A woman pulls her car up to an intersection, stopping the Minivan obediently at a red light, despite the noticeable absence of other vehicles, in her direction or the other. A light snow is falling, wet, coating the hood of the car and the sidewalks nearby, but the roads stay slick if nothing else, and even for the mild danger, the woman gazes at the fat, wet flakes, admiring their beauty. She turns to her child, a five year old boy, sitting in the back seat, nestled among paper shopping bags from their Christmas gift shopping trip. The boy smiles at her and she reaches back to stroke his shoulder-length silky black hair. He looks out at the snow and she turns back, paying attention to her driving, still waiting for the light.

Down the street, a teenage boy with close-cropped hair drops an empty can onto the passenger’s seat of his car, glances at his watch, and pushes his foot lower onto the accelerator.

The woman in the navy blue Minivan smiles as the light turns green, thinking about how happy her husband will be when they get home, and wondering what to make for breakfast the following morning.

As she eases into the crossroads, a car comes barreling toward them at upwards of sixty miles an hour, hitting the van broadside, skidding almost thirty feet into a telephone pole, eventually coming to rest with two people dead and a tiny child now without a mother.

Across town, in a two-story white house, a thin blonde-haired girl is asleep in her bed, dreaming.

February 9, 1996

In a small, brightly blue room, a fifteen year old girl is getting dressed in white stockings, a short red plaid skirt, and a red sweater. She ties up her long blonde hair in a black jaw clip, then grabs her bag and leaves her room. She walks out of her house, closing the door behind herself, and walks down the street to the corner, standing and waiting for her bus. Five minutes pass before her bus turns a corner and heads this way. She smiles, looking skyward, as fluffy snowflakes begin to fall, adding to the five inches all ready resting on the grass. The girl walks onto her bus and sits alone towards the back, slipping on a pair of headphones and delving into a world of Dave Matthews and relaxed, yet exciting music. Later on, the bus is filled with students. Elementary school students, two young men flopped over and sleeping on their sides, and then four more high school girls, like the blonde girl, who still sits alone, content and quiet. A smiling girl, Shannon, reaches over and taps the girl, who looks up in surprise, lifting her headphones.

“I like your outfit, it’s cute.”

The first girl smiles brightly. “Thanks. Hey, did you do the History homework?”

“Nah, I didn’t have time...”

The other girl sighs and looks to the front of the bus as the snow nearly obliterates the driver’s field of vision. “I swear, Lucy’s gonna kill us...”

Shannon sighs and nods nervously. The bus is still at a high rate of speed, on account of the bus driver’s desire not to be late for her next run, at 8:06. It’s now 7:20. The bus approaches a flashing red light and the driver gently pumps the brakes, but to no avail. She pumps a little harder and gets the response she wanted. She flicks on the blinker and turns the corner, not knowing about the ice all across the slick roadway.

The bus slips to the side and falls into a deadly spin, fighting the bus driver’s directions as she attempts to turn out of it. The bus slips harder, leaning far to the side, and finally falling onto it’s left side. There’s a horrible screeching sound and the unbearable sound of shattering glass, coupled with the dying screams of young children, and the horrified shriek of a young woman.

June 3, 1997

A Sioux boy all of sixteen years old is sitting in his junior Algebra 2 class, working quietly on his long and time consuming, yet easy math problems while his rowdy class acts up, taking advantage of the bewildered substitute teacher assigned to them. The long-haired boy holds his medicine bag in his left hand, writing his answers down with his right, trying to avoid everyone else as much as possible.

He blinks slowly, his eyes visibly filling with sadness. He drops his pencil into the middle crack of his text, lets his head fall down onto his desk, and begins to shake hard with sobs. Everyone stares as the boy cries, loudly, uninhibited by fear or shame, too far gone to recognize anything but the pain inside of him. Bryan stands and runs from the room, his hand over his face, still crying. His teacher chases after him until he dashes outside. His substitute teacher picks up a classroom phone, calling down to the office.

Later on, a reservation patrol car is outside, with the driver of that car, a Res policeman, talking to several teachers about the nature of this runaway student.

“I never expected _anything_ like this out of Bryan, he was always such a well- adjusted kid, you know his father absolutely adores him, Nick. He has _never_ pulled anything like this, he is a _sweet_ sixteen year old boy, one of the very few we have....”

The officer sighs and pushes at his short black hair, replacing his cap afterwards. “Can you think of anyplace he might’ve gone?”

“He’s always loved going out to see the buffalo, but I don’t think he’d walk that far from school. Not when it’s this cool...”

There’s a mild sound behind them, the creak of an opening door. The teachers and administrators turn and find a shaken young man standing there. “I found Fox.”

The policeman stops in his tracks at first sight of the boy. Huddled in the corner by the sinks in a boy’s bathroom, he is soaked in sweat and shaking, covered in blood, and sobbing, still. His long hair is wet and tangled, matted to his skull in places and in others sticking to the glossy painted walls of the room. The officer steps nearer to the boy, eventually getting close and kneeling beside him. Bryan huddles closer to himself, frightened, but he makes no move to harm anybody. The officer gently touches Bryan’s wrist and feels his thready, rapid pulse, an expression of concern flooding over his countenance. “Bryan?”

The young man looks up, terribly afraid.

“Bryan, what did you do?”

The boy shakes his head sadly, coming forward to wrap his arms around the officer’s neck, shaking. The officer stands and the boy follows suit, trying to keep as close to the officer as he can, so that if there should be a problem with one of his teachers, he’ll have a safe haven nearby. The officer leads Bryan outside. The teachers come over, horrified. His history teacher looks ready to pass out. Honestly, so does Bryan. He’s turning an unhealthy shade of pale.

“Bryan, what happened?!”

His voice is extremely soft, and very, very weak. “I’m sorry I left class....”

“Bryan, _what happened_?”

Bryan gives a soft moan and goes weak, slipping out of the arms of the officer and sliding softly to the ground. Blood pours from his slashed left wrist, pooling on the pavement. His teacher grabs his wrist and lifts it high, placing her bare palm over the jagged cut. The officer runs back to his car to request _immediate_ assistance including an EMT unit. Bryan looks around at everyone and tears pour down his cheeks. A gentle female teacher kneels by Bryan’s side and strokes back his long hair. “Honey, it’ll be okay... just stay with us.” Bryan gazes at her and, before his dizzy eyes, she is his mother, the woman who died in a car accident almost eleven years ago. Bryan tries to sit up and fails twice, bursting into sobbing. He grabs the teacher, the woman who, for all intents and purposes, _is_ his mother, and pulls her close to him, shaking and clutching to her. The woman holds him close and Bryan presses her to him, wanting her as close as she can get, wanting the security he hasn’t had in so many years. Finally he gives out, falling limp and unconscious on the pavement. The officer sighs and comes over with a medkit, opening it up and doing his best to help the shivering boy.

June 23, 1997

The blonde-haired girl is lying quietly in a bed, dozing on and off, resting. A boy walks into the room. His hair is long and black, his face is that of a Native American. His clothing is that of the average human being. No ceremonial native dress, nothing to set him apart from any other sixteen year old boy. The girl awakens, looking up with a gentle smile, reaching her hand out to the young man. He takes her hand and eases her out of the bed. She is dressed only in a hospital gown, and her legs are muscular, slightly tanned by nature, smooth, and lovely. The boy walks her outside of the room, and as they pass through the doorway, the girl finds herself dressed in the clothing traditional of a Native American, and standing in the great plains of the United States. She looks to her companion and finds no one. She is alone and free in this beautiful country, and it is the most spectacular feeling she’s ever experienced.

August 12, 1997

In a normal house in a normal suburban-looking town, a teenage boy is lying facedown on his bed, his head buried in his pillow. His father, a Sioux man with black hair reaching all the way down to his waist, is sitting beside the boy with his hand on his back, trying to calm him down as best he can. His father is quiet and his expression is sad, but not nearly as sad as his son, who is wracked with sobs unlike anything he’s ever seen or heard before.

August 12, 1997

The blonde-haired girl is sitting on a table, sobbing into the arms of her dark-haired mother while a doctor stands nearby, holding used white bandages, looking away out the window, trying to ignore the awful pain sharing the room with him.

