We Still Belong: Chapters 13–29

Hate is an ugly word, she would say to me, back when I was small and prone to tantrums.

North Shore kids is a term for the popular, overachiever crowd in our school. Because most of them happen to come from the wealthiest part of our district’s neighborhood. The ones who board buses bound for the mansions down by the North Shore waterfront.

Ms. Roux whisks a copy from the top of the nearest stack and passes it to me with a flourish.

There are over one thousand different tribes across North America; each one has its own enrollment rules and tribal laws, but many tribes determine their citizenship in the same way: blood quantum laws. The Upper Skagit Indian Tribe uses blood quantum for enrollment. And since I am technically “one-sixteenth” Upper Skagit, my blood quantum is too low to gain citizenship status.

I don’t really care about the hunting and fishing stuff, because guns scare me and the idea of hunting anything makes me squeamish.

Mr. Li and the club’s eighth-grade leaders had a collection of Game Boy Colors on display, which Hanan thought were vintage and nerdy, but I was ecstatic. I thought they were amazing.

When I asked about the Cheer Squad, Hanan scoffed and said, “Let’s just wait until high school. That’s when the cheerleaders actually get to compete and do cool stuff.”

Her elaborate dentalium shell earrings were long enough to graze the tops of her shoulders.

I hesitated, unsure if I should name my background, since I wasn’t technically affiliated with any tribe.

Autumn’s hair was dyed a burnished, caramelly gold, but her roots were coming in dark brown.

And when I added my name and student email address to the short roster on Ms. Gilbert’s clipboard, all three of them seemed genuinely delighted.

I left their booth feeling uplifted and vindicated. It was especially nice, considering the argument I’d had with Hanan.

According to them, all officially sanctioned school clubs require a minimum of five members, two club leaders, and one teacher to supervise the club’s activities.

I hope you won’t feel deterred or overly disappointed in the administration’s decision.

As Hanan and I leave Ms. Roux’s classroom, each of us toting tall stacks of newspapers down the ramp that runs alongside the portable, my mind meanders, sifting through all these thoughts and memories.

We can tell that someone has entered the room, and that they are now speaking to Christian, but their words are garbled.

Meanwhile, I’m trying not to think about it. Trying not to dwell on the fact that someone paired Ryan with Ella. Or that they didn’t bother to pair me with anyone at all.

She settles in at her desk with a sigh. Drops a meager brown paper bag onto the tabletop in front of her.

Pushes her glasses up onto her forehead to rub at her eyes fervently with the backs of her knuckles.

I bristle at the incorrect name, even though it’s not the first time this has happened.

“Ella?” It feels weird to address her by name when we’ve never formally met, but I decide my own discomfort is irrelevant. “Are you okay?”

The straight-faced coolness that I remember, the expression that I had always associated with her and had interpreted as snobbish, has returned.

Her eyes are still a little bleary; her cheeks are pink from the coarse paper.

She gives me a tentative smile. Kneads her hands together. She raises her voice, sounding more confident.

It sounds like it has been an ugly divorce, with her parents speaking to each other exclusively through written communications between their lawyers, which I had never even realized was a thing.

The bell rings, signaling the end of our lunch hour and startling us both. As if in protest of my negligence, my stomach gurgles long and loud; Ella looks at me with a shocked, sheepish expression on her face.

“Oops,” I say, chagrined.

Then I linger in the back corner for a moment, chatting with some friends until Coach Janet’s whistle shrieks at us and we scurry into action, scuttling out the door.

Her voice is curt as she says, “Good work, Wilder.”

Mr. Holt gives a wistful sigh.

But I didn’t share your work with the class today because you didn’t follow the guidelines necessary to warrant it.

All day long, I waited with a glimmer of hope in my heart, thinking that someone might come to me and tell me that they read my column. That it made them reflect, or it made them happy, or it intrigued them somehow.

Then, suddenly, I realize that she hasn’t spoken to me at all. Not a single word since I sat down.
Which is very abnormal for Hanan, my loud and extroverted and opinionated best friend.

A blast of fresh air surges through the open window ahead of us, the breeze cool against my flushed skin and stinging eyes. I blink several times, fighting against the hot, gathering tears.

“It didn’t even have a thesis statement.”
Hanan groans and drags one hand down the length of her face as she says, “Of course it did, you dummy. It’s literally the title. We still belong—that’s a thesis statement. That sums up the entire thing.”

My stomach writhes with squeamishness.

I run around their huts, haggling over prices, chatting with them to solve riddles and unlock side quests.

I pause the game and hold my hand out to him, wiggling my fingers. He pauses too, assessing me for a moment before he hurries forward, trotting across my legs to push his forehead to my fingertips.

He purrs in response, deep and resonant, as he peers up at me with squinty eyes.

“Hi, Grandpa,” I say, as casually as I can. “How was your afternoon route?”