“Open ’em, Opin,” a voice whispers beside my ear.
I feel the warmth of her breath and immediately know Mom is back. This is how she always wakes me up. And as I stir awake, she leans the front seat back so she’s practically lying down. It tells me that she needs rest from wherever she was and whatever she did. I look at the time on the radio. It’s 1:46 A.M.
She’s late. By midnight, my butt.
I tuck the puppy deeper into my jacket, so Mom doesn’t notice her yet. I need to ease her into this.
“How were piano lessons?” I ask, both of us knowing a piano was nowhere near her tonight.
“I took another gig. Some … lady … wanted me to clean her place, so I did.”
“Who hires someone to come clean their place in the middle of the night?” I ask.
“Lazy people with money, I guess. Did your brother show up?” she asks.
“He did.”
My mom turns around quickly to face me. “When? Really? Where is he now?”
“I gave him the key card. Hours ago. He said this place has a hot tub full of girls.”
Mom laughs. Her eyes spot the balled-up burger wrapper on the back seat.
“Did he actually eat this time? Or was it you?” she asks.
“I ate it. I got hungry,” I say, and see my opportunity. “But I didn’t eat it alone. Gaagiizom, Mom.”
She smiles and sighs at the same time. “Oh, Opin. I wish we could.”
Wish we could?
“Wish we could what?”
“I clean this car every morning. I scrub the windows, I spray the dash, and I lint roll the seats. Every morning. You don’t think I know what a wet dog smells like? The moment I sat in here, I knew what you were up to. But we can’t,” she says.
It may appear that I have lost this battle. Everything she said is true. It will be harder to keep the car clean with a dog on board. A dog will smell like a dog. All true. But I have an ace up my sleeve. A secret weapon. A game changer. This girl’s eyes. There’s no way my mom will be able to resist them, because I couldn’t.
I pull the dog out from under my jacket and lift her up to Mom’s face. Which is a bit risky, because my mom could easily take her the way she did all of the slugs and bugs I’ve snuck in here before. But I was right … One look at her, and my exhausted mom is pretty much melted. I need to pile on drama.
“She’s homeless. Just like us,” I say.
“Zip it,” she says, knowing exactly what I’m doing.
“She chose us. She could have picked any car in this lot. She could have gone up to anyone, but she chose me, Mama.”
“She smelled the half-eaten burger, Opin. If you’re gonna sing the blues, know the correct lyrics,” she says, and slowly takes the puppy from me.
“Why is there toilet paper wrapped around her paw?”
“She was hurt. I had to pull glass out of her paw. And she was hungry. You feel her ribs?”
“Yes, Opin. I can feel her ribs. But I don’t think we can keep her.”
Most kids would hate hearing those words right now, but I don’t. Because Mom always tells me to pay attention to the words people choose when speaking to you. And she went from “but we can’t” to “I don’t think we can,” which means we are slowly inching toward her eventually saying “fine.” I just need to fight on. This puppy is my wolf. I’m her warrior. We must fight for each other.
“Look how small she is. You won’t even notice her,” I say.
Mom lets the pup lick her nose. “Another mouth to feed is another mouth to feed, no matter how big or small the belly is.”
“I’ll give her half of whatever I eat,” I say, and immediately regret it. I never feel full.
“Nope. Take that one back. If you want to keep this moving in your favor, you cannot sacrifice my kid’s food intake,” she says. “That’s a losing battle, got it?”
“Got it. Where were we … Oh, yeah, umm … Whatever we can manage to give her is more than she’s getting on her own now. She won’t survive another day out there. She needs us,” I say.
My mom half smiles, impressed with my counter, but also a bit annoyed she’s allowed this game to go on this long. Because I’m winning. And maybe she’s letting me win.
“You gonna walk her every day and night?”
“Of course. She’s just like me. You walk me every day and night so my legs and body don’t get too used to the sitting position. Just like that one doctor said. I don’t want this dog getting muscle epiphany, like I did.”
“Muscle atrophy. And darn you, Opin. That was the nail in the coffin. Good job. You made me lump you and this damn dog together in my head. Well done. That was manipulation at its finest … But … with that being said, I will allow you to take care of this dog, but not unconditionally.”
“State your terms, Mama,” I say with a smile that reaches both my ears.
“One. You do your homework every time I give it. No more ‘I was too tired’ or ‘I forgot.’ No homework, no dog.”
“Fine.”