September 17, 1997

In a classroom built out of what appears to be two walls of an office cubicle and a section of what once was a lecture hall, a junior English class is sitting, giggling slightly, while a teacher attempts to teach a lesson. The disturbance is caused by a young man with messy brown hair eating what appears to be a typed sheet of paper, mumbling: “English is good”. The teacher stops a moment and she gives the boy a reprimanding look completely fitting of the Hogan family’s neighbor, Mrs. Poole, since she holds a striking resemblance to the woman no matter _what_ the situation. A boy with a cute face and exceptionally _flat_ reddish-brown hair turns and sees someone shyly waiting to be noticed, waiting to be allowed into the makeshift classroom. The flat haired boy grins and looks at the teacher. “Hey, Mrs. Beuchner, there’s somebody here...”

The short, pudgy woman turns and sees a young Native American man, dressed in jeans and a white button-down shirt, a pipe-bone necklace, and a small medicine bag, with a black bookbag slung over his left shoulder. He’s very shy, and clutching tightly to a pink slip of paper, his hall pass. The teacher walks to him and takes his pass. “And what’s your name?”

The boy’s voice is quiet, with the hint of an accent. “Bryan... with a “y”....”

“What’s your last name?” She reads his pass and looks at a sheet of paper, a memo that got sent around to the teachers this morning, it was an update of the school rules and regulations.

“Hoffman.”

She looks up at him. “All right. Find yourself someplace to sit.... And here’s a list of the things you’ll need for class.” She hands him a sheet of paper. “You can have your mother sign the bottom and return it as soon as you can.”

He looks closely at her, his face stricken with pain, his nearly black eyes moist with tears. She stares at him. He sighs deeply, pain cutting at his heart like a knife, walking to a circular table and finding a seat among five other students. The girl beside him watches him closely, then pushes at her long blonde hair. Bryan looks at her, ready to yell for her to stop staring. She is ready to do the same. They both see the absence of malice in the other’s eyes and sigh softly, looking away to their own respective notebooks.

She watches him write, noticing he wraps his hand around his medicine bag, the small leather pouch of charms that hangs around his neck with a leather cord. She sees a thin, pale scar across his wrist, telling her he was involved in something unpleasant not long ago, perhaps a suicide attempt. *Maybe that’s why he switched schools?* As she ponders the possibilities, he taps her gently. His voice is soft and almost fearful. “What are we doing?”

The girl stares at him, stunned for a long moment. “What?”

“What are we doing?”

The girl looks down at her book and reads a few lines, then looks back up at him. “What?”

Bryan sighs shakily, wondering what’s wrong with this obviously _lovely_ girl. A guy taps Bryan’s back and he turns. The guy leans back, tipping his chair, and grabbing a paper from the stack sitting in front of Bryan. “Questions one through thirteen. Gotta read the first chapter to get ‘em, though, page 194.”

Bryan nods absently. “Thanks.”

The boy looks at the girl beside Bryan, then significantly back at him. “Don’t even bother...” He turns back around to read more of the story in their softcover text with the almost see-through pages. Bryan sighs and, still disoriented, begins to read.

Ten or so minutes later, the bell rings, although it’s more of a tone than a traditional bell, and the class disperses, everyone going their own separate ways. Bryan stays behind, lingering with the girl. “Can you tell me where the Art classroom is?”

She looks up at him, still nervous, but a little more composed. “I’m going there next....”

“Do I need any books?”

She shakes her head softly, gathering up her books and walking out. Her clothes are quite lovely, her skirt long and flowing, hiding her very slender shape. She carries the minimum possible amount of books, and Bryan quickly notices the shortness of her stride, and the obvious pain she encounters while walking down the stairs, from the second floor of the school all the way down to the basement. They walk down the long hallway in almost-silence. Bryan sighs softly. “What’s your name?”

“Kathleen.”

“I’m Bryan...”

“I know, I heard the teacher talking to you...”

“Oh.”

She looks at him, afraid he’s taken offense to her coldness. She gives a deep sigh and tries to relieve her tension, but he is so very much like the boy in her dream. “Did you move in from someplace else or did you transfer?”

“I moved here from South Dakota.”

She looks closely at him. “Where?”

“Rosebud.”

A slow smile spreads across her lips, but in an instant it’s gone. “Dakota, right?”

Bryan smiles this time. “Yes.”

“I admire that.” Bryan nearly blushes from her sweet statement. They’re both equally shy, but the girl is obviously the more afraid, for some reason Bryan has yet to discern. The girl’s not sure _why_ he blushed, _why_ her statement was so special, but she’s touched by the sentiment. They walk to a doorway and the girl sighs. “Here you go...”

“Thanks.”

She gives a short nod and walks away to her locker. Bryan watches as she pushes passed students to get to her locker. A boy pushes her and she slams backward into a locker. Bryan rushes towards them, but the girl smiles shyly at her tormentor, pushing at his black hair. He walks up the stairs and loses himself in a crowd of people. Bryan walks up to his newest and only acquaintance. She looks at him, startled. “What’s wrong?”

Bryan shrugs. “Nothin’, I just wanted to waste some time. If you mind me being here, I’ll leave...”

“No, stay. It’s all right...”

Bryan nods. He looks at the pictures taped carefully up on the brown inside of her blue locker. One is a black and white computer printout of a young man with a sweet smile, and the other two are Kodak pictures of young women. Bryan points to the male’s picture. He can’t for the life of him figure out why he’s being so bold. *Is this what love does to a young man?* “Is that your boyfriend?”

The girl looks at him, startled. She looks at the picture. “I’m in love with him... but he’s not my boyfriend.”

“But if you’re in love with him, why aren’t you two going out?”

“Because I wouldn’t be able to handle being unable to hold my boyfriend in my arms.” She quietly begins to do the combination on her still-open locker, then closes it. She looks up at Bryan and catches sight of the scar on his wrist. “He lives down south, I can’t handle being so far away from him without distancing how I feel. It’s just my way.”

Bryan nods softly, gazing at her as she closes her locker. “I never knew anybody white who thought that way.”

She looks at him. She’s so disoriented by his manner and, to be honest, he’s pretty frightened by it himself. “We’d better go...”

He nods, unable to tear his eyes from her light skin and soft hair.

September 17, 1997

Bryan steps off of an orange-yellow school bus and walks up the lawn of his new house, pulling his key from his pocket. The front door opens before him and he looks up. His father is standing there, smiling slightly. Bryan manages a weak smile for himself. His father’s fades and he sighs softly, afraid his child will once again end up in agony at the hands of a school system. Bryan walks into the house and drops his bag at the foot of the stairs. *This cannot go on* His father closes the door. “How was it?”

“I didn’t know the bus ride would be so long.” Bryan looks all around, disoriented in the new setting, and finally walks into the downstairs bathroom. His father closes his eyes a long moment. *It’s best to leave him alone*, he’s learned all about his son’s new behavior in the past few months, but that doesn’t stop every moment from being a complex riddle.

Bryan walks down the hallway into the kitchen, wiping his wet hands on his jeans. He glances at his father and picks up a bottle of prescription medication, taking it over to a counter near the refrigerator. He takes out a carton of orange juice and pours himself a glass, swallowing one of his small blue prescription pills with the first sip. He replaces everything and looks at his father. “It went well.”

His father smiles and turns to him, knowing the lines around Bryan have been erased, and conversation can take place. It sometimes bothers him to have this type of relationship with his son, and to know that in all the time between the conversation that Bryan’s heart is silent with pain, but this is his son, whose life must be at all times within control, and no one can deny his child that. “Tell me about it.”

Bryan sighs and sits at the table, pushing at his hair. “It’s a nice school. The people there stare at me, but never for a moment did I expect to be accepted by _anyone_. No one calls me by my name, and that’s something I _must_ fix. The layout’s easy, there are only really three hallways, and of them I don’t even have class in the basement. That’s where my locker is.”

“In the _basement_?”

“It’s not like how you’d expect.”

His father nods, suppressing a shrug. “Did you meet anyone you can talk to?”

“A girl.”

His father looks over in surprise, then grins. “So soon? I knew you had it in you...”

“Dad, not like that. She’s...I don’t know, there’s something about her. She’s _terrified_ and I want to know why. I saw her looking at my wrist, and I know she knew what it meant, she’s that smart, but I didn’t see any of the usual feelings there. No disgust, no anger, and no pity.”

