long enough for Coach Lannon’s eyes to widen with fresh anxiety.
“I’d look after Fred like she was my own daughter,” the coach blurted out. “I’ve got three of my own, so I know how you feel.”
I sucked in another breath as I waited for Dad’s answer. I knew that he wasn’t fond of me traveling off the Rez. The daily trip to the high school was far enough, and not just in miles. He’d agreed to Lone Butte only because our tribe didn’t have a local high school.
After another excruciatingly long pause, Dad said, “I guess when it comes right down to it, the decision isn’t mine. It belongs to her.” He turned to me and placed a steadying hand on my shoulder.
I exhaled.
Dad’s forehead lowered, and he looked at me squarely with eyes that were almond-shaped echoes of mine. “It’s time you made up your mind, Fredricka. Is this what you want?”
I cringed at my old-lady name, but as quickly as it took me to blink, I answered Dad with the lift of my chin. Coach Lannon had said that there’d be a chance I could get a college scholarship if I played well for the team. He said college recruiters from some of the biggest universities attended high school golf tournaments flashing full tuition rides for the best players. No one in my family had ever gone to college. No one even uttered the word. How could I refuse? I only hoped Coach Lannon understood the power of his promises. I wanted college as badly as he wanted me on his team, probably more.
Only a few silent seconds hung between us, but it seemed another eternity. This was the moment I’d been waiting for these past few weeks—my whole life, really. I’d been hoping for something different to happen, something special.
There was only one answer.
“I’ll be there on Monday. I’ll join your team.”
Coach Lannon’s shoulders caved forward, and for a moment I thought he’d collapse into Dad’s arms. He’d probably wondered whether I had the courage to join an all-boys’ team, and why shouldn’t he? It wouldn’t be easy for anybody, least of all a Native American girl from the other side of Pecos Road and the first girl to join the Lone Butte High School golf team.
Before I could change my mind, Coach Lannon extended his beefy hand.
I placed mine in his and watched my fingers disappear.
“We’ll all look forward to seeing you on Monday after school, Fred. Don’t forget your clubs.” Coach Lannon turned to Dad. “Hank?” He extended his hand, along with a relieved grin. “You’ve got quite a daughter. She’s got one heck of a golf swing. She’ll make you proud.” He smiled at me, and my eyes lowered at another compliment.
Dad nodded, but his smile was cautious. He was still uncomfortable with me competing with boys, especially a bunch of white boys, the kind who grew up in big fancy houses with parents who belonged to country clubs. That was why it had taken me two weeks to mention it to him.
But Coach Lannon had explained that there wasn’t enough interest in a girls’ golf team. “Maybe there’ll be a girls’ team next year,” he’d said. “Or the next.” Except by that time I’d be long gone. It was the boys’ team for me or nothing.
And Dad knew me better than anyone. When I’d finally told him, I hadn’t been able to hide my excitement. It would have been easier to hide the moon. Truth be told, it had surprised him. He’d never dreamed that I’d love golf like breathing; he’d never dreamed I’d become so good.
Neither had I.
Fortunately, Dad never had the heart to say no to his only daughter.
“Happy?” he said after the coach disappeared down the cart path, leaving the air a little easier to breathe.
I nodded, my eyes still soaking in the attention. I was beginning to kind of like Coach Lannon. He was okay, for a teacher.
“Good,” he said. “Then I’m happy, too. For you.”
Still dizzy from my decision, I nodded.
Dad sighed at me and smiled. Then he picked up my golf bag, one of his many garage-sale purchases last summer, along with my clubs. The red plaid fabric was torn around the pockets and the rubber bottom was scuffed, but it held all fourteen of my irons and drivers with room to spare. Dad had told me yesterday that he’d try to buy me a new one, but between his job and Mom’s waitressing, there wasn’t a lot of money for extras. And the plaid bag worked just fine.
“Come on, Fred,” Dad said, threading the bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go home and tell your mother. We’re late. She’ll be worried.”
“Uh-huh,” I replied absently as I smashed one last golf ball across the range with my driver. The ball cracked against the club’s face and made the perfect ping. It rose above us like a comet before it sailed high into the clouds.
Thank you, I said silently to the sky, shielding my eyes from the setting sun with my left hand. I waited for the sky to release the ball. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, I chanted to myself like a kid gauging a thunderstorm. The ball hung in the air an extra second before it dropped into the grass and rolled over a ridge.
And that’s when I knew.
My ancestors heard me. I imagined that they asked the wind to whisper, You are most welcome, Daughter of the River People. I was as certain of their loving hands on my destiny as I was of my own name.
* * *
We drove south on the I-10 freeway to the Gila River Indian Reservation in our gray van that was still a deep green in a few spots on the hood. Despite the peeling paint, it ran most of the time. Somehow Dad always found a way to make sure it got us to school and work and then back home.
Home was Pee-Posh, at the foot of the Estrella Mountains where the earth was as dark as my skin. That’s where we lived; that’s where my grandparents had lived and my great-grandparents before them. To reach it, we had to drive for miles along narrow roads with no stoplights, over bumpy desert washes dotted with towering saguaros and tumbleweeds that scattered across the road whenever it got windy. Most days, I wished Dad would keep driving, especially on the days when Mom started drinking.
“Maybe we shouldn’t tell her that I joined the team. Not yet anyway,” I said to Dad without turning. My bare arm folded across the open window as the air tickled my face. I closed my eyes and pretended that the wind was a boy kissing my cheeks. When Dad didn’t answer, I opened my eyes and sighed. “Let’s wait a while. A week, maybe.” Good news only stoked Mom’s bitterness, especially after a few beers.
“You sure?” A frown fell over his voice.
“Positive. Please don’t say anything.”
He smacked his lips, considering this. “If that’s what you want,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe waiting a week is wise. By then we’ll see if you still like being on the team. You could always change your mind—”
“I won’t,” I interrupted him, turning. How could he even suggest it? “Why? You think I’ll fail?”
“Hardly.” Dad turned his head a fraction. “That’s not what I said.”
“You
