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  My gaze fixes on the drums and dancing. The jingle dresses clink-clink-clink, and the men around the drum circle change their rhythm, thrum-thrum-thrum. I can feel the music in my sternum.

  Brooke leans in, breathing on me again. “Riley?” Her voice is gentle. Careful. “Are you okay?”

  My throat feels clogged. If I say something now, there’s a good chance it’ll either come out mean, or I’ll start to cry. I don’t want either of those things. I don’t know what else to do.

  So, I rise shakily to my feet. And leave.

  Here’s another thing that bothers me: college is supposed to be fun. It’s all about joining sororities, painting your face for football games, and meeting boys who are finally mature. Brooke and I should spend hours talking on Skype every night, as she tells me everything about her university experience.

  But nothing like that has happened.

  And it feels wrong, yet somehow, I’m the only person who has noticed. Mom and Dad think Brooke is thriving here, because her grades are good, and she keeps sharing all these smart-sounding articles on social media. She’s become so passionate and knowledgeable, Mom often marvels.

  Brooke has always been passionate and knowledgeable. But until she came here, I never saw her with acne breakouts. When I started going through puberty, she was the one who taught me all about skin-care products, aluminum-free deodorants, the importance of eating vegetables and staying hydrated. She gave me her old copy of The Care and Keeping of You, which had dog-eared pages and helpful notes in the margins. When I had my first period, she bought me chocolates and braided my hair and streamed my favorite movie on her laptop so I could watch it in bed. As I gritted my teeth and squirmed through the pain, she held me and whispered words of comfort that I still repeat to myself sometimes. Especially now that we no longer live together.

  I push through the locker room doors and storm inside.

  Two women are bent over a ribbon skirt, sewing a stray piece back into place. Another is reapplying lipstick in the mirror, a deep burgundy shade that matches the floral beadwork on her dress.

  I go to the back and plop down on a bench, right by the locker Mom and I claimed earlier today. Then I pull my phone out of my pocket and search for photos of Greenland.

  I find images of soaring glaciers and mountain peaks, clear blue seas and cloud-painted skies. Towns nestled between rolling hills, with buildings in shades of scarlet and royal blue and canary yellow. Icebergs rise from the water in jagged formations. It’s beautiful, but it isn’t home.

  And I’m starting to think that Brooke needs to come home.

  I close the internet browser, and my wallpaper photo makes my chest ache. Brooke and I are standing on the beach, beside the Future’s canoe. A few girls from the family photobombed us, holding up bunny ears behind our heads in the background. Brooke’s arms are circled tight around me, and her mouth is stretched wide as she laughs. I’m laughing too, but my mouth looks puckered.

  It’s not the best picture of me. Everyone who sees it points at my face and laughs. But I’ve never cared too much, because I love everything else about it.

  After this photo was taken, Mom laughed and shook her head. “You girls are too much,” she said. “The Future is silly.”

  We were giggling and falling over each other. I remember how lean and strong Brooke’s arms were. How she smelled like vanilla perfume and sunscreen, clean and coconutty.

  “Are you ready for this?” she asked. It was our first canoe journey of the season last year, and we were on our way to the Lummi Nation from our beach in Swinomish.

  “I’m ready.” I pulled away from her to flex my biceps as proof.

  She laughed and nodded in approval. “The Future is strong with this one.”

  (See? My sister used to make double puns about our canoe family and Star Wars. How does someone go from epic puns to endless rants? Her freshman year of college has ruined her sense of humor.)

  The adults helped us push our canoe into the water. It was long and broad, with The Future painted along its side in bold white letters, its carved interior a bright shade of red. Even though this was my second year in the Future—a canoe family of Native girls, all between the ages of ten to nineteen—I was nervous as we bobbed into the channel. Like I was experiencing stage fright before a big performance.

  “Paddles up!”

  We lifted our paddles in response to Brooke’s command. Mine was painted to resemble a blue orca whale, with thick swooping lines along its body, crescent-shaped eyes and flippers, and a row of gritted teeth. From the beach, our families cheered and whooped for us. Brooke sang out a single, joyful note and held it.