“What do you think it means, Bryan?”

“I don’t know. But she was the only person who listened to me, and I even think she respects me.”

“What’s her name?”

“Kathleen.”

“She’s not Dakota?”

“She’s white, Dad.”

His father stares. “Don’t let her go. There’s magic between you.”

“She has magic all by herself.”

His father nods softly and looks at the meal cooking on the stove. “Dinner’s going to take a while. Do you have homework?”

“Some.”

“I want you to get some rest tonight.”

Bryan nods softly and walks up the stairs to his new bedroom.

September 17, 1997

Across town, the blonde-haired girl steps from the shower into her steamy bathroom. The walls are painted white, and there are deep pinks and maroons accenting the wooden items on the walls. The girl wraps her hair up in a dark towel and gently towels herself off. She’s a slender girl, quite lovely, but her legs.... They’re covered in scars. Burns. Her arms are covered with tiny specks of white, slightly pinched flesh from the shards of window glass, but those are nothing compared to her legs. They’re obviously well-muscled and strong, but who can see passed the melted flesh to the _potential_ for beauty? Truly, these scars could be much worse, but with the loveliness of this girl and her gentle, timid, demeanor, she deserves so much more.

September 19, 1997

A tone sounds and the students exit their classes. Bryan and Kathleen walk from the room to the hallway, and Kathleen escapes into a stairwell. Bryan turns and walks down the hallway to another stairwell, then runs down to the basement, stopping and waiting by the girl’s locker. She walks up and looks at him, startled. “Excuse me.”

He gives his body a gentle push off from the metal wall and stands, waiting to talk to her. “Hi.”

She nods and turns the black knob of her locker to the numbers 38-19-7 before popping the latch. She looks at Bryan. “What?”

“I just wanna talk.”

“Then don’t just stand there, say something and get it over with, Bryan. I have a class.”

“I know. I’m in it, remember?” He grins.

She looks at him. “I don’t know what it is you’re trying to accomplish by acting this way, Bryan, but I’m not interested... the last thing I need is some boy crowding my life right now...” She looks at him. “I’m sorry, Bryan.” She gathers up her books and closes her locker, turning to walk away. Bryan sighs sadly. She turns back and looks at him. “You don’t want my problems.”

She leaves. Bryan leans his head against her locker. “More than anything, yes, I do....”

He walks away and the bell rings.

September 17, 1997

Bryan’s father walks up the stairs of their home, making his way to Bryan’s bedroom. He gives a gentle knock and then opens the door to the quiet room. The walls are painted deep red, the dark maroon of the towel Kathy wrapped around herself days before. Bryan’s one wall is lined with a tall wooden bookshelf, and another has a long, low, wooden dresser. The room is dark and has the appearance of being tight and cramped, when, in another color, it could appear bright and spacious. Bryan’s father, Daniel Many Loves Hoffman, steps into the room and walks silently to the room’s bed, which is covered in a worn knit blanket, across which Bryan is sprawled. He’s lying on his belly, a thick novel lying beside him in a similar fashion, it’s binding severely bent. Bryan is asleep. His father smiles and watches him, his eyes slowly wandering across Bryan’s body, only to find himself staring at the thin scar across Bryan’s wrist.

He wasn’t shocked when he was told that Bryan had attempted to end his life. He knew his son intimately, and he knew he had been troubled by life on the Reservation. Bryan loved Dakota, and he had an intense love for his tribe and his family there, but the life of a Reservation was not what he wanted. He _wanted_ to have been born two hundred years ago. He wanted to live out of a lodge and hunt to support his family and maybe even become a warrior against the white man who squelched his peoples’ pride and killed his mother before he even got a chance to know her. The only thing about it that surprised him was the fact his child did it in school, in public view, rather than simply do it at home where it was safe and he could quietly end his life. It was so out of character for him.

Bryan wakes with a sharp gasp, lifting his head off of his blanket and looking around in fear. His father reaches out, placing a hand on Bryan’s back. “Relax... it’s all right.”

Bryan looks around, still trying to figure out where he is. He catches a glimpse outside his window and sighs deeply. He sits up, still shaking with the leftover adrenaline from his dream.

“What happened?”

Bryan looks at his father. “I tried to get her just to talk to me today... she said she didn’t want anything to do with me. That she didn’t want a boy crowding her life.”

“She’s hurting.”

“I _know_ she is, but I _don’t_ know how to fix it...”

“Don’t even try. Just leave her be for a while. She’ll come around.”

Bryan looks at his father for comfort.

“Fox, don’t take it personally, it’s not you, it’s inside of her. It’s _her_ pain. It’ll work out like it’s supposed to, no matter what way that might be.”

Bryan nods. “I’m lonely, Dad.”

Bryan’s father sighs deeply. “I know, Fox.” He gently rubs Bryan’s shoulder. “I know.”

“Do you ever get lonely, Dad?”

“No. Not when I’ve got you.”

Bryan manages a feeble smile.

October 8, 1997

*

Kathy’s walking down the hallway to her History class, when she is tapped on the shoulder from behind. She turns and falls as the knuckles of another girl’s fist makes sharp contact with her chin. The girl left standing behind to scream at her in fury, yelling about how Kathleen was “saying shit” about her. She gives Kathy a sharp kick in the stomach and the entire population of the hallway escapes into classrooms or down the stairs, no matter what their manner of business is in the 300 corridor, only wanting to get out of the way as fast as possible and therefore remove themselves from blame. Kathy cries out sharply as the girl’s shoe makes contact with her soft flesh, and teachers run out to grab the frantic junior student who is still, even in the custody of her elders, yelling hysterically. Kathleen lays on the ground untouched.

Bryan sighs deeply and walks from his locker, up the stairs to _his_ history class. The “education” he receives in that room is, to him, nothing more than a tightly-wrapped bundle of lies that means no more than a children’s fable. As he fights the unusually heavy volume of traffic up the stairs, he hears a loud female shriek and, in a sudden effort of will, pushes passed the frenzied students.

The sight before him is one he’ll not soon forget. The girl he has been loving every day for almost a month is lying on the floor, immobile, blood pouring out of her mouth. Her skirt is twisted around her knees, revealing the scars she has been for months trying to hide. Bryan runs to her and falls at her side, since the teachers milling in the hall are doing nothing to protect her. He gently puts his hands on her own, which are tightly clutched to her stomach. “What happened?”

The girl shakes her head, unable to speak. Tears of shame and pain are pouring down her cheeks. Bryan hears her voice, loud as day, crying out into his mind without the novelty which comes with spoken words. “Help me, Bryan.”

He leans forward and gathers her into his arms, holding her against his chest, gently touching her back with his virgin fingertips. “It’s okay....”

She hungrily clutches to his body, pulling him ever closer. Words escape her lips, words she’s never spoken before. “Koda.”

*Friend*

Bryan nods. “Yes.”

“Micehpi.”

*My Flesh*

Bryan gazes into her terrified eyes. “Let me help you.”

The girl leans closer to him, pressing her lips to his, laying him down on his back and forcing her tongue between his teeth. Bryan kisses her, deeply. Her hands run down his body, closer to his essence than _anyone_ has ever gotten.

Bryan’s father wakes with a start, reaching his hand out to his child. “Calm down, Silver Fox. Only a dream.”

Bryan lays down beside him, quaking in fear. His father gently drapes a blanket across him, rubbing his shoulder, urging him back into an uneasy slumber.

The next morning, Bryan is in the kitchen of his home, sitting on the counter, pleading with his father. “Dad, please, they won’t understand me.... They’re gonna say I’m racist, they’re gonna think I’m a _nut_.”

“Bryan, you find me a Dakota native psychologist, within _fifty_ miles of this home, and you won’t even have to go to him.”

“Dad, please be serious. I wanna go, but... there’s no way to get through what I’m meaning to say without lapsing into Dakota... it’s my first language, you know that...”

“Yes, Bryan, I know that, but.... You’ve got to get over your fear of white people. Not everyone killed your Mom, not everyone put us on reservations.”

Bryan sighs deeply. He pushes at his hair. “I’m not afraid of them, Dad, I just....” Bryan looks around the room, trying to think of the word.

“In English, Bryan.”

