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  “What Arrowman wouldn’t wear it with pride?” Craig said. “From a real Indian crafter?”

  “What would something like that cost?” Craig’s dad asked.

  Craig hadn’t heard the first part of the conversation. “I know it wouldn’t be Indian Price,” the dad added, which really meant: I think you should offer me Indian Price. There was only one way Craig’s dad would know what Indian Price was. As before, Potter would not make eye contact with me.

  “Are you an Arrowman?” I asked Craig’s dad. I was no Boy Scout, but this didn’t seem like very Scouty behavior to me.

  “No, no, young man,” he said. I remembered Craig saying something about his dad not finishing some aspect of the process. “We met your uncle and aunt right here at the powwow. Potter and Craig were in Cubs, and I recognized your uncle as a real Indian. We’d never met one in person before, and I thought Craig’d get a real kick. Is it true you live on a Reservation?”

  “You gonna round dance with us?” Potter asked me suddenly. You didn’t have to wear regalia during intertribals, so I could. But whenever I tried to dance, I wound up one step off. If I paused to catch the rhythm, the person behind me would plow into me, like in a winter car crash.

  Potter was giving me subtle Indian Price face signals. He was trying to get Craig’s dad to move along before he could begin the dance of angling to lowball my mom.

  In return, I bugged my eyes, which you didn’t need to be Indian to read as: I am absolutely not going out there.

  “Only way you learn something is to do it,” Potter added. In powwow culture, even the Tiny Tots, little pre-K kids, get familiar with competition by going out in full regalia, and each one gets a token prize from the judges for being brave enough to step into the arena. It was a few bucks, even if they just stood and cried. No matter, it was the beginning of them understanding owning our culture. Moms and aunties ate it up like the ghost bread sweetness it was. Tiny Tots was the only reason some folks came. Getting their dose of cute kids.

  “I couldn’t teach him when he was younger ’cause of my feet,” my dad started. I didn’t want him to have to retell that story, particularly in front of strangers.

  “Sure, I’ll go,” I said, getting them out of an awkward situation by placing myself in one.

  “Wait,” my dad said, reaching for the small ribbon shirt. (We wouldn’t be able to sell it if I wore it out there. It would be used.) “You won’t be alone. I’ll be with you in this shirt.”

  “You’ll be with family,” my mom added. “We’ll be in the stands, watching.” She covered our table and put out her Sorry! Closed sign to shut down a negotiation she’d feel pressured to lose. “Excuse us,” she said to Craig’s father. “We have some celebrating to do.”

  I added up all we were losing. The shirt, the custom job for Craig’s dad. Did my family think it was worth it? How often did they have to make decisions about when to walk away, when to compromise to pay the bills, when to accept loss, and when to stand?

  “Auntie?” Potter said. “Could Dalton wear that wampum string?” He pointed to the Incident hank.

  Thanks a lot, Potter! I thought. “They’re meant to commemorate, right? They could commemorate Dalton’s first powwow dance. My mom’s got a hank of white ones. Maybe we can make Dalton a string.” Potter was doing what he could to help.

  “I suppose,” my mom said. “Sometimes they come to be known for something different from what they used to. Part of their beauty.” Finally, she was maybe thinking about forgiveness.

  “Seems like a good change,” my dad added as she slid them over my neck.

  “Sometimes, a treaty only needs two people,” Potter whispered to me as we got to the main floor, flanked by his friends. He reached for my hand. Some powwow round dances involved hand holding. If I took his, I’d also have to take Craig’s. I looked at Craig’s open palm, where spray tan didn’t penetrate.

  “You ready, Little Man?” Craig asked as announcements were being made.

  “Hang on,” I said, and ran to ask my dad if he’d track down that Rez Dawg shirt, in large, too big for me. He smiled when I said it was for Potter. I asked him not to take Indian Price. I wanted to pay in full for this little piece of our shared home.

  “Ready,” I said to Craig when I got back to the floor. “It’ll be fun. Let’s do it, Pinky.”

  He frowned, maybe hearing how I didn’t like the name Little Man, but then the frown faded as he repeated his new name, clasped my hand, and we began.

