little trailer almost every day, bringing beer,
cigarettes, candy. There’s always something for
everyone, and a few minutes of that special
attention, that tenderness human beings crave and
do not get. I want some of it, too. I like the way he
listens when I read out loud, how he says I’m the
smartest girl he knows; I take the candy and the hugs
eagerly, guiltily.