Running Barefoot (6 page)

“Mr. Bracken is coming!” A frantic shout went up across the field. Mr. Bracken was the principal of the high school and was a pretty genial and likeable sort, but no one doubted that anyone found fighting would be expelled upon discovery. The kids scattered immediately, not wanting to be questioned or reprimanded, and descended upon the bus stop in droves. The bus lumbered to a stop and a hasty lined formed, kids shoving and jostling for position. I was not aggressive enough to maintain my place in the line, and fell back to wait until the writhing mass thinned.

Tara came running towards me, backpack bobbing, hands hanging onto her thick shoulder straps to keep it in place.

“Oh my gosh!” Tara gushed when she was still several feet away. “That indian kid was fighting three different boys. Joby Jenkins and a couple of his friends were calling him half-breed and he went crazy. Joby’s friends tried to hold his arms but he just let loose, swinging at all of them. One guy has a chipped tooth and Joby has a bloody nose. The Indian kid must have caught his hand on the kid’s tooth because his hand was all bloody!”

Tara was using too many pronouns, so I wasn’t sure which injury belonged to whom, and which guy had done most of the swinging, but my stomach lurched at the mention of “the Indian kid.” That could only be Samuel.

“Where are they now?” My eyes scanned the area where the circle around the fighters had formed, not seeing Samuel, Joby, or Mr. Bracken, for that matter.

“When someone yelled that the principal was coming, Joby and his friends took off towards the junior high. The indian kid picked up his backpack and headed this way with everybody that was running towards the bus. I don’t know where he went…” She looked around, jumping up and down to gain enough height to see over the swarm of kids. “I don’t know if Mr. Bracken was actually even coming - somebody might have yelled that just to stop the fight.”

“So you never saw Mr. Bracken?” I hoped Samuel wouldn’t end up expelled. Word usually made its way around, news of the fight would fill the halls tomorrow, but maybe if he made it home without being caught, the principal might not get wind of it until after the fact, making expulsion less likely.

The bus had quickly inhaled her anxious passengers, and Tara and I climbed up the steep steps, Tara chattering all the way.

“There was so much blood! The indian kid -”

“Samuel! His name is Samuel,” I interrupted her.

“Whatever!” Tara gestured impatiently, obviously not caring what his name was.

When I climbed to the highest stair and was able to see down the aisle, my eyes rushed to my seat. Samuel was there, eyes glued out the window, probably watching to see if he’d make it home free. Tara continued talking, but I was no longer listening. I wondered how he’d gotten past the bus driver without detection. I teetered down the aisle and swung in next to Samuel, my heavy pack sliding to the floor.

“Are you okay?” I asked breathlessly. Samuel had pulled his arm out of the sleeve of his t-shirt, and buttoned his coat over his t-shirt. I could see blood on his pants, and as I tried to get a good look at his face, I realized his lip was swollen and split as well.

“I’m fine,” Samuel said tersely, keeping his face averted.

“If you don’t stop the bleeding you’re going to give yourself away,” I insisted.

Samuel sighed in exasperation and, with one hand, unbuttoned his jean jacket. He’d wrapped his hand in the bottom of his t-shirt, baring his toned brown stomach. The light blue cotton was completely soaked through with blood.

“Oh my gosh!” I sounded like Tara, but I couldn’t help it. He must have laid his knuckles open. “I’ll be right back!” I headed back up the aisle. The bus was now in motion and Mr. Walker barked at me to sit down. I ignored him, walking purposefully, holding onto the seats to stay upright on the swaying bus.

“Mr. Walker, the kid sitting next to me has a bloody nose. Do you have a first aid kit or some paper towels?”

“Why is his nose bleeding?” Mr. Walker looked at me suspiciously.

“I don’t know - it just started bleeding,” I said nonchalantly, and felt ridiculously obvious. I was a pretty pathetic liar. Acting was definitely not in my future.

“Harrumph,” Mr. Walker grumbled, pointing to where a small tin box with a red cross emblazoned across the front was velcroed above the big front windows.

