The Brave: Chapters 14–18

After I roll it up and stuff it in between some of the logs, I light the newspaper with the candle that sits on the mantel.

She walks past me and kneels beside the fire. Again, it gravitates toward her.

Now every teacher is to address each one of my classes aloud in front of everyone, so no one can plead ignorance when I blurt out numbers.

Before she begins her descent, she says, “We teach you,” and then lowers herself to the ground.

I see the strain in her face, but it’s easily overshadowed by her strength.

She intermittently wipes escaping tears from her cheeks as she talks to him.

She puts her hands together above her sternum and rubs them together, like someone trying to start a fire would.

“How did it work?” I ask her, becoming a bit more excited now that my energy has started to replenish itself.

I tally up her letters then ask her a question I’ve been wondering all day, “How well did you know him?”

Her eyes lower, like she doesn’t want me to notice her vulnerable side.

I mean, I am legitimately excited to read a book!

All this wonderful news engulfs me. I can’t keep it in, so I spring up to my feet and run after Orenda.

Is it my Native American blood waking up after being dormant for all these years?

I gave country a shot; now she’ll give rap a gander.

I can’t help but feel like the lucky gazelle that just evaded a pack of laughing hyenas.

When the coast is clear, I remove my earmuffs and make a beeline to my first class.

It’s pretty windy, so I muster up all the energy I have in me and speed walk to the house.

Her wheelchair is under the tree. I grab hold of the rope and begin my ascent.

My arms are sore and weak, but the thought of seeing her propels me to the top quicker than I have thus far.

And even though I was the one listening to Aji, it is Orenda who looks on the verge of tears.

“We shall see,” she says, and gives a sinister laugh.

Already a few of the other neighbors have gathered outside to see what all the commotion is about.

Orenda, on the other hand, is treating this whole excursion like she’s the getaway driver and we just robbed a bank.

“No. The good thing about being a rebel is acts of rebellion are expected from you. He’ll huff and he’ll puff, but he won’t blow the house down. Don’t worry about Foxy. He may be big and strong as five men combined, but when it comes to me and my shenanigans, he’s a total softy.”

“Bring it on!” I chime in and challenge the wind with her.
And almost as if it heard us and admired our courage, the air relents.

Instead, I watch her as she serenades the sky and everything under it.

She pulls the cart over on a small bluff that overlooks a vast field of green grassy hills below us.

In her eyes, I see happy. I see sad. I see excitement. I see fear. I see courage. I see heartbreak. I see bliss. I see longing. I see joy. I see a strong young woman, and I also see a nervous little girl.

And after another full circle around Orenda, the butterflies ride the wind back down to their lush floral paradise.

She kissed me. I should have kissed her back. That’s all I can think as I slowly meander back to her—that and hope my wobbly legs don’t give out on me. I sit down in the golf cart and turn to her.