wrote another chapter.

Here's chapter two of the same novel with no title yet. Tom is now in Toquerville and the adjustment isn't going as well as he'd like. He is the new kid in a high school full of unfriendly hicks and feels more rejected than ever. Will things ever get better for him? You'll find out in chapter three!

Chapter two: An Empty Room

Tom walked into his newly painted bedroom. The lamp in the corner had no shade, which caused the light to reflect off the bare walls. The room felt empty; it did not have the same comfortable feeling as his old room, which was a dusty blue color, accentuated by his denim, patchwork bedspread and blue curtains that had faded a little over time. His old room had remnants of when his older brother had occupied it: basketball posters with the likes of Magic Johnson and Michael Jordan, which covered up holes that he’d punched into the walls, and an amateurish drawing of a wolf that he had sketched before he dropped out of high school. This new room was bare, but he didn’t attempt to change it by displaying anything personal. He wondered how long it would take for the room to look lived in, to soak up his essence and stop smelling like paint. For now he liked it this way, devoid of memories. It was easier to live in. It hurt less. He turned off the light and watched the dusk cast a moving shadow on his wall as he lay directly on top of his flowered mattress. The light grew fainter and fainter, but he never turned the light back on that night. He fell asleep with his boxes unpacked and his backpack at his feet and he awoke again early in the morning.

Unzipping his backpack for the first time since he packed it, Tom pulled out a black and white composition notebook. He hadn’t touched it in weeks. He didn’t know how to record what had happened to him and his family. He didn’t know if he wanted to put it into words. The guilt he felt had long settled deep into his body and he breathed it in and out along with the dry air. It was such a part of him that he’d already accepted his blame and behaved accordingly. He was more passive and quiet than ever in an unconscious effort to pay back the invisible debt that had seeped into his bones and made him feel heavy. He felt like he was always wearing the oversized lead apron that dentists put on their patients when they do x-rays on their teeth. This thought sparked an idea for a new poem and he opened the first page and put a sentence down on the paper:

It was not like falling down the stairs

He could not imagine that it was an accident.

wondering how I ended up at the bottom

with a bruised rib.

He wanted to escape his thoughts, but he realized that he kept revisiting them, agonizing over the “what ifs” and felt like there was no way out.

I take myself there,

like to a dentist’s appointment,

expecting to hurt.

He continued writing, unsure of what he was trying to say, but the words continued to come.

The presence left by your absence

is on the lumpy couch, the kitchen steps,

the cracked red earth;

in the cab of the truck, and on the brown

Formica tabletop.

Your fingerprints are like rings

left by coffee cups.

They can’t be erased.

I see them everywhere.

They cover me.

This new poem looked strange on the graphed paper next to another one about a girl he had liked months before. It now seemed immature and trite. It wasn’t even about love. Her deep, brown eyes, which he had praised so highly then hadn’t crossed his mind since he wrote about them. This new poem was his first about death. He didn’t like it in the notebook. It didn’t fit. He tore the page out and folded it into quarters, fitting it into the pocket of one of his father’s flannel shirts. It belonged there. He looked out the window and realized that it was light again. He placed his notebook under his mattress and went to brush his teeth and shower. He almost felt like doing it that day. Maybe it was progress.

