Chapter 21

On Saturday, I stare at the Tribe’s billboard on my way through downtown. Despair drops anchor in the pit of my stomach. The left side has NEVER FORGET in white letters on a dark background. Heather’s senior picture, along with her description and the phone number for Tribal Police, fills the other half.

It isn’t until I pass by that I notice the outline of the Twin Towers behind the bold lettering. They had meant to never forget about 9/11. Two separate posters.

Heather’s mom looked rough last night on TV. Hard living and more than one stint in county jail. She claimed the police weren’t doing enough to look for her daughter. I make a mental note to ask Jamie or Ron if anything can be done to increase the search efforts.

On Sugar Island, I head south and east until the asphalt ends. The Jeep rocks side to side on the uneven dirt road beyond. “Whoa, good pony,” I say, patting the dashboard when I park.

Taking my cue from Jonsy’s masterpiece of organization, I have a backpack with clear storage bags, a roll of tan masking tape for making labels, and a black Sharpie. I’ve also packed a map of the island—folded so the panel shows only Duck Island—along with bottled water, latex gloves, bug dope, red cotton yarn, tiny scissors, a digital camera, and a notebook with a pen tethered by a yarn leash to its spiral binding.

On my walk to the narrow section of land that makes Duck Island a peninsula instead of an actual island, I come upon the caretaker’s cabin on the preserve.

I halt. A memory washes over me like a gentle rain.

My dad carrying me on his shoulders as he hiked past the cabin to his best secret fishing spot on Duck Lake.

I want to stand here and blink until he’s next to me. I hear Jonsy’s voice instead.

Get to work, Sis. You’re burning daylight.

Somewhere on Duck Island, Uncle David found a unique variety of mushroom.

To explore the area methodically, I decide to view it as the torso of a body getting a CAT scan. I stand at the southeastern side of the peninsula at the edge of Lake George and tie a snip of red yarn around a birch tree to mark my starting point. I take ten paces north along the shoreline and mark another tree with yarn.

The average person’s stride is about thirty inches, but since I have such long legs, my strides are probably closer to a full yard. So my cross sections will be thirty feet deep for the width of the island east to west.

Cutting through the middle of Duck Island, I reach Duck Lake to the west. I head south until I’m at the narrow starting point of the peninsula and mark the first tree. Marking ten paces north along the shore of Duck Lake, I establish my northwestern boundary.

I canvass the section, looking for the damp places—soil or soft wood—where mushrooms grow. When I find something, I take pictures, log it in my notebook, and collect a sample in a sandwich bag. Later, I’ll look up each sample in the three mushroom encyclopedias that were among Uncle David’s books. Mom had me add all of his books to the library at the big house after we emptied his apartment. In addition to my uncle’s reference books, I found a mushroom-foraging website that is searchable by location or species.

My goal is to find something that hasn’t been cataloged. I’m not looking for a match—rather, for the absence of a match.

Daunis, we don’t prove a hypothesis is true; we search for evidence to disprove a null hypothesis. Uncle David’s voice is as clear as if he is walking behind me.

He taught me so much. I can follow in his footsteps—do what he would have done.

Is it wrong to be excited about a research project that has so much at stake?

The woods are medicinal. Engaging all my senses and connecting me to something timeless. Like being in the zone, except I’m not running. Leaves flutter to the ground. Critters scurry nearby. The scents of pine, cedar, and moss mixing together.

When I complete the first section, I begin again with ten paces north along Lake George. I explore Duck Island in cross sections for the rest of the morning.

I take an early afternoon break to eat some cheese and crackers and a juicy Honeycrisp apple. I check my watch. My mother thinks I am studying all day at the university library. My plan is to do a few more sections before I go home and look up today’s samples. Tomorrow I’ll come back as soon as Mom leaves for Sunday mass and put in more hours.

I take ten paces north and mark a tree. There’s a patch of pansies just beyond my boundary. Yellow with purple markings or with their coloring reversed.

Gramma Pearl gathered these vivid flowers. She mixed them with melted bear grease as an ointment for my dad’s eczema. I drank tea made from dried petals she kept in a coffee tin. She boiled purple petals to use as a dye for the strips of black ash that would be twisted into the weaving for a colorful accent in her baskets.

I’ve always liked pansies. When I did my coming-of-age fast, it rained the entire time. It stopped only once. Enough for

me to take in the woods surrounding the large boulder where I huddled, which was like the hull of an overturned boat. There was a patch of colorful pansies, and their markings looked like little faces. When the rain returned and I went back under my tarp, I imagined them as spirit helpers keeping me company.

Something black darts past. A raven, pausing to rest on a small boulder at the water’s edge beyond the pansies.

I recall Macy’s story at the bonfire. The way I heard the story from Gramma Pearl, Gaagaagi was away making mischief when Creator handed out gifts.

What will I do? Oh, why was I so naughty? How can I ever find my purpose?

Gaagaagi visited Makwa to see if he could learn her ways, but he grew bored. All she did was lumber through the woods finding medicines.

He flew away and observed each of his friends using their gifts. Again he scolded himself for being naughty and missing out on receiving his own gift.

One day as he was flying around, he heard Ajidamoo crying in a hole in an oak tree surrounded by the acorns he had collected.

What is the matter, Ajidamoo?

I am sad and I have no joy for anything I once loved doing.

Maybe you should go see Makwa. She knows about medicines. Maybe there is a tea she can make for you. Come with me. I will take you there.

Gaagaagi led Ajidamoo to Makwa. Sure enough, Makwa had the right medicine for him.

A pleased feeling came over Gaagaagi as he flew away. He kept going until he came upon Waabooz crying. What is the matter, Waabooz?

I cannot relax as long as that sly Waagosh is trying to eat me.

But, Waabooz, Creator gifted you long ears and quick feet. You can hear things that others cannot. No one moves more quickly than you. You will have a head start on Waagosh if you honor your gifts.

That is true, said Waabooz. Miigwech, niijii.

As he flew away, Gaagaagi had that good feeling again. He had spent so much time flying around, watching his friends using their gifts, that he had come to know their strengths and how they might help one another in their time of need.

And that is how Gaagaagi discovered that his gift was in solving problems.

I am smiling when I approach the black bird on the small black boulder.

“And how will you help me, Gaagaagi?” I ask quietly.

The smell hits me when I realize something is just beyond the boulder along the shore.

A body.

Pulling my sweatshirt to cover my nose, I take hesitant steps aligned with my shallow, halting breaths. I reach the boulder and peer around.

Eyelids still half open. Eyes gone. Pecked or nibbled.
I stumble backward.
It doesn’t smell like dead body.
How would Jonsy know what a dead body smelled like? Because rotting flesh is unlike anything else.

I know that I, too, will never forget the smell of Heather Nodin’s body.

CHAPTER 22

It isn’t until I’m close to Auntie’s that my phone connects with a cell tower across the river. I burst into the house, talking to the 911 operator.

“No, she doesn’t have a pulse. I told you she’s dead.”

My aunt comes running from the laundry room, wide-eyed with concern.

“Heather Nodin … washed up … Lake George down by Duck Island.” I gesture to the phone, telling Auntie, “I’ve told her twice now.” I shout into the phone, “I DIDN’T NEED TO TAKE HER PULSE BECAUSE SHE WAS ALREADY DEAD.”

Auntie grabs my cell phone. With her other hand, she yanks me into half of a bear hug.

“We’ll meet the police at the caretaker’s cabin,” she says into the phone before flipping it shut and tossing it on the kitchen island. Auntie’s other arm wraps me tightly.

They do this to calm cows at slaughter. My first year playing hockey for Coach Bobby, he brought me home from an away game. We listened to an NPR interview with Temple Grandin, a scientist who has autism. She invented a “squeeze machine” for cattle processing that also relieved her own sensory overstimulation. Mom came outside to check on me when Coach’s car remained parked in the driveway and I still hadn’t exited. I had wanted to finish listening to the interview. Coach Bobby rolled down his window when Mom approached.

No worries, Grace. She’s safe with me.

Four cop cars are followed by an ambulance. Auntie grips my hand as we lead a half-dozen cops and two EMTs along the shoreline. TJ is among the law enforcement officers.

When I recognize the boulder the raven showed me, I stop and point.

“There.” I don’t want to smell her again.

Auntie and I walk back to the small clearing by the caretaker’s cabin where the cars are parked. We sit against the front bumper of her SUV. I focus on the late afternoon sunlight still above the tree line and make a point of ignoring TJ when he approaches us.

“What were you doing out here?” Officer Kewadin asks me.

I lean forward and throw up on his police boots.

Auntie pours water on a paper towel and wipes my clammy forehead. She hands me a second towel. I wipe my mouth. I take deep breaths, as she hands damp paper towels to TJ.

“School assignment,” I say finally. “Plant morphology.”

“Can you radio someone to call her mother?” Auntie asks him.

Shit. Mom will freak out.

Double shit. I forgot to notify Jamie or Ron about this. But … maybe Heather isn’t connected to the investigation.

I got some Molly V. You and your new boyfriend can go all night long. Got other stuff too … if you want.

“I need to call my … boyfriend.” I cough on the word. “Your brother’s teammate?” TJ’s jaw clenches.
I nod and dry-heave.

Officer Kewadin doesn’t take any chances. He backs up and walks away.

For once, I don’t resist when my mother insists on taking care of me. I know she’s serious as a heart attack when she skips Sunday mass and her daily visit with GrandMary to watch movies with me all morning. It’s kind of annoying, though, when she keeps hopping up from the recliner to top off my dainty teacup of never-ending chamomile. Each time she does it, my flash of irritation at her hovering is replaced with guilt for being selfish and ungrateful.

I am not the only brat in our house. Herri naps on my flat chest. Her tuxedo coloring—mostly white with a few black spots—makes her look cute. It’s an effective disguise because she is a demanding little pest. If I pause too long from stroking her silky fur, she bites at my fingers.

My cell phone buzzes once. Herri gets pissed when I stop petting her to flip it open.

JAMIE: Call?
ME: No. Come over.

Last night I called Jamie. Long enough to provide a recap of finding Heather, before my mother interrupted with an offer to run a bath for me. She hasn’t let me out of her sight since.

When the movie ends, Mom asks what I want to watch next.

“Hocus Pocus,” I say.
“Is that a good choice? Doesn’t it have”—her voice drops

to a whisper—“dead people?”

“It’s fine, Mom.” I roll my eyes and instantly regret it when she blinks, hurt.

I push Herri off me and rise quickly. My arms go around Mom the way Auntie held me tight yesterday. Something breaks my heart when her tense shoulders shake.

This is how we’ve always been.

GrandMary was like Herri. She pushed me, and I could push back, confident in knowing exactly where the limits were. As with Herri, my formidable grandmother and I nipped at each other, not enough to break the skin but just enough to get a point across.

But my mother is always moving the line so that I never know what will make her crack. All I know is that her fragile emotions are like pond ice during spring thaw.

When she stops crying, I kiss her cheek.

“A friend is coming over. Is that okay? You met him … Jamie. We are … more than friends now,” I babble.

Mom’s conflicted emotions are so easy to read: surprise, happiness, concern.

I answer her unspoken questions. “Jamie is a good person, Mom. Very respectful of me and all I’ve been through.”

I let go of her and take my teacup to the kitchen sink. I rinse it out, and set it upside down in the dish drainer. I need to talk with Jamie, which won’t be possible if Mom is filling teacups and baking a batch of cookies for my friend.

“Would it be okay to have some privacy?” I ask gently. Again, her anxious face reads like a script: no, yes, no,

okay.

“I’ll fold some laundry and ride the exercise bike,” she offers reluctantly.

When Jamie arrives, my mother greets him with a hug. She asks if he’s nervous about next weekend’s season opener and he admits that, yes, he is very anxious.

Mom makes her polite retreat to the basement. As soon as I hear the television in the family room, I look at Jamie and put a finger to my lips.

He watches with a bemused expression as I go to the bookcase to retrieve the baby-monitor sensor that will convey all upstairs sounds when my mother is in the basement. I move it to the antique armoire that has been retrofitted to hold the television and DVD player. Mom will either listen to Hocus Pocus or shut off the baby-monitor receiver downstairs.

Daunis, Secret Squirrel extraordinaire, is a sneaky ajidamoo.

I motion for Jamie to follow me as I tiptoe down the hallway. When I reach my bedroom, he’s not directly behind me. He got sidetracked by the multiple oversized framed photo collages along the way. The life story of Daunis Lorenza Fontaine. I bat at his arm the way Herri does when she wants me to pay attention to her. Jamie hones in on a picture of seven-year-old me looking miserable in a sequined pink figure-skating outfit tight as sausage casing.

Finally I have to drag him into my bedroom.

Jamie eyeballs my room. He pauses in front of the dresser. A framed photo shows Lily and me dressed up for Halloween as two of the sister witches from Hocus Pocus. She thought it would be funny if I was the glamorous sister, so I wore the blond wig. Herri jumps onto the dresser and nudges Jamie’s hand to pet her.

“Who’s this?” he asks while rubbing behind Herri’s ears.

“Herri … Herrington, actually. She’s named after NASA astronaut John Herrington, who is a member of the Chickasaw Nation and was the first Native American to walk in space.” I keep babbling, “Did you know that John Herrington brought an eagle feather to the International Space Station?”

“I didn’t. That’s really cool,” he says. Herri purrs loudly, approving of Jamie’s nimble-fingered technique. I nearly forget why I invited him over.

“So I didn’t mention it before,” I whisper. “Heather offered me ecstasy mixed with Viagra at the bonfire. Weed, too.”

“You’re supposed to tell me things right away,” Jamie quietly admonishes the Daunis in the mirror above the dresser. “Not a week later.”

“I didn’t think it was anything, but now I do.”

“Her death wasn’t suspicious, according to Ron.”

“Drowning in September? Washing up on Duck Island? How is that not suspicious?”

The gold-framed mirror makes us look like a photograph. I turn my back to the dresser.

“She used to be Heather Swanson,” I say. “Everyone knew her dad was Joey Nodin, but he denied it. Supposedly he threatened Heather’s mom when she asked for child support. But once the casino opened and the Tribe started paying per cap, Joey claimed paternity and enrolled Heather in the Tribe. People say Joey paid her mom’s shady boyfriend to set her up for a drug bust so she would lose custody. The custodial parent gets the kid’s minor money.”

Jamie raises the eyebrow on the perfect side of his face. I keep whispering.

“I told you before that per cap can be good or bad, depending on how it is used. There’s a lot of good things about per cap. Auntie buys back land on Sugar Island that got sold to the Zhaaganaash during hard times.”

He says nothing.

“But when it comes to the worst aspects of per capita payments, everyone mentions Heather. Auntie said her case led to Tribal Council amending the tribal enrollment code. There’s a process now for non-tribal members claiming their babies are tribal. DNA tests to establish paternity right from the start.”

Jamie interrupts me. “DNA tests can tell you what tribe you’re from?”

“Shhh.” Finger to lips again.

He turns to me. Awfully close. I move a step away and keep talking in a low voice.

“You’re thinking of those bullshit ancestry tests where you mail your spit in a test tube and they say you’re eighteen percent Native American. Those tests are imperfect. They generalize results to geographic regions, not specific countries or tribes or bands. People take those tests and think they can enroll in a tribe. It doesn’t work like that.”

He frowns. Jamie works undercover, going into tribal communities and playing a role. I never live anywhere long enough to find out what normal feels like. Is it possible that, whoever he really is, he has no community?

I could tell him what I know. Share information that isn’t about the investigation, but might be of interest to whoever he is behind his shield.