  Then she stopped.

  My lifejacket was snug around my torso. The sunlight warmed my skin. The sounds of the water flowed around us. The gentle waves lapping against the hull. The slight rocking as we sat with straight spines, our canoe pointed in the direction we wished to go.

  “Remember our protocols,” Brooke said. “We traverse these waters with good intentions. When we arrive at our neighbors’ shores, we must seek their permission to land. We make this journey to honor our ancestors, and to celebrate our families and communities.”

  Brooke paused in her speech. A breeze swept over us, swirling my hair around my shoulders, whipping strands across my face.

  “I’m so proud of you all,” Brooke continued. “I’m proud of your strength. I’m proud of your willingness to make this journey. This wouldn’t be possible if we weren’t here together. As we travel in this canoe, we are all dependent on one another. We must trust each other and work together. It’s the only way we will reach our destination.”

  From there, Brooke launched into an ancient song. Her voice carried across the channel like a gathering wave, rich and throaty and building. Our paddles plunged back into the water, as we glided across the surface, surging forward. Deep in the background, our families roared from the shoreline, cheering us on like we were a team of astronauts on our way to the moon.

  By the time Brooke finds me, I’m lying on the bench with my phone flat on my chest.

  “There you are,” she says. “You look . . . comfortable?”

  I grunt in response. A group of Elders are chattering near the door, making predictions for the dance competitions. A mother is changing her baby’s diaper somewhere nearby, entertaining him with tummy tickles and soft cooing sounds.

  Brooke nudges my legs. I sit upright, so she can join me.

  “Riley,” she says softly. “I think we need to talk.”

  “Yep.” My voice is flat and hard. “Probably.”

  “I owe you an apology. I should’ve told you about my plans for the summer. It wasn’t fair, to keep it a secret from you. I wanted to surprise you and Mom and Dad, but—I don’t think I went about it the right way. I’m sorry.” A crease forms between her brows. “I’ve hurt your feelings.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. There’s no point in denying it. Her decision to study abroad feels a little like a betrayal. Like she hasn’t missed me as much as I’ve missed her.

  “Have I ever told you the old stories? The teachings our ancestors offered about—glaciers?”

  I stare pointedly at the bank of lockers. Blink back the tears before they have a chance to gather.

  Brooke reaches for me, brushing my shawl with her fingertips. This robe was a gift from our auntie Val, a traditional Coast Salish weaver with looms in her home office and graph-paper notebooks filled with sketches. Val prepared this regalia for me before my first canoe journey. She told me this robe would protect me and empower me.

  This small gesture—my sister’s gentle touch, this pause to acknowledge Auntie Val’s work—helps me breathe. Helps me relax.

  She says, “They compared them to our weavings. They said that glaciers were like huge blankets covering the mountains.”

  Traditionally, our blankets were all white, so this makes sense to me. White snow; white wool. But this comparison is also significant, because o
ur weavings are the foundation of our ceremonies. I glance down at myself, newly aware of the prayers Auntie Val whispered into this fabric for me.

  Brooke says, “Our ancestors also compared glaciers to mothers. Because the freshwater rivers that run off from them nourish us, they sustain ecosystems for us, they provide a vital life force from their own bodies. Just as mothers nurture infants with breast milk. Glaciers are the exact same way.”

  I look up. The mother is leaving now, with her baby pressed against her chest, his cheek resting on her shoulder. She uses her diaper bag to push through the door, and as it opens, the emcee’s amplified voice blasts through the gap. The contest and exhibition dancing is about to begin, and he is thanking the participants in advance. His voice becomes muffled as the door eases shut. The Elder ladies have also left to watch the competition; Brooke and I are alone.

  “I know I’ve become . . . kind of obsessed. It feels like I’m constantly talking about glaciers, and climate change, and preservation politics. I know you and I haven’t hung out in a long time. Our relationship has changed since I left home. And Riley, being away from you has been the hardest thing about being a college student. Which is saying a lot, because I feel like an overcaffeinated ghost most of the time.” Brooke looks down at her lap. “I miss you so much. And I hate feeling like this—like I’m disappointing you.”