  Potter led us into the people to his left, and Craig closed the circle behind us, framed by their other friends, as our families disappeared into a blur of smiling faces in the distance.

  Senecavajo: Alan’s Story

  Brian Young

  Alan was practicing his dance for the upcoming powwow in Michigan on the only basketball courts in Navajo, New Mexico. Although his backyard had more than enough space for his moves, he didn’t practice there because his three dogs never got the hint to leave him alone. Inside, there was too much furniture. His knees had many bruises to prove it. But the main reason he didn’t want to practice at home was this: two weeks ago his parents told him that he wasn’t enrolled with a tribe. They wanted him to choose which tribe he was going to enroll with. His mother explained that through her, he was half-Navajo and could enroll with the Navajo Nation. His father also said they were descendants of the original Seneca chiefs, which qualified Alan to enroll with the Seneca Nation. He already knew which nation he wanted to enroll with. But telling his parents the decision was sure to break his mother’s heart.

  Focusing on his powwow footwork took his mind off his conundrum. His mom wasn’t very interested in powwows, but his father was and took every opportunity to immerse Alan in the community. When Alan danced, the drum synced with his heartbeat and he felt his footwork fitting into the footprints of his Seneca ancestors. Not like the Navajo ceremonies that he had been to, where he felt like he didn’t fit in.

  An older-looking boy stepped onto the other side of the court. Alan did his best to ignore whoever it was. The person walked right up to him, clumsily slapping a basketball in an effort to dribble it. It was Kevin, the jerk in his sixth-grade English class. Kevin had a growth spurt over the summer and became the tallest kid in the grade. He was so tall that he was mistaken for a high schooler—an ugly high schooler. His limbs, however, had outgrown his ability to control his own body, and as a result he was very clumsy.

  Kevin mumbled something and stood for an awkward minute before Alan pulled out his Bluetooth earpieces. Alan grumbled to him, “What?”

  “Get lost,” Kevin responded.

  “Use the other side of the court. I’m using this one,” Alan said.

  Kevin said, “Tough break, Braids. I’m using this one.”

  Alan put his earphones back in and went back to dancing. Meanwhile, Kevin, in all his derpy glory, couldn’t control his limbs and tripped over himself playing on the side of the court. Alan chuckled at how stupid Kevin looked. Enough of that. Alan had to focus, time for freestyle.

  At the end of the social song it happened. Kevin slammed his shoulder, intentionally, right into Alan’s belly. There was so much pain that Alan’s vision went dark.

  “Seriously?” Alan yelled. He teared up.

  “Ain’t my fault you got in my way, Braids,” Kevin said, smirking. “Oh, come on. You gonna cry?”

  “No!” Alan said. Which was true; his eyes were already drying.

  “You gonna be a crybaby?” Kevin said, his buck teeth showing through his smile. A pimple was growing on his forehead.

  “Man, forget you!” Alan said. He wanted to say something more adult, but his father had taught him that the best way to deal with bullies was to ignore them. So Alan dusted himself off and left. He could move some furniture around in his living room. Up until the day he and his father left for Michigan, Alan awkwardly danced around the living room and around the topic of his tribal enrollment with his parents.

  A
lan was nervous the entire drive from his house to Albuquerque and the long flight from Albuquerque to Detroit. His mother thankfully decided to stay at home to feed the dogs. His father didn’t once ask about enrollment during the drive from the airport to Skyline High School. Broad-leaved trees branched out like green umbrellas, and wind created ripples on the dark blue lake on the side of the highway. A few tall skyscrapers emerged from the green and blue, indicating where downtown Ann Arbor was. By the time they got to Skyline, Alan was certain that his father wasn’t going to ask, and he was able to calm down.

  His father parked their rental car in the vast parking lot. Alan and his father put on their regalia in the boys’ locker room. His father’s regalia had colors of the medicine wheel (black, red, yellow, and white), while his own were electric blue and green. Alan put on his turquoise moccasins, which matched his regalia. They navigated to the hard-floor gymnasium and passed other dancers. It felt so great to be back on the dance floor. Here, no one teased him for his long, braided hair or rammed their shoulders into his gut.