“Paternity tests use any type of body fluid to extract DNA to compare the child to the father or his siblings. The Tribe requires a blood test. They were going to require hair instead, until some of the traditional pipe carriers reminded everyone about the violent history of our hair being taken from us … scalps that were cashed in like animal pelts, and boarding schools cutting children’s hair as soon as they were taken from their families. When Council debated using blood for the testing, that got heated too. Some said too much blood had been spilled already. But there were others who talked about blood memories. It wasn’t just generational trauma that got stored in our blood and passed along, but our resilience and language, too. So the Tribe voted for blood as the way to help children reestablish their blood connection. And for adults who got adopted out to find their way back to their family.”

Jamie isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s at my desk now, staring out the window as he absentmindedly pets Herri. His mind is elsewhere; I’ve bored him with my impromptu speech: Everything You Always Wanted to Know About DNA But Were Too Afraid to Ask. Maybe he wasn’t curious after all.

“Anyway, Council tried fixing it so no one else would go through what Heather did.”

“You knew her, so I don’t want to say anything bad,” Jamie says. He turns from the window. “But, evidently, running off without telling anyone and having a bag of weed and one full of pills and crystal meth in her hoodie pouch wasn’t out of character.”

“I don’t care about that. She deserves to have someone give a damn.”

Now he is the one to raise his finger to his lips.

Something pulls me away from the red-hot flare of anger.

What he just said about the contents of her hoodie pouch. Could it be a clue?

“Jamie, there wasn’t any meth in the bag she showed me. Just speckled pills.”

I want to join Jamie in talking with Ron about the drugs found on Heather.

“You had a traumatic experience yesterday, Daunis. Take it easy today,” Jamie whispers in my ear as I pick up the baby monitor to return it to the bookcase.

I cover the microphone part just in case Mom is listening.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and heads to the front door.

I fight the urge to throw the damn baby monitor at him. Following behind, I catch up as he reaches his truck. Just as I do, Macy’s royal blue Corvette turns onto my street.

You two need to establish relationship patterns for people to observe, Ron said.

Did I think to pray for zoongidewin today? No, because why would I need bravery to stay home all day with Mom and Herri? I offered semaa this morning and prayed for zaagidiwin for Heather Nodin. To know love is to know peace. I wish that for her in the next world, because I think it eluded her in this one.

I embrace Jamie from behind. His body goes rigid. My arms circle his waist and I hold him in an impromptu squeeze machine.

“Macy’s car is coming. We gotta make this look good,” I say quickly.

He smells like the beach and sunshine.

Jamie gives a casual wave to the passing car.

I kiss the side of his neck. The pulse of his carotid artery beats against my lips.

And that, Macy Manitou, is called acting.

Jamie leaves. Mom stands at the door, weeping. Sighing, I go inside to decipher her tears and figure out how to comfort her.

Reading people was something Lily and I had in common.

My best friend said that when she lived with her mom, Lily could tell within three seconds whether Maggie’s latest relationship was good or bad. Assessing the situation to determine if she needed to be Funny Lily or Invisible Lily. I thought I could relate. Mom carried herself differently on Sad Days, still mourning her relationship with my dad. I’d need to comfort my mother—make tea, give hugs, and watch a lighthearted movie together.

It’s kinda the same thing, I told Lily.
No. It’s not, she said. Your mom never took it out on you

when a relationship ended.

It takes all of five seconds from the driveway to the front door to discern Mom’s mood.

Observation: Tears, but without her Sad Days slouched posture, and a wistful half smile.

Diagnosis: I’m growing up, and Mom wishes my uncle were here to see it.

Prescription: Hugs. Sympathy. Suggest a nap afterward. And tea.

“David won’t be there to walk you down the aisle,” Mom says.

I resist the urge to tell her, Holy wah, I’m eighteen going on nineteen. Instead I hold her until she’s done crying.

“Mom, why don’t you lie down and I’ll bring a cup of tea. Chamomile.”

While my mother naps, I try finishing the movie. It’s no use. I’m too fidgety. Herri nips my fingers because I’m ruining her plans to nap on my chest.

My mind won’t stop racing.

Jamie and Ron are communicating with the FBI to find out everything that was on Heather, a complete inventory. Meanwhile, I have to stay home. Be a useless Secret Squirrel.

Work the problem, Daunis.

Uncle David taught me to think like a scientist. It wasn’t enough to make haphazard lists; you needed to sequence the order of tasks.

I miss him. Not just because Mom was as carefree as she could ever be around her little brother, but because he was good and kind. He loved me and my boundless curiosity.

Once, GrandMary grew weary of my endless questions over Sunday dinner.

Curiosity killed the cat, Daunis, GrandMary said.

Yes, but satisfaction revived her. Uncle David scored the equivalent of a hockey snap shot. Quick. More about surprise than power.

I can’t talk about the investigation with Auntie or Granny June. Uncle David would understand. He’d help me work the problem.

He taught me the seven steps of the scientific method: observe, question, research, hypothesize, experiment, analyze, conclude. Order from chaos.

Organize and document everything, Daunis.

That’s it. I stand so quickly that Herri flees from my eureka moment.

My uncle logged every experiment, each step of his beloved scientific method. He filled notebooks with his messy handwriting—the only part of him that was not meticulous.

Uncle David went missing before he could provide any evidence. He discovered something he wasn’t supposed to know. That’s why he isn’t here.

I’ll trace his footsteps, but carefully. Curiosity killed the cat. But satisfaction revived her.

CHAPTER 23

Grandmary, Mom, and I packed all his belongings after he died. My mother couldn’t bear to get rid of anything, so it all went to GrandMary’s basement.

I write a note for Mom and put it next to the teakettle for her to see after her nap.

Going for run—didn’t want to disturb you. Don’t worry about me for dinner.
Might go visit GrandMary or Auntie. Love you.

I pass Dana’s house on my way to my grandparents’. People still shake their heads when they talk about her unforgivable sin of painting her dark brick home ivory and adding bold indigo shutters. Levi told me his mom saw a house like that in Ann Arbor when she was in law school and wanted a house like that someday. Dana Firekeeper, chief tribal judge, is nothing if not tenacious.

My grandparents’ house, meanwhile, looks as if it was reconstructed stone by stone from the French countryside. An imposing chateau in a cul-de-sac overlooking Sault Sainte Marie and Sugar Island off to the east.

I jog to the side entrance off the kitchen and use my key to enter. It smells like lemon furniture polish; the cleaning lady must’ve been here yesterday or Friday. She still comes twice a week to keep everything pristine while my mother clings to the hope that GrandMary will recover and demand to return home.

I turn on every light as I make my way through the dark basement, passing the laundry room and the wine cellar before reaching a heavy wood door leading to a large storage area. The cleaning lady doesn’t enter here, so it has a musty smell. My grandfather had sturdy wood shelving units installed around the perimeter. Dusty cardboard boxes, plastic storage bins, and wooden crates line the shelves. Most, but not all, are labeled.

Uncle David’s belongings fill a section of wall, and his furniture takes up most of the floor space. Mom cried when she told me that he would want me to have his dining room set in my own house someday. She cries whenever she talks about him, like today, when she got choked up at the sight of me embracing Jamie and says something about how David would have loved meeting him.

I look for the bins marked OFFICE and lift lids to peer inside until I find the ones with his notebooks. GrandMary and I did that room, while Mom insisted on boxing things from his bedroom. My grandmother, who thought his being gay was something he would outgrow, was content to let Mom box up the parts of his life she herself couldn’t understand.

If it had been me who died, would GrandMary have felt the same way about my black ash baskets from Gramma Pearl and my Jingle Dress regalia?

I’m ashamed of myself for the thought.

When you love someone, but don’t like parts of them, it complicates your memories of them when they’re gone.

The notebooks were tossed haphazardly into the bins. I dump out the contents of the first bin to check the beginning and ending dates of each college-rule spiral notebook. Anything prior to 2004 or 2003 will go back into the bin. One by one they return. Bin by bin, I make my way through the experiments and scientific musings of my uncle. Everything I read reaches my brain in his voice.

There are notebooks from before I was born. I’m tempted to get lost in the pages. What was he working on when I was a secret zygote? When the genetic material from my mom and dad had already combined to decree that I’d have my dad’s frame and my mom’s backside? His nose and her superpower of overthinking everything. That I would be like Mom and GrandMary and Grandpa Lorenzo, able to drink wine and grappa and feel just fine the next day, instead of like Uncle David, who had decided that sobriety was the path that worked for him.

When he died, Mom insisted he hadn’t relapsed. She was right, but at the time, I noted his odd behavior and drew the wrong conclusion.

I stare at the bins now back on the shelves. Something heavy weighs me down, as if I’m no longer on this planet but on Jupiter, with its gravitational pull 2.4 times stronger than Earth’s.

David doesn’t have any notebooks from this year because he was preoccupied with his confidential-informant activities for the FBI. He was holding himself back.

I was clueless. In not seeing what was going on right in front of me, I allowed a seed of doubt to plant itself in my heart. I had been so convinced that yet another person I loved had disappointed me with their failings.

The week flies by. Uncle David stays on my mind all day, every day, as if he is perched on my shoulder like a parrot dispensing mini science lectures. He’s with me in the Newer New Normal, during my morning run with Jamie and the guys. In Plant Morphology class, he confirms my answers before I say them aloud. He cheers me on at the library on campus, where I do my assignments for the next day. Even when I pick up Granny June for lunch. And when I attend Heather Nodin’s funeral.

On Friday, I help an Elder make a CD of music from iTunes. Nothing but Dolly Parton. When I finish, I wander over to the euchre table to say goodbye to Granny June.

“Go to classes, my girl,” she says.

Granny thinks I have afternoon classes, so she takes the Elder van when she’s ready to come home.

“I still don’t know why you don’t catch a ride with Minnie,” I say, shaking my head.

“Have you seen her drive?” Granny points her lips toward her euchre partner. “She never lets that damn Mustang gallop.”

Minnie holds her cards with one hand as she flips her middle finger at Granny.

I leave the Elder Center but head south to Duck Island. I park at the end of the dirt road, grab my backpack, and hike past the caretaker’s cabin. I make my way north along the peninsula to where I left off yesterday.

Every afternoon, I forage for wild mushrooms and document every variety I come across. I pause only to drink water, enjoy a Honeycrisp, or pee next to a tree. My progress every day this week has been steady and orderly.

Today, however, I’m distracted by the stunning autumn leaves. Shades I’ve never noticed: saffron, claret, mustard, coral, rust, canary, and vermilion. The pictures I snap all afternoon are of leaves instead of mushrooms.

The Supes’ season opener is tonight. I should be eager for Levi’s first game as team captain, but it is also my first game as a dreaded anglerfish. So I snap more pictures of leaves.

All week I have avoided the spot where the raven showed me Heather Nodin’s body. Today I find myself standing in the patch of yellow and purple pansies along Lake George. Dropping my backpack, I sit with my knees pulled up to my chest.

Each blink reveals different memories of Heather.

Her face aglow from the bonfire. Eyelids half open. Speckled pills. Jeans that showed a lot of skin beneath the large safety pins holding together the cutout side seams. Ridiculous platform flip-flops in which, even as stoned as Heather seemed, she walked more steadily than I would’ve.

A quiz in English class our freshman year. Everyone else scribbling furtively, but Heather sat at her desk and stared out the window. She was living with her dad by then. Her mom was in county jail.

Dodgeball in seventh-grade gym class. At the start of each match, she’d walk to the line, get picked off immediately, and go sit down on the sidelines. That was the year the Tribe began distributing per capita payments to members.

A little girl in a purple dress at the school Daddy Daughter Dance. Heather was the only other girl besides me who showed up without a dad. The only girl I wasn’t envious of. Heather went with her mom’s latest boyfriend, a man she called Uncle. I showed up with Uncle David, the first year he took me there after my dad died.

Auntie told me once that a girl needs at least one grown man in her life who sees her worth as inherent. Values her just as she is, not dependent upon her appearance or accomplishments.

Are Lost Girls the ones who received other messages about their value?

I arrive at the season opener against the Shreveport Mudbugs during the first intermission. Just in time to watch the anglerfishes skate onto the ice. They wear identical Supes team jerseys, navy blue with an ominous cresting white wave outlined in silver. Each anglerfish has her boyfriend’s last name on the back. They toss Supes-logo hockey pucks and rolled-up T-shirts to fans.

People stare as I walk to the anglerfish section of the arena. Daunis Fontaine as a Hockey World girlfriend. I should have expected this sort of attention, but I’m still not prepared. I haven’t been part of their anglerfish clique. I don’t watch the Supes practice. They will probably shun me. I’m not one of them; I’m just a faker.

To my surprise, their faces light up when they return to their section and see me hovering. They squeeze more closely together to make room for me. They rattle off their names too quickly for me to process. The one next to me gives me a side hug; her name might be Megan, but I’m too embarrassed to admit I don’t know it.

Their excitement swirls around me like fairy dust. By the time the players return to the ice for the second period, I join in their laughter. Just a little.

I follow Jamie’s every move, analyzing his technique as only another player can.

He is a talented but quiet player. He must have played Junior A or college level. There’s something enthralling about the way he skates, a smoothness that’s almost ballet-like. He never needs to confirm that in his real life he began as a figure skater; I just know.

The girlfriends congratulate me, as if I have anything to do with Jamie’s prowess. They also give me credit for Levi.

My brother is a completely different type of skater than Jamie. Levi is commanding on ice. Full-throttle, never-back- down, born to play center. He doesn’t look a thing like our dad or play the same position, but Dad’s talent is in Levi’s DNA.

He and I grew up on the ice. At first it was us three: Dad, Levi, and me. Then just my brother and me. Stormy and Travis joined us, and, later, Mike.

Although Levi is three months younger, I was his protégé. During my own games on the girls’ leagues I played in before high school, I tuned out all sound except my brother’s voice. When Levi gave praise, I truly believed it.

My heart bursts with pride as Levi skates past. His captain’s letter patch, C, is stitched on the upper left breast of his light blue jersey. Over his heart.

I have many reasons for becoming a Secret Squirrel: Lily, Uncle David, the Tribe, my town, and those Nish kids in northern Minnesota. Watching the Supes on the ice, I add to my list of reasons Levi and his team.

“I wanna show you my latest tattoo,” Maybe-Megan says in the bathroom after the game. “By the way, you and Jamie make such a cute couple.”

I used to mock anglerfish girlfriends for the inability to pee solo. Now I hold up my end of the conversation from the next stall.

“Aw, thanks. So do you and Tanner.” It’s probably unwise to mention how Tanner eyeballs Levi’s latest conquests when he thinks no one is watching.

Being a Secret Squirrel has opened my eyes to deception. It doesn’t filter the insignificant from the significant. It’s like when Cousin Josette got a cochlear implant and heard every sound as an amalgam flooding her mind. She needed to learn how to tune out the noise.

When I exit the stall, Maybe-Megan has her pants unzipped to proudly display a dream-catcher tattoo below her belly button. An imperfect spiderweb design, complete with feathers dipping to where her pubic hair was waxed away for a smooth canvas.

“Cool, right?” she says.

“Your kiden needed protection from bad dreams?” I raise an eyebrow.

She laughs while zipping her jeans. “Dream catchers are sexy.”

When Lily and I were on Tribal Youth Council, we all played a game called Bigotry Bingo. When we heard a comment that fed into stereotypes, we’d call it out. Dream catchers were the free space. Too easy. There were so many others, though.

You don’t look Native.
Must be nice to get free college.
Can you give me an Indian name for my dog?

