Living with the hawk (8 page)

“That native girl,” said my mother, “it mustn't be easy for her at school. By herself, I mean.”

“It isn't,” said Blake. “Some people give her a rough time because she isn't white — but man, she's got a temper, tells them where to stick it. Doesn't hold back either. Anybody else she treats . . . well, the same way everybody does.” There was a warmth in my brother's voice. For some reason, he made me think of Mr. Salter at church, whose wife had died, who liked to visit with my father, who was so lonely he always steered the conversation in the same direction so he could talk about his wife. “I'll tell you something though; nobody gives her a rough time in Mr. Helsel's class. Anybody did, he'd slap them in detention the rest of the year. He figures natives get a raw deal in this country, he sure isn't going to let that happen in his class.”

“You mean he favours her?” My mother looked thoughtful.

“Oh no. History class, everybody's got to work their butts off — her included, but you can tell he kind of likes her.”

“I don't blame him,” I said.

Blake gave me a sarcastic look. “What do you know about it? You've never even met her.” He jerked his head toward me so violently that I flinched and immediately felt foolish. “I don't think she's got much background in Canadian history, but she works hard and she catches on real quick. Sits right at the front where she won't miss a thing.” He turned to me again. “Right next to me,” he said, and I knew he was rubbing it in.

“Oh ho,” said our father, “and I thought you liked to hang out with the boys in the back row.”

“Not in history class. Fool around there, you end up dead in the water.”

“You fool around anywhere,” my father said, “your marks are going to suffer.” My father glanced at Blake, and then at me, nodding his head. He could never resist the chance to make a point he thought would be good for his sons to hear. Yes, and my marks weren't as high as Blake's. With both of us grounded though, we'd have lots of time for schoolwork.

“The thing about Anna,” my brother said, the same warmth in his voice as before, “is she sat at the back the first day she transferred in. Todd Branton leans across the aisle and whispers something to her — I don't know what it was, he can be a real jerk — and you know what? She slaps him on the mouth. At the start of class. Then she marches up to the front and takes a seat there. Now here's the good part. Mr. Helsel was right there at the front of the room, saw the whole thing. You know what he says? ‘Todd,' he says, ‘I think we'll have a little chat after school.' Cool as anything. You've got to hand it to him.”

“And to her,” said my mother. “It's nice to know she's not going to put up with things like that.”

“She won't take any crap.” My brother grinned. “That tends to make most people kind of reluctant about dishing out the crap.”

“Guff,” said my mother. “
Crap
is not a term we need to hear at the dinner table.”

After supper, when our parents had gone to the front room and we were stacking dishes in the washer and cleaning off the counter, I spoke to Blake, keeping my voice low, so it wouldn't carry to the other room. “You've got a crush on her.”

He turned toward me, a pot in his hand. I got the feeling he would have liked to bounce it off my skull. “She's aboriginal,” he said, but there was a glint in his eye, a darkness. I wasn't sure what he meant. “Besides,” he added, “I think maybe you're the one with the crush.” He pulled out the washer's bottom tray and moved a bowl so he could fit the pot into the corner. When he spoke again his voice was cold. “Say, smart guy, how'd you like practice today?”

Coming into the locker room after school that afternoon, I'd taken care to keep my distance from Jordan Phelps. When I arrived, he was sitting on the bench before his locker, pants and shoulder harness on, but he made no move to pull on a jersey. He seemed content to sit and watch Vaughn Foster hunched beside him on the bench, doing bicep curls with a barbell he kept in his locker. Jordan didn't even glance in my direction, but I got the feeling he knew I was there.

Vaughn had a sheen of sweat on his right arm before Jordan spoke. “You ever think about that hot Anna Big Sky?” he asked. “I hear she puts out for guys with lots of muscle.”

“Oh yeah, sure thing.” Vaughn grinned, with embarrassment, I guess, and somehow it made him look even more like a guy the girls would go for. He switched the weight to his left hand.

“Think about it. Those Indian girls go like minks. By the time they're twelve, they're all putting out.”

What a crock, I thought, but I didn't say a word.

The weight kept rising, falling, the pace steady, Vaughn trying to ignore him.

“You know what the experts say. A little red meat is good for the appetite.”

I got suited up as fast as I could and headed for the field.

When we'd finished warming up and doing drills, while Coach Conley was working with the kickers at the other end of the field, I noticed Jordan go up to Coach Ramsey. He was talking to Ramsey, but he was grinning at me, and I could hear every word he said.

“Why don't you put young Russell in? He never gets much chance to play in game situations.”

They put me on the corner, and, watching the team gather for the huddle, it was the same thing again, Jordan talking to Blake this time, but grinning at me. I wished I could hear what was going on because, pretty soon, Blake was grinning too.

I figured there'd be a pass in my direction, and when Jordan didn't try to fake me I thought he was going deep. He hit me while I was still back-pedaling, his shoulder in my chest, and I stumbled, felt his helmet now, under my chin, driving me backwards, and I was flat on the ground when Blake galloped by, the ball cradled at his side. He'd called a run for my side of the field.

