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Chapter 3

Fred

“I TALKED TO a falcon sitting on top of a paloverde tree this morning.”

“Where?” I asked while Dad tinkered underneath the van. I sat on a towel in the dirt beside him, handing him tools. It was Sunday, but that didn’t mean Dad got a day off. The van leaked again, bluish-black oil as gooey as tree sap. That couldn’t be good.

“The one out by the road. The same one you and Trevor used to climb when you were kids. Remember?” He paused to bang something against the van’s metal frame. “Hand me the silver wrench, will you?”

“Yeah, I remember,” I said, handing him a tool that held more rust than silver. I squinted against the morning sun toward the tree, which stood not far from the road that ran alongside our trailer. Trevor had carved our initials into one thick green branch, but the tree had grown so high that I could barely see the letters anymore. “How’d you know it was a falcon? Maybe it was just a crow,” I said as if that would make the sighting less significant.

Dad chuckled. “I think I know a falcon when I see one, Fred. Aren’t many out here, you know.”

I lowered my chin to my knees, considering this. A falcon could mean something. A falcon could be another sign. My life was full of them lately. It was one thing to see a falcon; it was quite another to understand its meaning. “What’d it look like?” I asked, still a little doubtful. The Rez was covered with birds—mourning doves, quail, crows as chubby as cats, even hawks and the occasional horned owl. But falcons? I hadn’t spotted too many, at least not around the trailer.

Dad yanked on the frame as he spoke, and it sounded like he was talking through gritted teeth. “Pretty thing. White breast, notched beak, gold-and-brown feathers that look like a checkerboard.” He stopped to suck back a breath before giving the van another whack. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”

“How’d you know it was a she?”

He chuckled again. “Thought I heard some of her chicks chirping nearby.”

“Well, what’d she tell you? Did she happen to mention when I’m going to get a new pair of golf shoes?” I said glumly. After last night’s restaurant fiasco, I figured that I was permanently banned from any kitchen within a hundred miles. I wouldn’t be asked back, not unless the chef got desperate. And that meant an end to my source of cash. The Rez wasn’t exactly brimming with teen job opportunities.

It was just that I was nervous about Monday’s practice, my very first with the team, especially after what Trevor had said about needing to watch my back. I’d never had that worry before. Usually it was the complete opposite. Was life easier when nobody noticed you?

Like an idiot, I’d dropped things all night—silverware, napkins, bread, rolls—and then finally the dessert right into the boy’s lap. That had been the last straw, though it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it. I’d recognized Ryan Berenger from English class at school, although I’d bet my parents’ trailer that he hadn’t recognized me, not that he would. Boys like Ryan and girls like me moved in different circles—well, I was pretty sure he had a circle; I simply moved.

I couldn’t understand why he’d sat and glared at everybody all night, even his own family. He’d acted as though he would have preferred to jump through one of the restaurant windows than enjoy a dinner with them. And his parents seemed so lovely, so perfect. They’d looked like the perfect family, out enjoying a perfect dinner on a perfectly good Saturday night. How nice would it be to have your parents treat you to a fancy restaurant with a special birthday cake and everything? Where’s the misery in that? Clearly Ryan Berenger was deranged.

Dad slid out from underneath the van on a piece of dusty cardboard. “No, the falcon didn’t say anything about shoes.” He sat up and brushed his hands together as if he was trying to wipe away my sarcasm. His hands were coated with dirt and grease that never seemed to wash away, no matter how much he scrubbed. “The falcon told me about something better than a pair of new golf shoes.”

I could manage only a half grin. “Better?” Dad always told me old stories and Indian legends when he thought I needed a bit of cheering up. After last night, he’d be right.

But I needed more than cheering up—I needed a decent pair of leather golf shoes, with real cleats, that didn’t pinch my toes when I walked. Was that asking the ancestors for too much?

“The falcon is a clear sign of new beginnings and adventure, but you already know that, don’t you?”

I nodded, the smirk disappearing from my face.