Maybe-Megan’s tattoo would have been good for another square: Native Americans as a sexual fetish. The more she talks, the more squares I mark on my imaginary bingo card with an imaginary dauber.

“I’m honoring Indians,” she says in response to my lingering scowl.

“Plus, I’m part Indian, so it’s okay.”
“My great-grandma was an Indian princess.” Lily, we have a winner!
“Bingo,” I whisper as we leave the bathroom.

I wait in the congested lobby to cheer for our victorious Supes. Ron finds me. When Mike’s parents wave us over, I provide background information along the way.

“Mike Edwards is a high school junior and made the team this year, which was his first year of eligibility. His dad is a defense attorney, one of the best in the U.P. Mr. Edwards sponsors the Booster Bus for superfans to attend the away games.” I recall some juicy gossip. “Supposedly, everyone signs an agreement to keep quiet about the Booster Bus shenanigans.”

“So … we want to get on the bus,” Ron says.

“Well, good luck with that. There’s a huge waiting list and annual fees.”

Ron shakes his head in disbelief at that level of fandom.

We reach them, finally. Mr. Edwards is deep in conversation with Coach Bobby.

“How’s your grandmother?” Mrs. Edwards asks. She always smells like Chanel No. 5.

“The same,” I say. “This is Jamie Johnson’s uncle. Ron Johnson.” I turn to Ron. “Mrs. Edwards bought my grandmother’s clothing store a few years ago.”

They shake hands.

“Helene Edwards. I don’t believe we met when the team was announced. My son Michael plays goalie. Nice to meet you.”

Coach Bobby winks at me as Mr. Edwards finishes raving about Mike’s performance. Coach holds out his fist for our usual fist-bump greeting.

I make the introduction. “Ron, this is Coach Bobby.”

“Bobby LaFleur. I coached this one for four years,” he says, smiling at me. “Best hybrid defenseman. Hockey sense like you wouldn’t believe. Even better than her brother’s.”

Embarrassed, I focus on Macy talking with some guy next to the vending machines. He reaches out to grab her hand and she acts like it burns her. Her dark eyes flash. He watches her go before staring at his shoes for a long time.

Whatever he had going on with Macy is over now.

I’m pulled back into the conversation when Mr. Edwards interrupts Coach Bobby to introduce himself to Ron and engage in a handshake that appears almost combative. He must have come right from the office, because he’s still in a suit and tie. Mike has his dad’s pale blue-gray eyes. I wonder if he will shave his head like his dad if he goes bald before his time too.

“Your son made a great shot,” Mr. Edwards tells Ron.

“Nephew,” Ron clarifies. “Yes, he’s been sweating bullets over this first game.”

I crack a smile.

“Mr. Edwards—” I begin.

“Call me Grant. You’re all grown up now.” His light eyes twinkle.

“Grant,” I say, as if I’m just learning English and this is my first word. “Ron and I wanted to ask you about the Booster Bus. Is there any chance we can be added to the waiting list? I’m interested in all the away games. Ron would like to join when he can get a sub on Fridays. He’s teaching at Sault High.”

Call-me-Grant grins. “Let me see what I can do. You want to try it next weekend? See what you both think?” He looks from me to Ron.

“Really? That would be fantastic,” I gush.

Players emerge from the locker room in their dress clothes, shower-damp like wet puppies. Eagerly seeking their people.

While Jamie and Mike make their way through the crowd, I watch Levi, with Stormy at his side, as they are absorbed into the mass of excited fans. It’s like watching a human depiction of phagocytosis, with my brother and his best friend playing the part of bacteria getting swallowed by the crowd as one giant feasting amoeba.

“You did great,” Ron tells Jamie, patting him on the back.

Jamie holds my hand as we listen to Call-me-Grant’s recap of the night’s best plays.

Levi breaks away from his fans to hug me. Stormy trails behind. He and I were teammates last year at Sault High. Stormy’s parents attend his games unless one or the other is on a bender. Neither is here tonight for his first game as a Supe; that’s rough.

“Great game, Stormy,” I say. His face lights up.

Next I turn my attention to Mike. He is my target. I will be a take-charge Secret Squirrel, instead of waiting around for a clue to rub its head against my leg and purr to be petted.

During varsity hockey season, Mr. and Mrs. Edwards hosted Sunday dinners for post-game rehashing. I always attended. We’d watch videos of the game and analyze our mistakes.

Call-me-Grant’s home office might hold a clue. He does represent a lot of shady clients. Maybe he keeps files at home? My Secret Squirrel goal is to engineer an invitation because Levi mentioned that Mike’s parents planned to host similar post-game dinners for the Supes.

I give Mike a shove with my free hand. “You were fantastic.”

It’s true. He appears bulky and methodical, but in truth, Mike is deceptively quick. He has an innate sense of what will happen next and can react instantly. It makes him a phenomenal goalie.

“Ah, but he let one slip by,” says Call-me-Grant in a casual tone that rings hollow.

Mike looks away. Mrs. Edwards rummages for something in her Dooney & Bourke handbag.

Countless times I’ve witnessed Mike’s dad pull him into the corner of an arena lobby and berate him in a low hiss while fake smiling at people passing by.

“Isn’t it strategic to let one messenger live?” I point out.

Call-me-Grant does a double take.

“It’s hockey, not The Art of War,” Mike says with the tiniest of smiles.

“Son, hockey is The Art of War,” Call-me-Grant says while assessing me. His left eyebrow and the corner of his mouth lift simultaneously. “You read Sun Tzu?”

I smile demurely. No one needs to know I learned military strategy by watching the Disney movie Mulan a hundred times with the twins. The villain let one scout live to warn the emperor that the Huns were on their way.

“Mike, will you help me set up my new BlackBerry?” I ask, attempting to ingratiate myself with my brother’s tech- savvy friend.

“Why didn’t you get a Razr?” Levi breaks in. “They look sweet.”

“Sweet,” Stormy echoes.

“Sure thing, Dauny Defense. Tomorrow?” Mike says.

“Tomorrow’s game day,” Call-me-Grant reminds his son. “Why don’t you come over Sunday for dinner buffet and game videos?” He glances at my hand in Jamie’s before looking up. His intensive stare is a truth-seeking laser; I always feel guilty of something whenever he’s around.

“Daunis, please bring Jamie and his uncle, too,” Mrs. Edwards says.

I nod before wandering over to the vending machines. It’s the only excuse I can think of to get away from Call-me- Grant’s ice-blue laser stare. What was that word Ron used to describe when your Spidey senses are tripped?

Hinky.

CHAPTER 24

On Sunday, we ride together in Ron’s car to Mike’s house. Carefully holding a crystal bowl of homemade tiramisu, I answer Ron’s questions about who will be at the dinner.

“Levi, which means Stormy, too. One or two of the better players. The Supes’ head coach and both of the assistant coaches. And Coach Bobby will probably be there. He and Mr. Edwards have been good friends ever since Coach helped Levi, Mike, Stormy, and Travis over a shooting incident about three years ago.”

“Shooting incident? Daunis, this is the type of stuff you’re supposed to tell us about.” Jamie pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Travis was goofing off with a BB gun after hockey practice,” I say. “Levi, Stormy, and Mike were with him. A BB hit a minivan passing by, broke a window. Glass shattered all over the driver, a teammate’s mom who ended up losing sight in one eye. The guys wouldn’t say who had done it. Coach convinced them to tell the truth so the one who did it could accept responsibility. Travis came forward. He was shunned by everyone in town and didn’t play on any team after all that.”

“That’s really important background information you should’ve mentioned sooner,” Jamie says. “Anything else you’ve conveniently forgotten to relay? What do you know about Grant Edwards?”

I bristle at Jamie’s tone. “You should’ve gotten Granny June or Minnie Mustang to be your informers. They know all the dirt.”

“You’re helping to paint a picture about the town for us,” Ron says.

“You guys want a snitch?” I bounce my legs so hard that the dessert on my lap wobbles. “Dana Firekeeper’s parents were killed by a drunk driver when she was little. She graduated from law school and was the first tribal member to be appointed as a judge at Tribal Court. Before her, all the judges were non-Native or from other tribes.”

I turn to stare down Jamie, who sits in the back seat behind Ron.

“Mike’s mom was Miss Michigan and her talent was rhythmic gymnastics. Supposedly she’s from a big crime family downstate. Mike’s dad was a superjock at Sault High. He was offered full-ride athletic scholarships in two sports. He picked hockey over wrestling.”

Ron is on the receiving end of my next Angry Snitch glare.

“Stormy’s mom got held for ransom when she owed too much to the big-city drug dealers who came around when per cap started. His dad and uncles cashed their checks and bailed her out.”

Gossip pours from me like a spigot on full blast.

“Granny June’s been married five times. Twice to the same guy and once to his brother.”

Jamie is subjected to my Really Angry Snitch glare.

“That Labor Day bonfire Coach Bobby hosts each year? Did you notice any beer? No. Because he wants to provide a safe and fun celebration for the players before school starts. He doesn’t put up with any drinking or drug use. He used to drive me home after games so my mom wouldn’t have to wait at the school parking lot in the cold. He defended me and before me, Robin Bailey, when the other high school coaches didn’t want us on the team.”

I stare forward, too worked up to look at either of them now.

“I know what you’re here to do. But these are good people. Mrs. Edwards started a donation program at my grandmother’s boutique so girls who can’t afford a dress for Shagala or prom can get one. During the last huge snowstorm, tribal police organized teams of snowmobilers to check on every Elder and deliver meals. When the ferry gets iced in, the Tribe offers rooms at the hotel for Sugar Island residents who are trapped on the mainland. I don’t like the way you come into town, turn on a light, and expect to see cockroaches scurrying everywhere.”

It gnaws at me, the way they want bad stuff without knowing the good stuff too.

“It’s like … you haven’t earned our stories,” I say.

“Fair point,” Ron says. Jamie is silent—just stares at me for a beat before turning toward the window.

If the community were an ill or injured person, the FBI would cut out the infection or reset the bones. Amputate if necessary. Problem solved.

I’m the only person looking at the whole person, not just the wound.

Ron’s navy sedan is out of place among the luxury cars parked in front of the glass-and-steel house. Jamie’s eyebrows rise higher with each make and model we walk past.

Sighing dramatically, I point to each vehicle. “Dana’s Mercedes. Levi’s Hummer. Mike’s Jaguar. And Coach Bobby’s BMW.” I catch Ron’s expression mirroring Jamie’s. “There’s nothing sketchy about having nice cars,” I say. “They all have money except Coach Bobby. And he won his car in a poker tournament a few years ago.”

Mrs. Edwards greets us at the door. I hold out the dessert like a bomb, which she takes graciously. Jamie carries the bag with my new BlackBerry. When Ron contributes a bag of potato chips, I can’t help but smile despite still being ticked

off. He reminds me of a cousin who shows up to potlucks with a box of Jell-O.

Dana gives me a quick hug on her way out. She always drops off a pan of lasagna for Sunday buffet.

It’s only been six months since I was last here at one of the Edwards’s Sunday dinner buffets, watching our Sault Blue Devils game videos on the giant wall-mounted plasma screen, analyzing each play, and looking for ways to improve. Coach Bobby and Mr. Edwards reenacting moves like performance artists. The Before was a lifetime ago.

In the Now of this Newer New Normal, I hold hands with Jamie on the sectional. The hockey game on the big screen isn’t mine. I’m not here as a player, but as an anglerfish to my Supe boyfriend. Looking around, I realize Jamie probably sees everyone as suspects. My brother and his friends—correction: my friends. Mike’s parents. Coach Bobby. And, sitting next to Levi, Coach Alberts, the Supes’ coach for the past two years.

Some people were against hiring Coach Alberts, because he’s Black. Maintaining our proud hockey heritage, which is just code for hockey is for rich Zhaaganaash boys. My dad went through similar bullshit. Hockey might not give a rat’s ass about skin color, but some of its fans certainly do.

Mrs. Edwards tells everyone to fix a plate and sit at the dining table. She reminds me of GrandMary. No one was surprised when Mike’s mom bought the boutique. She had been the manager and, before that, its best client. Mrs. Edwards even resembles GrandMary: slender, French bob hairstyle, impeccably dressed, and never without the requisite strand of pearls.

I’d get mad when GrandMary praised Mrs. Edwards in front of Mom. My grandmother valued timeless style and “taking care of oneself.” I remember visiting the boutique to try on dresses a few years ago, and overhearing GrandMary mention that I was at risk of outgrowing the sizes carried. Mom forbade her from ever speaking to me about my body, my weight, or anything about my appearance. Daunis and I

will leave town without a backward glance if you ever cross that line. I’d never heard my mother use that tone. But GrandMary must have heard it at least once before when Auntie first showed up at the big house to see three-month-old me and Mom insisted to GrandMary and Grandpa Lorenzo that I not be kept from my Firekeeper family.

I only wished for my mother to stand up for herself like that.

When I see Mike head to the kitchen island where the buffet is set up, I make sure Jamie and I are right behind him. I plant myself next to Mike at the mahogany dining table, gleaming beneath a rectangular chandelier of a thousand crystal icicles. We sit on uncomfortable, clear acrylic dining chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows provide a spectacular view of the red, white, and blue lights of the International Bridge and the cityscape across the river. It feels like we’re in a diorama or on a stage. Tonight, I’m expanding my usual role as Jamie’s Girlfriend to also play Girl Who Is Interested in Everything Mike Edwards Says.

“Shagala won’t be the same without your grandmother,” Call-me-Grant says, his somber expression held for a respectful moment. “It’s the town’s finest night,” he tells Jamie and Ron. “Dinner, dancing, and our women lovelier than ever.” His eyes hold my own for an extra beat.

I narrow my eyes. This must be how he gets juries to acquit his clients: just the right attention to each one. Before the whole Call-me-Grant nonsense, I never thought of him as anything other than Mike’s dad. Now he’s kind of a gross pervert.

“Don’t you think it’s silly?” I keep my voice breezy. “All that time and money spent on a fundraiser? Wouldn’t it be easier if we donated what we spend on tickets and dresses and everybody just stayed home for the night?” I smile sweetly.

Call-me-Grant laughs at my absurdity. “Well, what’s the fun in that?”

“It’s our best month at the store,” Mrs. Edwards points out.

“It helps the team,” Levi says. “People are more loyal to something they’re part of.”

“Speaking of dresses,” Mrs. Edwards tells me, “I went ahead and ordered something for you since Shagala is coming up in two weeks. I hope you’ll trust me.” She turns to Mike. “Macy’s dress came in, and she’s already done her fitting. I’ll order her corsage for you.”

I sit up straight. “You’re going with Macy?” I ask Mike, trying to hide my irritation. Macy Manitou is like a UTI, flaring up at the worst times.

Levi answers for him. “She’s in between guys and Mike needed a date. Me and Stormy are going with some twins from St. Ignace … Carla and Casey or Colleen or something.”

“I’m sure they’re honored by your enthusiasm,” I say.

Levi grins. I might be the only person in the world who gets away with teasing him.

The conversation moves on as Coach Bobby boasts about a girl from across the river who made Canada’s national women’s team. I’m not surprised; she’s the best center forward I’ve ever played against.

“It’s not too late,” Coach Bobby tells me in a wistful, singsong voice. He explains to Jamie, “Daunis could establish dual citizenship and be eligible to play for either country’s national team.”

I tense under the sudden spotlight. It still hurts. Becoming a doctor wasn’t my only big dream. Medicine and hockey. Playing for a national women’s team was a longtime goal. Coach doesn’t know that that dream crashed and burned a year ago. Auntie is the only one left who knows what I did. Two summers in a row now, I’ve made a huge decision that changed me.

