“We’ll talk more about this when I get back from Seattle,” Mama says. “How’s that sound?”
I look between them and nod, a knot of dismay forming in my belly at the thought of displeasing one of them.
They leave me to shower and change, and when I go downstairs, my friends, family, and community overflow from our small living room. The joy on their faces is worth all I’ve endured the last four days. The Sunrise Dance is a celebration we were denied for years when the government outlawed it. We had to practice it and so many of our traditions in secret. We’ll never take it for granted again, the privilege of celebrating in the open. We owe it to ourselves, but it’s also homage to all those who came before us. It’s a thread that ties us to them.
Mena Robinson, Mama’s best friend, stood as godmother to me during the ceremony, a role that strengthens our bond even more than before. She and Mama could be sisters in appearance, but also in closeness.
“I’m so proud of you,” Mena whispers.
“Thank you for everything,” I tell her, tears in my eyes. For some reason, in her arms, surrounded by everyone who bore witness to my transition from girl to woman, the emotion of the last four days cascades over me.
“Mena, Lennix,” Mama calls, glowing and aiming her camera at us. “Smile!”
I grimace, so tired of pictures and of being the center of attention, but Mama takes many more photos. And she hovers, touching my hair, hugging me, forcing me to eat. Her love and pride wrap around me, almost smother me. By the end of the evening, I want to be in my bed and alone.
I should have made Mama take a dozen more pictures. I should have given her a thousand kisses. I should have slept at her feet.
I would have if I’d known I’d never see her again.
“A riot is the language of the unheard.”
– Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
1
Maxim
Four Years Later
I am my father’s son.
I’m the spitting image of Warren Cade. Dark, russet-streaked hair with a slight wave just like his. Identical light green eyes. Same wide stretch of back and shoulders. Toe to toe, nose to nose, we both stand six feet, three and a quarter inches. Notwithstanding the striking physical similarities, beneath our skin, inside our bones—we’re the same. Considering my father is one of the most ruthless son-of-a-bitches you’ll ever meet, that should scare me.
“Why am I here, Dad?” I sink into a buttery leather seat on his company’s private jet. “What was so important you had to pull me off campus into this mile-high meeting?”
He glances up from the file on the table in front of him. “Would it kill you to spend a little time with your old man?”
It could kill us both if the last few years are any indication of how we’ll get along on this trip. Our clashes are epic. As a kid, I was my father’s shadow. “Hero worship” would be a mild term for the way I viewed him. We were inseparable, but as I got older and formed my own opinions, found my own will, the chasm between us grew wider. My father rules our family with the same iron fist he runs Cade Energy, the family business. When he tries to rule me . . . it doesn’t go as well.
“It’s an awkward time,” I reply with a shrug. “I’m finishing my thesis and—”
“Why you even wasted your time with that master’s program, I’ll never know.”
I bite back any reply to defend my decision. It made sense when I double majored in business and energy resources engineering for undergrad. That fell in line with his plan for me. Going on to pursue my master’s at Berkeley made no sense. According to his timetable, I should have been leading a division in our company by now.
“Let’s not go there,” I finally say, running an agitated hand through my hair, overlong and almost to my shoulders.
“You need a haircut,” Dad says abruptly, shifting his attention back to his file. “Like I was saying, you’ll be done with graduate school soon. Time to get back on track.”
“I am on track.” I clear my throat and don’t meet his eyes. “And I’m not sure what I’ll do next.”
A lie. I know exactly what I’ll do next. A PhD in climate science, but I’m in no mood to fight. I haven’t seen him in a long time. I’d rather talk about the Cowboys’ playoff hopes. The Longhorns. His golf swing. Anything other than my career—than our opposing views on what I should do.
Dad’s eyes snap up and narrow on my face. “What the hell do you mean you aren’t sure what you’ll do next? Now that Owen’s in the Senate, we need you running our West Coast office, Maxim. You know that.”
The note of pride in his voice when he mentions my older brother Owen grates a little. Pride hasn’t been in his voice for me in a long time. Disapproval. Disgust. Frustration. That’s all I’ve gotten since I told him I’d be going to Berkeley for my master’s instead of starting at Cade Energy.
“Dad, I don’t know that I’m . . .” I hesitate. The next words could set off a bomb I’m not sure we should detonate this high in the air. “Maybe I’m not the right fit for the job.”
“Not the right fit?” He flips the file closed and glares at me. “You’re a Cade. You were literally born for the job.”
“Let’s talk about this later.”
“No. Now. I want to know why the company four generations of Cades spent building from the ground isn’t good enough for you.”
“I didn’t say that. I’m just not sure I’m the best person to run a company producing oil and gas. I question the sustainability of fossil fuels as this country’s primary energy source. I believe we should be aggressively transitioning to clean energy—solar, wind, electric.”
Shocked silence follows my words that are essentially a rebel yell to one of America’s most powerful oil barons.
“What the ever-loving fuck are you talking about, boy?” he bellows, his voice bouncing off the walls, trapped in the luxurious cabin. “You’ll finish that damn useless master’s degree, and start in our California office as soon as possible. I got no time for this wind and air and whatever tree-hugger horse shit nonsense they’ve been teaching you at Berkeley.”
“Nonsense is believing this planet will run forever on poison. If you’d just listen to my ideas about transitioning to clean energy—”
“Oil was clean enough when it was paying for your fancy education, huh? And your trips and cars and clothes. It wasn’t poison then, was it?”
“I wouldn’t expect you to notice, but I paid my own tuition,” I correct him softly.
Before he can verbally express the disdain on his face, a uniformed attendant peers through the curtain.
“We’re here, Mr. Cade,” she says.
When my father stands, his knee knocks the table. The file falls, spilling a flurry of papers onto the thick pile carpet. I bend to retrieve them, stuffing a few back into the folder. Certain words blare from the top page.
Pipeline. Army Corps of Engineers. Ancestral burial grounds. Water rights. Environmental impact.