  He put on his favorite playlist and practiced his dance moves at the outer edge. He sat down, exhausted, and drank a sports drink. Four fancy dancers, about his age, who Alan had noticed out on the floor approached. Alan sighed. There were bullies everywhere, he assumed.

  “You got moves,” said the oldest-looking. Facial hair poked out of his chin.

  The one with the newest regalia playfully slugged his shoulder. “Hope I’m not competing against you.”

  “I don’t see you on the circuits!” another said, his braids touching his skinny shoulders.

  “What’s your name?” the last, with short spiked hair, asked.

  “How long you been dancing?” the oldest asked.

  It felt like for every question he answered, five more were asked. They told one another what tribes they were, and like Alan, they came from multiple tribes. But they had been enrolled when they were born. It must be nice to already be enrolled, Alan thought. The stress of his enrollment status constricted his throat.

  He told them he was from Navajo, New Mexico, and that he got into powwow competitions with his father, who was originally from western New York State. The boy with spiky hair came from as far away as Maine! The others, however, were Oklahomans. The oldest was named Jordan. Alan didn’t catch the other names.

  “Noticed you don’t have dance bells. Wanna borrow mine?” Jordan asked.

  “What? Ah, shoot! I left them in the car. Where are you guys sitting?” Alan said.

  “Over there.” They pointed. “We’ll keep a seat for ya.”

  Alan smiled. “Cool.” He ran to his father to grab the rental car keys. He wanted to get back quickly. He was making friends.

  Alan searched high and low, in between seats, in the trunk, and in the glove compartment for his ankle bells. He hoped he hadn’t forgotten them at home. Last place he decided to check was underneath his seat. Lo and behold, he heard jingling and felt the smooth exterior of the bells. He squeezed them in his hands, shot up, and locked the rental car. He hurried back to the gymnasium. The bells jingled loudly as he navigated through the lanes of trucks and cars.

  Suddenly, someone shouted, “Hey!” and ran right into the back of his shoulders. Alan tumbled down onto the pavement.

  “Braids! Seriously?” a familiar voice said. Alan immediately knew who it was. How in the world was this jerk here? He wondered what deity he had pissed off to deserve this.

  “Ugh, it’s just you,” Alan scoffed, getting up.

  “Watch where you’re going!” Kevin snapped at him. Since Alan had last seen Kevin, a volcano-size pimple had popped up right smack in the middle of his right cheek. Served him right.

  “Whatever,” Alan said, turning his back to him.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about running into you,” Kevin said.

  Alan raised an eyebrow. There was only one reason why Kevin was being nice to him. “What do you want?”

  “What are you talking about?” Kevin said. The fakest of smiles spread across his face. It was uncomfortable to look at.

  “Fine. Leave me alone,” Alan said.

  “I need your help, Braids. Please, you’re the only person I know here.”

  Alan waited a few seconds before he said no. He wanted Kevin’s hopes up so that it would hurt that much more.

  “I’ll do anything,” Kevin said.

  “Anything? Like leave me alone at school?”

  “Won’t even look at you,” Kevin said.

  Making new friends and getting Kevin to leave him alone at school; could this powwow get any better? “Fine. What do you need me to do?”

  Kevin smiled and told Alan about accidentally selling a really expensive bracelet to a pretty jingle dress dancer for cheap. If he didn’t get it back soon, his mom would definitely yell at him and possibly spank him even at his age. Regardless, they had to find the jingle dress dancer. Alan suggested they split up, he on the dance floor, Kevin in the parking lot. That way Alan wouldn’t have to be near him.

  Alan didn’t spend much time looking. Kevin hadn’t given him much to work with. A pretty jingle dress dancer. Plenty of them. Pink dress. Okay. There were at least ten of them. It was also almost time for his group to dance. The older age group was dancing, and his division would come up in an hour and a half. His dad was probably on the floor right now.

  He met back up with the guys at the dancing circle. They were stretching, and Alan slipped right in with them.

  “Hey, guys,” he started.

  “What’s up?” Jordan said.

