Race to the Sun: Chapters 1–7

I surreptitiously wipe off the spit, trying not to look completely grossed out, even though it’s pretty gross.

Everyone on the team extends an arm into the middle of the circle, touches hands, and yells, "Isotopes!”: a rallying cry for what must be the worst mascot in the history of mascots—except maybe for this one team I heard of called the Fighting Pickles. But really, who even knows what an isotope is?

I hear the shuffle of thwarted Isotopes fans leaving the gym.

To be honest, I'm not very good at basketball, just like I’m not very good at most things. I even flubbed my one line in The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

“I’ve given up on being internet-famous, but school-famous still felt within the realm of possibility. A game-winning basket would have been a perfect start.”
Davery snorts. “Well, that plan is a total loss. The only thing you launched was a thousand sad memes.”

I stifle a groan.

His parents love him, dote on him, and turn up for everything he does.

Davery’s mom is African American and his dad is Navajo, and small-minded people like Laurie can’t fathom that folks can be part of two cultures—ignorance like that is another reason Davery and I both left our old public school and transferred to ICCS.

We pause in front of the gym doors and Davery gives me a dubious look.

The truth is, Davery is smart and funny and could have any friends he wanted. He hangs out with me because we’ve known each other since preschool—his dad and mine are old buddies from Fort Lewis College. It’s probably just a matter of time before he decides being with me is a liability he doesn't need.

The front of my shirt looks like a ketchup convention gone awry.

“Nizhoni,” Dad says, sounding exasperated, “we’ve had this conversation before. If you and your brother want me to be able to pay for things like fancy basketball sneakers and art classes”—he shoots a pointed look at Mac—“then I need a better-paying job. And that job is in—”

“Adrien Cuttlebush?” That’s Mac’s nemesis.

We pull into the driveway in front of our pretty basic and totally average-looking modest adobe house.

But the car parked out front—a big black Cadillac Escalade—is not basic or modest at all. Tinted windows, oversize rims...it looks like something out of the movies.

“Mr. Charles is very high up in the oil and gas industry, which makes him a target for protesters. In fact, it’s kind of strange that he would come all this way just to interview me, but he said he was in town and he really cares about all his employees, even the lowliest surveyors.”

"Two bodyguards,” Mac says incredulously. “Who is this mysterious Mr. Charles?”

"I see you and I don’t have to play games. That’s good. I like that we can be honest with each other.” All traces of his hokey cowboy accent are gone.

My shimásání—that’s what I call my grandmother on my mother’s side—taught me that Changing Woman created the clan system of the Navajo people.

Since I carry three of the original clans in my lineage, being descended from Changing Woman isn’t as strange as it might sound.

“You can probably guess that I’m a very powerful man. I run a corporation worth billions of dollars. On my private estate, I have dozens of people at my beck and call. I’m not used to being thwarted. And yet, it was recently brought to my attention that there is a girl, the daughter of our former enemy, who could impede my plans for the future.”

“It’s okay, Nizhoni. You can say it. You can detect monsters. But interestingly enough, your brother cannot. In fact, I thought he might take after your father instead of your mother and be perfectly mundane. But then Marcus shook my hand, and I felt his unrealized potential. He’s special, too.”

A burst of anger overrides my fear, and I shout, “You better not touch my brother!”

“So fierce. What a good sister you are! But don't worry about Marcus. I want him alive. His power is different from yours, and once it manifests, he will come in quite handy for my business needs. You, however...”

It's long and flat and made of black stone, and it looks sharp at one end.
My heart thuds hard in my chest when I realize he’s holding an obsidian knife.

I pause in my vicious monster-fighting onslaught to look over.

He grabs my wrist like a vise, and the low rumble in his voice tells me I’m in big trouble.

Mr. Rock pumps the eraser to load fresh lead and hands the pencil to Mr. Charles, who signs a piece of paper with a flourish.

We’re at my bedroom door, and he marches me across the threshold, plants me by the bed, and turns to me.

“And I am going to apologize profusely and try to save my job. I know you don’t want us to move away, but you’ve gone too far. Much, much too far! I hate to say it, but I am ashamed of you.”

I slide off the bed and make my way warily toward the source of the voice.

"...You picked me out at the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture gift shop. Have you forgotten?” He looks crestfallen.

While others might scream or faint when a formerly stuffed horned toad speaks to them, I’ve been raised to take seemingly supernatural things in stride.

A couple of years ago, Dad dragged Mac and me to the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture in Santa Fe for a lecture on contemporary Navajo jewelry.

Best of all, he was soft and fluffy but tough and prickly at the same time, kind of how I saw myself. We were kindred spirits.

“I’m not allowed to drink coffee. Dad says it will stunt my growth. But if you really want some, maybe later I could warm up some instant...”

I’ve never understood the appeal of a drink that smells like gym socks and dirt, but adults—and talking horned toads, apparently—take it quite seriously.

“Because he’s not familiar with the old stories,” Mr. Yazzie says with a melancholy sigh. "Or he has forgotten them in his grief over losing your mother.”

"So shall we go slay the monster, then? But I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? Never lock a gift horse in the house.... No, you can lead a horse to fodder.... No, no.... Oh, yes. We must not put the cart before the horse!”

Mr. Yazzie huffs a bit, as if he was indeed offended by the stuffed part, but he says, “He had a knife, did he? Of course he did, being a monster and all. Don’t expect him to fight fair. We’ll just have to procure you some weapons of your own, won’t we?”