“I think I’m intimidated by them.”

“Bryan, there is _no_ reason for that.” He steps toward Bryan. “Why would you _ever_ feel that way?”

“It’s easy to have happen in that school. There’s got to be less than twenty African-American people, and all the Hispanic people assimilate perfectly, and most of _them_ are half-n-half. I’d say there is exactly _one_ full blood Native in that school, Dad. Me.”

Bryan’s father sighs and hands his son a couple of dollars. “Try to hang in there, Bryan.”

“After that dream, I’m not sure I can, Dad.”

“You will. I moved all the way out here to try to help you, I’m not letting you give up on this so easily.”

Bryan looks away, ashamed.

“Try to hang in there, son. I love you. You know that.”

Bryan looks up at his father. “Sometimes it would be good to know that more than one person on this earth cares for me....” He slides off the counter and puts his arm around his Dad, then leaves out the front door to wait on the front lawn for his bus.

Later in the day, Bryan in sitting in a class, his favorite class, one of the few which Kathy is not in, lost in thought and a brief, pleasant, memory to better days. His father, his grandfather, and himself are in a large group of Sioux, on the reservation, during a large and exciting powwow. It’s the twilight of the long festival, as well as the final moments of the evening.

Bryan is only around seven years old. He’s sitting, wrapped in a blanket, in his father’s lap, while his grandfather, sitting on the ground beside them, methodically beats a drum with the rest of the elders. The drums shake Bryan’s small body, rocking him to the core. He knows how close it is and how important all of this is to the tribe, and it’s the most spiritual event of his life since the day he was born, and the strange, silver fox came to sit beside his father to ease the pain of his wife’s labored moans, and then ran as Bryan was born into this world.

“Bryan!”

Bryan looks up in his History of World Culture classroom and looks around curiously. “What?”

“You wanna come back to us now? Wake up.”

Bryan looks around and nods, sighing and sitting up in his chair. “I’m sorry.”

“May I ask where you were?” His teacher, warm and young, is being gentle with him, since he is easily her favorite student.

“South Dakota.”

“When?”

“When I was seven. We had thrown a powwow, and when it ended I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything that intense. I mean...” Bryan glances at staring classmates, who are ready to make fun of him at any moment. “...nothing’s ever been quite like that.” Nervously, Bryan quiets and looks at his book.

“Bryan, pardon me for asking, but have you ever done a vision quest?”

Bryan picks his head up, on the verge of horrified. “Hau.”

Students burst into laughter. Bryan’s eyes fill with tears and he looks around, then finds it to be a figment of his own mind, that they are really watching, enrapt. He swallows hard and looks up at her. “Yes.”

“What do you do, where do you go? What’s it like, I mean.”

Bryan sighs deeply, terrified. “It’s a rite of passage, of sorts. I was 15 when I did mine, kindof young, but my Dad thought I could use it, since I... I just needed it. I went onto Angry Butte, and stayed there five days until I had my vision, which I don’t really think I should talk about, and then I went home.” Bryan shrugs. He wonders if Wakan Tanka will never forgive him for the dramatic downplay of the most important event in a young Sioux’s life.

“Lovely... Have you ever been the participant in a dance?”

He nods softly. He doesn’t want to go here. “Yes.” His voice is low and soft, slightly frightened and suddenly very shy.

“What for?”

“No.”

“No? Is that a Sioux word?”

“No, it’s an English word. No. I won’t talk about this.”

“All right, we don’t have to... I appreciate your willingness to share what you have so far, though.”

Bryan nods softly and looks at his book. Sitting Bull. His eyes fill with tears. “Iyotiye Wakiya”. His voice is no more than a whisper. *I am sad.*

October 9, 1997

Bryan is sitting in the hallway, leaning against his locker, his legs pulled close to his chest, his head resting down on his knees. He’s holding back wracking sobs, and shaking with the effort. Kathy comes out of the middle stairwell, then stops and looks at Bryan, knowing him instantly by the length of his silky black hair, and his ever-present suede moccasins which were made by his mother’s sister, his Aunt, on the reservation. Kathy walks over to him, watching him with concern written all over her face. Her voice is soft and loving. “Bryan?”

He looks up, terrified a moment, then lapsing into understandable hurt.

“Are you okay, Bryan?”

“Leave me alone....”

“Only if you tell me what happened.”

He looks at her. She _honestly_ wants to know. She slides to the floor, not thinking about exactly how often it’s cleaned, despite her long, black satin skirt. Bryan sighs deeply. “I don’t know.”

“Just generally blue?”

Bryan looks at her, a grin playing around his lips. “Nah, it’s just a lot of stuff. I just moved here, nobody will say two words to me, I so obviously _don’t_ fit in...” Bryan sighs deeply. “I’m just feeling really bad about myself right now.”

“Bryan, you’ve got nothing to feel bad about. You’re gorgeous and sweet, you’re a pretty snappy dresser....” She grins.

Bryan actually manages a soft laugh. “I still can’t help but think everyone here looks at me like I just crawled out of a buffalo hunt.”

“They do. And so do I. The difference is, I respect you for it...even envy you sometimes. I have Polish and Russian and English in me... there was a time, and I don’t really think I’ve left it, when I’d give almost anything to have the beautiful history you’ve got. Don’t you feel that way?”

Bryan nods. “I know I’m lucky, and I love everything about being Sioux. It’s just that...here....it’s not something to be proud of. I feel like I’m showing off just to _exist_.”

Kathy nods. “I feel that way, too.”

“I thought you didn’t want boys crowding your life.”

Thrown off by the topic change, Kathy falls silent. “I was feeling hurt that day, and I was just really tired... I’m sorry I said that, Bryan, I know that hurt you ,and, the truth is, I could _really_ use some crowds right about now.”

Bryan nods softly. He smiles. He looks around and wipes at his cheeks, which are still slightly moist. “So could I...”

She looks at him. “So, what happened?”

Bryan sighs softly. “I had to talk about some stuff today that I really am not up to talking about.”

“Like what?”

“My grandfather.”

“Oh?”

Bryan looks at her. “He died in June, and we were _really_ close before that, and I mean _really_ close. My life sortof fell apart.”

“Is that why you moved here?”

“Sortof.”

“Is that why you’ve got those scars on your wrist?”

Bryan looks at her, then down at his wrists. He nods softly.

“I, for one, don’t blame you for doing it. Lord knows I’ve thought about it way more than once. Once even went so far as to look for a razor to do it, but I know I’d never have gotten up the guts to do it.”

“Why didn’t you try that time?”

“My cat heard me crying. She came into my room and wouldn’t leave me alone until I snuggled her. I figured that if my _cat_ was that upset, then my family...” She shakes her head. “I don’t want to think about that.”

Bryan nods. There’s a long, not uncomfortable silence. “Is it just me, or is this school exhausting?”

“It’s not you. It’s the bus.”

“Where do you live?”

“Lakewood.”

“Oh? Where?”

“By ShopRite.”

“Oh.” Bryan thinks, wonders where that is, then smiles as he realizes he _does_ know where that is. “You should be on my bus, then, shouldn’t you?”

“Where do you live?”

“Lakewood New Egypt?”

Kathy nods. “Yeah, you should be on my bus. But I don’t take it.”

“Lucky. Why not?”

She sighs and looks away. “I had a bad experience last winter.”

“I’m sorry if I brought up something painful for you...”

“No, no more than usual. It’s just that everybody here knows about it.” She sighs softly. “My bus skidded on some black ice and fell over, I was pinned by the heater for 3 hours until they were able to get me out. I was in the hospital for a good long time after that....”

“Oh.”

Kathy looks at him. The hallways is desolate except for their two forms.

A teacher walks out of one of the stairways and looks at the two of them. “Where are you two supposed to be?”

Kathy swallows hard. “Lunch.”

“The period started ten minutes ago, get going to where you’re supposed to be.”

Bryan stands and takes Kathy’s hand, easing her to her feet. She smiles and the two of them move to leave. Kathy suddenly realizes the books in her arms, gives a gentle laugh, and turns, walking to her locker with Bryan. The teacher watches them and, seeing blossoming affection between the two, smiles.

October 23, 1997

Bryan’s settled on a warm, upholstered couch, as he has been for the passed half-hour. His doctor, a kindly man in his mid-thirties, is listening to Bryan. He briefly interrupts his nervous rambling.

