Davery types the information in and hits Enter. The screen fills with all kinds of articles and photos. Stories about Mr. Charles meeting the president of the United States, with shots of them shaking hands. Several pieces about Mr. Charles and Landrush Oil and Gas being sued by tribal governments to stop them from using their land for fracking. And more pictures of protesters outside the Landrush headquarters with banners and signs that say things like NO PIPELINES ON SACRED LANDS and HONOR THE TREATY RIGHTS.
“He seems like a really bad dude,” Davery observes.
“There’s one other thing I want you to look up. Na’ashjéii Asdzáá.”
“Can you spell that?”
I do my best to spell out the name Mr. Yazzie told me in the dream. I must do a good job, because Davery hits Enter, and over six hundred entries come up.
“Spider Woman?” Davery asks.
“One of the Navajo Holy People,” I say, reading over his shoulder. “Oh, great. How am I supposed to find her?”
Davery starts to say something but is cut off by the first-period bell. Students begin to stream into the library. He hits the red X in the corner to close the browser before anyone can see what we were researching. A boy in a blue hoodie asks if we’re done with the computer, so Davery slides out of his seat and we head for the door.
“So,” Davery says nonchalantly, “if you’re googling Spider Woman, does that mean you’re coming back during lunch period for Ancestor Club?” He excitedly points to his display, and now I notice his Navajo sheep camp sits next to three others made by different kids: a Pueblo plaza scene, a Lakota tipi, and a Haudenosaunee longhouse.
“I forgot about Ancestor Club,” I admit, feeling slightly ashamed. “But in my defense, I’ve been focused on the monster.”
Davery crosses his arms, unconvinced. “You know this is important to me,” he says. “I’ve been trying to get the club together for ages. It’s only our second meeting and you’re trying to bail?”
“No offense, Davery, but it’s not normal for seventh-graders to be so obsessed with their ancestors.” I think fleetingly of what Mr. Yazzie said about young people no longer learning the stories, and I wince at my words.
“I am not obsessed. I started a club. It’s no big deal. Are you going to come or not?” He might have been saying it was no big deal, but I can tell by the tone of his voice that it’s a Really Big Deal.
“Of course I’m coming,” I say in my most chipper voice. “Wouldn’t miss it!”
He grins, looking relieved. “It’ll be great. Maya’s bringing in a corn kernel necklace her Pueblo grandmother taught her how to make.” His brow crinkles. “You should start thinking about what you’re going to contribute. You can’t just keep coming and eating the free cookies, even if you are the best friend of the club president.”
Ugh. Being Davery’s best friend and the promise of free cookies were the only reasons I went to the first meeting of the Ancestor Club. This Apache kid named Darcy brought these chocolate chip triple-chunk lumps that her mother made, and they were to die for. It was a very convincing argument to learn more about my culture.
Come to think of it, maybe it could be helpful. “Mr. Charles also said some strange things about my mom,” I tell Davery. “I think maybe she could see monsters, too.”
“That sounds like another good reason to come to Ancestor Club, Z. We could try to find out more about your family.”
Second bell rings and I let out a groan. I am so late for homeroom. “Gotta go, but I’ll be back,” I promise. “Any chance Darcy’s bringing more chocolate chip pieces of heaven?”
“Actually,” Davery says, “I brought the cookies today. They’re vegan. And organic. And sugar-free.”
“That’s not a cookie, that’s a pile of sawdust!” I mime choking and falling over until Davery rolls his eyes.
“See you at noon, Z.”
I stop pretending to gag and wave Davery good-bye. As if the monster wasn’t enough, now Davery is trying to kill me with his cookies, too.
I somehow make it through the morning’s classes, although all I can think about is Mr. Charles, my mom, and my weird Mr. Yazzie dream. Well, that should be all I can think about, but the truth is, by 10:30 a.m., my mind is focused only on food. Because in my hurry to get out the door, not only did I skip breakfast, but I forgot to grab my lunch of leftovers from the kitchen counter. By the time the bell rings at 11:45 a.m., my stomach is making rude noises and visions of ravioli are dancing in my head.
With no bag lunch and no money for school lunch, I’ll be stuck eating Davery’s super-healthy sawdust special, and that is just not going to work for me. Whatever the opposite of mouthwatering is, that’s what my mouth starts doing whenever I think of his cookies.
We are strictly prohibited from leaving school during the day except in the case of emergency. And even then, you have to be signed out by a parent. But I can’t think of a bigger emergency than getting a decent lunch, and there’s no way I’m calling my dad to have him come and sign me out. He’s probably out in the field doing a survey anyway, and cell service can get spotty in the wilds of New Mexico. Even if I could get through to his phone, he’d be too far away to come back to school and he’d be mad at me for forgetting my lunch to begin with. No, if I want to eat, I’m going to have to break a few rules.
I decide to sneak off campus. My house isn’t that far. It’s a fifteen-minute walk, which would be a five-minute run, and I can be back for Ancestor Club before Davery even notices I’m late. Well, not too late, anyway.
Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. I decide the best escape route is out the side exit and across the baseball field. It’s not a foolproof way. Sometimes a few kids hang out there—the ones who like to ditch classes—but they usually stay behind the bleachers. If so, they’ll be easy to avoid.
No such luck today. Near the backstop behind home plate, I think I spy Adrien Cuttlebush, the bully who gave Mac a black eye. He’s there with his friends, laughing about something. I skirt the field, hoping he’s too busy showing off to notice me. If it were any other time, I’d stop and give him a piece of my mind.
Once I’m free of school grounds, I break into a jog. I don’t mind running. I may not be as good at team sports as I want to be, but I’m a pretty good long-distance runner. I don’t get tired easily, and it feels good once my blood starts moving and I shake off that initial sluggishness. I check my watch: 11:52 a.m. My house comes into view in eight minutes flat.
I’m so busy thinking about my impressive running time that I almost don’t register the big black SUV parked in front of my house. As soon as I notice it, I pull up short and look around for cover. The only hiding place is my neighbor’s overgrown chamisa bush. I duck down behind it. But then I remember I’m mildly allergic to chamisa.
Great.
I can feel a sneeze coming on, but I pinch my nose to hold it back.
My dad’s car is in the driveway. Why is he home in the middle of the day?
I hear a door slam. My front door? I peek around the bush and my stomach drops. There’s Mr. Charles, on his smartphone, striding away from my house. So much for him going back to Oklahoma. Close behind, Mr. Rock is rolling a trunk on a dolly. Ms. Bird clicks the key fob and the SUV’s back pops open. Mr. Rock heaves up the trunk and pushes it into the car.