“She should be playing D-one and getting ready for Torino,” Coach Bobby says in a scolding manner, referring to

the next Winter Olympics.

“No, I get it,” Levi cuts in. “Family’s here. Leaving’s hard. I’m glad you stuck around, Daunis.” He nods at Jamie. “Bet you are too.”

“Yes.” Jamie gazes into my eyes as if I’m the only person in this suddenly too-hot room.

My stomach somersaults at the sincerity in his voice. I pinch my thigh under the table to snap out of the dreamy moment. For an instant, I forgot that Jamie is acting a part.

I change the subject. “So … what do we think will happen with the lockout?”

Any mention of the NHL lockout is like tossing chum to sharks. Coach Alberts and Call-me-Grant predict the lockout will shut down the entire season. Levi and the guys take Coach Bobby’s side that it won’t come to that. Ron is Switzerland, declaring his neutrality. At one point, as Jamie and I are gleefully joining in, I realize that Ron is quietly observing us.

As the debate dies down, I tell a few stories about Mike’s best saves.

“Remember the time he spiked the puck? It was coming in high and he just …” I imitate a perfect volleyball smash. “And when he fell on his back, but still blocked the puck with his leg?”

Mike’s parents beam at their son, who has turned beet red.

“All right, that’s enough. C’mon, Dauny Defense. Let’s set up your new phone,” Mike says to shut me up.

Secret Squirrel time. I follow Mike as he grabs the bag with my phone.

“We’re gonna keep telling stories about ya,” Levi shouts as we go downstairs.

My plan is to leave something in his bedroom, so I have an excuse to return a few minutes later. Call-me-Grant’s home office is next to Mike’s basement lair. My heart races at the

thought of seeing the office furniture that used to be Grandpa Lorenzo’s. When GrandMary sold the business and the building downtown to Mrs. Edwards, she included the furniture from my grandfather’s office on the second floor. I imagine my feet are as heavy as uranium to avoid breaking into a Smoke Dance—tiny staccato steps as quick as a hummingbird’s wings.

I’ve been in Mike’s bedroom before, on Sunday evenings when there was a line for the main bathroom. There is a Jack- and-Jill bathroom between his bedroom and his dad’s office. It was easy to forget about because you couldn’t access it from the family room.

Mike’s bedroom cracks me up, especially the shrine to Gordie Howe. A number-9 jersey is mounted in a huge shadow box on the wall, hanging above a fancy table with a lit candle burning in front of a framed autographed photo of the Red Wings legend. I spy the latest iMac computer on Mike’s desk. A king-sized bed with a poster above the headboard: the 2002 Red Wings team posing with the Stanley Cup. Bookcases lining an entire wall, filled with hockey trophies, many books, and assorted Red Wings memorabilia.

We sit on the edge of his bed, and I pull out the BlackBerry. Mike coaches me through each step. Although I like the way the BlackBerry feels in my hand, I make a show of grumbling so he’ll feel needed.

“Why’s it called a BlackBerry if it’s blue? And rolling the side ball thingy feels weird,” I whine, thumbing the small tracking knob on the device.

Mike looks at me and we both giggle childishly. When he finishes his BlackBerry tutorial, I let my old phone slip through my fingers at the far side of the bed. The thick carpet muffles its fall. We return upstairs.

Coach Bobby and Call-me-Grant reenact plays from last night’s game. They’re the same height and build, and with their jeans and Red Wings T-shirts, they look like twins.

While everyone watches their performance, I seize the opportunity to go downstairs and “search” for my old phone. I rush through Mike’s room to the bathroom. My actions sync with the plan I make up as I go: lock Mike’s bathroom door, turn on the light and the noisy exhaust fan, try the doorknob to Call-me-Grant’s home office, exhale a sigh of relief when it opens.

I’m in.

Operation Secret Squirrel:

1. Eyeball the room layout using only the light from the bathroom.

2. Grab the Red Wings throw blanket on the love seat and fold it against the bottom of the door to the family room.

3. Turn on the overhead light.

My breath catches at the sight of the office furniture: desk, credenza, and matching bookcases. The deep, purplish-brown rosewood has simple lines, unlike the ornate, hand-carved mahogany furniture of Grandpa Lorenzo’s library at the big house. I run my fingertips along the desktop.

The pre-cry sting inside my nose is like someone holding a bottle of ammonium-carbonate smelling salts to jostle me back to alertness. C’mon, Sis, you’re burning daylight.

4. Remove a small digital camera from my sports bra to snap pictures of each bookcase shelf to document the contents: books that might include an interesting title, perhaps chemistry- related, and framed photographs of Mike’s dad at hockey events that might place him at locations that align with drug activity in the Great Lakes area or show his contact with someone the FBI considers to be a suspect.

Whenever Auntie tucks her cell phone and lipstick in her bra, she calls it her Nish purse or “the high pocket.” My high

pocket is a shallow space barely able to fit the camera without creating a plateau-like uniboob.

5. Check the file drawers in the credenza to photograph the label on each file folder.

Locked. Minor obstacle. No worries. I have a backup plan.

6. Pull the top right drawer of the desk all the way out, to reach the key that should be on the tiny hook in the back.

It’s not there. Major obstacle. Mouthing silent curses, I look around for any ideas for a backup plan for my backup plan. What I see makes my heart thud instead.

My footsteps. Recorded in the plush ivory carpet like a trail through snow.

Uncle David’s voice urges me. Think through the problem, Daunis. Identify your need. Assess your resources. Develop a plan. Sequence your steps.

Steps—footsteps—are my problem. But I have no resources, only trophies, framed awards, and books. Loads of books.

Books.

I rush to the bookcase and pull out an art book that looks to be the same length as the width of the vacuum. Gripping the spine, I drag the edge of the art book to retrace the vacuum marks. The result is not exact but it’s close enough. I turn off the light and return the throw to the love seat. Working my way backward to the bathroom, I feel sweat trickle from my forehead along my face and down my neck.

Back in the bathroom, I hide the art book in the vanity cabinet. The girl in the mirror takes deep breaths. I stare at her, this girl who feels separate from me. I blink until I am back to myself again. I flush the toilet, wash my hands, and splash cold water on my face. The last step in my sequence is to spray air freshener as if I’ve just taken the biggest dump of my life.

I open the bathroom and jump back in alarm.

Mike. Standing in front of me. Half smirking. Blue-gray eyes twinkling.

“It’s no use, Daunis. I know what you’re up to,” Mike says.

CHAPTER 25

The food in my stomach instantly sours. Mike knows. He blocks my path to the bedroom door. His hands are in the front pockets of his jeans. He’s … amused.

“You came back.” He states the obvious.

Mike Edwards knows.

“Bathroom,” I say, getting my own obvious statement out there. “Plus, I forgot my phone.” Retreating to the far side of his bed, I scoop up my old flip phone. I wave it at Mike before shoving it in my pocket.

“Nah … I know what this is really about.” He closes the space between us. Sauntering, actually. Full of himself.

Shit. Okay, how do I get out of this? Shout? Knee his pajog? Or do both?

Mike stops in front of me. I close my eyes, bracing for him to tell me that I’m a rotten spy looking for dirt on his dad …

Wet lips mash against mine.

“What the hell?” I push him away.

“What?” Mike sounds as surprised as me. “You been hanging all over me tonight.”

“I—I … um …” I quickly replay my words and actions. Shit. I did hang on his every word, just not for the reason he thinks.

“I saw your face. You’re jealous I’m taking Macy to Shagala,” Mike says. He appears genuinely confused. “And … we aren’t teammates anymore.”

“But we’re friends,” I say. Ever since he made the best travel teams with Levi.

“You were friends with TJ before you guys started snagging.”

“TJ wasn’t part of Hockey World,” I point out.

“Is it because I’m younger?”

“What? No. Yes. No.” I’m still trying to make sense of the conversation. “I’ve known you forever. You’re like a brother to me.”

“I am not your brother,” he says evenly.

“But, Levi—”

“Believe me when I tell you I’m not afraid of Levi. This could be our own little secret.” That smirk. I instantly know what Call-me-Grant looked like at seventeen.

Jamie. I remember only now that I already have a boyfriend.

“I’m dating Jamie,” I say primly.

“Eh, I don’t see that going the distance. Seems like someone who’s here for a season or two and moves on.”

“Maybe I don’t wanna stick around either.”

“Really?” He laughs as if I’ve said something ridiculous. “I figured you bailed on leaving because you’re like royalty around here. Connected to everybody. Out there”—he gestures to somewhere beyond—“you’re nobody.”

Is Mike right? Is that how it appears to other people? I’ve always felt a step outside the inside, both in town and on the rez.

“I—I—I’m not interested in you. Not like that.” I grasp for a lifeline. “But there’s lots of girls who do … think of you that way.”

“Is it because you think you’re too good for me?” His voice lowers menacingly. “Because you’re not … you know.

Better than me.”

This Mike—instantly aggressive—scares me. I scramble for the right words to defuse his escalating anger. Nothing comes to mind. I want Jamie to come looking for me. Right now.

“My dad’s right,” he hisses. “Girls are just distractions. I thought you were different. But you’re not.” With a look of disgust, he turns and leaves.

This wasn’t how I envisioned tonight going.

I thought I knew Mike Edwards. My brother’s goofy friend and teammate. My former teammate. The tech-savvy guy who set up my new phone tonight. I know that guy.

But the one who kissed me and refused to listen to any of my refusals?

I don’t know who that person is.

Is this what will happen over the course of the meth investigation? I’ll learn things about everybody I thought I knew?

Back upstairs, I stand next to the kitchen island, on the edge of the living room. The video is still going; everyone cheers when Mike blocks a Hail Mary last-second shot by the Mudbugs.

Jamie approaches. His eyebrows are raised like antennae detecting concern. “Everything okay?” he says into my ear. I nod and he continues. “Then can I put my arm around you?”

I nod again, this time meaning it. His arm slides around to rest casually on my hip.

I lean into him, suddenly exhausted.

When it’s time to go, Mrs. Edwards returns my mother’s crystal bowl, now washed. I thank her for a nice evening. I avoid looking at Mike when the guys do a round of fist- bumps.

“See ya bright and early,” Levi says.

I don’t want to be around Mike, especially during my morning run.

“Hey,” I say. “I wanna increase my mileage, so I gotta slow my pace. But don’t let me hold yous back. I’ll go on my own.”

“Can I join you?” Jamie asks me.

“Ditching us for a girl? C’mon, man,” Levi says with a huge smile.

“I’d really like that,” I say.

I sit in the back with Jamie for the ride home. He reaches for my hand. I don’t pull back.

“Mike’s parents do this every Sunday night?” Jamie asks me.

“Yup. Every Sunday during hockey season. Last year it was for our varsity hockey games. I’d have Sunday dinner at the big house in the afternoon and have second dinner at the Edwards’s in the evening.”

“Do Mike’s dad and Coach Bobby always do their routine?”

“Yup. Dinner and a show,” I say.

Jamie laces his fingers through mine. My body does the opposite of tensing up; I melt from a solid state to liquid.

“The dessert your mom made was my favorite. Please let her know.”

“Your real favorite?” I tease.

“My real favorite.” He squeezes my hand. “Man, how cool to analyze the games we just played. And their house? I’ve never been in a place like that. It was like something from a magazine. Do you think we’ll get invited back?”

I can’t help but smile. Jamie has the same level of enthusiasm as a kid experiencing Disney World for the first

time. He’s played on plenty of hockey teams, I’m sure, and been to plenty of team dinners. What is it about the Sault Superiors that’s so fascinating to him?

When Ron pulls into my driveway, I ask if he’s tried the new car wash on the business spur. That’s our code for asking if it’s safe to talk about the investigation in his car.

He nods.

“I took pictures of every bookshelf in Mr. Edwards’s home office in the basement.” I reach into my bra and feel Jamie shift awkwardly next to me. I roll my eyes as I pull out my camera. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to dig around for any client files that he might be keeping at home instead of in his office. His desk used to be my grandfather’s, and I thought the key to the file drawers would be where I remembered, but it wasn’t.”

Ron gives me a long look before saying, “This is helpful. Thank you.”

I say good night and grab the dessert bowl. Jamie gets out, too, and we walk together to the front steps.

“Should I kiss you in case your mom is watching?” he whispers.

The front entry light turns on. We laugh.

Jamie leans in. His kiss lands on my jaw instead of my cheek.

“Holeeey.” I drag out the word. “I thought Supes had way better aim than that.”

His back is to Ron’s car. I’m the only one who sees Jamie’s full smile reach his eyes and tug at his scar. I want to kiss it. Instead of analyzing the impulse, I give in. Osmosis combustion.

My lips brush his cheek, feeling for the ripple in the smoothness. Jamie’s breath catches, sending a delicious tingle through my body. I kiss him. One perfect, soft kiss that moves as his scar is pulled taut from a smile I feel but cannot see.

I leave Jamie on my sidewalk as I scale the three front steps in a single leap.

Jamie isn’t in my driveway the next morning. It’s not like him to be late. I’ve been looking forward to running only with him, especially since kissing him last night.

What if he didn’t like it? I recall feeling his smile mid-kiss. He liked it.

I focus on my prayer. This morning I ask for gwekowaadiziwin. The irony is not lost on me. Praying for honesty as I deceive people today. Flakes of semaa land on yellow leaves at the base of the poplar tree.

Leaves. Falling.

The first day of autumn is this week. The fall colors peak early in the U.P.; the first snowfall generally happens anytime between early October and late December. My birthday is October first. Less than two weeks away.

Shit. The weather could disrupt my mushroom hunting at any time.

I finish stretching in the driveway as Jamie jogs toward my house.

“You’re late,” I say, meeting him in the road.

He mumbles an apology but provides no details.

We head in the opposite direction from our usual route. The less I see of Mike Edwards, the better. My pace is close to what we’ve been maintaining with the guys since fall semester began.

“Thought you were going for distance,” Jamie says. He keeps up with me easily, barely winded.

“Change of plans … Need to … get to Duck Island … look for mushrooms … before everything … covered in leaves.”

“You’re skipping class?”

“Think … of it … as … independent … study … on fungi.”

We run upriver toward Sherman Park. It feels good to push myself this hard. The faster we finish, the sooner I can get to the island.

“I don’t think you should skip classes,” he says as we loop around the parking lot next to a playground along the waterfront.

“Why … are you … still … thinking … about … it?”

“Because, Daunis, when the investigation is finished, you should go back to your life. Put this—and everybody involved —out of your mind. Play hockey at Michigan. Or go somewhere new. Don’t let this investigation change everything for you.”

I halt. The nerve of Jamie giving me advice about change when he’s the one who changed. From last night to today. My anger has an afterburn of embarrassment as I recall impulsively kissing his scar last night.

“What,” he says, jogging back to me. His clueless expression infuriates me.

“Everything is changed.” I take pleasure in Jamie flinching at my words. “It changed the instant Travis shot Lily,” I manage to say between heaving breaths. “No. Before that— when he pulled the gun from his jeans. No. When my uncle died … or when he began acting strangely because he was helping yous.”

I stare coldly at him. “And there is no college hockey for me.” Jamie thinks I should play hockey at U of M. As if my life could ever go back to the Before.

“Why is that?”

“That info is off-limits to you,” I repeat his words from the meth weekend in Marquette. He doesn’t get to know about the foolish decision that changed my future. After all, Jamie is

only here temporarily. Once the investigation is finished, he will go back to his life too.

