Wabanaki Blues Read Online Free PDF Page A

trudge toward Millicent Dibble, arms wrapped around their limping daughter with the bag of ice tied to her foot. I can’t afford to get dragged into a discussion about the cause of Rasima’s injury, so I tell my parents I need to grab some stuff from my locker. From behind the metal door, I text Lizzy to cue her into the miracle that just happened between Beetle and me.
    I write, “Help! I Need Somebody!”
    â€œLet It Be,” she replies.
    Lizzy is right, of course. I need to settle down. Nothing really happened between Beetle and me. Nothing ever does. He likes to think of me as his artsy musical acquaintance. Everybody has one. Nobody dates them.
    I head back to the main hallway and note with relief that the Jones family has departed. Naturally, Beetle is heading in the direction of the graffiti girl with the LOVE earrings. He is smirking worse than ever. It’s easy to imagine what will happen next. The whole school knows the effect he has on women. Rasima said it best in our school blog, The Weekly Stinger , “Beetle’s smirk is like a solid gold mirror with a crack in it: something that you must stare at, even though you know it will bring you years of bad luck.” I don’t agree with Rasima on much but she was dead-on about that one.
    Beetle passes right by the graffiti girl and opens his arms to hug Dibble. What a suck up! He must be bucking for the Principal’s Prize at graduation. I strain to listen to what he has to say to her.
    â€œThanks for everything, Principal Dibble.” Beetle hugs her.
    Dibble rasps, “I know you and some of your friends are headed to your family cottage on Lake Winnipesaukee for a few weeks after graduation. Enjoy yourselves.” She sighs. “Oh, how I love New Hampshire.”
    The universe spins like I’ve fallen into a vortex in one of Bilki’s murals. Beetle is going to New Hampshire. I’m going to New Hampshire. I’ve overheard tales, from girls with good hair, about endless summer parties there with boys who smell like cocoa butter. Up until now, that lake has been an imaginary place, never mind one I might visit. I live in the real world, where family discussions center on how to pay rent and utilities, not how much money to blow on long summer vacations. The kids in my neighborhood are lucky if their parents take them on an annual day trip to Mystic Seaport, Roger Williams Zoo, or Fenway Park. A month of lounging by some New Hampshire party lake is an unimaginable fantasy. Yet I’m on my way to that dreamland. Bilki must have a hand in this. This is one day when I truly appreciate both the living and the dead.
    Overhead, the hallway lights flicker with a sparkling galactic majesty, offering all the possibilities of a glittering newborn universe. Through the hall windows, the summer sun beams down on me with the pure, glorious, healing white light of a loving cosmos. The hint of a first smile tugs at the left corner of my mouth. My heart is beating so hard that I swear it pumps life back into the dead kittens on my tee shirt. I glance down and see them dancing in a circle on my cupcake-pink chest. From now on, I know things will be different. I lift the collar of my shirt and kiss it. I’ll wash it on the gentle cycle. It’s my new good luck charm.

Two
    Light-years from Lake Winnipesaukee
    Dad’s famously mobile eyes sprint from me to the front door of our apartment. “I can’t believe you’re still in your room, wearing a towel. We can’t miss our flight. This research trip is going to prove a link between ancient bear sacrifices, worldwide.”
    A monstrous bear claw necklace—from some creature that I hope to God lives where he’s going—dangles from a leather rope around his wrinkled neck. I want to yank it off and tell him I’ll take my bloody time because no one cares about his stupid bear rituals, his necklace looks ridiculous, and he lives in a delusional