“I wish I was there to see it,” Wendy says as soon as I walk through the door.
“Yeah. I was a hit.” I walk past Hawaii. I just want to change, wash my face, and go to sleep.
“How was the food?” she asks. “Did you bring any back?”
“No, sorry,” I lie.
“Where’s Tommy?” she asks.
“He’s right behind me. But I don’t want to talk to him. And I don’t really want to talk to you, either. You let me walk right into that trap,” I say, and head toward the bathroom.
“Aren’t you going to ask how my night was?”
“No.”
“Well, George and I had pizza, and I watched him play—”
“Wendy. You’re not my family,” I say. “In fact, you’re the opposite of my family. You judge me for being a thief, but you’re the biggest thief of all. You stole my dad.” I slam the bathroom door.
The mirror looks back at me. I can’t believe I was seen in public like this. I splash water over my face, and the sink fills with painted water. As the liquid swirls down the drain, so do my words to Wendy.
I don’t know why I was so mean to her. I don’t know why I was so mean to Niimi’s dad either. What’s happening to me? I thought this place was supposed to make me feel better. I feel worse. And I don’t want to face these feelings. Feelings are for crybabies. I need to sleep. That’s all. I scrub my face, hoping to remove the paint and these annoying emotions.
There’s a knock on the door. I dry off and swing it open. “Living room. Now,” my dad says, and walks away.
This is not good.
Tommy and Wendy are waiting for me in the living room. Right outside Jamaica, which puts them somewhere in the carpeted sea. Wendy stares at me, both lips tucked into her mouth. I know that look. My mom does it too when she has something to say but is waiting for the right moment. My dad reaches out and takes Wendy’s hand. His eyes are wide, lips pursed, making dozens of little ripples around his mouth, “You have something to say?” he asks me.
“I do if you do,” I say to him.
“Excuse me?” he asks.
“After what you just put me through, you want me to apologize? How about you apologize for once in your life? You made me look like a complete fool in front of all those people. You let them all laugh at me and call me a thief!”
“I must have gotten all my information wrong. So, you’re not a thief?” he asks sarcastically.
“That’s not the point,” I interject.
“That is precisely the point. That’s the only reason why you were there tonight. Dressing you up and putting all the paint on your face was to keep your mind off hating me for a few minutes. You’ve hated me since the moment you arrived. I needed to distract you from that anger. If I hadn’t done it, there was a very slim chance of even convincing you to go.”
“Oh, so I should be thanking you?” I ask.
“No. I want you to stop thinking about yourself as the victim for once and start thinking about what you said to Wendy,” he says.
I look at Wendy. She may look tough, but I see that she wants to cry.
“Sorry, Wendy,” I say.
“Sorry for what?” she asks.
Great. She’s milking the moment. “I shouldn’t have said what I said, but I said it and you heard it and I can’t unsay it and you can’t unhear it so all I can say is I’m sorry. You happy now?” And I dive my hands into my pockets while keeping my eyes on anything but her.
Jeez. They were just words. Get over it.
“But you can unsay it and I can unhear it,” she says to me, her pained eyes brightening with blue excitement.
“Really? You own a time machine?” I ask.
“Everyone has one. Wanna see it?” she asks.
“Another stupid game. Sure.”
“Go outside. Come back in. Boom. That’s my time machine. Hurry up.”
I look at my dad, but he’s smiling at her. He likes what she just said, even though we both know it’s complete madness. “Now,” she reminds me.
I can’t believe she wants me to do this. Role play. Two adults wanting me to pretend. Fine. I already played dress-up with them. I walk past them and open the door, and as I shut it, my dad grabs the handle. “Wait for me. I was out there with you,” he says.
My dad joins me outside. It’s just me and him and him and me. I take a deep breath and reach for the door, but my dad lifts his arm up, signaling me to wait.
“What?” I ask.
“Give her a minute. She needs to get into character,” he says.
“Character? She just playing herself … From literally two minutes ago,” I say.
“Going back in time two minutes, or two hundred years, still takes focus. Focus takes time. She takes these roles seriously. She took theater in high school. Let her become the Wendy of minutes two past,” he says.