I sprint the rest of the way home. Unlike the night he chased me down a dark road on Sugar Island, Jamie doesn’t catch up.

This time, he lets me go.

My mother is walking to her car when I finish my run. She blows a kiss to me so as not to get drenched by my sweat. When Mom reverses out of the driveway, she rolls down her window to wave at Jamie, who waves back.

“My girl bested you today,” she declares proudly.

“She sure did.” His smile is pleasant but doesn’t tug at his scar.

Jamie doesn’t join my cooldown, but he also doesn’t leave. He stands there, watching me.

“Daunis, I think I should run with the guys from now on.” “Oh.” More change. Don’t let the pretender know he got

under your skin, I tell myself.

“They’re starting to treat me like more than just a teammate,” he says quickly. “It would be good for me to hear their stories. Get more info that could help the investigation.”

“Sure,” I say, keeping my voice breezy. “No problem.” I motion awkwardly toward my house. “Well. I gotta shower and catch the ferry. Hallucinogenic mushrooms await.”

I don’t look back as I limp up the front steps.

“Hallucinogenic mushrooms await”? You’re such a geek. Lily, I think my fake relationship is over for reals.

I make good progress by Friday late morning. Not that I’ve found an unknown mushroom, but I’m near the north end. I could finish today if not for three things.

First, the leaves are slowing me down. Every day this week, there have been more leaves on the ground. A magnificent carpet of color that makes it take longer to get through each cross section.

Second, I stop each day at eleven, race to the ferry, pick up Granny June on the mainland, and bring her to lunch as usual. My break costs me nearly three hours of prime daylight.

It’s worth every minute.

I made a bargain with myself. I can be deceitful about my whereabouts, let people assume I’m at class or in the library, as long as I take care of Granny and help the Elders.

I avoid Auntie, because I’m not a good enough actor to maintain my deception in front of her. She texts and calls every day, asking me to come over. Each time, I text back a false excuse. Studying. Spending time with Jamie. Doing something for Granny June or my mother. It’s hard and I miss sleeping over with Pauline and Perry, but I know that she would immediately sniff out that something was off. Auntie doesn’t miss a thing.

Today there’s a third reason keeping me from completing my mushroom research. I need to catch the ferry as soon as lunch is served, to meet Ron at the loading spot for the Booster Bus. It’s a five-hour trip to Green Bay, Wisconsin, where every team in the league participates in a showcase weekend of games.

Operation Secret Squirrel is going on the road.

Granny June and I enter the dining room, which seems more crowded than usual. They must be serving liver and onions today. I don’t know why spongy cow organ always brings

every nokomis and mishomis from all corners of Chippewa County. It just does.

I freeze upon seeing Auntie next to Minnie Mustang. The room falls silent. Everyone watches me. Even Seeney Nimkee eyeballs me from across the room. Auntie motions me over.

Shit. This looks like an intervention. What the hell did I do?

CHAPTER 26

After a quick hug, Auntie motions for me to sit down.

“I need to get Granny’s coffee and lunch,” I say.

“No, my girl,” Granny June says. “You need to sit down.”

Granny’s part of the intervention? Shit times infinity. Chi moo.

What if this is about the investigation? How much do they know?

What is the least amount of truth I can say before it feels like a lie?

Auntie places a large yellow envelope in front of me. Huh?

“What’s this, Auntie?”

“Just open it,” she says. “I didn’t want to do this here, but you’ve been avoiding me.”

Guilt makes my cheeks feel hot. I open the envelope and two pictures fall out. My heart skips when I glimpse two children skating with a large man.

A color photograph of Dad with Levi and me. I search for his jade-green scarf, but it’s not there. The other is a black- and-white photo of my father holding me on his lap. I’m a baby, my dark hair sticking up. Big eyes. Pale skin contrasting with his. He’s looking at me and smiling.

Speechless, I meet Auntie’s eyes. “Turn it over,” she says.

It’s my father’s distinctive handwriting. He wrote one word on the back: N’Daunis. Putting the n in front of the word adds the possessive my. My daughter.

“Josette found them when she was cleaning her mom’s attic. Great-Aunt Nancy had some round tins full of old photographs. Go on.” Auntie nudges me.

I slide a stack of documents from the envelope. The one on top makes me gasp.

APPLICATION FOR TRIBAL ENROLLMENT—SPECIAL CIRCUMSTANCES.

Auntie nods, urging me to look at the papers.

A notarized letter from my mother explains that she was a minor when she gave birth and her parents refused to include my father’s name on the birth certificate. Affidavits from Theodora Sarah Firekeeper-Birch, Josette Elaine Firekeeper, and Norman Marshall Firekeeper—who has written his nickname, Monk, in parentheses because no one has used his given name since the priest baptized him. There is a Firekeeper family tree with the three relatives’ names highlighted. Auntie labeled each with the official relationship. I never knew Cousin Josette is my second cousin once removed. Or that Monk is actually my great-uncle even though he is a year younger than Auntie. All three have attested that Daunis Lorenza Fontaine is the biological daughter of Levi Joseph Firekeeper Sr.

“You have until your nineteenth birthday to file the application, along with a paternity test that you and I take to verify lineage,” Auntie says.

My birthday is October first. Seven days away.

This.

I have wanted this ever since I understood that being Anishinaabe and being an enrolled citizen weren’t necessarily the same thing.

My mind races, remembering Granny’s unsuccessful efforts to get this for Lily.

I can become a member. Except … it changes nothing about me.

I am Anishinaabe. Since my first breath. Even before, when my new spirit traveled here. I will be Anishinaabe even when my heart stops beating and I journey to the next world.

My whole life, I’ve been seeking validation of my identity from others. Now that it’s within my reach, I realize I don’t need it.

“Miigwech.” I take a deep breath. “But I don’t need a card to define me.”

“I know you don’t, Daunis. But think about it,” Auntie says. “This is a gift from your dad.”

I sit with that. I have his facial features. His height. His skill on the ice. Mom says I have his laugh. My father has given me many gifts. All I ever wanted was more time with him.

Once, during the three months that I was TJ’s girlfriend, I was at his house for the Packers-Lions game. TJ’s little sister Teela snuggled next to their dad on the sofa, laying her head on his chest. Everyone was cheering loudly, but she fell asleep listening to her daddy’s steady heartbeat. I had hungered for that moment for myself.

Granny says, “Your decision isn’t just about you. It’s for your children. Grandchildren.”

People say to think seven generations ahead when making big decisions, because our future ancestors—those yet to arrive, who will one day become the Elders—live with the choices we make today.

The investigation. I think back to Ron’s suggestion that enrollment could help my efforts. Could he be right? I feel ashamed for allowing the thought to flicker even for a second.

Another thought vies for brain space: As he reminded me this morning, Jamie is here temporarily. The FBI is concerned only with what’s happening right now. They cannot fathom that their actions might have far-reaching effects.

Maybe it’s even more important for me to be part of the investigation because I’m the only one thinking seven generations ahead.

“Okay.” I nod. “I want to enroll.”

Auntie breaks into a smile. I’ve missed seeing it.

“There’s one more requirement,” my aunt says. “You need three affidavits from tribal Elders who are not related or who are more distantly related than third degree.”

My mind scrambles through people who might come through for me. Granny June for sure. Minnie, too. Maybe I can ask Jonsy Kewadin?

Seeney Nimkee approaches the table. She places a paper in front of me. It is an affidavit attesting my parentage, with her signature. Certified by Judge Dana Firekeeper.

I try to speak, but the words get stuck in my throat. I stand and hug her. She pats my back gruffly.

When Seeney releases me, Granny hands me a second affidavit. I blink repeatedly. Not to conjure my dad, but because through my tears, I can barely see the line of people forming behind Granny June and Minnie.

My application for tribal enrollment will include twenty- six Elder affidavits.

I alternate between grinning and sobbing all the way to Chi Mukwa Arena. The cargo-hold doors are already closed, so I leap onto the Booster Bus with my overnight bag in hand. The Booster’s treasurer takes my check for transportation, community refreshments, and two nights’ lodging. I pause,

wondering if the rumors are true and she’s about to hand me a nondisclosure agreement to sign.

“You’re all set. Go find a seat.” She cracks open a beer and offers it to me.

Her nephew graduated with me; she knows I’m not twenty- one. I accept it.

Someone shouts my name from the back of the bus. Call- me-Grant motions toward an empty seat near him. I scan for any other option and am delighted to see that Ron saved a seat for me.

The team left yesterday. The players still in high school have special schedules where attendance rules take a back seat to hockey schedules. Ron’s request for a half-day substitute teacher was approved without any fuss because special allowances always get made when it comes to hockey.

Most of the Boosters are Zhaaganaash; I see only two tribal members. I tell Ron there’s a caravan of RVs following the bus, and a good number of those are filled with Nishnaabs who prefer their own campers and trailers.

“Why is that?” Ron asks, surveying the fifty or so people drinking and chatting amiably.

When the bus speakers blast out the opening piano chords of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’,” four rows of women lose their shit, squealing and jumping up and down.

“That’s why.” I point with my lips toward them. More than a few are already giishkwebii and we haven’t even left the city limits. I’ve heard enough stories to know.

Ron snickers and gives a discreet eye roll.

I whisper, “Some of them are the same ones who say Indians can’t hold their liquor or that per cap doesn’t buy class.”

One of the ladies is so overcome by the magic of Steve Perry’s vocals that she flashes a truck driver next to the bus as we head south on I-75. Everyone cheers when the trucker

blasts his horn in appreciation. I laugh at Ron’s astonished expression.

I am still giddy, riding a wave of happiness as I replay the memory of each Elder handing me an affidavit and hugging me. It is a feeling so profound, there must be a word in Anishinaabemowin for it. Nouns in the language are either animate—living—or inanimate. I’ll ask Auntie if feelings are animate too, because this one has good energy to it.

As the ride continues, I grab a book from my bag. According to the American Literature syllabus, there will be an essay due next week on The Sound and the Fury.

I spend the next two hours attempting to read. From the corner of my eye, I catch Ron observing me.

“What?” I say, closing the book.

“You haven’t turned a page in twenty minutes,” he remarks.

“Well, this is crazy hard to get through! It’s someone’s stream of consciousness, his thoughts go everywhere, and time jumps around. It’s so hard to follow.”

Lily was supposed to help me dive beneath the surface to find the deeper meanings.

“Benjy.” Ron names the narrator of the book’s first section.

My jaw drops. “You know Faulkner?”

“Time is a theme, Daunis. Benjy’s thoughts aren’t bound by time, but his brother Quentin is tethered to it.”

Whoa. There it is: the deeper meaning beyond my grasp. Does everyone understand except me?

“Stories should go from A to B to C,” I say.

“Maybe it’s the scientist in you. Wanting everything to follow a precise sequence.”

“Uh-huh. You’re a scientist too, Ron.” Plus, why is order a bad thing? Like taxonomy—categorizing living and extinct

organisms by an eight-level classification system: domain, kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, species. Same with the periodic table of elements. Rules are a good thing. How can you trust the unknown?

Ron smiles. “Non-linear thinking can be disjointed, like Benjy’s thoughts, but if you step back or follow it to the end, sometimes it comes full circle.”

“Hmmm,” I say, unconvinced.

“Maybe the point is patience. Trust that the answers will be revealed when you’re ready.”

Surprised, I turn away and pretend to bury myself back in my book, blinking back tears as the bus crosses into Wisconsin.

We just had a conversation that had nothing to do with the investigation.

Ron reminds me of Uncle David, who always took time to explain things I didn’t understand. I don’t recall thinking about my uncle today. Does that mean my grief is shrinking?

Will there come a day when Lily isn’t part of my everyday thinking? Grief is a cruel and sneaky bastard. You love a person and then they’re gone. Past tense. You forget them for an hour, a day, a week. How is that even possible? It happens because memories are fickle; they can fade. I wanted to help the investigation for Lily. Now my motives seem less clear. I am terrified at the thought of the world—and me—going on without Lily.

The rest of the bus ride is a like a fog. It doesn’t lift until I’m sitting in the bleachers at the game, when Call-me-Grant plants himself next to me. Mrs. Edwards doesn’t travel to away games leading up to Shagala, which is quickly approaching; it’s her busiest and favorite time of year. I know he won’t try anything with Ron sitting next to me, but I still do my best to ignore him.

Instead, I focus on the conversations around me. When I overhear someone behind me mention per cap, my ears perk up. It happens all the time; I overhear some Zhaaganaash talking about the Tribe in general, or some particular Nish. And what they say about my tribal community when they think no one is listening? It is never good. Now’s my window to walk away before actually hearing anything.

I prepare to leave, but realize I’d need to climb over Ron and a bunch of people to my left or Call-me-Grant on my right to escape. Shit.

“Tina Cheneaux’s boy,” says one of the guys. I recognize him as the attorney who once offered his services to ensure that I received my “fair share” of Grandpa Lorenzo’s estate. I told him to go to hell.

He must mean Ryan Cheneaux, a guy I graduated with.

Ryan is a smarmy jerk, always saying shit about Nishnaabs. Wanting you to explain why tribal members can hunt at different times than allowed by state law. Or pay a reduced price for gas that doesn’t include the state taxes. I’ve watched Nish kids try to explain about treaty rights, which he would loudly declare outdated legal concepts, as antiquated as fiefdoms and feudalism. The more frustrated and angry they become, the more smug Ryan seems. As if his goal isn’t to become enlightened but, rather, to make you waste your time and energy.

“No kidding?” someone chimes in. “When’s his hearing?”

“October fourth. Their enrollment committee forwarded it to Tribal Council for action. He had to file his case before he turned nineteen.”

Ryan Cheneaux is applying for membership in the Tribe? Now I’m hanging on to every word, even as they twist my insides.

“I didn’t know Ryan’s dad was Joey Nodin,” says one of the guys.

“Yeah, Tina Cheneaux didn’t want anyone knowing either. Joey’d have fought for custody of that per-cap check too.”

“Can you blame her?” They all laugh.

“Kid just hit the lottery.” More laughter.

“You get any of his winnings?” someone asks.

The lawyer answers, “Percentage of his per cap for ten years.” They cheer. Someone claps him on the back.

I don’t realize my hands are clenched until Ron pats my arm. He gives me a look of understanding; he heard too. Unclenching my fists, I try focusing on the game. But my mind goes to Lily.

Each tribe has the sovereign right to determine who is a member. My best friend couldn’t get enrolled because of the way the Sugar Island Ojibwe Tribe’s enrollment office calculated Indian blood quantum: fractions of Indian blood based on lineage. Granny June’s first husband was from a First Nations band in Canada, so Lily’s pedigree didn’t meet the standard. Too many ancestors from across the river, not the right kind of Indian blood. Granny filed an appeal with Tribal Council, telling them, No one told me I wasn’t supposed to snag on that side of the river. We were here before that border existed. Every one of yous got cousins over there. But Council rejected her appeal for Lily’s membership application.

If I submit my documentation before October first, Tribal Council will vote on my and Ryan’s applications at their next official meeting.

His identity is not my concern, I remind myself.

Instead I remember the joy that grew inside me with each hug from my Elders. I wish Lily had known a moment like that.

When Ron and I walk back to the bus for the ride to the hotel, he deliberately slows his steps to separate us from the

Boosters.

“I hope you can understand, Daunis, why I told Jamie it might be better to cool it with the boyfriend-girlfriend act,” Ron says quietly.

Huh? Is that why Jamie acted strange on Monday and has been so standoffish this week?

I consider my response to Ron. I’m thinking like a Secret Squirrel: I want information without giving anything in return.

“You’re gonna need to explain it to me,” I say in my best Ryan Cheneaux imitation.

