Fire Song Read online

  chapter two

  When Shane arrives at the school, the parking lot is full. The whole rez is here. Usually there’s no one around on the last day of the school year, but a memorial brings out a crowd. Cars line the roadside like a huddled row of boulders planted by giants. Everyone he knows is waiting inside to lift his family up. Death brings us closer, Shane thinks. It seems messed up, but today he’s glad for it. He checks his phone to distract himself from the tears that keep itching at the corners of his eyes. The memorial was supposed to start half an hour ago. Thank god for Indian time—there’s no way it’s started yet.

  Shane wipes at his eyes and approaches a group of girls who stand in a huddle smoking cigarettes and retouching their makeup. Tara is among them, quietly glowing, even with her ragged nail beds and stiff funeral clothes. She’s got a notebook in her hands that she carries around with her everywhere. She never lets him look at it but she scribbles in it all the time. He asked her what she was doing once and she said she was writing hip-hop lyrics—she’s gonna write a song and get rich. Good luck with that one, he’d said. Everybody’s got a get-rich-quick scheme, seems like.

  Ashley, a thick girl with a square face, frowns as she takes a deep drag from her smoke and nods at Shane. Tara breaks from the group and throws her arms around him.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  Shane nods. “Where’s Kyle this morning?”

  Ashley flicks her cigarette into the dirt. “His auntie won’t let him come. She heard there was gonna be drumming and stuff. I don’t know—she thinks if he hears it he’ll go straight to hell or something.”

  Tara shakes her head. “That’s just not right.”

  “And they say traditional people are the superstitious ones,” Ashley smirks. They all laugh. It feels weird, but normal in a way. Destiny would have laughed too.

  *

  Only half of the fluorescent lights inside the gym are on. The place has a murky cave-like intimacy. A collapsible screen has been set up by the front and a slideshow of Destiny’s life is being projected on it. Shane tries to watch but his guts get twisting again. The photos are from happy times. Snapshots. Moments frozen for the benefit of a future that, until recently, felt limitless. No one looks at the screen after snapping a selfie and says, Yes, use that one at my funeral! It feels morbid to have them here, as though after fifteen years of life, Destiny’s suicide is the most meaningful thing that ever happened to her. She’s my sister—not a fucking cautionary tale, Shane wants to say. Looking at pictures of her isn’t going to somehow make it all make sense. And if anyone thinks it will, they’re fooling themselves, as if rewriting their memories of Destiny so that her suicide seems inevitable will somehow protect them from tragedy. It won’t. They can look all they want, but there’s nothing to learn. Nowhere to hide. Shane stifles the urge to knock over the projector and grind the pieces to dust.

  People stand around talking in quiet clusters, sipping weak tea from Styrofoam cups. Shane pulls his shoulders back and lifts his chin. They need to see that he isn’t broken. That there is hope. They’re here to show him support, but they need something from him too.

  David catches his eye from across the room and gives him a small nod. He’s tall and narrow and carries himself with his head slightly bent, like a long blade of grass with its tip curled over in the summer sun. Shane blinks and he’s suddenly across the room, with his face pressed into the weedy warmth of David’s neck. Everyone else disappears and it’s like they’re alone in his bedroom the way they used to be when Destiny was alive. When they kissed, it felt like they were a single spirit living in two skins. A blink later and Shane is back. Hushed voices echo off the high ceilings like a distant waterfall. He wishes David would push his way through the crowd of mourners and stand with him, but he knows him better than that. Maybe it’s for the best. Shane can put up a front for Tara or Roberta or anyone else here, but David will see how close he is to breaking.

  A group of Jackie’s friends from work step cautiously toward Shane and Tara. One of them takes Shane’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Shane.”

  “Thanks, Bev.”

  Joyce leans in. “How is your mom holding up? I dropped some food by your place but I didn’t hear anything.”

  “She’s not ready to see anyone yet.”

  Mary smiles at him in that way that lets you know the person is worried sick about you. It makes Shane feel like he should apologize, but he can’t because then she would feel worse. “You’re such a good son,” Mary says.

