Wabanaki Blues Read Online Free PDF

world of his own. Yet I say none of this. I’m still in shock from pulling up the Google map that says it’s a three-and-a-half-hour drive from where I’ll be staying in Indian Stream to where Beetle is vacationing on Lake Winnipesaukee. My Dead Kittens shirt now lies inside my bedroom trash can.
    â€œYour daughter is nowhere near ready,” Dad tells Mom, as he grabs two suitcases and storms toward the car.
    Mom enters the room, smelling like fresh apples. She flops onto my “Meet the Beatles” comforter, wearing khaki shorts and a sky-blue blouse, knotted at the waist. Her hair dangles in a shiny braid. A red bandana wraps around her forehead in badass-Apache style, accentuating the two-inch scar on her left cheek. She looks like a Native American superhero. I loathe her.
    â€œAre you here to gloat over my banishment from civilization?” I ask, slumping worse than usual.
    â€œNo matter what you may think, Mona, this trip isn’t about me wishing you away.” She peers out the door, eyes narrowed, as if she’s staring down an invisible foe. “You need to spend some time with Grumps and your Abenaki relatives. There are important lessons they need to teach you.”
    â€œIf these Abenaki relatives are so wonderful, then why did you desert them years ago?”
    Mom trembles, probably from taking too many pills. “It’s not what you think. There’s so much I want to tell you about why you need to go north, about why I need to take this trip with your dad.” She slaps her hand over her mouth and hurries out of my room.
    This doesn’t faze me because I’m accustomed to crazy behavior from my unbalanced Mom. In fact, seeing as how my parents are both crazy, I decide to give lunacy a go. I approach the mural Bilki painted on my wall depicting an autumn woods landscape. A vortex of colorful paint droplets swirls at the center. It looks like a real portal. Now would be the perfect time for me to discover that it’s possible to step though it into another universe. I edge forward with my eyes shut, make a wish, drop my towel like Lady Godiva, and lift a leg. My knee whacks the wall, and it throbs like the time I tried out for soccer. My last-ditch escape plan has failed.
    I make one final check of the contents of my duffel bag. I’ve packed the standard everyday travel junk plus a bunch of tee shirts too loud to wear in Hartford. I yank a caution tape yellow shirt over my head. It shows a picture of the amazing Etta James on the front, under the words “Rage to Survive.” Mom hates yellow. I emerge from my room, triumphant.
    â€œYellow? Rage to Survive? Really, Mona.” Mom swats at my tee shirt like it’s a hornet. “Don’t you dare start one of your downhill slides. Not today. Stay on the mountaintop,” she says, quoting our shared shrink.
    â€œDon’t worry. I’m headed for the mountains today, whether I like it or not.” I sneer as she grabs her laptop and heads out because I’m thinking of the rare Beatles butchered baby-dolls tee shirt I found on eBay last night. I wonder how she’d like to see me in that? Somehow, I’ve got to find the money to buy that shirt.
    I focus on my silver charm bracelet from Bilki. This bracelet always comforts me. Bilki collected dozens of personal charms for it, including an artist’s paintbrush, palette, and easel. It also has a wolf for Grumps, a history book for Mom, and a bunch of stuff that presumably represents her life in New Hampshire: a log cabin, a woodstove, a bear, an eagle, a maple leaf, a powwow drum, an arrowhead, a moccasin, a robin, a trout, a spider’s web, a key, a mushroom, and an eight-pointed star. Before she gave it to me, she added two new charms, a guitar and a musical note. Every time I jangle this bracelet, I know Bilki can hear me.
    On the ride north, I sleep soundly until my head slams into the car window. I feel like I’m