“Bryan, let’s talk about something different, okay?”

Bryan nods, a cocoon of shyness wrapping around him.

“Tell me about what happened the day you tried to kill yourself. Just the events leading up to it, you don’t have to go any further than that if you don’t want to.”

Bryan sighs softly. “I got up for school the regular way, I said goodbye to my Dad like I always do, I walked to school, I went to class.” He shrugs. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I didn’t know I wanted so badly to do it until I actually _did_.”

“Where’d you get the knife, then?”

“I always carry it with me.” Bryan reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and brings out a three-inch long bone knife, with the blade neatly tucked into it’s grove within the cream-colored handle. Into the fine bone the delicate shape of a fox is etched. His doctor takes it and looks closely at it. He slips the blade out and sees how razor-sharp it is, and how beautifully it gleams silver. “My grandfather gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday.”

“It’s very beautiful.” He hands it back to Bryan, who puts it back into his pocket. “Where did you get the idea to slit your wrists?”

Bryan thinks. In his mind’s eye, he runs from his school and outside into the waist-high buffalo grass. He cries out in Dakota for help, begging for Wakan Tanka to bring him back his grandfather, the one person who he _could_ trust completely, who is now gone. He loves his father, truly, he does, but it hurts his father too much to listen to him speak about his mother or his pain. In the open field, Bryan drops to his knees and starts a soft Dakota song of mourning. He pulls his knife out of his pocket and looks at the sharp, shiny, blade. He pulls up the sleeve of his shirt and holds the knife to his bicep. He sighs and shakes his head, stopping his singing. He pushes at his hair, then finds his gaze trained on his thin wrist. He looks out over the sea of yellow grass, finding his grandfather, almost 50 years younger than when he died, dressed in the traditional Dakota ceremonial dress, watching him. His hair is long, passed his back and down, all of it’s raven black blown by the soft breeze. Bryan watches his grandfather, then stands, walking back into the school, too ashamed to end his own life under his grandfather’s gaze, too frightened. He walks into the bathroom and slashes both his wrists along between the two tendons which run lengthwise down his arm. His blood pours quickly out, and Bryan slides down the wall to huddle in the corner. His grandfather walks in and watches him. Tears pour down Bryan’s face and he speaks quietly in Dakota, trying to comfort himself with the soft, soothing words spoken by his mother in the few memories he possesses from before her death.

Bryan looks up in his doctor’s office. “That’s what happened.”

“Do you have hallucinations like this often?”

“They’re not hallucinations, they’re visions, and yes, I do. My Tunkašida--” He sees the look of confusion on the man’s face. “My _Grandfather_, said that they were part of what sets me apart from other people. They’re not a mental disorder no matter what you say and I _don’t_ want you to try to get rid of them. They’re important to me.”

The doctor looks at Bryan carefully. “All right. We’ll work on that later.”

“We won’t work on that at all.”

“How about if we talk about this with your father?”

“Great.”

Later on, Bryan’s father is sitting with the two other men. “As a part of our culture, visions are looked upon favorably, that they are significant. Bryan doesn’t have hallucinations, he sees things happening from the past or future, and each of them has an important meaning. It’s not a sign of mental illness, it’s a spiritual calling, and if you can’t respect that, then we will go to someone else.”

The psychologist nods. “Do that. Because I am under an obligation to help my patients. You are not allowing me to do that.”

Bryan’s father nods.

Later on, Bryan and his father are in the car. They’re both silent. Bryan is gazing out the window. “I told you, Dad.”

“I thought it was worth a try, Bryan. At the very least.”

Bryan nods softly. Long, silent, moments pass. “I love you, Dad.”

Bryan’s father looks over. “Are you okay, Bryan?”

“Yes.” He sighs deeply.

“How’re things with Kathleen?”

Bryan sighs. “I haven’t seen her since Friday, Dad.”

“Yes, I know, but...I want you to talk to me about her. About what’s going on.”

Bryan thinks about it. “We’re finally making progress. She really seems to trust me, and I really trust her, somehow. She doesn’t seem to hold anything back with me. Can I call her and ask her over tomorrow? I just wanna have some time to talk to her and we’re all gonna be fried from the PSAT’s anyway...”

“Sure. If her parents approve. You want me to pick you up?”

“Nah. I’m pretty sure she can take the bus. I’ll ask.”

Bryan’s father smiles. “It’s good to see you so happy with her, Bryan.”

Bryan blushes shyly and looks out into the night.

October 24, 1997

Bryan is sitting with Kathy in a three-seater, both are quiet. Kathy’s holding herself tightly, extremely nervous. Bryan looks at her. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. But, um.... remember that bus thing?”

Bryan nods. Kathy pushes at her hair.

“I’m not over it. I haven’t been on one since.”

Bryan realizes how scared she must be, then. He gently wraps his arm around her, pulling her close to him. She sighs deeply and rests her head on his chest, smelling the warmth of him, his soft hair brushing her cheek, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Everything else falls away and she realizes, for the first time, what love is. This.

Later on, the two teens are in the kitchen of Bryan’s house. Bryan’s cutting meat into strips while a pot of corn simmers in a crock-pot on the counter. Kathy’s watching him. “What is it you’re cooking?”

“Waštunkala.”

Kathy looks at him. “What’s that mean?”

“Corn soup. Here. Smell this.” He tenderly holds one of the pieces of meat for her to smell. She does, tentatively.

“It’s not beef. What is it?”

“Deer.”

Kathy breaks into a smile. “Yuck! Really?!” She smiles at him.

Confused by her reaction, Bryan nods.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Oh, this is genuine South Dakota Mule Deer. I honestly had no idea you could UPS meat.”

Kathy laughs. “Why are you making it? Is there a special occasion?”

Bryan quiets a little. “Tomorrow is my parents’ anniversary. I always make this for my Dad. It’s our celebration.”

“What about your Mom?”

Bryan’s voice is quiet, but he’s not in visible emotional pain. “She died in a car accident when I was five. And don’t get all ‘I’m so sorry’, I’ve dealt with this for a long time and it’s okay.”

Kathy nods. “Okay.” She looks at him for a long while. She reaches out and gently tucks his hair behind his ear. She steps behind him and reaches up to gently massage his shoulders. He is slightly taller than her. He rolls his neck and smiles. She reaches down and tickles his ribs. He laughs suddenly, spinning to grab her around her waist. “Yuck, no, Bryan!! Your hands, _yuck_.” He looks at her and makes a motion with this hands, wriggling his fingers like claws. She smiles sweetly at him. She looks around. “You mind is I make myself something to eat?”

Bryan shrugs. “Nah, go ahead. Sioux hospitality and all that jazz.”

She smiles at him. She looks through the cabinets and takes out two cans. “What about a pot?”

He looks at her and grins, then continues cutting the venison, putting a handful into a large pot to simmer overnight. “Your guess is as good as mine. Look low, though.”

She shuffles through and finds a nice medium-sized metal pot with a handle. She places it on the counter, then looks around for a can opener. Bryan watches her with interest. “What are you _doing_?”

“Making potato soup.”

“_Potato_ soup?” Bryan’s voice holds a slight amount of disgust.

“Hey, you make your cultural dish, and I make mine.” She grins. “You’ll like it, trust me.”

At around 4 o’clock, Bryan and Kathy are seated at the wooden kitchen table, each eating a bowl of soup. This is their second pot. Bryan’s father comes in the front door and walks in, calling, “Anybody home?”

Bryan smiles. “Yeah, Dad, we’re in here.”

His father comes in, smiling. “Hi.”

“Hi. Dad, this is Kathy Potter.” Bryan looks at his father, hoping for approval. Kathy’s obviously hoping for the same thing. Bryan’s father smiles warmly.

“I see you’ve both taken it upon yourselves to raid the cupboard?” He sighs and turns away, grinning. “You’re children, it’s expected, I suppose.” He calls from the other room, where he puts his coat on a hook on the inside of a closet before returning. “And how soon are you going to leave me and my son; before you have a chance to know me?” Bryan gets up from the table and walks over to rinse the dishes in the sink. Puzzled by Kathy’s slow reaction time, he turns back to look at her, finding her sitting tensely, afraid to answer. Bryan urges her forward with a gentle look. Bryan’s father comes in and looks at her. “I’m sorry... did I frighten you?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“I just meant to ask you if you’re going to stay long enough for the three of us to have a conversation.”

