After a few moments’ pause, Daddy obeyed Chich without argument.
Mama scooped up Peewee from under the table and carried her to our bed, where they lay down together.
Chich hugged me and looked me in the eyes, silently telling me to be brave. Then she sat me down on one of the kitchen chairs and draped a towel around my shoulders. I could hear Daddy already snoring. Chich took the same scissors and assessed the damage. Then she snipped long strands off the other side of my head. She held them in her hand.
I worked hard not to cry, gulping in air. When she finished making both sides even, my hair barely touched my ears.
That night I became Indian no more.
25 Beaver
Chich prepared hot oatmeal with raisins for breakfast the next morning. Usually Peewee and I slept in on Saturday mornings before enjoying our breakfasts while watching cartoons. But not this morning. I said nothing, and Peewee didn’t either.
Chich was fixing coffee when suddenly her face scrunched up. She touched her side, grimacing.
Mama saw it too. “Are you all right?” she asked.
Chich’s expression changed. “I’m fine,” she said. She attempted a smile and turned toward me. “Do you want to greet the day?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t Indian anymore. Why do Indian things?
Peewee headed over to Addie’s house while I plopped down outside on the porch steps. I pulled my old blue sweater over my knees and tucked my face between them. I had no plans to see anyone. I kept pulling on my cropped hair, hoping that would make it longer.
A voice startled me. “You look like Moe from The Three Stooges.”
Keith sat down beside me. I tucked my head farther down in my lap. “Shut up.”
“What happened?”
I didn’t answer.
“Why did you cut your hair?”
I still didn’t answer. He sat down next to me.
“Was it your mom’s idea?”
I lifted my head, giving Keith a look. “If you must know, my dad decided it was time to make me American.” I pounded on my knees. “Like being American is so much better.”
We sat there in silence for a minute. I was determined not to cry in front of him.
He put his hand on my back and changed the subject. “Philip has been working on his magic kit that he got back at Christmas. Wanna come over and see his new tricks?”
“Not really. I look like a boy now.”
“You don’t look like a boy. It just looks different. Come on. No one will tease you. I’ll make sure of it.”
Keith was ready to defend me if anyone teased me. I appreciated that. But I knew he didn’t understand completely. I’d lost my hair. I’d lost my heritage. I had told Daddy I hated him. I reburied my head in my lap.
At Keith’s urging, I finally agreed to go over to Philip’s house. I still hated my haircut and the fact I didn’t look Indian anymore. I turned up the steps to let Mama know where I was going but saw her opening the door.
“Something’s wrong with Chich. She’s complaining about her stomach.”
Chich had never been really sick before, except for the one time her heart fluttered real bad back home. After the rez doctor gave her those little white pills to dissolve under her tongue, she hadn’t gotten sick like that again.
But the look on Mama’s face said everything.
“I’ll go get Mrs. Hernández!” Keith shouted as he sprinted down the street.
I flew inside.
Chich moaned softly from that stained government couch, clutching her side. Her face was red. Her eyes squinted in pain.
I plopped down a little too quickly next to her. She winced. “Sorry,” I said, getting up.
“No, it’s okay,” Chich said, patting for me to sit again.
I slowly sat next to her, not knowing what to do. Mama gave me a wet washcloth to place over Chich’s forehead. “That feels good,” she said. I smiled slightly.
Mrs. Hernández entered our house with her doctor’s bag — and Philip, Anthony, and Keith by her side. I moved to the edge of the couch as she rummaged in her bag. Pulling out a thermometer, Mrs. Hernández took Chich’s temperature and felt her wrist.
When Mrs. Hernández pressed Chich’s stomach, she cried out.
“Get some ice in a bag,” Mrs. Hernández ordered Mama.
Mama returned with the ice. “Regina, hold the bag here,” Mrs. Hernández said. She pointed to Chich’s lower abdomen.
Chich asked for some water.
“No, Mrs. Petit,” Mrs. Hernández said. “It is best not to drink anything right now.” She took Mama aside. “She needs to go to the hospital. I believe it’s her appendix.” Then she turned to Philip and said, “Señora Elsie tiene teléfono. Corra y pídale que llame la ambulancia. ¡Rápido!”
I stayed with Chich while Philip sprinted out the door to have Miss Elsie call the ambulance. Mama started putting things in her purse. Mrs. Hernández continued monitoring Chich’s temperature.
Soon Miss Elsie, Peewee, and the rest of the gang came over. Peewee ran into Mama’s arms. Daddy appeared in the kitchen doorway, still in last night’s shirt and trousers. “What’s going on?” he said. “Why’s everyone here?”
Mama walked into the kitchen, explaining Chich’s condition to Daddy.
Chich patted my hand. “Regina, tell me a story. Stories have power.”
“Which one?”
“The one about the beaver and the coyote.”
“I don’t know it that well.” Water welled up in my eyes. “What if I tell it wrong?”
Chich smiled. “You won’t.”
I took a deep breath. My eyes darted around. Miss Elsie shooed the kids outside. Mama and Daddy now spoke quietly in a corner. Mrs. Hernández took Chich’s temperature again.
I cleared my throat. “There once was a beaver that lived in a simple pond,” I started. “Even though it was simple, Beaver thought his home was perfect . . .”
“Her temperature is rising . . . now one hundred and three degrees,” Mrs. Hernández announced.
“One day,” I went on, “Coyote came and said, ‘Beaver, I know of a better pond — ’”
“Owww,” moaned Chich, clutching her right side.
“Beaver, the pond that I speak of has water so clear you can see