“Two. I will allow two poops and two pees in here. That’s it. Everyone, even dogs, makes mistakes. And I’m a firm believer in giving second chances to all, but after two mess ups, that’s it. She does it a third time, and she’s gone. We clear?”
“Okay … but how do I potty train her?” I ask.
“Make it a game. That’s how I potty trained you.” She hands me back the puppy. “She needs a bath.”
Mom’s right. The pup smells pretty bad.
“But before that … she needs a name,” Mom adds.
She does need a name. A sturdy name to make up for her scrawniness. A name that would make her wolf ancestors proud. “What’s a strong Ojibwe name for a girl?” I ask.
Mom opens her Ojibwe book and flips through the pages … She lets out a long hmmmmm.
“It’s so hard to remember these words. I only spoke it as a kid at home with my mama. Teachers would kick me out of class if I was caught speaking it at school. My brothers and I just kind of stopped trying. Then, after my mama died, I left it all behind. All I have is this book,” she says as she turns the pages. “What’s the word for puppy…”
“She won’t be a puppy forever. What if she grows up?”
“Okay, let me think … Got it … I remember how to say dog. But she’s got more to her. Little Dog with a Big Wolf Heart suits her, but that’s Agaasa Animosh Gichi-Ma’iingan’de.”
My eyes light up, which makes my mom’s eyes light up. Even the puppy’s eyes light up. We’re all alit. “That would be the most perfect name ever,” I say. “But it’s so long.”
“Animosh is the word for ‘dog,’” she says slowly.
“Animosh sounds like it should mean ‘animal,’” I say. “Animosh, animal.”
“You can just call her Ani for short. Your ancestors will understand,” she says.
“Ani. I like that. She looks like an Ani. Small dog. Small name.”
I kiss Ani on her forehead as she licks my nose. I don’t know what kind of dog she is, but that doesn’t matter. Because at the end of the day and every day that follows, she’ll know what kind of dog she is. She’ll know she’s my dog. And that is all she will ever need to know.
We hear faint laughter. Footsteps. Two sets of them. Mom looks past me, through the back window, and smiles. I know that smile. It’s a relief smile. It’s the same look she wears when she finally sees Emjay as he makes his way back to her.
I turn around and see Emjay and a girl approach the car. She looks about his age. Maybe a year older but a foot shorter, in skintight jeans. Her short, frizzy blond hair looks damp—I guess they successfully hit the hot tub. Emjay says something that makes her laugh. White girls love Emjay. Maybe it’s his long black hair and how he looks better than most movie stars when his shirt is off. His skin is lighter than Mom’s and mine, but he never gets mistaken for white. Even though he is half our dad. And Dad was a white man with pale skin and a beer belly. Emjay luckily looks nothing like him, but Mom worries that they both have the same poison in their heart. Dad had a bad temper. So does Emjay. Dad was violent. So is Emjay. They are both restless, and they both enjoy making other people feel bad so they’re not the only ones hurting.
But Emjay has some of our mom in him too. And that’s what draws the girls in. He’s attractive and funny and extremely charming. This girl doesn’t stand a chance. She’ll be eating out of Emjay’s hand in no time—that is, if she hasn’t already. Who knows what they were up to in the hot tub?
Mom climbs out of the car and leans against it, getting a good look at her son … and his girl.
“Seems like both my sons are bringing in strays,” Mom says, and smirks.
“Hey, Mom. Speaking of strays, how was your night?” Emjay asks, and smirks back.
“My night is about to end. As is yours. It’s late. We should—”
“Go back home? Should we do that, Mom? Get in the car and drive back to our house? Get in our nice, comfortable beds, under our heavy blankets, and just call it a night?” My brother is trying to do two things at once: one, make my mom feel bad for not being able to provide a roof over our heads. And two, he doesn’t want this pretty white girl to know that we are homeless.
Emjay is ashamed of how we live. Mom says, no, she promises, it’s not forever. It’s just temporary until we land on our feet, but Emjay says it feels like forever. And if we haven’t landed on our feet yet, then we must be still falling. Plummeting. He blames her. He’s sick of falling. Because if it’s this bad and we haven’t hit rock bottom yet, he’s terrified of what ground zero will actually look like. Feel like. Be like.
“Get in the car, Emjay. Say good night to your friend,” Mom says.
“She has a name. It’s Tina,” he says.
“Lisa,” she corrects him.
“I know it’s Lisa. Tina is a word in our Ojibwe language. It means … ‘firecracker,’” he says.
