Junior’s story suddenly looked worthless to him. What was the point, anyhow? Project Chariot was still on, duck hunting was still illegal, and people like Amiq’s dad still disappeared.
And other people even died, like Bunna. What diff erence did words make? Junior shoved the story back into his notebook 210
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and stood up. It was time for lunch, and Junior suddenly felt a deep, nameless hunger.
“Let me see it,” Amiq said. “Let me see your story.” Th ey were
walking down the hall toward the cafeteria, and Junior was still clutching his notebook. He pulled the story out and handed it to Amiq. Why not? Who cared, anyhow?
Amiq’s dad was still missing. Th
ey had looked and looked,
and they hadn’t found him anywhere, not even a clue, and now they had quit looking. Amiq looked out the classroom window, frowning. Junior’s story had made a lot of sense, but the world itself made no sense at all.
Watching Luke fi dgeting at his desk, Amiq thought about Bunna, about the fi rst time he’d seen the two of them. Th ey’d
been sitting side by side on the plane. No—that wasn’t right.
Luke had been sitting on one side and Bunna had been sitting on the other. Th
eir little brother sat in the middle. What was
that kid’s name, anyhow? Amiq couldn’t remember.
He glanced at Luke, who sat there rubbing his wrist and looking bored.
“What was your little brother’s name—the other one?”
Amiq asked him.
Luke looked up, surprised. “Isaac,” he said.
Amiq tried out the name. He liked the way it started breathless in the back of his throat, then clicked sharp against the roof of his mouth. “Isaac. Yeah.”
He wrote it on a piece of paper. ISAAC. And then he wrote 211
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M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y
some more. At fi rst it was more like doodling, but the more he wrote, the more he thought about brothers and fathers missing and missing people in general, people who should have been part of the family but were gone. People who just burned up or got lost or died, one way or another.
Before he knew what he’d done, he’d written something that looked like a plea. No, it looked more like an ad—a missing persons ad. It only had one name on it—Isaac—but he’d written it for all the people they were missing, somehow.
Amiq was surprised by what he’d written—he wasn’t the writer. And true enough, his writing wasn’t very long and it wasn’t at all fancy, but it was right. Just right.
He centered it on his desk for everyone to see and stood up feeling light as a bird.
Let them just see it. Let them all see it.
Luke watched Amiq leave the room in the thick press of students. He stood up, leaned over Amiq’s desk, and looked at the words scrawled across the top of the page lying there.
Isaac
What made Amiq remember Isaac all of sudden? Th
en he
read what Amiq had written and blinked, surprised. It felt like a huge weight had suddenly been lifted from his chest. He’d lived with it for so long that until it fl icked its heavy tail and disappeared, he’d forgotten it was there.
He picked up Amiq’s paper, breathed deeply, and tucked it into his book. Th
ese words didn’t belong on Amiq’s desk.
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Th
ey belonged with the story Junior had written. Th
ey needed
Junior’s story for backup. No, backup wasn’t quite right. Th e
audience that was going to read Amiq’s story needed to read Junior’s story fi rst. Th
at’s how it worked. Th
e story Junior said
didn’t belong anywhere belonged with Amiq’s.
Th
at’s what Luke decided, walking down the hall toward the library.
Father Mullen was mad. Who was responsible for this? He waved a newspaper at them. It was the “Letters to the Editor” section of the Dallas Morning News, a newspaper none of them had ever even seen before. Th
e headline read: “From
the Ice Cellar to the Bomb Shelter: Seeking Missing People.”
It was signed “Aamaugak, a student at Sacred Heart School in Alaska.”
Who was Aamaugak?
Looking at the headline, Junior felt all the blood drain from his face. For a couple of long seconds, he couldn’t even breathe. Maybe he would suff ocate. Or throw up. He looked at Amiq. Amiq looked at him and shrugged, smiling the way he always smiled. Like everything was all part of some grand plan he’d always had.
“I’m sure there’s some explanation,” Father Flanagan was saying, standing next to Father Mullen, ringing his hands.
Junior could tell that Father Flanagan was trying hard not to look at him.
“We will sit here until we get the truth, ” Father Mullen said.
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Th
ey all sat, rigid in their seats, trying not to eye each other. Th
e silence roared in their ears like a military plane.
A plane full of weapons landing. Father Mullen’s gaze swept across the room, pausing on Amiq’s downturned head. Amiq sat still. Calm and certain. Th
en, very slowly and very delib-
erately, he stood up.
Luke looked at him and frowned, shaking his head with a movement so slight, most people wouldn’t have noticed it.
Amiq looked away.
“I’m responsible,” Amiq said in a loud voice. “I did it.”
Junior let out a big sigh of relief. He hadn’t