“Undercover operatives, especially young field agents, sometimes get too enthusiastic about their assignments. They develop emotional connections with suspects or informants. It happens often enough that senior field agents, like me, know what to look for.”

Ron waits for me to say something. When I don’t, he stops walking.

“What I saw Sunday night? At least one of you was not acting.”

CHAPTER 27

The hotel lobby is regarded as “international waters” because it’s the only place where Supes and fans can hang out together after the game. Supes can’t be on the Boosters’ party floor; girlfriends can’t be on the players’ floor. International waters are patrolled by sharks—coaching staff and vigilant do-gooder chaperones.

Coach Alberts announces that his players have exactly one hour in international waters. Tomorrow they will be allowed a later curfew. But they have ice time early tomorrow for drills.

When I sit next to Jamie, he looks around.

“Ron is upstairs partying with the die-hard Boosters,” I say, reaching for his hand. Now that I know Jamie backed off at Ron’s direction—what will he do when his supervisor isn’t here? My stomach flips with a delicious thrill when he doesn’t move his hand from mine. I want things to change back to the night I kissed him and felt his smile. A good change for once.

Jamie remains motionless while everyone laughs over Levi’s imitation of Mike blocking goals. My brother looks like he’s playing a solo game of Twister.

Moving on to Stormy, Levi puts up his fists.

“Let’s go, then! Let’s go, then!” He repeats it until the words blur into “Skoden.” My brother high-fives his best friend and dubs him “Skoden Nodin, the baddest goon Sugar Island’s ever seen.”

That’s not true. Dad was the ultimate goon.

Sometimes I worry that Levi forgets things about Dad. Whenever I mention the scarf that we’d hold on to as Dad pulled us around the ice—jade green, soft, and extra long—my brother swears it was sky blue. He also swears that it’s in their house somewhere, but he hasn’t been able to find it.

Levi moves in front of me and Jamie. My brother flashes his perfect smile before gliding from side to side, mimicking Jamie’s finesse. He adds his best version of Patrick Swayze from Dirty Dancing.

Jamie gives an embarrassed smile that doesn’t reach his eyes or pull at his scar.

“Loverboy got some smooth moves,” Levi says.

Leaning over, I kiss Jamie’s cheek. His jaw clenches. I break away at the realization that, even when done for show, my kiss wasn’t welcomed. The sting of rejection intensifies as I comprehend the mannequin-like stiffness of his hand in mine.

Stop it, Daunis. I begin my internal pep talk. Don’t let Jamie cloud your focus. The investigation is about protecting your community. Getting answers.

When my brother continues his imitation game on the other players, I motion for Jamie to follow me. I lead him to the farthest corner of international waters.

“Listen,” I start. “I don’t care what Ron says about emotional connections or whatever. I won’t kiss you if you’re not comfortable, but we should still hold hands in front of other people. For the investigation. Us posing as a couple is the best way for you to be accepted in town.”

More irony. The same people who might not accept me will embrace the new guy in town because he’s a Supe who fake dates me.

Jamie doesn’t say anything. He looks down at our shoes. His black dress boots are so different from the rugged ones I’m used to. These are polished leather. Stylish. Urbane.

“You need to trust me. I can handle this.” I nudge him. “I’m here to help.”

“I know you are,” he says, meeting my eyes. His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps. “What happens when someone finds out which tribe they’re from?”

What does this have to do with the investigation?

“There are over five hundred federally recognized tribes, Jamie. Each one is different.” I take in his pleading expression. Is it possible there are other reasons why he’s working undercover in a tribal community? “I can only talk about Sugar Island. First off, is the person an adult or child?”

“Adult. Does that matter?”

“It’s less complicated to enroll a child who’s eligible. If their parent is enrolled and listed on the birth certificate it’s an easy process as long as the kid meets the blood quantum minimum. It’s different for adults. Once the Tribe built the casino, there was a push to close enrollment for adults. So people have until their nineteenth birthday to enroll. But with per cap, it’s rare for someone to wait that long.” I search his face for a clue as to why he’s brought this up. I thought his pensiveness was due to Ron’s warning, but maybe there’s something else on his mind.

“So if you don’t enroll before you’re an adult, you miss out?” Jamie asks.

I think about Ryan and me, both trying to make the deadline. “Not necessarily. Sugar Island makes exceptions for people who got adopted out and …”

His eyes widen at the word. Adopted.
“That’s what happened to you, isn’t it?” I’ve been speaking

quietly this whole time, but now my voice is a whisper.

Jamie doesn’t answer. He looks away again.

“Families search for babies who were adopted out before ICWA.” I pronounce the Indian Child Welfare Act by how its acronym sounds: ick-wah. “You know? The federal law to

prevent the removal of Native children from their homes and tribal communities. Some people set an extra place for them at feasts.”

I’ve seen those plates, but I never really thought about how it might feel to be the person it was intended for.

“Hey.” I reach for the sleeve of his maroon dress shirt, before pulling my hand back in case he isn’t comfortable with my touching him anymore. “We have ceremonies when someone comes home, after Tribal Council votes on their enrollment.” I step as close as I can without actual physical contact. “Those ceremonies are powerful. Healing. Other tribes might do that too. Your tribe might do that. We don’t forget our lost ones.”

He blinks quickly and clears his throat. When he opens his mouth, I can’t hear his voice. But I feel it like a warm blanket on a cold night.

Miigwech.

Coach Alberts gives a five-minute warning for curfew.

We walk past couples kissing as if about to be separated by catastrophe. We squeeze into the crowded elevator. Jamie’s hand grasps mine. It isn’t for show because nobody can see.

Just before it stops at my floor, Jamie’s thumb caresses my hand, gliding smoothly back and forth across my fingers. Casual yet tender stroking that makes me catch my breath. I distract myself by reciting the muscles he’s touching. First dorsal interosseous, second dorsal interosseous …

At the ding of the elevator, my eyes meet Jamie’s. While anglerfishes detach from their boyfriends, Jamie leans in, pausing when his lips are an inch from mine.

“Okay?” he whispers.

“Yes,” I reply. His lips are soft, like a down feather. Perfect and gentle.

No one comments about it. After all, why would they? One kiss out of many happening in the elevator. They don’t know it

was our first kiss on the lips.

The post-game party is going strong as I step out of the elevator. People ricochet from room to room. Every door is propped open. Music blasts down the hallway: Big & Rich instructing us to “save a horse, ride a cowboy.”

I bump into Ron. His goofy smile tells me it’s not his first can of beer.

“Jamie doing okay?” he asks.

“Yup,” I say, passing him. “I’m turning in for the night. Keep it down out here.”

“Yes, boss,” he calls from behind.

I glance back and chuckle as Ron heads into another room for more reconnaissance.

At the end of the hallway, the door next to mine opens and the bus flasher exits. She’s married to an old guy whose family bought land on Sugar Island from Nishnaabs who fell on hard times. Their house is at the southern tip of the island. Right now, her hair looks like a family of squirrels has claimed it for their winter nest.

Call-me-Grant, towel wrapped low around his hips, stands in the doorway, watching her leave for just an instant before turning his gaze to me.

His expression is so unabashedly proud, I wonder if he will strut down the hallway to receive high fives from everyone. No one bats an eye. In Booster World there are different rules, or rather a suspension of rules. Or maybe guys like him know the rules don’t apply to them.

I brush past him, trying not to look at his naked torso. There’s a scientific name for his six-pack, but it escapes me.

“Hello, Daunis Fontaine.” His voice reverberates low, like a high-performance engine toying with first gear.

I enter the key card the wrong way and a light flashes red. I turn it around and get another red light. He chuckles and pulls

the latch on his own door, so it won’t lock him out. His bare feet bring him to my door in three quick steps.

“You’re jiggling it.” He takes the card without asking and smoothly pushes it into the slot. The light blinks green.

“The right moves make all the difference, Daunis Fontaine.”

“Thank you,” I say, sounding like GrandMary in her prim and formal tone.

He laughs. “Happy to help anytime.”

I close the door before he offers any suggestions. It’s week two of a six-month season. Twenty-two or so more weeks of avoiding Call-me-Grant.

The next day, Coach Bobby gets huffy when I reach for one of the boxes of hockey pucks he has stacked to carry into the arena.

“You shouldn’t be lifting with that shoulder of yours,” Coach says.

“I’m all healed up, Coach.” I can tell he wants to protest, but his hands are full, so he can’t stop me from taking the top box and following him.

When I reach the visitors section of bleachers, I set the box of pucks next to the other one. I decide to be even more helpful and use my keys to open the clear packing tape across the top. The girlfriends will walk up and down the steps in our section handing out these souvenir pucks to the fans. I decide to join them tonight, since it won’t involve going onto the ice.

The box I open has plain hockey pucks.

“Coach Bobby, are these the right pucks? They don’t have the Supes logo.”

“Ah, that’s because those are donated.” He rushes over to show that some have a dream-catcher design printed on them.

Coach looks around, tilts his head toward where Call-me- Grant sits next to the bus flasher.

“Grant Edwards is donating these to a tribal youth program,” Coach says. “Don’t mention anything, though, because he likes to keep that stuff quiet.”

“Wait, so the local Nish kids get defective pucks?” I am instantly pissed, because half the dream catchers look smeared.

“Fontaine, we’re all just trying to do our best out here,” he says.

When it’s time to take a seat, I glance at the empty spot between Ron and Call-me-Grant before squeezing next to Maybe-Megan.

“Hey, everyone, it’s Daunis!” One quick side-hug later, Maybe-Megan hands me a large gift bag. “This is from all of us. We meant to give it to you yesterday, but someone misplaced it.” She glares down the row at a fellow anglerfish.

Reaching into the bag, I feel the stiff fabric of a new hockey jersey. I hold up an extra-long, navy Supes jersey with the white and silver wave logo on the front.

“We were gonna put Jamie’s last name on it, but some wondered if you’d want Levi’s on it too,” one of the girlfriends says. “And Megan said you were former teammates with Mike and Stormy. And you’re kinda like the team’s ambassador. But all those last names would be … a lot.”

“So we figured your own name was just fine,” Megan declares.

I turn the jersey to reveal DAUNIS on the back in silver- edged white letters.

“It’s perfect,” I manage to say before my throat constricts from rising emotions. Shock and awe at their generosity. Humility and gratitude for the thoughtful consideration they

gave me when I hadn’t done the same for them. Most of all, I am overcome with joy.

During the first intermission, I proudly wear my new team jersey to hand out a stack of pucks with the Supes logo through the visitors section. I recognize most of our fans. The lady who took over the War Memorial Hospital Auxiliary after GrandMary’s stroke rubs my arm.

“I’m praying for your grandmother,” she says.

My BlackBerry vibrates in my back pocket. I ignore it to continue tossing pucks. When I hold one out to a girl who graduated a year before me, she reads something on her cell phone that causes her to burst into tears. Another vibration.

My heart races. Someone else looks at their phone. People share shocked expressions, and I see one girl cover her mouth with her hand. Dropping the pucks, I reach for my phone to read whatever bad news is rippling through the bleachers.

AUNTIE: Robin dead. TJ said meth OD.

CHAPTER 28

Word spreads quickly. Our entire section buzzes. I have to get out of here. I catch snippets of conversations as I run up the steps to the upper-level exit. A lot of people are upset and confused, but my ears pick out certain voices above the murmur of the crowd.

“Robin Bailey? No way.”

“I thought she was one of the good Indians.”

“That’s what you get for taking easy per-cap money. I told you they don’t know how to handle their money or their alcohol.”

“My God, even the smart ones are dumb.”

The vultures are already tearing into Robin’s dead body.

Hot, itchy anger races through my veins. I rub my nose as I sprint to the bathroom. The mixture of odors won’t go away: acrid smoke, rotting flesh, WD-40, chemicals, and sweat. I can smell and taste the coppery tang of blood at the back of my throat. Laboratory chemicals and off-gases. Urine. Lily’s bladder releasing as she fell backward. The body does that when you die. All your muscles fail.

I can’t take this. I’m smelling everything again.

When I reach the last stall, my legs give way as I latch the door. I scurry to the corner and pull my new Supes jersey over my head. Like a turtle. I breathe in until the only thing I can smell is my own sweat and deodorant as I continue rocking back and forth. In shock over another girl gone too soon.

The girlfriends gather outside the stall. I hear them whispering, then Megan tries to crawl underneath the door. I kick a long leg at her. I have no room for their thoughtfulness inside my grief bubble.

“Daunis, the game is over. We gotta go back to the hotel,” they take turns saying.

One of them must think to get Ron. I hear him tell the girlfriends to go; their van is waiting. It’s okay. He’ll wait for me and we’ll take a cab back to the hotel instead of the Booster Bus.

After they leave, he just sits there outside the stall. Quiet except for occasionally telling someone to mind their business when they say something about a man in the women’s restroom.

“Go on,” he says. “No one’s bothering you.”

All I see is his bottom half, with his knees pulled up to his chest like mine are. His shoes are the same ones he wore the day he brought me to David’s classroom. The ones with the squeaky shoe.

Someone must have told security, because heavy footsteps approach.

“Sir, we’ve received a complaint of a man in the women’s restroom.”

“That would be me,” Ron says. “I’m looking after my nephew’s girlfriend. He plays for the Superiors. She got some bad news tonight. I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

Ron’s voice is firm. He isn’t leaving until I do.

I don’t want security to escalate things.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” I say. My voice is raspy even though I haven’t been crying.

Ron’s right shoe squeaks as we head outside to wait for the cab he called. Strange as it seems, focusing on his noisy shoe

helps me put one foot in front of the other.

Ron brings me back to the hotel and when he sees Jamie waiting for me in international waters, he leaves us there alone. He must have decided to cut Jamie some slack.

We sit on a love seat near the fireplace. Jamie puts his arm around me without asking. I lean against him and exhale.

Tonight’s mood is different. Everyone is subdued. The players must have found out about Robin during the game, because they had a really bad third period.

Levi sits by himself, staring out the window. I can’t imagine what he is thinking. My brother escorted Robin to Shagala her junior year when he was in the eighth grade. I debate going over to him but cannot summon the energy to move.

Levi rises and faces the room. “We played for shit tonight because we aren’t reading each other yet,” he says.

Wait … Robin is nowhere on his mind?

Levi continues, “We gotta be brothers. We gotta know what the other is thinking before he even says it. We gotta play smarter.”

The players nod their heads, even the local guys who knew Robin. No one says a word about her or the fact that this is yet another drug-related death in our community.

No one cares.

Jamie holds me closer. He observes my right leg shaking as if every ounce of anger has settled in that one limb. Makes eye contact with me: What can I do to help you?

We are reading each other.

I stand and stretch my legs, trying to reverse everything suddenly tightening up.

“What? You got an idea for how we can gel as a team?” Levi asks. “Give us your wisdom, Dauny Defense!”

I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet as if about to start a race, but when I see all eyes on me, I freeze in place. Jamie’s expression is now a silent warning: Think very carefully about what you say next. I am scared that I’m growing fluent in Jamie. What if Ron was wrong and Jamie is just a better actor than me? A smoother liar? Smooth moves through and through.

Every morning now I pray for gwekowaadiziwin. To be honest, if only with myself.

“Robin Bailey just died! Is this how players from the Sault mourn a former teammate?” Glancing around the room, I see that half the people are looking at their feet while the others stare at me like I’m having a meltdown. I glare at Levi. “But you go ahead and focus on hockey, because your loss tonight is the real tragedy.”

I storm off to the farthest corner of international waters. Levi intercepts me. His arms wrap me in a tight hug.