The bathroom was just large enough for a bathtub, a toilet, and a sink. Tom could put one leg in the bathtub while sitting on the toilet and turn the sink on with his left hand. Everything was a pale pink color. The wallpaper, which wasn’t too old, was poorly chosen by a sentimental housewife. Tiny rosebuds filled the walls from floor to ceiling and on a border about halfway up the wall, furry brown bunnies hopped shyly among violets. He looked away from their whiskery noses poking out from behind the leaves and turned on the shower. It never got very hot and it frequently sputtered. Maybe Sam could do something about it. He got in and let the water run weakly down his back. He didn’t adjust it; the lukewarm temperature was pleasant. It was already hot out that morning. The shower head was almost too low for Tom and he hunched slightly to wet his head. He reached for the Vo5 shampoo and poured out a palmful. He tried to focus on the feel of the rubber flowers under his feet and the water on his body instead of the anxious thoughts in his head. He wasn’t ready for school. He didn’t want to have to adjust to a new group of friends, if he was lucky enough to make new friends. Everything felt overwhelming, even the simple task of going to register. He wondered why he couldn’t just drop out like his brother and work instead. Sam had stopped going to high school after his sophomore year and from that time on found odd jobs around the reservation. His mother never bothered Sam much about his choice. She always said, “Sam will be just fine. He’s always been good with his hands.” So why did his mother expect so much from him? She pushed him to go to school every day. He hadn’t missed one single day during his high school career. He’d been given an attendance award both his freshman and sophomore years. Tom resolved not to get that award this year and stared determinedly into the mirror with his towel on his head. He realized it was unconvincing and pulled the towel off. He slowly dressed himself in the humid bathroom. When he was almost done he heard his mother’s voice from the kitchen. “Tom! Come get some breakfast! We’ve got a lot to do today!” He could hear the sizzle of sausage. He felt hungry, finally, but his lean frame had visibly diminished after weeks of picking at all his meals and eating only when prodded. Today he wanted to eat. More progress. He squeezed the water out of his hair and quickly pulled it back into a ponytail at the base of his neck. It was too warm to leave it down. He searched for a t-shirt in his boxes and the only one he could find was the pow wow t-shirt he’d worn the night his father died. He couldn’t put it on. He went into Sam’s room and started going through his boxes. The first shirt he found said “Gettin’ lucky in Kentucky.” He rolled his eyes, pulled it over his head, and went into the kitchen as his mother called him once more.

She set a plate down in front of him with four links of sausage on it and a stack of pancakes. “Eat that and then we’ll go see about registering you for school.”

“All right.” He agreed to everything his mother said nowadays.

“Well, do you want to or not?” She put her hand on his face and turned it towards her.

“I do. Jeez.” He turned back to his sausage and wrapped one in a pancake and ate it.

“I just can’t do anything to make you happy, can I?” Her voice quivered on the verge of tears. Tom didn’t react. This was all-too-common lately. She turned abruptly and went into the kitchen. Tom hated it when she acted like this. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to make her happy either. The truth was, things had been like this for a long time, even before his father’s death. Now the unhappiness had been shifted from his father to him.

“Why do you always make her cry, dork?” Sam leaned over and punched Tom’s arm with a good deal of force.

“Ow! Stop it! Like you never do…” He trailed off, rubbing his arm.

“And quit borrowing my clothes without asking.” He socked him again in the same spot.

“Boys! Stop fighting!” Her voice sounded thin, like it did every time she started crying. They went silent and looked away from each other when they heard a clatter of silverware in the sink and more crying.

That day Tom registered high school in Hurricane, a neighboring town, because Toquerville was too small to have its own.

“Welcome to Hurricane high.” He noticed that the stout secretary said Hurricane like “hur-i-kun” as she stamped his transcript with a decisive thud. He disliked her accent and, perhaps even more so, he disliked her vest with puff-painted apples on it.

“Okay.” He tried not to stare at the ugly vest and the smiling apples hopping down her large chest.

“You mean ‘thank you’, right?”

His head snapped up and he nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Thomas Lamebull.” She pronounced his name with particular emphasis on his last name. “You’re a junior, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, here is your schedule and your locker combination. Good luck.” She eyed him the way sheriffs in old movies eyed villains like Billy the Kid. He was sure she added, “And I’ll be keeping a close eye on you,” in her head.

As he wandered the empty halls in search of his locker, he was self-conscious about the way he walked when he saw himself reflected in the large, plate-glass windows. His arms looked too long. His shoulders were hunched. His feet seemed to slap like duck’s feet on the newly-polished floor. His hair swayed behind him when he walked too quickly, so he slowed down. When he got to his locker he saw that it was one of many tall, orange ones randomly interspersed with light blue ones. This would be his junior year. Number 456. Combination 7-19-9. The locker popped open on the first try, rattling on its loose hinges. The former occupant had left a biology book inside and a moldy peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a Ziploc bag. Disgusted, he shut the locker again.

A week later, on the first day of school, Tom still hadn’t unpacked much and, once again, was rifling through all his boxes looking for something suitable to wear. He pulled out a pair of jeans he hadn’t worn for months that now fit him because he’d lost weight, and a snap-front, ribbon shirt he’d often worn out with friends on the reservation. It was one of his best shirts, but it still seemed like it wasn’t enough. He carefully braded his hair into two plaits, washed his face, and scoured his nose for new blemishes. There were a couple. Then his brother started knocking on the bathroom door.