  The vulnerability in her voice and in her eyes breaks my heart open. I grasp both of her hands.

  It’s impossible to hold a grudge against my sister.

  “You could never disappoint me,” I tell her.

  “Are you sure?” Brooke bites her bottom lip. It’s her nervous habit, and it draws my attention again to how chapped her lips are—it looks like one of the dry scabs recently bled.

  “Never.”

  I pull her into a seated hug. Her arms come around me. Beneath her wool shawl, I can feel the angles of my sister’s bones; she’s too thin. I don’t remember her ever being so thin. Our cedar hats scrape against each other, with a rasp like sandpaper. We hold each other for several seconds; I’m smoothing the tangled hairs down her back, and she’s gripping my shoulders.

  “But Brooke?”

  “Hmm?” Her deep tone reverberates against my chest.

  “Do you remember the advice you gave me? When I first joined the Future?”

  She cocks her head. Pulls away slightly to meet my gaze.

  “You told me to make my own well-being my first priority. And I asked you, ‘Wouldn’t that be selfish?’ And you said, ‘It’s difficult to move the canoe forward, if you aren’t taking care of yourself. You need to be strong. You need to be nourished. You need to be present and positive.’ Remember?”

  Her brown eyes move across my face. “Of course.”

  “You taught me all about self-care. You taught me what it means to paddle. If it weren’t for you, I probably never would’ve made it out of the shallows.”

  She squeezes my hands. Her face transforms with a warm, beautiful smile.

  “You’ve always known the right things to do. Which is why you’re probably right about . . . this Greenland thing. If you need to go and join their study, instead of coming home and returning to the canoe journey, I can’t stand in your way. I shouldn’t guilt-trip you.”

  “Thank you, Riley.”

  “But”—I lift my eyebrows meaningfully—“I think I’m the one who needs to remind you about priorities now. Because no offense, Brooke, but you don’t look so great.”

  She blinks. “Excuse me?”

  “Girl.” I release one of her hands and gesture at her face. “What happened to your nightly skin-care routine? And are you getting enough sleep? Are you drinking water? Coffee really isn’t good for you, you know. Unless you ever catch a case of ee-pee-dral anesthe-za.”

  She snorts. “Um, okay. Wow. I always appreciate your brutal honesty,” she says with a snicker. “But hold on, what was that last part?”

  “Doesn’t matter. As long as you don’t have it, there’s no point to drinking coffee, which means you should probably start chugging some water. We also need to brush your hair. And get something for your chapped lips. As a matter of fact, here. One second.”

  I stand and turn to open our locker. I sift through our purchases from the powwow—T-shirts with the phrases Ancestor Approved and Honor Native Land, dentalium-shell necklaces, glass bottles of maple syrup—and grasp my cosmetics bag. Its starched fabric is light blue and patterned with strawberries. I unzip it and grab my brush, my apple-butter lip balm, and my small tin of breath mints. Then I turn to face Brooke.

  “I’ll work on your hair, you can use this, and—you can have a mint, if you want. They’re winter-fresh. Kind of like your beloved glaciers.”

  Brooke laughs and opens her palm. “Thank you.”

  I pass her the tin and the balm, and stand behind her. “Let me know if I pull too hard, okay?”

  “You’re fine. Thanks.”

  “No problem.” I lift a lock of her hair and ease the bristles through it, as gently as I can. “So,” I say. “Tell me more about this trip to Greenland. What exactly will you do for the study? Are any of your friends going too? Will there be college boys?”

  I can hear the smile in my sister’s voice as she says, “Well, for starters . . .”

  Little Fox and the Case of the Missing Regalia

  Erika T. Wurth

  “Wait. You’re telling me you’re missing regalia? Like, as in someone here at the powwow stole your stuff?” I couldn’t believe it. No way. Just no way.