“When you say things like that, you really don’t hear how bonkers you sound, do you?” I ask.
“What’s the matter? Is the thief afraid of Wendy stealing the scene?” he asks, and nudges his finger into my chest.
“There is no scene. I’m only here because the judge forced me to be here. These little games may be fun for you and Wendy, but they’re not for me. Do you understand that?” I ask.
“The judge forced you, huh? That reminds me of a joke I know. Wanna hear it?” he asks, and suddenly I think he just wants to keep me out here for some weird alone time. He’ll even attempt to make up a joke on the spot. It won’t be funny, but that’s not the point. He just wants to cram my many years of hating him together and replace it with a two-minute bonding session. Well, guess what? Not happening.
“No,” I say, and reach for the door, but he lifts his finger—so I stop—ugh. I don’t know why that finger thingy still works on me.
“When the thief got caught, the judge was forced to give him a very long sentence because of what the thief stole from him … Now, what did the thief steal?”
“That’s a riddle, not a joke,” I say.
“What did the thief steal?”
“I give up.”
“All the punctuation keys from his keyboard,” he says, and laughs. “Get it? Without them, he’s forced to give long sentences.”
He stops laughing when he sees that I’m not amused.
“Can I go in now?”
“I’m waiting on you. Wendy’s always ready,” he says.
Ugh. He’s so frustrating. I open the door and enter. And just like she was, Wendy greets me as I enter. Or reenter. Whatever. This time my dad follows closely behind me, probably to make sure I don’t screw this up again.
“How did it go?” Wendy asks happily.
“Oh, hi, Wendy. It was amazing. The stunt you and my dad pulled by making me dress up like a super-offensive cosplay Indian was a smash. Everyone laughed at me. It was great. How was your night?” I say.
She smiles. “It was pretty good. George and I had pizza, and I watched him shoot a bunch of zombies that tried to invade his military compound. Thanks for asking,” she says.
“Okay. Well … I guess that’s it,” I say, and walk past her.
“Wait,” she says.
I turn around. “What! Did I not do it good enough?” I ask.
“You were great. I was just going to tell you that there’s still some pizza left. Are you hungry?” she asks.
I am hungry. So hungry. All I had today was half a grilled cheese, two brownies, and three small Rice Krispies treats. “Really? Yes. I’d love some pizza.”
“Great. Why don’t you change first. You look ridiculous. Then come back for some grub. George promised to meet you when you got home, so try not to look like a zombie … Or he’ll likely kill you,” she says jokingly.
“Okay,” I say, and retreat into the garage to change.
The fluorescent lights flicker on. All three dogs are sleeping on my bed, taking up the entire mattress. Great. My bed is going to smell like dog. I slip into a pair of sweatpants and my favorite oversize purple hoodie. I don’t remember where I got it, but it’s by far the most comfortable article of clothing I own. I sleep in it almost every night, which explains why it’s so faded. My mom said there was a Vikings logo on it once, but ever since I can remember, it’s just been a purple hoodie. Now that I’m older, it’s still big on me, but I’m no longer swimming in it.
The thought of pizza quickens my feet back into the main part of the house. I hope there’s a lot left over. I can usually eat a whole pizza by myself.
As I step into the living room, I see George. And he sees me. We just stare at each other. My dad and Wendy watch us lock eyes like we are two lions waiting for one to make the first move.
“Hey, that’s my hoodie,” my dad says. “I haven’t seen that in years.”
Now I want to burn it.
George is taller than me, and what I didn’t notice in his dark bedroom is his skin is much darker than mine. His hair is very short and black, but there is a white streak in it, as if a small part of his head thinks it is time to be an old man. He wears a white thermal shirt under his blue Minnesota Timberwolves tee. And red plaid pajama bottoms cover his long legs.
“You’re Black?” I blurt out.
I didn’t see that coming, and sometimes when I’m caught off guard, I speak with no filter.
“Thanks for letting me know,” he says. “I had no idea.”
“George, this is Benny. Benny this is my son, George,” Wendy says.
“He’s ugly,” George says, which sneaks out a snicker from my dad.
