Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir

But Buddy kisses my mama in a way that I don’t
like. I glare at him. Mama laughs and tells Buddy,
“Let’s go for a ride.”
“What about…?” Buddy asks, nodding at me.
“Bring her,” Mama says, Pall Mall in one hand,
beer in the other. She slurs words in the way that
makes my stomach knot. “Put her in the backseat
and drive around for a while. She’ll drift off.”
She always tells people what a good traveler I am.
It’s true. I can’t fight the dark sky, the warmth of the
heater coming on, tires against the asphalt. I am
betrayed by my mother’s intimate knowledge of me.
Even as I see my mother’s shadow sliding across the
front seat closer to Buddy, I fall asleep.
It doesn’t take long for Buddy to get me, and
Hannah, too. Hannah is a year younger than me, but
we are best friends. Hannah is a redheaded, frecklefaced
white girl, but when we stand together in our
matching green dresses, matching socks and shoes,
we think we are twins. I’m better at reading, she’s
better at math, so we help each other with
homework. But I’m older, I watch out for Hannah on
the playground or at the park. I let her play with my
special doll, the one that has a real horsetail for hair.