My Name Is Not Easy - By Debby Dahl Edwardson Page 0,20
pretty much everything’s a sin,” Junior said.
Father Flanagan sailed off down the hall with Sonny and Amiq trailing behind him like two fi sh on a stringer, trapped in the wake of a big black boat.
Father Mullen’s offi
ce was dim and musty smelling, and Father Mullen’s eyes were just plain crazy. Sonny couldn’t really say what it was that made them crazy, but whatever it was, it was right there, just under the surface, like a big fi sh in dark water.
Amiq saw it, too, Sonny could tell. You’d have to be blind not to.
Sonny saw, as well, the worn two-by-four in the corner of the room, which he was trying not to look at. He and Amiq stood together. Waiting.
White people don’t know how to be comfortable with silence the way Indians do. Sonny knew this. Without even thinking about it, he understood the diff erence. When Indians don’t talk, it’s because they don’t need to, because things are already understood, and everybody knows it. When a white 61
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guy like Father Mullen doesn’t talk, it means something else altogether. Father Mullen’s silence stalked them from the edge of the room like a shadowy animal.
“Th
e fi ght’s in your blood, isn’t it?” he said fi nally.
His voice made Sonny squirm. He saw Amiq twitch.
“Do you understand that you can be expelled for this sort of behavior?”
“Yes, Father,” Sonny said as fast as he could.
“Yes, Father,” Amiq echoed.
“Mr. George”—Sonny’s skin crawled at the way he said his name. In Father’s mouth the word Mr. sounded small and ugly—“do you suppose your mother saved up to send you here just so you could learn to scuffl e like a ruffi
an with your
fellow students?”
“No, Father.”
“And Mr. Amundson”—he turned to Amiq—“do you suppose those scientists who sponsored your education did so for the purpose of training you in the science of cat fi ghting?” He spat out the word cat so hard, they could feel its claws.
Sonny glanced sideways at Amiq, but Amiq was looking down at his feet. Sonny looked down, too. He didn’t know how Mr. Amundson was feeling, but he, Sonny Boy George, was mad about the way Father Mullen had dragged his mom into the room. He stared at his feet hard, remembering how his mom had stayed up late at night threading those tiny beads by the smoky light of the kerosene lamp, making slippers. He studied his shoes, his brand-new shoes, thinking about all the 62
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beadwork his mom had to make in order to pay for those shoes. In order to get him here.
Th
e air in Father Mullen’s offi
ce was close and stale.
“I said, ‘the fi ght’s in your blood, isn’t it?’” Father hissed.
“Yes, Father . . . I mean no, Father,” Sonny mumbled.
“No, Father,” Amiq added.
“‘Yes, Father. No, Father.’ You boys seem to be suff ering from some confusion.” His voice was tight and terrifying. Like a gun about to fi re.
“Yes, Father, No Father.” Th
ey were both saying it now, no
longer sure about who was saying what.
“Confusion,” Father snapped, “is the mark of the Devil.” His eyes were shining with a strange light, and they both backed away, instinctively, both of them suddenly aware of that two-by-four waiting in the corner behind them.
“And let me tell you something, gentlemen. In this school there’s only one kind of fi ghting allowed.” Father’s voice was ominously low, but Sonny looked up, surprised. Fighting allowed?
“Boxing,” Father said, his voice like a fast punch. “Do you know what that is?”
Sonny nodded. Amiq raised his eyebrows.
“You wear gloves, follow rules, and when the fi ght is over, you shake hands. Th
at’s the only kind of fi ghting we’ll tolerate here. Anything else, and you’ll be punished. Severely. Keep it up, and you’re out. Do. You. Understand?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Yes, Father.”
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Both of them were nodding together, like two heads on one neck, both of them eyeing the door for deliverance. Father dismissed them with a curt nod.
Th
en, right there at the door, just as they were ready to step across the border into freedom, that crazy Eskimo—