I unstrapped the box and made my way back to Samuel. He’d put the jacket back up over his hand, hiding the bloody state of his t-shirt from the nosy kids around him. All it would take was one kid seeing the blood, shouting out to Mr. Walker, and Samuel would be ousted.

I slid down next to him, pulling the little first aid kit open and rifling through the contents. There were several good sized band aids and antibacterial wipes, as well as some gauze and some white surgical tape. I pulled my backpack up onto the seat behind me, scooting forward until I was barely sitting on the seat. I turned sideways and effectively blocked Samuel from view. I stacked his backpack on top of mine and made a little wall that would be useless if someone in front of us or behind us stood up and looked over the seat. But it was the best I could do.

“Let me see your hand,” I insisted softly.

Samuel unwound his right hand from the bloody t-shirt and held it out to me. Fresh blood immediately rose from the deep slice across his knuckles and spilled onto his fingers. I slapped a thick white gauze pad over it, pushing it down into the cut to stop the flow.

“Hold that!” I ordered him, grabbing some little butterfly sutures that I’d seen Johnny use when he’d split the bridge of his nose during football practice. I pulled the tabs off and at my command, Samuel lifted the gauze pad and I swooped in, pulling the side of the gash together with the butterfly band aid. I put another one on, and the blood slowed to an ooze at the slit. I put the gauze pad over the top and again asked Samuel to hold it there.

“What happened?” I questioned lightly as I wrapped some stretchy gauze around the pad.

“Joby Jenkins needed a fist in his face,” Samuel replied shortly.

“Why?” My eyes flickered up to his.

“I got tired of his half-breed jokes.” Samuel’s well-shaped mouth was drawn into a tight hard line. “What is it with some people?”

I yanked off a piece of surgical tape with my teeth and proceeded to secure the gauze. I wasn’t very good at this, but at least he wouldn’t bleed all over himself.

“What do you mean?”

“Some people just can’t keep their mouths shut. Joby is constantly shooting his mouth off.” Samuel watched as I cleaned the blood off the fingers poking out from my makeshift mound of gauze and tape.

I completely agreed with him about Joby. “Joby picks on whomever he perceives as weak,” I replied, absentmindedly wiping.

“If he thinks I’m so weak, why did he come at me with two other guys?” Samuel retorted angrily, misunderstanding my words. “Why didn’t he fight me one on one?”

“I didn’t mean physically weak,” I protested. “You’re different, so you’re an easy target. Other kids don’t know you, so it’s easier for him to talk trash and turn them on you. He was embarrassed when you pushed him off the seat. I think he’s just been bidding his time, don’t you?”

“Probably. I broke his nose. I’m going to be expelled. It’ll be just like the reservation school. I got the half-breed comments there too, only at the reservation I was too white.” His voice was bitter, his mouth drawn down at the corners.

“Didn’t you grow up with all the kids you went to school with on the reservation?”

He dipped his head in a slight nod.

“So what was the big deal with being half white…I mean, was your skin color really an issue after all that time?”

“For most kids it wasn’t,” he admitted then, somewhat begrudgingly. “I had friends, a girlfriend.” His eyes shifted to me briefly.

“I think most people aren’t really so biased if you let them get to know you,” I volunteered.

“It’s not my job to make sure people know me or like me,” Samuel said proudly.

“Well that’s naïve,” I huffed.

Samuel’s eyes flashed and he clenched his jaw.

“I’m not exactly what you would call outgoing,” I continued. “I kind of prefer being by myself, but I can’t expect anyone to want to get to know me if I purposely keep myself separated.” I paused as his face remained stony. “Mrs. Grimaldi says you can’t build walls and then be mad when no one wants to climb over them.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Samuel sneered as his eyes flew over my blond hair and then met my blue eyes with a black glower.

“Oh, please Samuel!” I huffed. “I may not have brown skin, but I am plenty peculiar,” I rebutted. “And don’t pretend you haven’t noticed it.”

Samuel shook his head in disgust and pulled his hand from mine. I was finished anyway, and I gathered the bloody towlettes and wrapped them in several paper towels.