He whispers into my ear, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“No. It’s not okay. How many more people are gonna die before our community does something about it?” I choke out. “Robin was your friend, too. And you’re just acting like nothing’s happened!”

We stand there for a few minutes while the room slowly resumes normalcy. Robin’s name is peppered into some of the conversation fragments I hear.

Levi sighs, then breaks away from our hug.

“Hey everyone,” he calls out. “Daunis is right. We need to do something.” Everyone’s looking at Levi. “Robin was one of us.”

“What are you thinking? Like, a fundraiser?” Mike says, joining us.

I forgot that Mike escorted Robin to Shagala her senior year. She laughed when people teased about her taking eighth- grade boys her last two years at Sault High.

“Yeah,” Levi says. “That’s it!”

“Hey, everyone,” Mike announces. “Levi had a great idea. A charity game.” He beams at Levi. “Like, us playing a non- league game?”

“We can collect donations and do something in Robin’s name.” Levi gives me a side hug. “We can donate and raise awareness for drug-prevention programs.”

“Hey, Levi. What about Sault High?” Mike asks. He looks at me; it’s the first time since what happened in his bedroom. He smiles just like normal. “C’mon, Dauny Defense. We always said we could kick Supe ass if we had a chance. Now I’m a Supe and I say, ‘Let’s do this.’ Supes versus Sault High Blue Devils, current and former players. Fundraiser and ass- kicking.”

The room starts buzzing. Heads nodding. Excited conversations. It’s decided that they’ll hold the fundraiser game next weekend, the night before Shagala.

As I watch my former teammates rally, the tears that felt locked inside me in the bathroom stall release now. A flood of tears. The guys do care. Proud tears. For my brother making something good happen. Maybe even tears of relief that things with Mike can go back to how they used to be. Me as one of the guys. Dauny Defense. Bubble.

Suddenly, it’s all I want. For things to go back to normal. To the Before, when Bubble lived in a bubble. Before the investigation—the chaos of not knowing what’s real and what isn’t.

Firekeeper’s Daughter is over the lifting-the-sun gig. Being in the dark is fine by me.

Jamie approaches. He hugs me and doesn’t let go.

“What are you doing?” he says into my ear, low and deep. “This isn’t part of the plan.”

The hotel lobby feels different. People are excited. Hopeful. The guys huddle with a cluster of players and girlfriends who have formed an impromptu planning committee.

“But … this is good … isn’t it? My community. Doing something positive?” I use the sleeve of my Supes jersey to wipe the last of my tears from my cheeks. Jamie tugs me over to the side, out of earshot of everyone else, and lowers his voice.

“We need to stick with the plan,” he insists. Jamie folds his arms across his chest. He shifts uncomfortably before putting his hands on his hips.

I step back to eyeball him. His stance changes, becomes unyielding. A cop doing his job.

I understand at last.

“Hold on. When you say ‘we,’ you don’t mean you and me. You mean the FBI,” I say, mouthing the initials while pretending to rub my nose so no one can read my lips. “Jamie, don’t you remember what my aunt told us about making some workers stay late to fix the owl T-shirts? They learned about the problem and had ownership in the solution? We have to fix it. The community, not the”—my hand hides my mouth from the room again—“FBI.”

His jaw clenches as if I’ve said something unpleasant.

“Well, you guys haven’t fixed it yet,” Jamie points out.

“Don’t you see how warped it is to think we can’t get it done without the …?” I don’t bother with the initials this time.

“Honestly, no,” he says, even more quietly than anything he’s said to this point.

I don’t know this person, and he sure as hell doesn’t know me, either. Or my community.

Jamie Johnson doesn’t see us.

“You swoop in, want to save us, and then leave,” I say. “You won’t be here for the fallout. You aren’t thinking about the community at all. Don’t you get that?”

Jamie’s face is devoid of any emotion. It’s a mask to protect himself … from me.

The sting in my nose infuriates me. Robin comes to mind.

No guy should have that kind of power over you. No matter who he is …

Maybe I need a shield to protect myself from Jamie. Glancing around to see that no one is paying attention to us, I advance. This asshole will see how Dauny Defense plays offense.

“Maybe you’d understand if you actually had a community?”

He takes a step back. Blinks his tawny eyes.
I’ve drawn blood. It was a deeper cut than I intended. James Brian Johnson, or whoever he truly is, walks away. Instead of feeling victorious, I’m hollow inside.

I am on my knees, hunched over, wiping my mouth, when I hear arguing and crying. Lily and Travis walking down the two-track.

“Travis, I told you. You gotta get help. This is bigger than you. You need real help.”

He grabs her arm when they’re ten feet away from me.

“Tell me how, Lil. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

She yanks free. “First off, you gotta leave me alone. No more coming around to snag when Granny’s away. I gotta focus on school. You focus on yourself. We gotta stand on our

own feet separately. Don’t you see? I can’t stand on my own if I’m always holding you up.”

“No. I can’t do it on my own. I need you. I love you.” His voice trembles.

“Need and love aren’t the same. Your need is ruining the love part. Travis, I’m done. I’m really done.”

Travis pulls an old revolver from the back of his jeans.

I wake up, choking on the smell of Travis’s body odor. Chemicals and sweat that seemed more pungent than ordinary guy stink.

Why haven’t I remembered what they said to each other before now?

Was Ron right when he said that I had to trust that the answers will be revealed when I’m ready? Will the rest of my memory come back? Or am I creating something out of nothing?

My BlackBerry vibrates on the nightstand. JAMIE: I am sorry.

I don’t know what he’s sorry about. For thinking so little about my community? For shutting down when I took issue with the FBI? For revealing a clue about himself having been adopted out from some tribe somewhere? For kissing me in the elevator?

Maybe he’s sorry for accepting this assignment in the first place.

ME: Me too.

Maybe I’m sorry for everything too. For agreeing to help the investigation. That sometimes my community disappoints me in ways too complicated to process, but that doesn’t mean the FBI is the solution. That it didn’t take much for me to lean into Jamie. Or maybe I’m sorry for lashing out at him because

I like him more than I should. Seeing his cop mask slide into place was a reminder that he will leave after his job is done.

Getting left behind doesn’t get any easier the more it happens.

JAMIE: Whats ur room number? ME: 740

I listen in the darkness for the stairwell door next to my room to open and close with the cautious movements of someone sneaking where he shouldn’t be.

My heart races when I open my hotel-room door and he enters. Jamie, in sweatpants and a T-shirt, with his hair going in every direction. I close the door behind him. We face each other. Time slows the way it does on the ice, everything pausing for one long, clarifying breath.

I kiss Jamie tenderly, like we had in the elevator. Only I don’t stop. The thoughts that went through my mind as we texted moments ago are still swirling around us. But, in this moment, I don’t want to spend time with my concerns. Just for tonight, I want to be part of something that feels good. In the Now of this Newer New Normal, that means being with Jamie.

I inhale his scent, the soap that reminds me of a far-off sunny place. He tastes faintly of mint. My fingers weave through his soft curls, which feel better than I imagined.

He kisses me back. Slowly. As if he wants to savor every moment of this. His arms are wrapped around me. Lean, strong muscles.

Our lips part and my tongue finds his. We remain in this embrace, as soothing as gentle waves upon the shore, for hours, it seems.

When Jamie steps back, I reach for him, not wanting this to end. I feel his low chuckle from his body pressed against mine.

“We shouldn’t, Daunis,” he whispers. “Not until we’re on the other side of this. We have no idea what’s coming. Let’s wait for Someday.”

“It’s already Sunday,” I say, pretending to mishear. We laugh together, louder than we should.

Jamie carefully opens the door and steps into the hallway, gives me a long look that nearly has me chasing after him. I watch him enter the stairwell and close the door behind him. As I stand there alone in the hallway, the final click of the door breaks through my happy bubble.

What have I done? I kissed the guy who is investigating my community. The guy I have very real feelings for. This entire situation got more complicated tonight, and I’m still not sure how I feel about how Jamie is approaching the investigation.

The door next to mine opens; Call-me-Grant pokes his head into the hallway like a turtle. He has a sleepy twinkle in his eye as he raises an eyebrow at me. He holds up a finger to his lips.

“Shhhh. Your secret is safe with me, Daunis Fontaine.”

Shit times infinity. This just reached chi complication level.

CHAPTER 29

The next morning, I’m the first to board the Booster Bus. I slide over to leave the aisle seat for Ron. I stare out the window, replaying every moment with Jamie. If I pretend last night was a dream, maybe Ron won’t find out.

Someone sits next to me. I turn to greet Ron, ready to play innocent. My stomach twists when I see it’s Call-me-Grant instead.

“I thought you were a good girl,” he says conspiratorially. “But you’re a bad girl who doesn’t follow rules.”

“I didn’t realize it was an either-or situation.”

“There are always choices one must make. I admire people who make interesting choices.” He glances sideways, appraising me as if I were one of my grandmother’s necklaces.

“Doesn’t your income as a defense attorney depend on those who make poor choices?”

“Indeed, Daunis Fontaine. Indeed.” He rises when Ron enters the bus and begins walking toward us. “Sometimes poor and interesting go hand in hand.”

The closer we get to the Sault, the heavier my heart sinks. I wish everything that happened to Robin Bailey were a bad dream that she could wake from and have a fresh start.

How could Robin get mixed up with meth? She has her act together. Had.

What secrets did she have?

She was a rez girl. Her mom is a Nodin. Stormy and Robin were distant cousins. Her dad is from another tribe. They live in the After neighborhood on the satellite rez. Everyone liked her.

I can’t let anyone else die. I need to become a better Secret Squirrel. More active and less passive. Maybe I should pull on threads from Robin’s life … see what unravels?

My take-the-initiative efforts with Mike turned into a disaster. Should I try again, but with Stormy? He’s related to Robin. Heather, too. Maybe I can ask him about them? Offer to be a sympathetic listener, but not hang all over him like with Mike and have him misinterpret my attention. I won’t make the same mistake twice.

But first I need to finish my mushroom research on Duck Island. Uncle David found a unique species of a hallucinogenic mushroom he suspected Travis added to a batch of meth.

Ron clears his throat gently and slides a folded paper into the book on my lap. I wait a few minutes before looking.

The inventory of everything found with Heather Nodin: her safety-pin jeans, a crop top, and hoodie. No mention of a bra, panties, or black platform flip-flops. She had a small, zippered fabric wallet with her driver’s license, laminated tribal enrollment identification card, single ribbed XL condom packet, and $174.00. Her red Roots hoodie sweatshirt pocket held two resealable plastic sandwich bags—one had two joints and the other bag contained shards of crystal meth alongside pills that were a reconstituted mix of methylenedioxymethamphetamine and sildenafil citrate.

When the bus flasher begins a striptease to Beyoncé’s “Naughty Girl,” I take advantage of the diversion. I point to the unfolded paper, the line listing two joints.

“There were six in the bag when she showed me,” I murmur.

The cheering grows louder. I point to the next item, the second bag in her hoodie pocket.

“She offered me the ecstasy boner pills. They were light with dark flecks.”

I share my percolating thoughts with Ron, whispering as quietly as I can.

“She wasn’t shy about selling stuff at the bonfire. If she’d had meth on her, I’d have seen it in the bag. So she must have gotten it from someone after she talked to me. People supposedly saw her walking through Paradise.” My voice rises along with my excitement. “Can you find out where that info came from? They might remember something—a car, or who else may have left at the same time. Whoever she had contact with may have done something to her.”

He raises a finger. Shhh.
I lower my voice again and grin. “We need a secret

language like my mom and Uncle David.”

Holy shit. I quickly turn to look out the window so Ron won’t see my expression.

What if Uncle David did keep a journal? But he wanted to make sure no one else could read it?

I know my uncle. My doubts when he disappeared came from observing behaviors and drawing a faulty conclusion. What I know for certain is that he collected evidence and documented everything. There has to be a last journal somewhere. And I’d bet it was written in code, in a language that only my mother and I can speak.

If I can find it and prove what Uncle David tried to do, everyone will know the truth about him and why he died. They’ll also know my mother’s faith in her brother wasn’t naive or misguided.

My thoughts are racing. I haven’t forgotten Jamie’s views about the FBI’s role and the community’s role. Am I helping the FBI or am I helping my community? I had doubts from the

start that it was the same thing. The more enmeshed I become, the farther apart my investigation is from theirs. It’s no longer on two parallel tracks. For the rest of the bus ride, I sequence the steps I will take when I return.

1. Finish searching Duck Island.
2. Ask Mom about Uncle David’s last journal, where he might have kept it separate from his other notebooks.
3. Ask Mom if Grandpa Lorenzo kept a second set of keys to his desk.
4. Watch for opportunities to reach out to Stormy about Heather and Robin.
5. Talk to people who knew Robin and try to dig for any details about what she did besides take classes at Lake State.

For now, I won’t mention the notebook to Ron. Or Jamie. Once I find what I’m looking for, I’ll figure out what, if anything, I should share with them.

It’s early afternoon when we return to the Sault. I race across town to catch the ferry to Sugar Island. By the time I hike to where I left off last Friday, I’ve got about five hours of light.

I collect three samples. Two are familiar. One is unlike anything I’ve seen before. Could it be that Duck Island saved its secrets until the end? I’m excited to get home and check my mushroom and fungi books and internet databases.

It’s sunny and brisk, but cools considerably once the sun nears the treetops across Duck Lake. Autumn is a fickle season. Sometimes lingering, sometimes making only a brief appearance.

On the causeway, my phone vibrates repeatedly with texts and missed calls. I wait to check it until I park in line for the next ferry.

JAMIE: Hey back in town. U free JAMIE: What u up 2
JAMIE: Is this a bad time
JAMIE: Why u not respond JAMIE: Will u call so I know ur ok

Holy. He’s as bad as my mother.

I call. Jamie picks up before I hear a ring.

“I’m fine,” I say as a greeting. “Just finished research on the island. I told you I can’t get a signal unless I’m on the north end or close to the ferry.”

“Well, I didn’t know where you were.”

“Um … Jamie … are you ticked off? I’m not someone who checks in with a guy.”

“This isn’t an ordinary situation, Daunis. You’re exploring remote parts of Sugar Island. Alone. Where you found a dead body.” His voice softens. “You promise to text me when you go off somewhere?” When I don’t answer immediately, he adds, “For safety reasons. Okay?”

“Okay. But you need to promise too. For safety. And fairness.”

He laughs. “Okay. Promise.”

“I gotta go. They’re waving me onto the ferry,” I say.

Once I park in the row, I shut off the Jeep and glance around. Robin’s mom is in the passenger seat of the car next to me.

We make eye contact. She gives me a teary smile. My body reacts before my brain can sequence what I should do. I exit the Jeep. Instead of rolling down her window, she gets out of the car.

We hug.
“I am so sorry, Mrs. Bailey.”

Robin’s mom cries as the ferry rocks from side to side on the choppy water. I don’t know what I might say to comfort her, but I try.

“Robin helped me a few weeks ago. On campus. It was so good to see her. I hoped we’d end up in classes together. Is there anything I can do to contact her professors?”

Mrs. Bailey looks confused. “Robin wasn’t taking any classes,” she says.

My face must mirror hers from a moment ago. “What do you mean? I just saw her taking classes at Lake State.”

“That’s not possible. Robin’s been addicted to painkillers ever since she re-broke her collarbone last year.” Mrs. Bailey breaks into raw, choking sobs. “Then she admitted she was doing meth.”

Mr. Bailey gets out of the car and comes around to hold his wife as the ferry docks.

