And just like that, all the fight goes out of me. I feel like a worm. Worse—the end of a worm. Worm butt, that’s me. I feel my stomach sink, and tears rush to my eyes.
My father gives me one last look, a look of pure shame, before he closes my bedroom door right in my face. I stand there for a minute, staring at the back of the door. I can hear Dad making more apologies to Mr. Charles and that slimeball laughing it off and asking if I cause trouble in school. Unfortunately, I also hear Mac helpfully volunteering that I once had to attend a Saturday anger management class at my old school for punching Elora Huffstratter in the nose. But Mac neglects to mention that Elora Huffstratter, a white girl, said my mom left us because I was a dirty Indian. Then she made war-whooping noises like something out of a bad Western. So, as far as I’m concerned, Elora totally had it coming. I would do it again in a heartbeat, even if it meant another Saturday anger management class.
Mac has totally bought into Mr. Charles’s act. My little brother has no idea that we’re both in danger, and I can’t warn him without my phone.
More voices and footsteps, and they’re all leaving. I hear the click of the front door as it closes. I rush to my window to watch everyone pile into the big black Escalade and drive away. Everyone except Ms. Bird, who turns and heads back to the house. I open my door a crack to see her plop down on the living room couch and pick a magazine off the coffee table. Looks like she’s getting left behind to make sure I don’t escape.
And just like that, my day of average humiliation becomes a day of spectacular humiliation.
No family, no phone, and everyone believes a monster’s word over mine.
I flop on my bed and maybe, just a little, because nobody’s here to see it, I cry.
No matter what I do, sleep won’t come. I toss and turn and flip and flop, utterly miserable. I try to get more comfortable, fluffing my pillows and smoothing my blankets until they’re all lined up with the sheets the way I like them, but nothing works. Still wide-awake. Because, honestly, how could I sleep after what Mr. Charles said to me?
I replay the conversation in my head, trying to make sense of it. According to him, my dad is totally normal but my mom is a former enemy, because she’s directly related to Changing Woman’s son, whoever that was. And that makes me a threat. But how can I be a threat? I did land a pretty spectacular head butt to his stomach, but he wanted to kill me even before that.
Maybe I should run away. But I can’t leave Mac behind. Charles wants him for something. What did he mean by He will come in quite handy…? My empty stomach flops at the thought of Mac being brainwashed—or worse—by a monster at this very moment.
But if Dad doesn’t believe me, what am I supposed I do? His boss can lie all he wants, but when I told the truth, I got punished.
“I do not deserve this,” I say aloud.
“There are very few things we do deserve,” says a voice from the top of my bookshelf. It sounds croaky, a bit like that of an old man who’s smoked too many cigars.
I sit straight up, blinking furiously.
“Haven’t you ever heard that saying,” the voice continues, ‘Life is a box of chocolates?’ Oh dear, no, that’s not it. ‘Life is a bed of roses?’ No, no…What is the blasted saying? I know: ‘Life’s not fair’!”
Am I hallucinating? Did the basketball to the face knock something loose?
“Did…did someone speak?” I ask hesitantly.
“Why, of course someone is speaking. Me!”
I slide off the bed and make my way warily toward the source of the voice. It’s coming from the top shelf of my bookcase, where I keep my favorite stuffed animals. I know I’m a little old for them, but some have been my friends for so long, I just couldn’t bear to give them away when Dad came around with the donation box right before Christmas.
“Who’s there?” I scan the shelf for a hidden speaker. Maybe Mr. Charles bugged my room. But the voice sounds nothing like his, and I don’t see anything suspicious.…“Hello?” I ask cautiously.
“Yá’át’ééh!” someone responds in Navajo.
I reach up and quickly part the animals, pushing aside a purple bear and a pink narwhal named Cupcake, to find the owner of the voice.
In the middle of the shelf sits my stuffed horned toad, Mr. Yazzie. But Mr. Yazzie is no longer a toy. He’s a very real, very alive lizard—spiky head, beady black eyes, and all. And I’m pretty sure he’s smiling at me.
“Are you—” I whisper in awe.
“A na’asho’ii dich’izhii?”
“Uh…I was going to ask if you were a talking horned toad.”
The little guy frowns. “Na’asho’ii dich’izhii means horned toad, and I am most certainly talking, so I believe the answer to your question is yes.”
“Is this for real? I mean, how did you get here? Where did you come from?”
“Why, from you, Nizhoni. You picked me out at the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture gift shop. Have you forgotten?” He looks crestfallen.
“Not at all!” I rush to reassure him. “I just remember you being a bit different.”
“Oh, yes. You mean”—he pokes his side with a little claw—“not alive.”
I nod. While others might scream or faint when a formerly stuffed horned toad speaks to them, I’ve been raised to take seemingly supernatural things in stride. Up to now, talking animals hadn’t been a part of my everyday life, but my shimásání told me that there’s more to the world than we humans can see, and it’s best to keep an open mind. So that’s what I’m doing—keeping an open mind. A slightly freaked-out open mind.
“Well, quite right,” Mr. Yazzie says. “Of course. Thank you, by the way, for choosing me. It gets a bit boring, living in a museum. I mean, it’s not that I don’t enjoy a seeing a new exhibit every once in a while, but honestly, even lizards like a bit of adventure. And let’s face it—living things don’t belong in a museum.”
A couple of years ago, Dad dragged Mac and me to the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture in Santa Fe for a lecture on contemporary Navajo jewelry. The lecture was pretty good, but Mac wouldn’t stop fidgeting, so Dad had sent us out to browse in the gift shop. He even gave us some spending money. Mac went straight for the art books, of course, and I loved looking at all the bright scarves and silver jewelry, but what really caught my attention was the shelf of stuffed toys based on animals native to the Southwest. There had been a lot of great choices, but the palm-size horned toad was my favorite. He had a sand-colored hide and a wide, flat body, with a mane of small horns that flared around his face like a fierce cross between a lion and a dragon. The tag attached to his short tail said that horned toads were considered a blessing and symbol of protection by traditional Navajos. If you caught one, the little grandfather (as we sometimes call horned toads) might help you in the future. Best of all, he was soft and fluffy but tough and prickly at the same time, kind of how I saw myself. We were kindred spirits.
But that was before he started talking to me.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” I say, “but how long have you been…alive?”