Ricky sat at the kitchen table with his after school snack while his mother looked at the letter he’d brought home.

“A field trip already?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “School just started.”

“Can I go?” he asked through a mouthful of bread and jam.

“The Palalla Nation Cultural Center,” she mused. “In Nakalish.” Ricky’s father walked into the kitchen. “Honey,” she asked him, “where’s Nakalish? Ricky’s got a field trip there.”

Ricky’s father pulled out his iPhone. “Wow, that’s at least three hours from here.” He showed her the map on his phone. “Your field trip is way over there?”

“It’s about Native Americans,” Ricky explained. “We’re going to Ms. Martin’s reservation, where she grew up.”

“Ms. Martin?” his father asked. “The one we met at Back to School Night? She’s Indian?”

“Palalla, it says. She doesn’t look Indian,” said Ricky’s mother, handing the letter to her husband.

Ricky swallowed his mouthful. “Ms. Martin says it’s not Indian, it’s Native American.”

“Well, yeah, she’s right,” said his father. He scanned the letter and directed a wry smile at his wife. “It’s an overnighter. She must be new.” He handed the notice back to her. “As long as I don’t have to chaperone.”

“They want four volunteers,” she read. “That’s five adults with the teacher. Do you think that’s enough for the whole class? There’s, what, about thirty students?”

“Well, I doubt they’ll all go.”

Just sign it, pleaded Ricky silently. He took a swig of milk and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“Napkin!” said his mom.

He grabbed the napkin and wiped his already clean mouth. All they had to do was sign it. Why did his parents have to make everything so complicated? “Mom and Dad, can I go? Ben is going, and Micah, and Zach.” Well, Zach hadn’t said so yet, but Ricky thought he probably would.

His father held up a hand. “We’re not saying no, but your mother and I have to talk about it first.”

“Okay.” Ricky knew better than to push, because that usually resulted in “no.” His parents kept reading and speaking in low voices. He really wanted to go. He didn’t mind the long trip. He could bring his sleeping bag and sleep anywhere. Ms. Martin was teaching them about Native Americans and their land. They prayed to the animals, the sky, the earth, and most importantly, the trees. Maybe they could teach him how to talk to the trees too. He didn’t like having to hit them to get them to move, so he wanted to talk to someone who knew about these things. Sure Grampa Nystrom studied trees, but from what he’d seen on their outing, Ricky didn’t think he actually knew that much about them.

Ricky took another bite of his sandwich. His mother asked, “Why can’t they just take them to the Puyallups or something closer?”

“That’s not where Ms. Martin is from,” he blurted through his mouthful.

His father folded his arms. “Ricky, this trip is the same weekend Grampa Nystrom’s coming.”

Ricky stopped chewing.

“That’ll be fun, won’t it? You guys can go exploring again.”

Ricky swallowed a big ball of sandwich. Grampa wouldn’t explain anything to him. All Grampa would do was send him off somewhere to play, while all of the other kids got to go see the reservation. His stomach started to hurt.

His mother looked at him intently. “You really want to go, don’t you?”

Ricky nodded.

“Well,” she said, “I guess we can talk to your Grampa.”

His father snapped his fingers. “Hey, maybe Grampa could chaperone!”

“What?” snapped Ricky.

His father frowned at him. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” said Ricky. “I just . . . I just don’t think he’ll want to.”

His mother put her hands on her hips. “Well, we’ll let him decide, won’t we?”

With both parents glaring at him, all Ricky could do was nod. He wanted to go on the trip, but how was he going to solve the mystery of the trees with his grandfather watching? All he did was name them and describe them—but did he ever stop to listen to them? No, all he did was strap machines to them and pull at their leaves and snip off their branches. Ricky couldn’t explain it, but somehow he knew Grampa Nystrom would ruin everything.