“Oh. I’m sorry... I’m just nervous... this sort of thing is new to me.”

Bryan’s father sits beside her. “What sort of thing?”

“I don’t know.... New people, going home to meet his parents.. his Dad...”

Bryan’s father smiles. “Don’t worry, my son has good taste, I can see. If he likes you well enough to overcome that shyness of his and bring you here, you’re obviously special to him. You make him happy, that’s enough.”

Kathy smiles, blushing. Bryan’s father is, indeed, a very handsome man. Thirty-five, with long hair and finely etched Sioux features, he’s the prime example of a Sioux warrior. He’s a living culture clash, however, a highly educated “savage”. He’s dressed in a blue business suit from his office-based job as a translator in Trenton, working for the FBI, but not an actual member. A self-taught code-talker, he learned Navaho during his stay in college in Arizona. It’s plainly obvious now, and also having seen the carefully placed picture of Bryan’s mother, where their son gets his good looks from.

October 24, 1997

Kathy and Bryan are still in his house, lying on the bed in his room, facing each other. Kathy flops onto her back and looks around, stretching. “Your room is nicer than mine, I think.”

“I somehow doubt that. You strike me as the neat-at-all-costs type.”

Kathy smiles. “Yeah. But all your stuff meshes well. Most of my personal stuff sticks out like a sore thumb, no matter how much I try.”

“Eclectic, that’s good, too.”

She smiles at how kind he is, and that he uses big words. She slides off his bed and walks to his shelf, where he has the last several years’ worth of Native American-type model horses, including the desired “Lakota Pony”. Kathy smiles. “I always wanted that one.”

“My Dad gives me one every year on my birthday.”

She looks at him. “When’s that?”

“May tenth.”

She nods. “Older than me.”

He smiles and gazes at her as she stands across the room, looking at his things. He doesn’t mind. “That’s a nice skirt. Where’d you get it?”

She turns and looks at him. “Why, do you want one?” She grins. “Some store in the mall, I guess, my mom bought it.”

Bryan smiles. “Not a jeans kinda girl?”

“Nope.” She turns back to look at his things.

Bryan insists on pursuing it. He knows she trusts him. “Maybe you’ll try a short skirt one day?”

She tenses. “Nope... I’d feel too slutty.”

“C’mon... you’re very pretty.”

She turns to him. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want you to talk to me.”

“There’s nothing for me to say.”

Bryan sits up and looks closely at her. She walks over and sits beside him at the foot of his bed. Bryan looks closely at her. “Tell me about it. Obviously I’ve been through a lot in the past year, too. I’ll match you story for story if you want.”

She looks at him. “So what’s this got to do with the fact that I wear skirts all the time?”

“You tell me.”

She looks at him. “I was wearing a short skirt and stockings. When my bus flipped over I was pinned next to the heater. I was cut with a lot of broken glass but that thing was _hot_. After a while, once the cops and firemen and ambulances came and were trying to figure out a way to get everybody out, the heat finally got to be too much and I started screaming. Turns out the heat melted the stockings to me and caught fire, and I was really badly burned. While they were trying to save me, my friend Shannon died of a head wound. I feel like it’s my fault.”

“There’s no way that can be your fault, and as much as you think those scars are bad, they’re probably not, and most likely they’re _nothing_ compared to the scars inside of you.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong, Bryan.”

“Show me.”

“I can’t.”

“Please? What am I gonna do, laugh? I’d _never_ do that. I’d like to think that you _know_ that I’d never do that.”

She sighs. “I thought we were matching story for story.”

Bryan nods, his eyes not leaving her face. He looks down at the floor. “I did my Sun Dance and three days later my Grandfather died.”

“Sun Dance?”

“Ritualized pain and self-torture as a rite of passage and a sacrifice, I guess you could call it.”

“Self-torture?”

Bryan sighs and thinks. “The poking of a wooden skewer through the flesh of my chest, with the other end of a leather thong at the top of a high pole in the ground. Then you dance and try to break free. Lasts a few hours, and it stops hurting after a while if you do it right.”

“Did it stop hurting for you?”

“Hell no.”

She grins.

“Well anyway, after I did that my Grandfather died, and, you gotta understand, he was my _best_ friend. A few months after that I decided to try to end my own life in the bathroom of my old school. I was in a coma for a few days and it took a couple months and a lot of therapy before I was okay enough to function even outside of the hospital. This was just a few months ago.”

“You’re so calm about it.”

“A coma can have the same effect as a good hanbde¹’eya sometimes.”

She looks at him, waiting for an explanation. Bryan tries to translate it. “Umm.... vision quest?”

She nods. “How do you know Sioux so well?”

“Well, it’s sortof my first language. I was there when my mother died, I mean, in the _car_ with her... she was holding my hand when she died... Anyway, that was a traumatic experience, as you can imagine, and I stopped talking for a good while. After we moved back to the Res, my Grandfather discovered that I wanted to talk, and that I could, but I’d only respond if he spoke to me in Dakota. So he taught me it so I could at least communicate a little.”

Kathy nods. “But why wouldn’t you speak in English?”

“Complex workings of the human brain? I dunno.”

She grins, but her question is honest, if it doesn’t sound _too_ silly. “Do you think in Dakota? ‘Cause I mean, I think in English...”

“I lapse in and out, mostly. Some words Dakota, some English.”

She nods, and there is a silence. “Do you have scars from your Sun Dance?”

He nods. He considers his next decision a moment before slipping off his sweater, then pulling off his T-shirt. There are several dime-sized spots of scar tissue on each side of his chest, above his nipple. His skin is dark by nature, then comes a deep tan. Kathy reaches out to touch his smooth, hairless chest, which is hardly muscular, but not by any means too thin. Her voice is quiet, and reverent. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

He reaches down to her legs, which are tucked under her. He gently touches her legs through her long satiny skirt, feeling the gentle hills and valleys which make up, for the most part, all of the flesh there. He slides her skirt up her leg, and her hands pull back from his chest, watching his eyes as he sees her scars. He shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with you. I still think you’re just as beautiful as you were ten minutes ago.”

She looks at him. “Even if I’ll never be able to wear a beautiful short dress to the prom, or if I’ll never wear shorts on a hot day, or go with you to the beach?”

“You’re still beautiful.”

She looks at him, looking for the sudden laugh and horrible, hurtful remark, or the cries of “Monster!!” that haunt her in her dreams. Instead, his eyes are full of honesty, no more and no less. She leans forward and wraps herself in his warm, strong arms, tears of joy pouring down her face. _Finally_ she’s found her niche, and it is with him.

November 25, 1997

Bryan is in his lunch, sitting at a table with Kathy, who has allowed herself to open up a bit since her and Bryan’s relationship began. She’s dressed in a long skirt, as usual, and a warm knit sweater. Bryan’s in a sweater, too, but his is one which he received in a package a week ago, with the return address being that of his mother’s sister on the Reservation.

Life in this school, especially since Bryan and Kathy started spending so much time together, has been extremely rough. Slurs upon Bryan’s race have been prevalent, and Kathy’s not immune from the accusations of completely ridiculous things, like naming her as a slut, when she’s more shy and more chaste than most of the people who are accusing her.

A blonde-haired boy with a height of a full six feet walks up to them, leaning over their table and facing the both of them. “Either of you got a quarter?”

They both shake their heads. The guy looks at Bryan.

“You sure, Tonto?”

Bryan sighs deeply and reaches in his pocket. He pulls out his wallet, a smooth purple rock, and a many-times-folded sheet of paper. “Satisfied?”

The boy grabs Bryan’s wallet. Bryan stands and glares at the boy, who gives him a menacing glance which Bryan _knows_ is a bluff. Kathy stands, too, tired of feeling short, and shakes her head. “McCormick, give it back.”

“Shut up.” The tall young man look through Bryan’s wallet and comes across Bryan’s pictures, the first of which is his mother, then his father, then Kathy. He comes across several dollars, then tosses the leather billfold back onto the table. “Cheap-ass Indian.”