  “This guy from my school is here, and he has to find a jingle dress dancer,” Alan said. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen her, our age, pink jingle dress, apparently pretty?”

  “Not around here,” Jordan said. “Why?”

  “She bought a pretty expensive bracelet for twenty bucks, and the seller wants it back,” Alan said.

  “That’s a good deal,” another dancer said.

  “It was a mistake. I don’t know. I said I’d help him,” Alan said.

  “Your friend—” Jordan started.

  “He’s not my friend,” Alan interrupted. The mere thought of being Kevin’s friend made him want to vomit.

  “—should wait for the Jingle Dress competition,” Jordan said.

  “When is it?” Alan asked.

  “Tomorrow,” Jordan said.

  That was good enough for Alan. Tomorrow, Kevin could see all the jingle dress dancers in one spot. Alan got up.

  “Heading out already?” Jordan said.

  “Yeah. I’m going to cash in on a favor,” Alan said, smiling. Kevin now had to leave him alone for the rest of his life!

  “Want us to spread the word?” Jordan shouted.

  “Sure. Couldn’t hurt.” Alan said. Jordan and the guys began texting on their phones.

  Somehow, Alan got dragged into helping Kevin tell his mom what had happened. Although he didn’t want to go, Alan figured he could learn a few things about telling mothers devastating things by observing Kevin.

  Alan followed Kevin back to the vendor area. He snuck a few looks here and there to see what was on sale. There was a handsome jacket that he really liked. It had geometric designs in black and gray leather. Later, he would tell his dad he wanted one for his birthday. He looked at a nearby stand and saw a dog wearing a shirt that said Ancestor Approved.

  “All right, I just need you to smile and hang out for like—” Kevin started.

  “Hang out? Man, I need to—” Alan said.

  “Five minutes, max. By that time, she’ll have absorbed most of the shock.”

  “I kind of want to see her freak out on you,” Alan said. A slight smile crossed his face.

  “Shut up, Braids,” Kevin said, chuckling a little.

  It sounded like Kevin was joking with him. Never in a million years had Alan thought that he would be joking with jerky Kevin. They approached his mom, who was reading a book.

  “Ma, I got something t
o tell you,” Kevin said. He extended his arms and held out a massive fry bread burger.

  “Oh no, this burger has all the fixings. Must be bad.” She sat upright, placing the book down. “Lay it on me.”

  “You tell her,” Kevin said to Alan.

  “What?” Alan felt bullets of sweat forming on his forearms and forehead. A flash of his own mom’s face sprang to mind. He froze. Terror took the breath from his airway.

  “Just tell her,” Kevin said.

  Alan shook himself and regained his senses. “She’s your mom.”

  “Kevin?” his mom said. “Kevin. Look me in the eye.”

  Her expression turned sour. She folded her arms across her chest. His own mom wouldn’t have this posture. She would collapse from the hurtful knowledge that Alan wanted to be Seneca and not Navajo. Alan’s palms became sweaty just watching Kevin tell his mom what had happened.

  “. . . I just need a little more time! I’m sorry. I let you down.” Kevin’s head hung low like a lifeless puppet’s. His mom looked mad and then, surprisingly, laughed. Still, her laughter had a note of anger.

  “Oh! You’re in trouble, little man,” his mom said, through bits of sinister laughter. “You are in big trouble.”

  “She does this when she’s about to lay the smackdown,” Kevin whispered to Alan.

  “Oh, this is much bigger than a smackdown,” Kevin’s mom said. Her laughter stopped and she got serious. “I’m talking chores all day, every day, twenty-four-seven. I’m talking no friends, no television! Now, first tell me why I punish you.”

  “You punish me because you love me,” Kevin said.

  “Now, get the bracelet back. Seriously. Go,” Kevin’s mom said. She opened her book again.

  Kevin turned to Alan and patted his shoulder. “Man, I owe you one.”

  “Huh, what?” Alan said. “No problem.” Maybe Kevin could give him tips on how to approach his own mother about tribal registration. “Hey, I need to tell my mom something, and I could use some help.”

  “What you gotta tell her?”

  “A few weeks ago, they asked me if I want to—”