  “Thank you.”

  “You tell her we miss her down at the store.”

  “I will.”

  Tara tries to pull Shane to a seat near the front of the room. Roberta, the school counselor, waves Shane toward her. “Just a second,” Shane says. “I’ll be back.” Tara looks around to see if anyone noticed that Shane left her alone.

  As usual, Roberta is vibrating at a higher frequency than the rest of the room. Shane often wonders whether she would be happier if events like this were organized by someone else, or if she would actually be lost without something to obsess over. Roberta looks over Shane’s shoulder. “Where’s your mom?”

  “She’s not coming. Evie’s with her.” Shane notices David pretending to organize a plate of cookies just within earshot.

  “Shit,” Roberta says. “Evie was going to do the opening prayer. I’ll have to see if I can get someone else.”

  “Just start, Roberta. It’s fine.”

  “Maybe I can get Lucie White …”

  David steps forward. “I’ll do it,” he says.

  Roberta sighs. “It’s okay, David. I’m sure Lucie won’t mind.”

  “It’s okay. My nookomis taught me. I wanna do it, for Destiny.”

  Roberta hesitates.

  “Thanks, David,” Shane says. He squeezes David’s shoulder, wishing they could have even five minutes, alone. David steps away before anything can pass between them.

  *

  Shane sits in the front row beside Tara. The plastic folding chair squeaks every time he shifts his weight, so he tries not to move at all. Tara reaches out and takes his hand between hers. He can feel her eyes on him. She’s waiting for him to fall apart or show a hint of weakness. So far he’s held her at bay, but once she finds a way in, she’ll open that crack wider and wider. Eventually his whole body will bust open and she’ll be knee-deep in blood and shit; she’ll be so much a part of his messed-up life that he won’t even be able to think about life without her. But at least she’s there beside him. That counts for a lot. David would never hold his hand in public, no matter how much he needed it.

  Roberta steps up to the podium. “Good morning, everyone. Thank you for coming. Elder Evie Thomas wanted to be here, but she was called away at the last minute this morning. Her grandson David will say the opening in her place.” Roberta steps aside to make room for David at the podium. David looks up at the crowd. He glances at Roberta, then crosses his arms to his chest. Shane leans forward in his chair. Come on, David. After a moment, David wets his lips with his tongue and speaks into the microphone in a voice that is slow and steady.

  “Aanii. Boozhoo. David Thomas nindizhinikaaz. Chi miigwech to all of you for being here, and to the school for choosing to remember Destiny on our last day here.” David’s voice wavers. “It’s been six weeks since she, ah … took her life.”

  Shane’s stomach lurches with the mention of his sister’s name. He looks down at the picture of Destiny on the memorial program to block out David’s voice. Her eyes tug at him like a winch pulling something dead out of the bush, winding his intestines into a tight coil. Shane tips forward in his chair and suddenly he’s falling and floating at the same time. He’s on a Drift. He rises up through the roof of the gym and away over the rez. The Drift picks up speed, dragging him farther than he’s gone before—over a rippling ocean of trees and muskeg, over shale an
d granite waves until trees have been replaced by flat fields of rock and rugged, unbroken tundra.

  He hurls a long scream into the bare silence of rock and ice. But the sound, so much smaller once it leaves his body, gets sucked up by the wind and disappears. His hungry lungs take gulps of air that burns cold and dry like peppermint. A sensation blows over his skin like wind. It creeps into him and taps a rhythm that grows until it’s pounding inside his bones. It shudders through the land and surges in him with wild, inarticulate panic. Underneath the din an unfamiliar voice is whispering, IneedtoliveIneedtoliveIneedtoliveIneedtolive …

  *

  And then it’s over. Shane sits alone in the empty gym, while Roberta and one of the teachers stack chairs against the wall, making the air shiver with the crash of metal and hard plastic. There must have been more to it—thank-yous from teachers and speeches about the inspiring futures of the tiny graduating class, but it’s a blur. After all the pressure and the waiting and the anticipation—it’s hard to believe this is it. He can just walk away from school and never come back. It should feel like an ending or a beginning but it doesn’t feel like anything. It feels like another day without Destiny.