Bryan pounces on the boy in a heartbeat, knocking him to the ground and getting in a hard punch to the boy’s jaw. Bryan then pops up, standing over the guy. He’s perfectly calm now. Kathy walks to Bryan’s side, her eyes filled with fear, shocked that _this_ is the Bryan she’s known for several months and never has she seem the tiniest flare of a temper. Teachers are predictably running over to break up the fight, but there seems not to be one to break up. McCormick is lying on his back on the floor, stunned, and Bryan’s standing quietly. A graying teacher in his mid forties comes up. It’s Mr. Sonday, the basketball coach and English teacher. “What happened?”

Bryan looks at the teacher and shrugs, massaging his sore fist. “He made a racial slur towards me. I stopped him. That’s all.”

Mr. Sonday looks down at the kid on the floor, then pulls him to his feet. “That true?”

McCormick nods. Sonday nearly rolls his eyes. “Don’t do it again.” McCormick nods.

“Not now that I know he can do _that_.”

“_Don’t do it_.”

McCormick nods and walks away. Mr. Sonday looks at Bryan. “I understand your reasoning, and it’s good that you didn’t pursue it further, but it’s best not to tempt fate with those sorts of things.”

“I’m just so sick of people doing that to me.”

“I know. I would be to, and I doubt I’d be able to control my temper like that, but still...”

Bryan nods. Mr. Sonday walks away. Kathy looks at Bryan. “Well, the teachers like you...”

“Too bad it’s not the same with everybody else.” Bryan sighs and runs a hand through his long hair. Kathy sighs and they both sit back down at their table, continuing with their lunch.

Kathy looks up at Bryan. “How do you and your Dad celebrate Thanksgiving?”

Bryan half-shrugs and licks a dab of ketchup off his finger, reaching then for another french fry. “Turkey. Corn, mashed potatoes, stuffing, all the usual stuff.”

“So you do?”

Bryan nods. “What, did you think we’d not celebrate because less than one hundred years later the white man _totally_ screwed us over?”

Kathy blushes. Bryan smiles. “It’s okay.” Bryan grins and shrugs slightly. “It’s an excuse for a big meal.”

Kathy smiles at him. She grows shy and almost afraid, slightly. “What time do you eat?”

“Around seven or so, why?” He looks at the expression on her face. “You wanna?”

“I probably could, if your father doesn’t mind.”

“Why would he mind? He loves the company because I don’t say much.”

“Yeah, right.”

Bryan’s eyes grow honest and serious. “Right. I can’t say much at home. My father knows all there is about me, we’re both always tired and sometimes there are days when neither of us will say anything because we’re too afraid of hurting each other.”

“That’s the risk you take when you love someone.”

Bryan looks closely at her. “Has your father ever asked you how your day was, and gotten a response which included three hours of hysterical crying and being forced to put you into a hospital for the whole weekend?”

“No.”

“That’s how things are in my house.”

“That’s a terrible way to have to live, Bryan, you shouldn’t have to live like that.”

“I’m the one who causes all the problems.”

“No, you’re not, Bryan.”

“You don’t want to believe me because you want me to have high self esteem. The problems aren’t with me as a person, but because of the fact that I’m _sick_.”

“Is that why you just dropped a guy four inches taller than yourself and now you’re able to just sit here calmly?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Bryan sighs deeply.

“I’ll ask my parents tonight about dinner.”

Bryan nods.

November 25, 1997

Bryan and his father have finished their small meal, and Bryan has now set himself on quietly doing the dishes. His father walks up behind him and, gently placing a hand on Bryan’s back, reaches into a high cabinet for a dish towel. Bryan’s voice is soft. “Dad?”

His father takes some of the dishes from the drying rack and dries them by hand. He leans against the counter and gives Bryan his full attention. “I’m listening.”

“Kathy and I were wondering if it’d be okay for her to come here for Thanksgiving. She says her family always eats early, and that the tradition is kindof gone now since her Grandmother died, and it’s okay with Kathy’s mom if it’s okay with you.”

“You sure you want her to come over?”

Bryan nods softly. His father shrugs.

“Okay. I don’t see any reason why not.”

“Because, he doesn’t have to come if you don’t want her to. I can _just_ as easily tell her no.” Bryan’s afraid, but that, as well as his inexplicable nervousness, is unsubstantiated.

Bryan’s father sighs deeply. “Do you want her to come over or are you just asking me so that I’ll say no and you won’t have to come off as the ogre here?”

“I want her to come over, but I’m nervous, Dad.”

“Of course you’re nervous, Fox, she’s your first real _girl_ friend. She can come over if you’d like her to, beyond that, I wouldn’t mind having the company.”

Bryan turns away, going back to the dishes. His voice is a mere whisper. “I’m not company enough for you?”

Bryan father sighs deeply, frustrated.

“Bryan, you _know_ that isn’t what I meant.”

Bryan looks closely at his father. “Who are you to tell me what I do or do _not_ know? You may be my father, and you _may_ have been my sole caregiver for the past ten years, but who are YOU to tell me what I _do_ or do _not_ know?! I know surprisingly little, Dad, not half as much as you give me credit for. My schoolwork, yeah, but outside I school, inside this house, outside in the real world, where there are other people, I don’t know a thing!! I don’t know anything, Dad, and I wish you wouldn’t ignore that and hide it behind your fantasies!”

“Bryan, you don’t give yourself the credit you deserve, you are sweet and considerate and honorable, and you don’t know how much more important that is!”

Bryan shakes his head in disbelief. “I was right, Dad, I _can’t_ talk to you, you always get me so upset, there’s just no point anymore!”

“Bryan, I’ve hardly said a word, _you’re_ the one getting all worked up over this. You need to stop trying to be so perfect all the time, _no one_ is perfect. You’ve got to just work on living for now. Being happy, having a little bit of fun, getting a full night’s sleep for once.”

“How can you expect me to sleep?!”

“It was a long time ago, Bryan, you need to get over it!!”

“It was only five months ago, Dad!! You obviously don’t understand what it’s like to feel as though death is the _only_ way out!!”

“You’re right, I don’t, I’ve got more common sense than that!!”

Bryan stares at his father, aghast, unable to believe that the man he loves so much, the man who brought him into existence on this earth, could take such a _cheap shot_ at Bryan’s greatest weakness. His father shakes his head slowly. “Bryan, I’m sorry, that was really inappropriate, we both know it isn’t true...”

“No. No, Dad, we know that when are emotions are really going the truth finally comes out, _that_ is what we know, Dad.” Tears pour down Bryan’s cheeks. “I just wish you had told me sooner. Maybe then we could’ve avoided this fight. I could’ve just gone away to a hospital and never be seen again and that way you wouldn’t have to lie all the time.”

“Bryan, that’s not how I feel.”

“Why’d you say it?”

“Because... I wasn’t thinking.”

“That’s for damn sure...”

“_Don’t_ swear!”

Bryan sighs softly. He pushes at his long hair and looks around the room. “I can’t, Dad.” Bryan sits at the kitchen table, sighing. “I can’t think about this right now. I only wanted to know if Kathy could come over, and we’re having another argument. It’s my fault.”

“Bryan, you can’t immediately blame yourself for everything bad that happens in this household. This is just as much my fault as yours.”

Bryan looks at his father. “It’s nice of you to try to make it better, Dad.”

“Bryan, we’re not going to get anywhere tonight.”

Bryan agrees with a soft nod.

“I don’t want you going to school like this tomorrow, and I could use a day off.”

“Dad, I need to go to school.”

“You have a decent excuse.”

“The hell I....” Bryan sighs. “It’s not a good enough excuse, Dad. Being in therapy is cool or something to these people, it’s a part of life, they work around it and their problems don’t affect them somehow. I can’t make a big deal of it.”

“Bryan, you are not one of “these people”, you are my son, you are Sioux, and you come from a different way of life. You handle things differently, and no one can chastise you for it.”

Bryan sighs deeply. His voice is soft and resigned. “Yeah.”

“Take a pill before you go to sleep. You need the rest.”

Bryan gives his father a long gaze, then nods.

November 26, 1997

Kathy walks into her room, quietly sitting on her bed, having not even changed out of her school uniform. She dials the phone and listens tensely. Her expression falls when Bryan’s Dad picks up the phone. “Is, um, Bryan there?”