“How many other kids have you talked to since you came here?” I asked Samuel quietly, “besides me?”

Samuel didn’t respond, and I didn’t really expect him to.

“People can be jerks - Joby is a creep, and he probably had that broken nose coming to him,” I soothed, “But don’t just assume that people don’t like you because you look different. I, for one, like the way you look.”

I blushed furiously and grabbed the first aid box and escaped to the front of the bus to return it to the velcro straps, throwing the bloody wipes away while I was at it.

“Everything under control?” Mr. Walker questioned me as I stuck the box back where it belonged.

“Huh?”

“The bloody nose?” Mr. Walker prodded.

“Oh, yeah. All done - it stopped,” I stammered.

Samuel had his arm back in his sleeve when I returned, his jacket buttoned back up to cover the stained shirt underneath. He had
Wuthering Heights
opened on his lap. I sat down and he began reading without preamble. I pulled out the big green dictionary and that was the end of our discussion, for the time being.

“What kind of name is Heathcliffe anyway?” Samuel grumbled, as we labored through another day of reading. We had less than five pages left, and it had been tough.

“I think his name is one of the nicest things about him,” I said sincerely. “At least it isn’t something boring like Ed or Harry. It’s kind of a romantic name.”

“But that’s his only name…no last name, no middle name - just Heathcliffe. Like Madonna or Cher.”

I was a little surprised that Samuel knew who Madonna and Cher were. It didn’t seem like his type of music, though I had no idea what his type was.

“I think the fact that he didn’t have a surname was the author’s way to signify that he really didn’t belong to anyone…he was alone in the world,” I mused thoughtfully. “Everybody had these full English names, and Heathcliffe was a gypsy without roots, without family, without even a name of his own.”

“Yeah, maybe...” Samuel nodded his head in agreement. “Names are a big deal to the Navajo. Every Navajo child is given a secret Navajo name when they are born. It is known only by the child, the family, and God. You don’t share it with anyone else.”

“Really?” I asked in awe. “So what’s yours?”

He looked at me with exasperation. “You. Don’t. Share. It. With. Anyone. Else,” he said slowly.

I blushed and looked down at the book. “Why?”

“My grandma says if you do your legs will turn hard…but I think it’s more a tie that binds the people together, keeps tradition alive, that kind of thing. My mom told me it’s sacred.”

“Wow. I wish I had a secret name. I’ve never really liked Josie Jo very much. It’s kind of silly and babyish,” I said wistfully.

“What name would you rather have?” Samuel actually looked interested in my response.

“Well...my mom really wanted us to all have ‘J’ names. I guess it was her way of binding us together, kind of like your family. So maybe I could just pretend it’s Josephine and everyone can still call me Josie for short. Josephine is so much more dramatic and ladylike.”

“All right. From now on, I will refer to you as Lady Josephine,” Samuel said with the faintest of smiles.

“No.... how about I just make it my secret Navajo name and only you and I will know it,” I said, conspiratorially.

“You are the furthest thing from a Navajo ...” Samuel scoffed.

“Well, what if a beautiful Navajo woman had adopted me when I was just a baby? Would she have given me a Navajo name? Even if I had blond hair and blue eyes?”

Samuel stared at me for a minute, frowning. “I really don’t know,” he confessed. “I’ve never known a Navajo who adopted a white baby. I’m the closest thing most Navajo get to a white baby.” Samuel’s countenance darkened. “Luckily, every Navajo child that is born belongs to his mother’s clan, so I am a Navajo, no matter who my father was.”

“Did you ever know your father?” I asked quietly, not liking that I might make him angry, but not fearing it either.

“I was six years old when he died. I remember things about him. He called me Sam Sam, and he was tall and kind of quiet. I remember my life before he died and then after he died when we went to the Indian Reservation. I hadn’t lived on the reservation before. It was very different than the little apartment we’d been living in. I spoke Navajo because my mother had spoken it to me exclusively. I spoke English too, which made school easier when I started at the school on the reservation. My mother never talked much about my father after he died.”