The Brave: Chapters 1–6

My letters are stubborn and invasive. And I can’t ignore them. They are in my head, pressing hard against the backs of my eyes until I give in and give them my attention.

“Language!” he snaps back at me, and through my peripheral I see my dad bury his face into his hands.

I close my eyes and clench my jaw. I’m counting and trying with everything I have to not relay the total. But the cloud won’t dissipate until I release it. It will linger inside me forever, driving me crazy. I hate this.

We hardly ever talk. Sometimes we try, but neither of us has the patience it takes. And it’s not only because he gets super annoyed by hearing me tally up his letters. It’s mainly because we are so different from each other.

He’s on the couch, rooting for his team, getting wasted...and I sit there smiling, just waiting for the game to end or for him to pass out. That’s our relationship in a nutshell.

“Thirty-two. I have to move to Minnesota because people can't deal with me here? Am I that much of a problem? I’m being exiled from Huntington Beach? They’re just numbers, Dad!”

Seven and I do everything together. We are inseparable. I would die for her, and she would die for me. She’s not only my “therapeutic companion,” or my pet, or even my best friend.

He said, “Let the past be the past.” It’s kind of his mantra for everything in life.

He told me it was because my mom already had enough on her plate. This made me feel wary around every plate of food growing up. Like the side of mashed potatoes was more important than me.

Oh wait, it’s super cold there, so maybe I’ll die first from hypothermia.

I pat down my bed, and Seven excitedly flies up to me and nestles in for sleep.

In here, there’s no one talking to me. There’s no myriad of colors reminding me that I dress like a shadow. It’s just me and my dog in the peace and quiet.

It’s a faint tapping. It’s sporadic and desperate. I sit up. Seven doesn’t notice it.

It’s a faint tapping. It’s sporadic and desperate. I sit up. Seven doesn’t notice it.

But this third song is getting louder and more chaotic. I’ll never be able to sleep to this music.

I shake my head to wash out the stereotypes embedded in my mind from the countless Western flicks I watched growing up.

I know the Spartans threw away their defective babies, but did Native Americans, too?

As the crowd dwindles, I see an empty bench and walk toward it.

My dad was telling the truth when he said that her cheekbones look as if they were chiseled by an artist.

That's one thing my parents have in common. They both drive pickups. I don’t know if that connection warrants having a baby together, but here we are.

I know I should sit up front and bombard her with the hundreds of questions I have for her, but the truth is, I don’t want her to dislike me yet.

Well, my dad never listened to music, even though he met my mom at a rock concert. He listened to talk radio, obsessively.

As we turn, the breeze subsides, and the music takes the lead. It’s country music.

But the coolest things I take in are the trees. They line the road on both sides of us, pointing high up to the sky like they’re all giving me a standing ovation.

On the side of the highway, I see a small makeshift pop-up shop with a sign that reads authentic native American jewelry.

On the side of the highway, I see a small makeshift pop-up shop with a sign that reads AUTHENTIC NATIVE AMERICAN JEWELRY.

As soon as we pass it, the truck veers left off the highway and continues down a long road that appears to run right through the middle of a forest.

But so many Westerns I’ve seen also showed me that the Native Americans are wrinkled-up old men who deliver a super-wise message just when our white American hero needs to hear it most. And if they weren’t old and wise, they were portrayed as violent savages. Red-skinned villains who leaped out of bushes and attacked indiscriminately.

Seven hops out of the truck and rushes over to my mom. I’ve never seen Seven react this way to anyone besides me. Seven never really liked my dad. They just coexisted.

Her voice is not as soft as my mother’s. Hers is worn and raspy.

But as someone who pays very close attention to words, I can tell that there is something special about her dialect that is unlike any way of speaking I have ever heard before.

I begged him to throw back every fish he caught. There was so much fear and pain in those beady little fish eyes that I couldn’t bear being a part of their deaths.

I was looking forward to building a fire, but that was thwarted by the park ranger telling my dad that due to a heightened forest fire danger, campfires were prohibited.

When it comes to my counting problem, there are not many positives; believe me, I’ve searched. But I did discover one. A loophole I found during one of my failed attempts at being an athlete. During soccer tryouts, a bunch of kids were speaking Spanish. And I guess since I didn’t know what they were saying, my brain wasn’t compelled to count.

When it comes to my counting problem, there are not many positives; believe me, I’ve searched. But I did discover one. A loophole I found during one of my failed attempts at being an athlete. During soccer tryouts, a bunch of kids were speaking Spanish. And I guess since I didn’t know what they were saying, my brain wasn’t compelled to count.