My mom lets out a laugh but doesn’t call him on his lie.
“Firecracker. I like that,” Lisa says, and bats her eyes at him.
“Yeah, because … you’re hot. And you’re a cracker,” Emjay says.
Mom lets out another laugh. I do too. Lisa notices me for the first time. I smile at her. She smiles back.
“It’s so cool you’re all Indians. My mom says she’s, like, one-sixteenth Cherokee. And how we’re related to some famous chief or something. How much Indian does that make me? I suck at math.”
I roll down the window.
“That makes you one-thirty-second Cherokee. I’m good at math,” I say.
“Rad. Thirty-two percent Cherokee. Can you guys teach me how to do it?” she asks.
“Do what, exactly?” Mom asks, thoroughly amused by her.
“Be Indian. You know, like, listen to the wind or figure out my spirit animal. I hope it’s a cat, I love cats, but watch, it’s probably something totally stupid like a walrus or something,” she says, and laughs.
“Emjay will teach you. Emjay’s, like, really good at being Indian. Isn’t that right, Em?” Mom says, and approaches him.
They eye each other intensely. Like they are communicating through brain waves and not words. A whole other conversation is being had, and this girl can’t hear it. And you know what the wind is saying to you now? Mom is saying without speaking. That it’s time to go.
Emjay caught the message in her brain-breeze. She’s telling him that the fun time is over. It’s time we move on. Sacramento isn’t it. The search continues.
Emjay’s smile fades. His shoulders stiffen. He’s upset, but not mad enough to make a scene in front of this girl. He still has to be cool and smooth. “Fine. This place sucked anyway,” he says to Mom, then turns to Lisa. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Tina,” he says, and kisses her—right in front of us.
My eyes widen. Wow. I wish I was smooth like that. He gets to kiss pretty girls while I’m stuck in here doing homework. He’s getting rewarded for being a troublemaker and staying out all night. I guess it’s true. Girls like bad boys. I shoot my eyes to Mom. She knows Emjay kissed the girl in front of her just to piss her off. It was his last attempt at winning their unspoken battle. A battle they are constantly fighting. Instead of fighting back, Mom gets in the car. Neither of them won.
She takes a deep sigh and turns to me. “Dogs read people best. Did Ani like that girl?” she asks.
I lift my coat to show her that Ani has been asleep this entire time. Mom smiles. “Did you do your homework?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, and hand her the pelican drawing. She looks at it way longer than she needs to.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, and her voice cracks halfway through the word, like she is about to cry.
I hate seeing her cry. I relay the two amazing science facts to her and tell her the ten words I pulled from teacher. I explain to her I couldn’t time her because I forgot to clock the time she left and was asleep by the time she came back. I don’t know if she hears any of it, though. She’s staring at the rearview mirror to see if Emjay is done kissing the blond firecracker.
“Does tina really mean ‘firecracker’?” I ask her.
“No,” Mom says, and pulls out her notebook and skims through it.
The passenger door opens. I guess he’s done.
Emjay sinks into his seat. He and Mom don’t turn to each other. They just face forward, blankly, like they are both paralyzed by the magnificence of the ugly concrete wall staring back at them.
Finally, Mom says, “Ishkode bakwezhigaans.”
“I don’t care,” Emjay replies.
“That’s how you say firecracker.”
“I still don’t care.”
She sighs. “Did you eat?”
“Yeah,” he says, and pulls the lever, reclining his seat.
He turns away from Mom, giving her his back. His face is inches from the door. Mom stares at him for what feels like ten million minutes but doesn’t speak. Her hand twitches. Slightly rises. I know she wants to reach out and push her fingers through his hair. Either that or just rest her hand on his shoulder, but she doesn’t. Instead, she reaches behind and pulls a blanket from the floorboard, near my feet. She unfolds it and places it over Emjay. He doesn’t protest. He doesn’t shrug it off. Which is doing something, I guess. Ignoring Mom? Apologizing? Pretending to be asleep? I don’t know. And Mom doesn’t know either, because she just keeps staring at him, hoping he’ll turn around. But he won’t. He never does.
I didn’t even get to introduce him to Ani.
I pull out another blanket and hand it to Mom. She unfolds it and spreads it over her body, then scrunches down in her seat. I grab the third blanket and sprawl out in the back seat, shifting Ani to my chest and covering us both.
It’s time to sleep. It’s time for all of us to forget we are in a car and dream about being in a bed. A real bed. With pillows and sheets. In a place we can all call home.