“What are you doing in there? I’ve gotta go.”

“Come in then.” He pulled the door open and tried to step around his brother, but Sam caught him by his shoulders and pretended to check him out.

“Whoo. Who are you trying to impress, little brother?”

“Just let me go, all right?” He tried to shake his brother off of him and then let his shoulders droop in his brother’s strong grasp.

“No way. This is too good. You’re wearing your ribbon shirt for the first day of school? Since when do you care about school so much?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to be late.”

Sam let him go, but not without a mock punch in the gut. “Well, just be careful. They probably won’t understand you there. They’ll think you’re some kind of weird Indian if you show up looking like that.”

Tom shrugged and went back into his bedroom, took off his ribbon shirt, put it back in a box, and grabbed the first shirt that he laid his hands on, hastily pulling it over his head.

“Tom, are you about ready?” His mother poked her head into his room. “Why did you take off the other shirt? It looked nice.”

“I don’t know. It didn’t feel right.” He started to undo his left braid.

“Don’t do that. I like your hair like that. When your father was young…” She started the sentence, but she couldn’t finish it.

“Geez, Mom. Please, not today.” He replaced the elastic at the end of his braid to pacify her.

“It’s okay, honey. Wear your hair the way you want to.”

“I want it like this.”

“No, you don’t.” She wiped her eyes, but looked consoled for the moment.

“Yes, I do. Let’s go.” He put his backpack on. It was too small and sat high on his back like a hump. He took it off of his left shoulder and let it hang from the right.

“We’ll get you a new one soon, okay? I’m sorry it’s too small. I get my first paycheck in a week.”

“I don’t care, Mom. It’s just fine.”

She looked at him like she had when he left to go to school on the reservation for the first time when he was six. Her eyes were brimming with tears, but she didn’t let them spill over.

“You just look so much like him.”

When he heard this, Tom almost let his own tears fall, but he hadn’t cried in almost a month. He promised himself when he came to Toquerville that he wouldn’t cry anymore. He felt like he needed to somehow erase his past in order to get through what had happened, but he didn’t know how. He wanted his heart to be empty like his room, with no remnants of his pain. He wished that all the ugliness could be covered up with a fresh coat of paint.

“We have to go. It’s late.” Tom shifted his bag on his shoulder as if it weighed more than it did, but it was practically empty. His mom didn’t respond; she reached out to him and pulled his head down to her, holding his face against her neck and shoulder.

“I love you. So much. I wish I could change things.”

“I know.” He sniffed and pulled away.

They walked in silence to the door and she put a sack lunch in his hand. She’d even written his name on it.

“Have a good day.” She whispered and then kissed his cheek.

Sam, sitting impatiently in the truck, honked the horn long and loud.

“Bye.” Tom hurried out the door to the truck and his waiting brother.

“Did you make sure you kissed her goodbye?” Sam joked as he backed down the driveway with his arm across the back seat, looking over his shoulder.

“Shut up.”

“Be that way. You’re too uptight lately.” Sam put the truck into drive quickly and it jerked forward. He accelerated to a speed well above the limit and turned on the radio. Tom didn’t mind the opportunity to listen instead of making conversation. He felt sick and nervous. Every bump in the road jarred him and he wanted to throw up, but he tried to pretend like it was the same as going to his old school. When they pulled up at the curb, he opened the door quickly and slid out. “Hey!” Sam called out loudly, “Don’t forget your lunch!” He held the brown paper sack with Tom’s name on it out the window, visible to everyone in the courtyard.

“Great,” Tom muttered, grabbing the lunch and shoving it quickly into his backpack.

“See you later!” He honked again and drove off too quickly. Everyone who saw it giggled. Tom made a beeline into the school and to his locker where he could stow away the cursed lunch bag.

That day went down as the third to worst in Tom’s entire life. The first was the day his father died, and the second was the day in seventh grade when he asked a girl he’d liked for the entire year to dance with him at the school dance, but she denied him. She said that she didn’t dance. He felt like he was going to pass out from the effort of simply talking to her. All his blood had rushed to his head and he felt dizzy and rejected for the rest of the dance. Later on, he saw her dancing with Kerry Yazzie, that cocky half-Indian. He held her too tightly against him and she giggled too much. He had heard somewhere that she was now pregnant and working at the Seven to Eleven food store #27.