  “Shane!”

  Shane turns. Tara is standing in the doorway waiting.

  “I thought you were going to meet me outside,” she says. “Everyone’s gone.”

  Shane gets up slowly, feeling a dull ache in all his muscles. He started going on Drifts when he was twelve or thirteen. It was just a few steps past daydreaming, and he could control it. But as he got older, they became more intense and less predicable. Now, they mostly take him without warning. And when he comes back, it feels like every muscle in his body has been clenched like a fist for a solid hour, leaving his limbs heavy with blood.

  *

  Shane and Tara stand at the end of a long point of land that reaches out into the lake. “You always smell so good.” Tara nestles into him a little closer. Shane looks across the water. It isn’t as windy as it usually is down here, but the grasses still whisper around them. He wishes Tara would leave him alone. He can feel her body listening to him, like every part of her is monitoring his responses and recording them for some unknown purpose. Fingertip surveillance.

  “Is Evie still talking like some spirit killed Destiny?” Tara asks.

  Shane bends down and picks up a handful of rocks. The cold and the grit of them feel too real to be part of the rest of his life right now. He chooses a round black stone, pulls his arm back, and throws it as hard as he can. It’s a sloppy throw, but the rock curves out over the water like a ribbon unfurling before it taps the surface and drops away. Tara hooks a finger in his belt loop.

  “I just feel like I should have seen something or known she was gonna do it.”

  Shane tenses. Why does everyone feel like they get to comment on Destiny’s death, like it’s something from the news? If she keeps this up he doesn’t know how much longer he can be nice to her. No one has any idea why Destiny did it. She was sad. She was fucked up. They all knew it but they didn’t know how deep it went. If he and David didn’t see it, why would Tara?

  “It’s not your fault,” Shane says. “Stop worrying about it.” Another rock explodes from his fist, going higher and farther than the last one. Tara wraps his arm around her shoulder like an accessory. Grief-stricken boyfriends are totally on-trend this season! They make other girls sorry for you and weirdly jealous at the same time!

  Tara pulls him close. “I tried to do it once. A couple years ago. I had a knife in my hand and I was ready to do it and everything.”

  Shane untangles himself from Tara. “That’s not the same thing, is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you didn’t do it, did you? So it’s not the same thing.”

  Tara looks like she’s lost something but can’t remember what it is. “I just feel like I know what she was going through so I should have seen something, you know?

  Shane frowns. “You never talked to her. You weren’t even friends.”

  “Don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “Shane.”

  “I’m not mad. I’ll text you later.” He gives a wave without looking back, and walks up the path against the beginning of a wind. He knows he’s being a shit, but it doesn’t feel possible to turn back and apologize. It’s not like their relationship has anywhere to go. Better to create distance one step at a time than to spring it on her all at once.

  chapter three

  Feeling pretty down today. Shane being an asshole doesn’t help, but I get it. Destiny’s memorial was this morning. The whole thing went okay, but it’s messed up how those things always feel the same. The same songs, same faces, same words, same coffee. Everybody is so different from everyone else, but when they die people say the same stuff that they said about all the other dead people. They were so nice. They had a great smile. They loved to have fun. Their families will miss them. And it’s all true. But when a girl dies and everyone goes on and on saying the same basic things about what a good and kind person she was, it makes you wonder how much anyone knows or cares about anyone else. Like … PAY ATTENTION! If it had been me that died, the only thing different would be the pictures on the wall. Dying should mean something. It shouldn’t be the same no matter who you are or what you do. It should be personal.

