Except him.
Now that we’re not surrounded by dogs and choking on tear gas, I study him more closely. In all the confusion, I only had time for a general impression of hotness, but now with us both shackled in the paddy wagon, I have all the time for a closer examination. Or at least as long as it takes to get to the police station.
He has one of those magazine faces. Not exactly like a model, but a “someone” face. An “I should know you” face. It’s not about how handsome he is, really. Though, I can’t overstate the impact of dark, mahogany-dusted hair licking around his ears and down his neck. Or his green eyes, the color of the peridot stone we mine in our holy hills. Precious metal eyes. And seriously. The Creator must have used a protractor to achieve a jaw so perfectly angular. But there’s something more, like if you get caught up in that face and what is, admittedly, a fantastic physique, all lean muscles and a “from here to there” chest, you’d be missing the whole point of him.
“So you came all the way from Cali for this?” I ask, nodding to the Berkeley T-shirt straining across his pecs.
“Uh, yeah.” He shifts in his seat.
“That’s great that people all across the country are hearing about the pipeline,” Mr. Paul says, smiling at magazine-face man. “And coming to stand with us. Thank you.”
“Yeah,” he says again. “So how long have you guys been fighting, um . . . Cade on this?”
He spreads the question to all five of us, but I answer first.
“Last year, Senator Middleton sold the property to Cade Energy,” I offer, gritting my teeth. “Of course, as usual, disregarding that it was supposed to be protected. Not theirs to actually sell.”
“Their promises,” Mr. Paul says, with a bitter twist to his lips, “are worth no more than the paper every treaty they’ve ever broken was written on. Senator Middleton got this pipeline passed by tacking it on at the last minute to another bill that already had support.”
“It was done before we even knew about it,” I add. “We started organizing immediately, but at every turn, Cade has politicians, the Army Corps of Engineers, local police, everyone on his side and in his pocket. The worst part is he could re-route this thing.”
“What makes you say that?” Berkeley T-shirt asks.
“The original proposal ran the pipeline near a suburb about ten miles north,” I answer, “not near a water supply or anything, but the people there didn’t want it. So guess what? They didn’t get it. They didn’t even have to protest. Just said no.”
“Guess their voices are louder than ours,” Mr. Paul mutters.
“Basically, environmental racism.” Berkeley T-shirt sighs and shakes his head.
“No, exactly environmental racism,” I correct. “But we won’t take it.”
“We’re not going anywhere. We know how to last,” Mr. Paul says, a proud set to his head. “We were the last tribe to surrender. We have warrior in our blood.”
“What do you mean?” Berkeley asks.
“Geronimo was the last Indian warrior to formally surrender to the U.S. Government,” I tell him. “He was Apache.”
“Wow,” Berkeley says. “I didn’t know that.”
The van comes to a stop, and through the back window, I see the small police station.
I’ll be grounded for the foreseeable future. There goes . . . well, life, pretty much.
My father knew about the run. I founded the sponsoring organization, REZpect Water, an action group for youth water protectors, but I conveniently left out the part where I’d actually be in the protest with the dogs and tear gas . . . and such. When they offer us our one phone call, maybe I’ll just pass and live out the rest of my senior year in a holding cell. I could redirect all my college acceptance letters to the police station. That wouldn’t raise any red flags, would it? What self-respecting place of higher learning isn’t recruiting from the penal system?
“Out,” the cop standing at the door barks, her voice rough and impatient, her unibrow dipped into a frown.
The six of us shuffle toward the police station. The officers don’t seem bothered by the fact that I’m a minor and take my mug shot without incident. The police station is a small-town operation with one holding cell we’re all tossed into together. I don’t anticipate these charges sticking. Cade probably just wants to intimidate us.
Good luck with that, you rich prick.
I may not actually live on the rez anymore, but staying with my father in town hasn’t made it any less my home. I’d still be living there if Mama . . .
I shove that thought down to a dark hole where I keep the really painful stuff. Why deal with it now? Save something for the therapist I’ll start seeing in my thirties when I finally decide it’s all too much to handle on my own.
My mother was murdered? Taken? Stolen?
Gone.
One of those “unseen” women, an unheard voice, whose disappearance wasn’t shouted about on the news or fretted over by the world.
And I’ll never get over it. Not ever.
There are days when I go a few hours without thinking about it—without wondering what happened to the beautiful woman who gave so much of herself to me and everyone around her. Yeah, there are those days, but not many. Mostly there are a thousand things every day that remind me of her, not the least of which is my own reflection.
“Good to have those off,” Berkeley T-shirt mumbles, rubbing his wrists and reminding me of our current less-than-ideal circumstances. I don’t know how long they’ll keep us in this holding cell.
“This thing hurts like crazy,” Mr. Paul says, touching the reddened, punctured skin of his hand.
“You need medical attention.” I walk over to the bars and glance back over my shoulder to Berkeley T-shirt. “So do you.”
Berkeley. According to that T-shirt, he’s probably already in college. Yeah, he’s already a man, not a boy. My dad would strangle me and maim him.
“I don’t think I’ll lose it.” He nods to his injured arm, one corner of his mouth tipping up.
Focus on first aid, not his lips.
“Hey!” I yell through the bars. “We need a first-aid kit in here.”
Unibrow takes her sweet time ambling toward the cell.
“You rang, m’lady?” she asks. Oh, the sarcasm is thick with this one.
“Yeah. We have two people here with dog bites, thanks to the Cujos you turned loose on us.” I point a thumb over my shoulder. “Thought I’d do you a favor and spare you a lawsuit. You’re welcome.”
She eyes Mr. Paul, who cups his hand, and then she glances at Berkeley. She lingers there, taking in the fully spectacular male specimen he is.
Can’t blame ya, girl.
“I’ll get a first-aid kit and some antibiotic,” she finally says before turning on her heel to leave.
“You’re a real Florence Nightingale,” I shout after her and turn back to the crowded cell. Another van has brought in more of the protestors. It makes my heart heavy, seeing my friends and neighbors behind bars like criminals. We don’t steal. We don’t disregard the law and break our word. That is what has been done to us since the first ship docked.
“Stars and stripes, huh?” Berkeley asks from the bench against the wall.