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Authors: Nikki Godwin
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telling you until we get there.”
The dirt and dust continue to wrap around the truck like a tornado. I think we’ve driven into the great unknown. A two-story building sits in the distance, and it looks abandoned. Great, he’s bringing me to the middle of nowhere to dispose of my body in a building that no one will ever enter again. And his kind of royalty is really a den of bears who rule Bear Creek, and they’ll rip me to shreds while Micah watches.
There’s a maroon SUV and a few other cars parked behind the old warehouse. The windows are busted out, and streaks of spray paint dance along the outside walls.
“This isn’t on the res, but it’s still Jocolnu land,” Micah says.
He parks his truck and gets out, like this is completely safe and he does it all the time. I reluctantly follow as he walks toward the back door.
Eminem’s music plays inside. I wait for the drug lord’s messenger to walk outside and greet us. I imagine Micah banging on the back door with a secret knock and then having to prove his loyalty with a secret handshake. Once we get inside, there’ll be crates of heroin and cocaine, and Scary Terry will emerge from a throne and laugh despicably in my face because I thought he was fixing Simple Gray Horse when really they broke the carousel as part of their plan to lure me here.
Micah looks back over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”
I freeze in my tracks. I’m sure I look like an idiot. But drug dealing isn’t exactly what I want to do with my summer, and I can’t see how that damn purple-jeweled horse can relate to anything other than drug lords. I can get past the casinos and gambling in the modern Native American world, but this crosses the line.
Micah faces me, shielding the sun with his hand. “Will you come on? It’s really hot out here,” he says.
The sun beats down on us, and sweat runs down the back of my neck. Maybe I should’ve gotten that haircut.
“What’s in there?” I ask, looking up at the shattered second-floor windows.
“You’ll see. C’mon. It’s badass,” he says, all smiles.
He continues toward the door, but I don’t follow. I stare upward, hoping a plane will fly over and I’ll have to pray for it so it’ll prolong having to go inside. I walk slowly, staying a few feet behind him at all times. He knocks three times on the back door and invites himself inside. No fancy knock. No messenger to gather a secret password. No secret handshake.
I follow him in.
The top floor has been torn out and is nothing but wooden rafters and a high roof. Paint splatters stain the floor. The entire place is trashed out with spray paint cans. Remnants of graffiti decorate the walls, but a group of teenagers work to cover them with white paint. Except for the back wall. It’s a mixture of blue paints, from deep blue to turquoise, with white waves painted over the top.
Micah holds his arm out and motions around the room.
“Secret headquarters of the Graffiti Kings,” he says.
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” I say.
I watch the floor as not to trip over something as I follow Micah across the room. It’s hot in the warehouse, but at least it’s shaded.
A guy stands on one side of a folding ladder smoking a cigarette and giving directions. His thuggish apparel is more intimidating than Scary Terry’s blazer, but I don’t get freak vibes from him. Paint is splattered on his arms and clothes, everything but his backward cap.
“Youngblood!” he calls out, once he sees Micah.
He comes down from the ladder, sticks the butt of his cigarette into a cup of water, and walks over to us. He’s a lot shorter off of the ladder. He greets Micah with one of those high-fives turned over-the-shoulder-half-hug. And then he looks at me.
“Who’s your friend?” he asks.
“This is Ridge…McCoy,” Micah says.
“McCoy,” the guy repeats. “Cool enough.”
Micah looks back at me. “This is Tucker Livingston. He’s the leader of the
The dirt and dust continue to wrap around the truck like a tornado. I think we’ve driven into the great unknown. A two-story building sits in the distance, and it looks abandoned. Great, he’s bringing me to the middle of nowhere to dispose of my body in a building that no one will ever enter again. And his kind of royalty is really a den of bears who rule Bear Creek, and they’ll rip me to shreds while Micah watches.
There’s a maroon SUV and a few other cars parked behind the old warehouse. The windows are busted out, and streaks of spray paint dance along the outside walls.
“This isn’t on the res, but it’s still Jocolnu land,” Micah says.
He parks his truck and gets out, like this is completely safe and he does it all the time. I reluctantly follow as he walks toward the back door.
Eminem’s music plays inside. I wait for the drug lord’s messenger to walk outside and greet us. I imagine Micah banging on the back door with a secret knock and then having to prove his loyalty with a secret handshake. Once we get inside, there’ll be crates of heroin and cocaine, and Scary Terry will emerge from a throne and laugh despicably in my face because I thought he was fixing Simple Gray Horse when really they broke the carousel as part of their plan to lure me here.
Micah looks back over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”
I freeze in my tracks. I’m sure I look like an idiot. But drug dealing isn’t exactly what I want to do with my summer, and I can’t see how that damn purple-jeweled horse can relate to anything other than drug lords. I can get past the casinos and gambling in the modern Native American world, but this crosses the line.
Micah faces me, shielding the sun with his hand. “Will you come on? It’s really hot out here,” he says.
The sun beats down on us, and sweat runs down the back of my neck. Maybe I should’ve gotten that haircut.
“What’s in there?” I ask, looking up at the shattered second-floor windows.
“You’ll see. C’mon. It’s badass,” he says, all smiles.
He continues toward the door, but I don’t follow. I stare upward, hoping a plane will fly over and I’ll have to pray for it so it’ll prolong having to go inside. I walk slowly, staying a few feet behind him at all times. He knocks three times on the back door and invites himself inside. No fancy knock. No messenger to gather a secret password. No secret handshake.
I follow him in.
The top floor has been torn out and is nothing but wooden rafters and a high roof. Paint splatters stain the floor. The entire place is trashed out with spray paint cans. Remnants of graffiti decorate the walls, but a group of teenagers work to cover them with white paint. Except for the back wall. It’s a mixture of blue paints, from deep blue to turquoise, with white waves painted over the top.
Micah holds his arm out and motions around the room.
“Secret headquarters of the Graffiti Kings,” he says.
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” I say.
I watch the floor as not to trip over something as I follow Micah across the room. It’s hot in the warehouse, but at least it’s shaded.
A guy stands on one side of a folding ladder smoking a cigarette and giving directions. His thuggish apparel is more intimidating than Scary Terry’s blazer, but I don’t get freak vibes from him. Paint is splattered on his arms and clothes, everything but his backward cap.
“Youngblood!” he calls out, once he sees Micah.
He comes down from the ladder, sticks the butt of his cigarette into a cup of water, and walks over to us. He’s a lot shorter off of the ladder. He greets Micah with one of those high-fives turned over-the-shoulder-half-hug. And then he looks at me.
“Who’s your friend?” he asks.
“This is Ridge…McCoy,” Micah says.
“McCoy,” the guy repeats. “Cool enough.”
Micah looks back at me. “This is Tucker Livingston. He’s the leader of the
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