“He’s not that ugly,” Wendy says.
“It just looks that way because he’s in a house full of super-attractive people. Trust me, outside in the world, he’s average-looking,” my dad adds.
Oh, awesome. More jokes. I bet Grand Portage is the birthplace of all comedians.
“I hear you’re going to be staying here for a little bit. Apparently, I had no say in it, but I do have one rule … My room is off-limits. You don’t go in there,” George says to me. “Understand?”
“I don’t know how much they told you about me, so I’m going to let you in on a little secret … I don’t follow rules very well. In fact, I’ve already been in your room,” I say.
His eyes widen, then dance over to Wendy and back to me. “Yeah, right,” he says.
“You were playing your video game. You didn’t even notice me in there. I could have taken whatever I wanted while you were shooting zombies,” I say.
He looks pissed. Maybe I shouldn’t have started it off this way, but one thing I can’t stand is someone my own age trying to give me rules. Especially a nerd.
“You touch my stuff, and I’ll punch you in the face,” he says.
“Fellas…” My dad steps in. “There will be no punching in this house.”
“How you going to punch me if you can’t catch me? I mean, all I got to do is take a step outside, right?” I say.
His eyes shoot to Wendy. “You told him!”
“I didn’t say—” she starts.
“I met him! There! You happy? If he comes into my room again, I’m going to stuff him into a suitcase and leave him by the door. In fact, all of you stay out of my room!” George says, and walks back to his bedroom.
The door slams loudly, which causes Wendy to jump. “That went well,” I say.
“Why did you say that to him, Benny?” my dad asks.
“Obviously, so he’d do what he just did,” I say.
“And why did you want him to do that?” Wendy asks.
“Easy. More pizza for me.” I grab two slices off the coffee table. They’re not hot anymore, but warm pizza is almost as good as hot pizza. In fact, cold pizza is almost as good as warm pizza. The only pizza I don’t like is no pizza. I start walking back toward the garage.
“Benny,” Wendy says.
I stop and turn to her as I take my first bite.
“You didn’t have to do that.” She sighs and walks out of the room.
I look at my dad, who bites his bottom lip and sighs. “I know why you said it.”
“Oh, yeah, enlighten me,” I say.
“Hurt people hurt people,” he says, and walks off to join Wendy.
Hurt people hurt people. What does that even mean? I’m not hurt. I’m hungry. They’re totally different.
I slink back into the garage and try to sit on the bed. Half of my butt leans off it because of the three giant watch dogs. And ugh. They are snoring. Loudly too. I don’t care that I upset George. It’s his fault. He shouldn’t try to lay down the law on someone he doesn’t even know. But … I managed to hurt Wendy’s feelings multiple times today, even though she’s probably the nicest one in the house. My dad must really like sensitive women. My mom is the same way.
I break up the last few bites of pizza into three chunks and place one in each dog bed. All three watch dogs get up and take the bait. Haha. I got my bed back. I lie down and grab the piece of folded paper that Niimi gave me at the bookstore. I unfold it and read it: Mamiidaawendam. I try to pronounce it to myself. I wonder what it means?
I can ask my dad, but I don’t want him thinking I need his help. So I tiptoe to my Dad’s office, and am relieved that I can get on his laptop without a password. I search the internet for the definition. After I’ve misspelled it twice, the search results find one definition. Ha! There’s an actual Ojibwe to English translation site. That will come in handy around here. I read the translation and laugh. Mamiidaawendam: He who has a troubled mind.
Really? I have the troubled mind? My dad can’t stop telling unfunny jokes to save his life, Wendy is an always hungry female version of him, George is afraid to step outside, and the entire Grand Portage tribe of Ojibwe are going to be bloomed by a twelve-year-old girl who wears a mask. And what the hell does blooming people even mean? Flowers bloom. People don’t. I’m probably the least “troubled mind” out of everyone here. Including these three loud, smelly dogs.
Before I close the laptop, I see several emails from my mom to my dad, with “Benny?” in the message lines. I know she’s worried, but I’m still mad at her for sending me here. She can worry a bit longer.