“With a flutter from her wings on the tree’s tallest branch, she asked me to remind you that yours is just getting started,” he said without a trace of humor in his voice. “The falcon said, ‘Tell the child born to the mother of Akimel O’odham and father of the Pee-Posh that her adventure has just begun. She should not fear the journey.’” He stood, dusted off the front of his overalls with a few pats and then walked to the driver’s door of the van.

I watched him, saying nothing, because what could I say? I would never doubt my father or the wisdom of the animal spirits. Dad had taught me all about them, from the mole to coyotes to bobcats, just like his father and his grandfather before him. Animal spirits were as much a part of our lives as eating and breathing. Only a fool wouldn’t listen. And a bigger fool would mock them.

I stood and brushed the dirt off my shorts while Dad pulled open the glove box in the van and rummaged inside. With his hand behind his back, he walked to where I stood in front of the van. Then he held out a thin package as long as an envelope wrapped in brown paper. “For you. From your mom and me.”

“Mom?” My eyes widened.

“Well, yes. And no. She doesn’t know I bought it, of course.”

My smile returned. At first all I could do was stare blankly at the package, too startled to open it. It wasn’t every day I got a present, especially when it wasn’t my birthday.

“Open it, Fred. Go on, now. It’s for you.”

Finally, I accepted the gift from Dad. I took my time tearing off the wrapping paper and laid it on the hood. Openmouthed, I stared as a piece of leather as luscious as butter fell into my hand. The leather was white with pale pink accents around a mother-of-pearl button.

“It’s not a pair of golf shoes, not yet. But you needed a new golf glove, too.” Dad stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his overalls so that only his thumbs showed.

Speechless, I tried on my new glove. It slipped easily over my hand. I snapped the button at the wrist and then stretched my fingers and clenched my fist, testing the leather.

“Golf pro at the clubhouse said that one’s the best. Size small, too, just what you needed. Now you’ll be able to grip your clubs a whole lot better,” he added when I didn’t say anything. His eyes narrowed. “Do you like it?”

I swallowed back a lump growing in the back of my throat. “Like it? It’s perfect,” I whispered. Then I wrapped my arms around Dad, not saying another word. One more syllable and I would have started blubbering, and crying made Dad all fidgety, like he didn’t know what to say.

Dad patted my back when I didn’t release him right away. “Now, now, Fred. It’s just a glove,” he said in my ear.

Just a glove.

I sniffed back a tear and then pulled away reluctantly, still unable to speak.

“New beginnings, Fred. Greet them with your eyes wide open. Don’t forget that. That’s what that old mother falcon told me this morning.” Dad’s forefinger pointed to the cloudless sky, as if that golden-brown bird circled somewhere above us, eavesdropping.

“I won’t,” I said finally, unable to look away from my new glove. Suddenly a new pair of golf shoes seemed unimportant, at least for today.

Tomorrow I could think differently.

* * *

The next morning, Dad dropped me and my golf bag off in front of Lone Butte High School, along with Sam Tracy and Peter Begay, who’d ridden in the backseat. Pete’s dad had overslept and couldn’t get them to school in time, and they’d been thinking about ditching until we saw them hanging out at the gas station by the freeway. Dad had insisted they hop in.

“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Oday,” Sam said, turning to me.

“Next time, call if you need one,” Dad said. “It’s no trouble.”

Sam nodded. “Need help with your bag, Fred?”

“No. I can manage. Thanks anyway.”

Sam hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder, looking doubtfully at my golf bag lying in the back of the van. “See you around.”

“Later,” I said as I walked around to the back door and retrieved it.

Dad pulled away, leaving me alone at the curb. And I felt alone. Really alone. Like only-person-in-the-universe alone. I realized, too late, that maybe I’d been too quick to refuse Sam’s offer.

The air had grown so thick that I wondered if the sun had swallowed all of the oxygen. My plaid bag made being inconspicuous impossible. It might have been my anxious imagination, but I felt tracked by a thousand pairs of beady eyes in the front of the school. They peered at me from everywhere, even the windows.