“We were trying to get her into rehab, not college,” he tells me in a broken voice.

CHAPTER 30

I drive home in a stupor. The day Robin helped me, she had a backpack and we went into the student union together. We were just two college students hanging out in the café.

Except … Robin Bailey wasn’t on campus to go to classes. I realize I didn’t actually see her walk into any classroom. So why was she there?

As I close the front door behind me, a bad thought pops into my head. Why a girl who was addicted to pills and meth might be carrying a backpack around campus …

Shame washes over me. I’m no better than those assholes talking trash about Robin at the hockey game the minute they found out she overdosed.

Two girls possibly dealing meth. Both dead.

Should I tell Jamie and Ron what I learned about Robin? And about my suspicion that she was dealing meth or pills on campus? Or do I wait until I’m certain?

C’mon, Daunis. Focus. Something has to make sense.

I hear the crinkle of plastic in my backpack. The mushrooms.

I sit at my desk and research the three samples I collected today. Cross-reference them with photographs in the three different field-guide books and the mushroom-identification websites I’ve come to know as well as their creators and web administrators.

The first two are confirmed to be well-documented varieties.

The final one is black with bumpy white warts on its irregularly shaped cap. It stinks too much to take it from the bag. Once I get a closer look, I realize the white spots aren’t warts. They’re minuscule white fungi growing from the dark mushroom. Like the mushroom equivalent of an anglerfish, completely dependent on its host for nutrients.

This could be it. A new variety. Anticipation builds.

In the next instant, I crash and burn.

It’s in the database. Asterophora parasitica. A rare variety, but not an undiscovered one.

I throw the sandwich bag of anglerfish mushrooms across my bedroom. All that time wasted on this wild goose chase.

Not a waste, Daunis. Ruling things out is part of the process, Uncle David reminds me.

Frustration churns inside me like magma. I must have missed something. Somewhere.

Shit. Triple. Quadruple. Infinity. Shit.

The scent of freshly baked cookies wafts under my bedroom door, along with Herri’s paw reaching through the gap for the bag. I jump up to grab it before she can hook the plastic with her claws.

I need to be more careful. The mushrooms could’ve been toxic to Herri. My rash actions could be dangerous to others.

I join Mom in the kitchen, take a warm macadamia nut cookie from the parchment paper on the counter. It melts in my mouth. The sweetness jolts my molars. Okay, the mushrooms didn’t reveal any answers, so it’s on to the next step of my plan.

“Mom, did Uncle David keep journals anywhere else besides his home office?”

She gives me a quizzical look, before her eyes shift upward to tap into her mental data files.

“He started with a diary, you know, when we were kids. Always writing down what he did that day.” She smiles at the memory. “He kept them in our tree house. Nothing like what the twins have, but it was perfect for us. We’d read and play cards. He’d write in his diary and leave it in an opening where a squirrel once made a home.” She pulls a cookie apart and eats one half, sighing contentedly. “They tore it down when we were teens to make room for the gazebo. The tree, too.” She shakes her head. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve just been missing him and thinking about him. Especially those last weeks,” I say carefully. “Just wondered what he was preoccupied with.”

My mother tenses. GrandMary and I didn’t believe her. I put my arm around Mom and wish I could give her more than a silent apology. But I don’t know what I can say without revealing too much. My reticence is a lie by omission. One that’s hurting my mother.

When the investigation is over, I can tell Mom the truth. She was right all along.

“He was spending all of his time at school, as far as I knew,” she says. “You would’ve seen him more than me those last weeks.”

“I remember him organizing his chem storage room,” I tell her. “He didn’t bother with anything so easy as alphabetical order.” I smile and hug her more closely. “He had to put them in reverse order of their group number and then in descending order of their atomic mass.”

Everyone who looked at his storage room would see random labeled jars. Only people who knew the periodic table frontward and backward would see the order. Sometimes he’d tell an AP Chem student, go get a metalloid with an atomic number that’s second smallest in their group. We’d wait for them to return with the jar labeled SILICON.

It seemed like just a nerdy Uncle David quirk. Only now do I realize that maybe he did it to tell if anyone had moved

things around.

Ron must have inspected the chem storage room and dusted for fingerprints. There would be students’ prints. Nothing to narrow down anyone stealing chemicals. Plus, Uncle David didn’t have anything toxic or unstable. Just an inventory of the chemicals he might want to use for lessons or his own research.

Okay. Mom didn’t provide an instant answer. I’ll regroup and try again later. For now, I move on to the next task in my sequenced list.

“Hey, Mom. Did you think it was okay for GrandMary to include Grandpa Lorenzo’s office furniture when she sold the building to Mrs. Edwards?”

“Where did that come from?” she asks, taken aback. I shrug. “Just wondered if she asked you first.” “No,” Mom says curtly. “She did not.”

Change is so hard for my mother. Was she always like this? Even in the Before, a part of her was stuck in 1985. The accident on Sugar Island, when she told my dad about me.

“I wonder if GrandMary remembered to tell Mrs. Edwards about the desk drawer that stuck when it rained and about the key hook at the back of the top drawer?” I say.

“I’m sure she went over every detail when she turned it over to Helene and Grant. David would hate to admit it, but he got that quality from our mother.”

“Even down to the spare key for the desk?” I keep my voice as casual as possible.

“Oh, I’m certain. Your grandmother was very thorough.” My heart sinks again. No instant answer.
And an even more distressing thought …

Mom just used the past tense when speaking about GrandMary. A tiny, subconscious slip. Change comes even

when we consciously try to avoid it.

On Monday, Auntie and I have an appointment at the hospital lab. She made the appointment there instead of at Tribal Health, where she is the director, so no one can claim she used her position to influence the outcome.

“Would someone really do that?” I ask.

“I don’t put it past anyone,” she says wearily.

The results of the blood tests, showing a familial relationship between my paternal aunt and me, will be sent directly to the tribal enrollment clerk to be added to my membership application file.

I drive from the hospital to the tribal enrollment office to drop off my application and supporting affidavits. Stormy is there, asking the receptionist if his tribal ID will be enough to get him across the International Bridge. He can’t find his passport.

“You know how CBP is with tribal members,” she tells him. “It’s hit or miss if them officers ever heard about the Jay Treaty.”

The Jay Treaty is supposed to let Nishnaabs cross the border freely, but people always complain that CBP asks for different documentation every time. Sometimes they’ll wave you through; other times they require an ID, a birth certificate, and a statement on official letterhead listing your blood quantum and your parents’, too.

When he turns around, he looks so dejected. Sometimes Stormy is such an asshole, and other times you just feel bad for the hand he got dealt.

“What’s across the bridge?” I ask.

“Eh,” he says, trying for nonchalance. “Greyhounds hockey tonight. Coach Alberts got us tickets to go. The whole team. Going to the mall first and dinner.”

“Where do you think your passport could be?” He shrugs. “Probably at my ma’s.”
I look around. “Is Levi waiting for you?”
“No. I walked here after fifth period.”

It’s really windy and there’s a storm gaining power over Lake Superior.

“C’mon,” I say. “I’ll take you to the island and you can look for it.”

“Really?” There’s just enough hope in his voice that I almost forget about the times he’s a jerk.

On the ferry, Stormy takes semaa from the pouch I keep in a cup holder and makes a silent offering to the river. I’m initially surprised by his knowing the old ways, but on second thought, his parents attend ceremonies when they’re doing well. Clear eyes and open hearts, as Auntie says when she means drug- and alcohol-free.

The closer we get to his mom’s house on the original rez, the less confident he is.

“Yeah. Probably won’t find it. Doesn’t really matter,” he says.

“I believe in you, Stormy,” I say, keeping my voice light so he knows I’m just teasing.

He laughs and goes inside. I wait in the Jeep, until his mom opens her front door and waves for me to come in. Shawna Nodin must have clear eyes and an open heart these days.

She offers me coffee, and even though I don’t drink it often, I accept her hospitality. Her small house is spotlessly clean.

There are school pictures of Stormy taped on the wall. They’re the only decoration except for one poster advertising last year’s Anishinaabemowin conference. The print image is of an institutional-looking boarding school in the background; in the foreground, there are teepees set up just beyond the

fence surrounding the school. I’ve never seen that old photograph before, but there is something defiant and reassuring about it. The proof that even when their children were taken away, there were some parents who followed them. Maybe they drummed and sang and prayed, while their children were forbidden from speaking the language on the other side of the fence. Maybe, just maybe, a kid heard the familiar songs in the distance. Maybe even smelled the smudge carrying their parents’ prayers to Creator.

There’s a pot of soup or something simmering on the stove. It smells good.

I’m glad for Shawna.

I’m even more glad for Stormy.

My shoulders tense when Stormy’s dad comes down the hallway. A lot of the Nodins think of me as more Zhaaganaash than Nish. My childhood nickname of Ghost was started by a Nodin boy a year older than me.

Stormy’s dad sits across from me and lights a cigarette. Blows a puff of smoke my way. Gives a cold, silent appraisal of me while Shawna pours him a cup of coffee.

Stormy is making a ruckus in his bedroom. Slamming dresser drawers and swearing.

When the cigarette is nothing but a stub in an ashtray, Stormy’s dad speaks. “Your grandma hosted those ‘Cards ’n’ Crafts’ things. Do-gooder shit for the hospital.”

I give a half nod. GrandMary and the hospital volunteers’ auxiliary. Stormy’s dad continues like he’s just been stewing for years, waiting for me to show up in his living room so he can tell me exactly how he feels about my family.

“Old, rich Zhaaganaash ladies played cards in the center of the room. Then they took a break, walked around the tables where we had our stuff set out for sale. Beadwork, leather, wood carvings.” Smoke from the next cigarette puffs my way. “Them ladies could’ve paid ten times over for everything on our tables. But they still haggled, looking for a deal.”

His simmering hostility makes me uncomfortable.

Down the hallway, it sounds like Stormy is demolishing his bedroom down to the studs.

Shawna joins us at the table. She puts a hand on her husband’s sleeve and rubs it gently while he continues talking.

“I went with my grandpa. Your grandma wrinkled her nose at his baskets. At his prices.”

I don’t know what to say in response. All Stormy’s dad sees in me is my Zhaaganaash family. GrandMary loves me, but she did not care much for Indians. Even before my dad came along. It’s hard to reconcile not liking, even despising, parts of someone you love.

Is it possible the heart can expand to hold love as well as all the complicated emotions?

“Your grandpa’s baskets are beautiful,” I say. “Worth more than he ever asked for.”

He makes a dismissive sound, “Pshhhhhh,” as he grinds the cigarette butt into an ashtray.

Stormy enters with a navy-blue passport booklet and a victorious smile.

“Hey, Ma,” he says. “You got any money so I can get something to eat with the team?”

Shawna shakes her head. “Just paid October rent.”

His dad stands up and pulls out a wallet. Counts the dollar bills. Stormy and his dad get per-cap checks each month, but his dad’s is garnished by the county court for some legal trouble and attorney fees. I think Stormy’s check is their only income.

“Nine bucks,” he says, handing his son everything he’s got.

Even with the favorable exchange rate, that won’t cover more than a hot dog and a pop.

Stormy, Macy, and I did our coming-of-age fast the same time, although I was more than a year older. I heard Stormy’s dad drumming and singing every so often, from a tree stand in the distance. Just so Stormy would know he was nearby.

“Miigwech for the coffee,” I tell Shawna.

“Makade-mashkikiwaboo. Niishin,” she says. “Black medicine drink. It is good.”

“Aho,” I acknowledge. That is all.

Stormy and I are silent in the Jeep. He stares out the window as I drive to the ferry. The dark storm clouds are visible in the distance. Leaves whip around us.

My sequenced list calls out to me and … I just can’t. It doesn’t feel appropriate to use this ride to pump Stormy for information about two dead girls who happen to be his cousins. The perfect Secret Squirrel would stay on task, but I’m no longer going by the book.

Once we’re on the ferry, I finally speak because the silence grows more awkward with each passing minute. “Your mom and dad looked good, hey.”

“Pshhhhhh,” Stormy says, sounding exactly like his dad. “This week.”

He makes another offering to the river. After all, it is a new river each time.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text.

LEVI: Hey do u got ur debit card 4 canada

ME: yes

LEVI: I cant find mine. Can I borrow

ME: yes. Do a favor no questions. Sit w stormy mike jamie at dinner. Say ur treat BEFORE they order.

Exiting the ferry ramp, we pass the line of cars waiting to board the ferry to the island. In the middle of the convoy is a tribal cop car. Stormy motions at the large figure behind the wheel.

“Ghost of Christmas Past,” he says of Officer Kewadin.

“Pshhhhhh. I ain’t ’fraid of no ghost,” I say, mimicking both his dad and the Ghostbusters movie.

Stormy laughs. I drop him off at Chi Mukwa for the bus to the Greyhounds game. Levi catches me before I drive away. He comes over to get the debit card just as Jamie pulls into the parking lot. My brother greets Jamie with a fist bump.

“Have fun at the game,” I say. “And, Jamie, don’t forget to text if you go anywhere besides the mall and the arena. For fairness.”

Jamie gives a brief smile before leaning his head through the open window for a kiss. His peck on the cheek is … underwhelming. I hide my disappointment beneath an extra- cheesy grin.

“C’mon, Loverboy,” my brother tells Jamie. “We’re late for the Naughty Nickel.”

“Levi Firekeeper, you’d better not take him there!” I play up my outrage.

The guys laugh.

“Do I want to know?” Jamie says.

I roll my eyes. “Strip club. Your coach isn’t taking you there, no matter how much Levi pesters him.”

The sky becomes a dark gray ceiling with a curtain of cold rain whipping sideways across the parking lot. The guys dash to the team bus. I wait until they’re safely inside before I drive away through the sideways downpour.

Gusts of wind rock the Jeep all the way home. I try concentrating on the road as fragmented thoughts lurch back and forth: Duck Island’s a bust. Uncomfortable around Stormy’s dad. No journal yet. Why uncomfortable? No spare key for that desk. Unflattering story about GrandMary. When to ask Stormy about his two girl cousins? Entirely plausible for GrandMary to behave that way. Make sure there’s enough money for Levi to pay for dinner. Jamie’s peck on the cheek felt blah. Who else has info on Robin?

I glance at the time once I’m back home. I need to check the balance in the account. Make sure there’s enough to pay for dinner. Levi can be careless with his spending, and who knows what they’ll get up to tonight?

I look through the Longaberger basket where Mom puts all the bills and bank statements. My trust account statement is there, along with the one from my savings account in town.

Nothing from Canada … that’s odd.

It isn’t until I go through last year’s financial documents in the metal filing cabinet in the basement that I find an old statement from the joint account. I run back upstairs and call from the house phone, giving my name, account number, date of birth, and address.

“I show a different mailing address on the account,” the customer service lady says, giving Levi’s address. “Is there a problem? Do we need to freeze the account?”

“No,” I say quickly. “That’s my brother’s address. He’s on the account too. He uses it more than I do.”

I should text Levi to let him know how much is in the account. In case he wants to shop at the mall before or after dinner.

“What’s the current balance?” I ask.

We usually keep the equivalent of about four hundred U.S. dollars in the account. With the exchange rate, it should be around five hundred dollars Canadian.

“Four thousand eight-hundred fifty-six dollars and seventy- seven cents.”

Holy.

“Did you say four thousand?”

“Yes.” A few heartbeats later she says, “I’m sorry, I made a mistake.”

I breathe an enormous sigh of relief.

The bank lady continues. “I gave you the amount from your August statement. The current balance is ten thousand eight-hundred fifty-six dollars and seventy-seven cents.”