Two Roads by Joseph Bruchac

Author:Joseph Bruchac
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2018-10-22T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

GOOD ADVICE

Possum’s waiting. He’s well away from the infirmary door, leaning back against one of the elm trees by the steps.

“Any survivors?” he asks, walking forward to help as I struggle to pull my coat over my aching arm.

I almost say no. I’m pretty sure that would get a laugh from him. But nothing seems funny right now, not even the way he is scrunching up his face at me. Getting my hair hacked off and needles stabbed in me was no picnic. But the truly painful thing for me was answering questions about my family to someone as cold and uncaring as Mrs. Wilting.

If that’s what everyone’s like here at this place, I’m ready to run away right now.

I blink, fighting back the tears that are ready to flow like a river.

“Jay Bird,” Possum says. His voice is soft. He puts one arm around my shoulder. “I know. When you first get here, it feels like the end of the world. Right.”

I have to nod my naked head at that.

“But don’t you worry,” he says. “From here on in . . . ,” he pauses. “From here on in it just gets worse.”

That does make me laugh. Possum is laughing now, too. He leads me over to the elm tree and sits me down against it.

“Just breathe,” he says. “This old elm here’s my favorite tree. It’ll help you some.”

It’s the sort of thing Pop would say. It does make me feel better as I lean my head back against the rough bark and close my eyes.

When I open my eyes again, Possum is still here. He’s squatting down in front of me, his back turned, tossing bits of twig at a fallen leaf. I appreciate him doing that, giving me some space to recover while standing by to help if need be.

I remember one of the three words Pop said to me. He only said it once, but it stuck in my mind like a burr caught on wool pants. I speak it slow so as to get it right. “Mu-to.”

“Holy cow!” Possum says, turning his head around so far on his neck that he looks like an owl. “So he can talk? Ehi? Yes? And talk Indian, too, after all?”

I nod, then shake my head. I look down, running my right hand back over my prickly scalp.

“Yup,” Possum says. “Can’t get you to shut up, can I?” He favors me with that wide grin. “Seriously, though, you always this quiet, Jay Bird?”

That’s a good question. And the answer is that I’ve never been overly talkative. Most times, I’d rather listen. However, over the last couple of days I have been much more—what was that word I read in my dictionary? Taciturn. That’s it. I’ve been taciturn ever since Pop sprung it on me that he was Creek Indian. Which meant that I was sort of Indian, too. And that, he was leaving me at a new school. An Indian school. This Indian school.

Possum is still waiting for my answer.

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