Head lowered, I struggled to keep from hyperventilating as I carved a path through the crowd toward the rear gymnasium door. The back door was supposed to take me to the coaches’ offices, exactly as Coach Lannon had instructed. But to get there, I had to trudge down a narrow sidewalk lined with students all vying for spots in the courtyard where the popular kids hung out. Up ahead, I saw Sam’s and Pete’s dark heads, but they were too far away for me to catch up—not unless I started running with my golf bag thumping against my back. Why not present me with the Biggest Dork Award and get it over with?

* * *

It felt like the first fifteen minutes of freshman year all over again, only worse. Despite my best efforts, I felt my cheeks burn all the way down to my neck.

“Plaid much?” someone murmured while another girl giggled beside her. With wide eyes, they looked me up and down like I was sale merchandise.

I didn’t stop to argue. What was the point? The bag was hideous.

So instead I kept my head down, walked faster and focused on the bottom of my shoes as they slapped against the pavement.

One, two, three... I counted each step as I absently twisted my hair into a roll to give my free hand something useful to do, all the while ignoring more giggling and hushed voices. It seemed forever before I reached the end of the courtyard and another narrow sidewalk that took me to the rear gymnasium door.

The gray metal door had a sign that said No Admittance, but I pulled on the handle anyway.

It didn’t budge.

I moaned. Then I tried again.

Locked.

I knocked hard till it made a hollow sound.

No answer.

My stomach sank. Maybe Trevor was right. Maybe this was a mistake.

But I’d just die if I had to walk all the way to the front of the school again, and what about my bag? It wouldn’t fit inside my locker, and forget about calling Dad. He’d never leave work, not unless I was being rushed to the hospital or something.

I sucked back another breath, feeling stupid for banging on a locked door, but I knocked again anyway. This time with a balled fist.

Miraculously, the door opened and my breathing resumed.

“Fred.” Coach Lannon smiled before opening the heavy door as wide as it would go. “So glad you didn’t change your mind.”

I nodded and tried to match his enthusiasm, but smiling only made my cheeks feel like they would crack. I slipped through the door and waited for Coach Lannon to lead the way down the bright hallway. I’d never seen this part of the school before. It was one colorless office door after another separated by gray-speckled linoleum tiles and pale yellow walls. The hallway smelled like the girls’ locker room, musty and thick, almost as heavy as the air outside.

Coach Lannon stopped at the second door on the right side of a wide hallway. “You can leave your bag in my office during the week,” he said. “Some of the other boys have already been by to drop off theirs.”

My back stiffened.

Although I was anxious to get started, I wasn’t ready to meet my new teammates. I’d already lost sleep imagining what they’d think about me, the lone girl on the team. Would it be too weird?

“And don’t worry. Your bag is always safe in here.”

An anxious chuckle rumbled inside my chest as the coach took my bag. Someone steal my plaid bag and rusty clubs? Not likely.

I quickly scanned his office. Besides his desk and the other golf bags stacked against the wall, there was barely any room to stand. His desk was littered with folders, but I did notice a framed photo—a woman and three teenage girls, all smiling, probably around my age. I smiled inside. At least Coach had been honest about having daughters.

“Practice starts at 3:30,” he said as he led me outside his office.

Like I could forget.

I nodded, tried to smile again and then lowered my head before walking down the long, musty hallway that I hoped would lead me to the classrooms and oxygen.

Coach Lannon called after me. “One more thing...”

I stopped and turned, my shoes squeaking on the linoleum. I’d almost made it to the end of the hallway.

A grin spread across his face. “Welcome to the team,” he said, just as two boys, one tall and one short, with dark golf bags threaded over their shoulders, barreled down the hallway. Their bags brushed my shoulders as they passed. They exchanged confused looks.

Instinctively, my gaze returned to the dotted specs on the linoleum floor.

It was going to be a very long day.