Tom made a mental list of why the day was so terrible as he walked home, which, incidentally, was one of the reasons on the list. Sam hadn’t shown up to get him. He waited almost an hour and then started walking. He was used to it. Number one, his locker wouldn’t open. Maybe the combination was changed or maybe someone was messing with him. Either way, he had to carry his books and lunch around all day in his tiny backpack. He could just picture the faces of the students around him snickering behind their hands as he tried over and over to open the locker. He finally kicked it with his foot and walked away, limping slightly from the effort. One boy had even called out, “Trouble with your locker, newbie?” He wanted to punch that kid. He was revolting to him—his carefully spiked hair, his polo collar popped just so, his sweat bands carefully placed on his forearms with no basketball game in sight. What an idiot.

Number two, he had to introduce himself in every class. He sat in the very back of the class, practically hiding behind his books, but they still found him out and interrogated him about everything from his favorite color to his birthday. He paired it down to a few sentences that he could quickly spit out and then sit down. “My name is Thomas. Lamebull. I’m sixteen. Yeah, I’m a Navajo. I moved here from Tuba City, Arizona. That’s all.” And when his teachers would look too interested in anything he said, he would answer their questions in the most inane manner possible to discourage them from further questions. “So, Tom, can you tell us about where you’re from?” “Uh yeah, it’s a reservation.” It occurred to him after the questioning began, in his third class, that this school had not had a “new kid” in years. Not many people moved in to Toquerville. All the students there seemed to know each other from birth. They had odd cliques that he’d never seen before: groupings of cousins sporting matching belt buckles; jocks with the sense that they were incredibly fashionable, even though they all looked the same in their Abercrombie rip-off polos; girls who primped in their locker mirrors and had sparkles on their faces and nails; various sullen individuals wearing black with oversized pants on their skinny legs and oversized chains around their skinny necks. They looked like sad strays.

Number three, the cafeteria. He had no idea where to sit or how to even begin to interact with these freaks. Each of these odd groups seemed to occupy more space than they needed, but no group violated the space of another group. They hovered around their tables, shrieking, throwing french fries, and pointing at each other, but never coming close to one another. Tom took one step into this jungle and stepped right back out. He went outside and sat in the hot weather under the school’s puny Vietnam memorial tree and ate his sack lunch. While he was there, eating peacefully, an administrator walked by and reprimanded him for not being in the cafeteria with the other students. He wadded up the remnants of his lunch and threw the entire bag into the trash on the way back in, saving his bottle of Coke for later.

Number four, Mr. Harvey. After lunch was his “government” class. It made no sense to him. He understood enough about what had happened to Native Americans to question the logic of what they all nodded their heads in unison about. Like colonization. They all talked about all the good things that happened when white men from Europe came to America. The less attractive aspects were glossed over, like the smallpox epidemic that killed off the bulk of the Indians. It was all he could do to sit through the class silently. In addition to the tedious curriculum, Mr. Harvey had some finite rules in class and one was “no food or drink,” of course. Tom had placed his Coke bottle on the desk, waiting to open it when he was about to fall asleep, but at the mention of this rule, jerked out his hand to grab it and accidently knocked it onto the floor. It shattered and the Coke went everywhere, leaving a fizzing, brown puddle on the floor. Mr. Harvey then tactfully commented as loud as he could, “That’s why I don’t allow food or drink in class.” Everyone laughed. He was forced to go to the restroom and bring back a fistful of paper towels to clean up the mess with while everyone watched. It was humiliating. On the way out of class one of the cousins remarked, “That was smooth. We’re Hey, smooth!” They continued to yell this new nickname at him after he walked off down the hall after class.

Before he could think of another reason, Sam drove up next to him. “Get in.”

“Where were you?” He felt like yelling, but it came out sounding choked.

“Are you going to cry?”

“No.”

“Looks like it. Anyhow, I was just over at the auto shop to see if they needed any help. Looks like I’ll be changing oil there for a while.”

“Good for you,” Tom said flatly.

“Yeah, well, it’s something. Most places won’t hire me because I don’t have a diploma or something. But whatever.”

“Just take me home now.” He stared out the window at the town passing by slowly and let his self-pity drain out of him. He added up all the experiences he’d had that day and racked them up to his punishment’s total. It wasn’t much, but he was paying it back a little at a time. He felt like he needed to suffer more, it still wasn’t enough.