“Hey, Russell,” said Coach Ramsey, “you're supposed to nail the runner, not wave bye-bye while he scores an easy touchdown.” He called to Blake: “Run that play again.”

This time when Jordan came for me, I tried to cut around him, but he veered with me, like a hawk swooping, striking its prey, and I was on the ground again.

They ran it six times in a row, Jordan hitting me every time, hammering me as hard as he could, using the helmet every chance he got, though once I managed to dodge around him, and here was Vaughn Foster blocking too, ramming me aside just as Blake darted by. It was kind of weird, but when Jordan trotted back for the next play, he never looked at me, but I heard him say, “You know something, Russell? You're a tough little sucker.” Then he paused beside me. “Your brother's being a jerk. I'll have him call something else.”

He wasn't the only one with something to say to Blake. I hadn't noticed it before, but Coach Conley had left the kickers to their work and was standing on the sidelines beside Coach Ramsey, drawing one foot back and forth in the chalk at the fifty-yard line. He didn't seem interested in watching the action. Suddenly, he stepped onto the playing field, cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “You've got that play down just fine, Blake. Time to work on another one.” Then he was walking toward me.

“You want to sit out a couple plays?” he asked. I couldn't tell if he admired my effort or felt sorry for me.

“No, no,” I said, “I'm fine.” But my legs were weak, I was shaking like a kid before his first communion.

It was the very next day that I ran into Anna Big Sky at school. I guess I'd have to admit that “ran into her” isn't the most accurate term for how we met. My brother had said she was in his history class, and I knew he took history in period four. When the bell rang to start the five minute break, I took off, running for the history room, hoping to catch her before she disappeared into the jumble of kids that always jammed the halls between classes. At first I thought I'd missed her — the doorway was empty — but then she came striding from the room, a backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Excuse me,” I said. Already I felt like such a kid. “You're Anna Big Sky, aren't you?” That was obvious. I was going to have her convinced I was a complete idiot. Yeah, put me near a girl I liked and you might as well jam my brain through a garburator.

“So?” She stopped beside me. She was an inch or two taller than I thought she'd be, uh-huh, taller than me.

“I just wanted you to know I saw you yesterday — at noon with Jordan Phelps.” Her lips were drawn together, a thin, tight line, her expression stern. “He's a great athlete, you know.” Why was I telling her that? I rushed on. “But he's a total jerk. He had it coming.” Her lips relaxed a bit, but she didn't smile.

“And who are you?”

“Blair Russell.” I was surprised how good it felt just to think that now she'd know my name.

“You must be Blake's little brother.”

I stretched up as tall as I could, my heels lifting off the floor maybe half an inch. “Yeah, but I don't boast about it.”

She glanced around as if checking for someone, then leaned toward me before she spoke. “I remember you. The guy with just his gotch in the gym. Nothing else but duct tape and bare skin — mm, and lots of muscles.”

She smiled then, white teeth shining between red lips — for just a second I thought she meant it, but that was crazy, she was teasing me. Still her dark eyes were shining too. I think I was in love with her already, but she was moving down the hall.

“I've got a class,” she said, reaching behind her with her right hand, groping for the strap on her pack, her breast thrusting forward as she plunged her arm beneath the strap and pulled the pack around. I couldn't help myself; I thought, man, she does have big breasts.

She was striding away from me, and I had to run to catch her. I hoped I wasn't blushing.

“Something else,” I said. “Yesterday at noon, I thought you were terrific.”

She stopped so suddenly I almost went past her, but I got myself stopped beside her.

“You're okay, Blair.” She gazed right at me, her eyes as warm as they were dark. I was blushing now for sure. “Got to hurry. I'll see you around.”

She walked down the hall towards her next class, and I watched her all the way, saw her open the glass door at the end of the hall, her good, strong arm heaving it open, saw her go up the stairs, her feet dancing on every step till even they had disappeared from sight.

My name, I thought, it sounded different when she said it, no, not different, special.

But I was late for class.

My father was reading
The Anglican Journal
when I got home from school that day. He dropped the paper on his lap, smiled at me, asked me how my day had been, but his eyes kept dropping to the open paper, and I knew he was in the middle of an article he wanted to finish. That was all right. I wanted my brother in the room when I talked about my day.

I grabbed the latest
Maclean's
from beside the globe on the coffee table and flopped on the couch, idly turning pages until Blake came downstairs. He went to the front door, collected
The Leader-Post
from the mailbox and came back into the room, slapping my legs with the folded paper.

“Shove over,” he said.

I sat up, gave him half the couch, waited till he found the sports section.

“Coach say anything when I was late for practice?”

“Didn't notice.”

I could see he was into a piece about the Riders, the columnist, Rob Vanstone, trying to stir up a quarterback controversy.

“Maybe I got lucky, and he didn't notice either.”

“Probably not.”

This wasn't working out the way I'd planned. “Mrs. Young was on my case, kept me after class.”

“Mmm.” He didn't care.

I heard a rustle of paper, looked across the room at my father, all his attention directed my way. “Tell me: why would she be ‘on your case', as you put it?”