We Still Belong: Chapters 30–51

“Just a game, Wesley,” Grandpa croons, as I flinch and startle and hide behind my hands.

Grandpa regards me with a long, contemplative look.

He stands up, stretches his legs, and slinks off across the room without a backward glance, his tail curling haughtily behind him.

“You’re feeling superstitious today, kiddo. First you got all excited about the owls, and now you’re thinking that your grandma’s ghost might be hanging around?”

Baby Zoe beams at me, flaunting her two new teeth.

I waver for a moment, unsure of what to say.

Vader magically reappears on the windowsill, purring as he waits for her. He hunkers down on the ledge, peering through the glass.

The point is, I have my reputation and my clients, and there’s a competition clause in my contract. I can’t afford to start over in a new place.

Her clothes smell like the salon—like burned hair and hairspray. But somewhere beneath that distinct chemical aroma and the bright pop of her peppermint chewing gum, I catch a whiff of her skin.

But she was angry with Chris. I could tell. I could feel it radiating from her, ice cold and scalding at the same time.

And she would respond with a clipped: “Well. It’s been ten years. What’s another twenty minutes, right?”

Mom ignored him. Instead, she waved our server down to ask for the checks, then focused intently on removing her debit card from her wallet, tap-tap-tapping it against the table.

“Okay. Well. This was fun, right? We’ve had a good time catching up, haven’t we?”
Mom made a noncommittal noise.

Our server returned to our table with two checks, and Chris immediately stopped talking, while my mother seethed in silence.

She lingered for a moment, blinking at Mom and me warily, like she thought we might be in trouble.

I held on to my mother’s hand, my adrenaline surging, my thoughts blurring.

His left hand curled into a fist on the table, his knuckles white and taut as he stared us down.

He insulted her looks, her intelligence, her job as a hairdresser, her abilities as a mother, her entire family. He used slurs I had never even heard in the real world before.

He had seemed normal before, handsome even, but his face was all twisted now. Ravaged by a sudden, severe sadness.

Grandpa’s voice sounds gravelly and somber again as he says, “I wish I knew how to speak Lushootseed.”

A sort of sad, contemplative silence falls over us.

His shoulders slump. “I just wish things were easier for you.”

“It’s such a difficult thing to do in this constantly changing, competitive, uncertain world. A lot of folks get forced out. A lot of people lack support systems or places to go.”
“Not you,” Grandpa says earnestly.

Golden sunlight slants through the trees, dappling the ground in shifting bright spots and shadows.

The traffic crawls slower and slower as we approach the beach at the bottom of a steep bluff.

Along the way, we pass by groups of fancy dancers in their full regalia.

The crowd thickens as we grow closer, and before we even step inside the building, I can hear the thrumming rhythm of the drum circle.

We step inside the building, into a hallway lined with cinder blocks, trophy cases, team photos and pennant flags and plaques that mark various athletic achievements.

From somewhere inside the gym, the emcee’s amplified voice calls out, asking the dancers to line up for the Grand Entry.

The drum circle plays in a steady, upbeat rhythm; the men’s voices rise and warble in unison.

The tiny tots are making their way into the gym now, capturing the attention of everyone in the audience with their cuteness, but I can’t look away from her.
From the girl in the electric blue dress, adorned with jingling silver cones.

“Do you two know each other? Ms. G, this is Wesley.”
Ms. Gilbert responds with a conspiratorial wink. “Oh, we’ve met. Wesley was supposed to be in the union with us.”

She turns her focus on Skye and tells her, “I spoke with the school principal about the incident this morning. We’re going to have a staff meeting about it soon; I emailed your parents to keep everyone in the loop, and to make sure the school stays transparent and proactive moving forward. It shouldn’t have happened. And, as promised, you have my full support; I’ll do everything I can to make sure they’re held accountable.”

The girls represent a wide array of Native Nations, and their dresses, their skin tones, the hair colors are all so diverse and different.

A pang of regret throbs in my chest as I remember how standoffish I must have seemed when we first became lab partners.

The sporadic cheers and applause continue as I shakily make my way across the shiny gym floor.

I also hear a gruff shout from somewhere nearby, and I think it might have been Grandpa’s voice, but I’m not entirely sure.

She couldn’t do anything about the enrollment laws, but she felt she could at least make sure I shared the name so other folks would know who claimed me. Whose lineage I belonged to.

A few wisps of his golden hair tickle the side of my face.

Does it feel foreboding? Scary? Or does this owl sound like a guardian? A protector?