Give Me Some Truth by Eric Gansworth

Author:Eric Gansworth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.

I felt like an idiot, standing on the sidewalk outside the boys’ locker room corridor, watching those guys head back to the Rez. The parking lot was weirder and scarier at night. It was surprisingly darker. Circular pools of light stretched out the parking lot lamps, like in movies where airplanes are landing (bringing someone home for BS kiss-kiss-kiss reunion with violins and tears and hugs).

I didn’t even know why I was doing this. I didn’t like Carson that much. I mean, yeah, he laughed at my jokes, even when everyone else on the Rez pretended they weren’t funny. Lately, that was even enough to crack the grim mouths on some of these Easter Island Heads. But every time I thought Carson might be a contender for spending more time with, he did something to prove he was still a kid. Like this stupid turkey.

Eventually, the Bandit Trans Am arrived. “Need some help stuffing a bird?” Jim said, smoking a cigar and leaning out the window. He’d obviously practiced his line. Again.

“Jeez, about time. It’s freezing!” I said, swatting his arm through the open window.

“Easy, don’t damage the merchandise.” Instead of his usual Carhartt, he had on a thick suede jacket (which I thought should have been way above his budget). Not practical for here.

“What took you so long? I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”

“Had to wait for your boyfriends to leave,” he said, still doing his dirty-old-man laugh.

“They aren’t my boyfriends,” I said. I felt funny that Jim had waited in the dark, watching us get that turkey out of Carson’s car, and that he then sat there while I froze, watching the taillights.

“You gonna let me in the building? It’s freezing out here,” I said, shivering, but pretending not to.

“Warm in here. Get in.” He patted the seat. “That bird ain’t going anywhere.” He covered my hands in his enormous calloused ones. “Jeez, you are freezing,” he said. “No gloves?”

“Didn’t think I’d need them,” I said. “Cold for October, and who knew I’d be smuggling an illicit turkey? Time is it?” I didn’t want my parents calling Carson’s. They were glad I used our art in my everyday life. But they weren’t going to let me be out all hours just with the excuse of drumming. Their Water Drum Allegiance only went so far.

“Won’t be long,” Jim said. “Just get your hands somewhere warm. No frostbite.”

“I can’t go home smelling like a stogie.” He flicked the entire cigar out the car window.

“That was a ten-dollar smoke I tossed away for you,” he said (impressive sacrifice!). He let go of my hand and leaned over, flicking up the passenger side lock. The heat felt like our kerosene heater’s delicious warm air vents.

“Okay, close your eyes,” he said. He rummaged through some things, and I enjoyed the warm air and the car’s humming rumble. “Now hold out your hands. Keep ’em closed. And close your fingers together but still pointed straight.” It was getting harder to keep my eyes shut.

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