  “I’m telling you, Tokala. Girl, it’s true! And it’s the not the first time something was stolen at a powwow either,” Shana said. People sitting next to us at the powwow started staring. We had been sitting there, on the hard metal benches, taking a break from walking around to see what the vendors had for sale and watching the Fancy Shawl dancers. That’s my favorite. I love to watch the girls swirl in the pit below us, their braided hair glossy. Plus, our friend Jenny was about to dance, and we promised we’d watch.

  “At least we just happen to have a famous detective here. What-whaaaat?” Shana said, wiggling her eyebrows significantly at me.

  “Oh well, I’m not like, famous or anything,” I said, turning kind of red. Ever since I’d solved the mystery of my mom’s disappearance, Native kids had been hiring me to solve crimes for them.

  “Yeah, you are. You’re totally famous. I’m just glad you’re here.” Shana looked down at her feet and sighed heavily. “I just never thought this kind of thing would happen to me.”

  I patted her back. I was happy I was here. I could help; I was good at solving mysteries and Shana had been my friend forever, ever since our parents had met at one of their Indian conferences, where they gave papers on Indian stuff. My parents were presenting at the University of Michigan. I was just glad there was a powwow at the same time and I could hang with Shana. Otherwise we’d be stuck running around the hallways of the university. Booorrrrriiiing. Though to be fair, whenever I was asked to solve a crime, one of my parents would come along, and then they were the ones stuck in a hotel grading papers, waiting for me.

  “So let’s go through what just happened. I like to be real specific,” I said, getting my iPad Mini out. I’d gotten it with some of what I’d earned through crime solving. I didn’t charge much ’cause it was only Indian kids who hired me, and they insisted on paying. My parents were making me put most of it in a college fund.

  “I went to the locker room to change,” Shana said. “I had the most lit regalia. I’m talking lit-as-heck, and that’s what I was focused on.”

  I nodded. Shana was a Jingle Dress dancer. “Go on.”

  “And I went to pull my mocs out, you know, the fire ones my grandma helped make. The ones with the floral pattern, the pink-and-blue ones. And they were gone!”

  “Like, twenty minutes ago?” I asked.

  “Yeah! I searched all over the locker room, went to the car, and even asked my derpy brother to look for the
m at home,” she said, pounding her fist into her palm.

  That was why she’d been gone so long. I’d been starting to worry, had even texted Shana a few times after she didn’t come back. Then, as soon as I was ready to go search for her, she came out looking really angry in her regular clothes, just her jeans and pink shirt with the words Powwow Magic.

  “Do you think maybe your brother just didn’t look hard enough?”

  “No. He can be weak, but he knows how important this is to me. And honestly, I remember putting them in my bag. Like, I really remember because this is first time I was going to get to wear them, and I wrapped them in an old shirt and stuck them in my red-and-gray Pendleton bag that I got at Gathering of Nations, right under my clothes.”

  The Fancy Shawl dancers came on, swinging their arms, the green and white and red of their regalia bright, their shawls spinning out into the air to the thump of the drums. We stopped what we were talking about for a minute, so we could look for Jenny. She was toward the middle in yellow. I watched her move, her feet bouncing in time to the beat. She was such a good dancer. This powwow kinda reminded me of the ones my dad took me to, which made sense, since Anishinaabe and Lakota people were from around the same area—a long time ago they even used to fight. Of course, it was all so different from my mom’s Nation. When I’d go home to the Chiricahua Reservation outside Deming, New Mexico, the ceremonies and dances, and the clothes—well, it was nothing like the Plains stuff here. It was cool, though: my parents liked to participate in each other’s dances and such on their Reservations, with me along, of course. Like, I was preparing for my puberty ceremony on Mom’s Rez, and Dad would have a part to play, even though he was Sicangu Lakota, ’cause he was my dad.

  “And that’s the thing, Tokala. That’s when I remembered. And that’s when I got pissed,” Shana continued, shaking her head, her long braids swinging.

  “What did you remember?”

  “Well, that a bunch of regalia has gone missing at different powwows around here, you know, all Anishinaabe florals. First at White Earth—that’s where Jenny had a pair of barrettes in that style go missing. We thought she’d just lost them. But then, at Mille Lacs, my home, hair ties in the same style went missing.”