  Like with Destiny, people should have been losing it about WHY. I was in the same school with her for my whole life and we lived super close. I probably saw her just about every day even if we didn’t really talk. How could I not know? I think about dying all the time, no matter how hard I try to clutter my brain with other things. What if I had really talked to her instead of wasting time feeling alone and ignored? We could have taken care of each other. Before Shane and I were together I used to bug her for information about the kinds of things that Shane likes so I would have stuff to talk to him about. But maybe if I had taken a second to get over myself and really look at her, I would have seen a version of myself looking back. Or maybe that’s exactly what I did see and I couldn’t look away fast enough. Maybe.

  One time Destiny asked me what it felt like to be pretty. She was kind of goth and sarcastic a lot, but this time she wasn’t. She asked like she really wanted to know. I told her not to be stupid and I said, I’m not any prettier than you are. We both knew that was bullshit. She wasn’t ugly or anything, but people can be assholes about heavier girls with bad skin. She didn’t laugh much, but when she did, it was the nicest, most surprising sound. It made me feel lucky, like she had picked me alone to hear it.

  I keep trying to write something for her but I haven’t figured it out yet. Usually poems come easier than anything else, but this time it’s different. This is as far as I got:

  Dead girls don’t need your

  love

  Dead girls don’t need you

  to listen

  Dead girls don’t need your

  help

  Not anymore

  It’s messed to be jealous of a dead girl

  I know that

  But dead girls can’t talk and dead girls can’t dream

  No one can hurt them

  chapter four

  When Shane arrives home from the memorial the house is still. He could go back to Destiny’s room to make sure Jackie is home, but why bother. She hasn’t left in weeks—she’s not going anywhere now. Shane pulls a box of no-name cereal from the cupboard and shakes them into a bowl. The O’s make soft sounds when they hit the milk.

  “Mom!” No answer. “Do you want some cereal?”

  Destiny’s bed creaks softly under his mother’s weight, but no other sound comes from the room.

  Shane holds his breath and hopes for the sound of shuffling footsteps that would tell him she is coming out. When she hasn’t emerged a few minutes later, he sets the bowl of cereal ou
tside Destiny’s door. It’ll be empty by the end of the day.

  Shane upends the milk carton into his bowl, but the dribble that comes out isn’t even enough to drown a tick. All that’s left in the fridge is the dregs of a tub of yogurt and a dried-up heel of bologna loosely wrapped in plastic. He pops open the tub of yogurt. Pinkish mold bubbles on the surface and creeps up the side of the container.

  *

  Janice’s store is pretty much the only place to buy anything on the rez. Most people do a big grocery shop at Walmart or somewhere like that when they drive down to Brickport, but Shane doesn’t have a car, and he’s eager to get the nasty taste of that yogurt out of his mouth. Janice’s will have to do. When he gets to the door, Shane runs into Roberta, who is juggling a plastic bag full of groceries, a hot coffee, and her cell phone, all while trying to put her sunglasses on.

  “Hey, Berta.”

  Roberta looks up and smiles. “Get in here, kid.” She wraps him in a hug. “That was tough today. You okay?”

  Shane nods.

  “I wanted to talk to you about your school funding at the memorial, but it didn’t seem appropriate.”

  “Okay.”

  “It doesn’t look like you’re going to get funded this year.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “When you were born, you were registered as a member on your dad’s rez. After he died, nobody changed you over here, so you’re technically still on the rolls at Eagle Creek. But Eagle Creek won’t fund you because you’ve never lived there. And they’ve already allocated their budget for student support.”

  “Can’t you just get me transferred to the band here?”

  “We can work together on it, but they won’t be looking at education funding again until next year. I was going through back channels to get it sorted out for you, but then Destiny died and … there hasn’t been a good time to talk.”

  This is exactly the kind of bullshit that makes him want to get out of here. It seems like people are always saying, There is help out there but not for you, not right now. When he goes online and sees how the rest of the country lives, it feels like Indians are the only people without options or choices. Pinned down under the thumb of the government with a whole agency determining where they live, how much money they have access to, how they can develop their land, who belongs to the community, and who doesn’t. A whole bureaucracy set up to tell Anishinaabe people who they are and what they can be. An army of smiling people in government offices and band offices saying “we want to help!” and then explaining why they can’t.