“Sure, Kathleen... Are you all right? You sound upset.”

“I’m okay, but I’m a little worried about Bryan because he wasn’t in school today.”

Bryan’s father nods as he walks upstairs holding the cordless. “Oh, don’t worry, Kathy, he was just having a hard time last night and I didn’t want him going to school tired like he was.”

“Oh!” Kathy sighs deeply. “I was so worried because neither of you called to tell me he wouldn’t be in, and I thought something serious had happened.”

“No, it wasn’t anything like that. He just needed some time to rest. And we talked it out, and you’re welcome to come over for Thanksgiving dinner, but only if it’s all right with your parents...”

“It’s fine.” In her room, Kathy smiles. “Great.”

On Thanksgiving, Kathy is quietly dressing, slipping into a warm sweater and typical long skirt. There’s a sudden gentle knock at her bedroom door. “Come in.”

Bryan steps in, dressed in a pair of jeans and a quilted jacket over a sweater of his own. He smiles at her. “Hi.”

She smiles. “You’re early.”

Bryan shrugs. “I couldn’t wait to see you.”

She gazes into his deep, dark brown eyes. Bryan’s father walks up. “You ready, kids?”

They look at him, Kathy nods. Bryan’s father looks at her appreciatively. “You look very pretty....”

She blushes. “Thank you...”

He smiles at her, knowing how deeply a simple compliment can strengthen her and give her confidence. He knows, because he’s seen it in his son. “Let’s go.”

They leave with him.

In the cab of Bryan’s father’s truck, the trio is sitting, listening to the silence. It is rainy, and almost dark. The roads are very slick, but Bryan’s father is an accomplished driver, used to slick roads and negotiating them with enough confidence to put his son at ease. He drives through a deep puddle, and there’s the alarmingly loud sound as the truck’s wheels catch on the water itself. Kathy grabs onto Bryan’s thigh, digging her fingernails into his hard muscle. He gently lays his hand on hers, but with it trembling in his own fear, it’s little comfort. Bryan’s father stops at a light, then moves on, quickly. Finally the two teens ease up, and Bryan’s father watches in amusement as the streetlights play across the faces of the two young adults. As Bryan gazes into the twilight, a shape becomes clear to him. It’s a buffalo, in the middle of the street. He fears it’s an illusion, or a hallucination within his cracked psyche. He sits up straighter, digging his clawed hands into the tops of his thighs, his breathing growing heavier. Kathy looks at him and whispers, ever-so-softly. “Bryan, you look like you’re having a panic attack. Are you all right?”

He manages a quick nod, staring fixedly at the animal lumbering towards them. Finally, once they’re about twenty meters apart, Bryan scream at the top of his lungs, “STOP!!!!”. His father slams on the brakes, panicked, but trusting his son, and putting the car to a nearly immediate halt. Bryan stares ahead, then throws open his car door to stand in the street and see the creature. A dark brown UPS truck rumbles by. Bryan’s father watches as his son’s heart is broken. He flips on the truck’s four-ways and walks out into the street. Kathy watches as Bryan’s father wraps his arm around his son, whispering gently to him. Bryan’s face is tear-streaked, and he’s shaking his head slowly, trying to reason with his father that what he saw _was_ real. His father slowly leads him back to the car, and Bryan finally calms enough to slip into the passenger’s side. His father gets in and drives the remaining distance home in silence. Kathy looks lovingly at Bryan. “Are you all right?”

Bryan’s face is streaked with tears, and he’s gazing out the window. He wipes at his cheek with the back of his hand and nods softly.

Later, Bryan is asleep in his room, while Kathy and his father work on the finishing touches to their large and beautiful meal. Kathy’s being very shy while she’s alone with Bryan’s father. Normally there’s an easy father/daughter quality, but now she seems nervous, edgy. Bryan’s father watches her a moment, then sighs, deeply. “You want to know what happened?”

“I’d also like to know how you know while you’re at it.” She sits at the table, studying him, seeing the qualities Bryan inherited plain as day, most notably, the way he pushes at his hair, though it isn’t quite as long as Bryan’s.

“Bryan sees things, he gets _very_ vivid visions. The psychologist went to here said it was a part of his greater “mental illness”, but it’s our belief, as Sioux, that they’re his spirit trying to tell him something. Sometimes he tries to ignore them, but he really can’t. He gets them in school, and sometimes they’re so disturbing he comes home sick to rest, because it’s so meaningful and emotionally draining.”

“So I see.”

Bryan’s father nods. “I think, in the darkness and the rain, he saw that truck as a buffalo. Buffalo are _extremely_ important to him.”

Kathy nods softly, somberly. She still remembers the dream she had as a young child. “Me, too.”

“Why?”

She looks at him. “It’s personal.” She rethinks that approach. “I’ll tell you and Bryan later on, it’s too difficult to explain to both of you.”

He nods. Later, they’re all deeply involved in their meal. Bryan looks exhausted, but he’s listening intently to the story of Kathy’s dream. She sighs. “I don’t know _why_ it was a buffalo, but...it was. I mean, I was five years old, how do I know about animals I’ve practically never seen?”

“Because it wanted you to see it. It wanted you to know that there’s spirit protecting you. Even though you were too young to understand at the time, the spirit wanted you to know, because that was a time when you needed him.”

Bryan’s father looks closely at him. “You think?”

Bryan nods. “I know.”

Kathy sighs. “What now?”

Bryan thinks. He looks at his father and sighs softly. “She deserves a good name. She has a strong spirit, and she is more Sioux than some of the people on the Reservation. She’s special, and I think she should be told.”

“You have a name picked out?”

Bryan nods. “I do.”

“Then let’s do it after dinner. Make it a memorable Thanksgiving for her.”

Bryan smiles happily. Kathy watches them, _knowing_ they’re planning something, but unable to discern what because of their language. She’s never heard anything quite like it.

November 27, 1997

After dinner, Kathy is sitting alone in his bedroom, looking around. She lays down and buries her face in his pillow, breathing deeply of him. Slowly, from the back of her mind, comes a sound. It envelops her, pulling her deeply into the world of spirits and nature. It is the sound of heavy hoofbeats and a grunting bull. Kathy sighs deeply, lifting her head and looking around the room, looking for a place for the buffalo to enter, so that he may take her away from her pain and allow her to enter the world she and Bryan have tried so desperately to reach. She stands and walks to the door, and, as she opens it, gasps in fear. Standing before her, in dress of leather and finely woven wool, beading, and long leather fringes, is Bryan. His face is stoic and quiet, and he only moves once, reaching his hand out to her, pulling her out of the room. Shocked and mesmerized, Kathy follows without fear. Bryan leads her out to the backyard, where his father stands tending a small, tightly contained fire. Bryan stops Kathy, wrapping a thick fur around her shoulders to ward off the late November cold. He takes a small leather pouch from his father and holds it high. He speaks in Dakota to her, and it is positively the most spiritual experience of her entire life. “You have been chose by Wakan Tanka and Tatanka to be a spiritual creature. You have a special gift not common to the white man, or even to the Sioux. You must have a name fitting of such a calling. Your name is “Buffalo Dreamer”. This is your medicine. It will protect you for all days. Wear it with pride, for your spirit is one of a Sioux.” With that, Bryan slips the thong of the pouch over her head, and she settles it, moving her long blonde hair out of the way of the leather, allowing the bag to settle in a place close to her heart, where it will do the most good. She gazes at Bryan, knowing, through some mystical sixth sense, what has just taken place in this small backyard in suburban New Jersey.

June 3, 1998

On the front lawn of Kathy’s house, in front of her blooming Magnolia bush, Bryan and Kathy are standing, patiently, while their parents take modest pictures of the couple. This is the day of their junior prom, and they are both dressed in their beautiful best, Bryan in a tuxedo, complete with new beaded Moccasins, a birthday gift from his Aunt, and Kathy in a long black velvet dress. There is more of a celebration going on than meets the eye. Bryan and his father are rejoicing the fact that, a year after Silver Fox tried to steal his own life away, he has rebuilt it to be everything he ever wanted and more. Kathy and her parents are rejoicing that her first round of burn treatment therapy is a bona fide success, and it can only get better for her. Best of all, they know that while their lives may still have their difficulties, they can always survive, with a little help from each other.