Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
Tasty Freckles
From My Journal: On New Year's Eve, I stood waiting my turn in the express aisle of Hein's Grocery Barn, flipping through the December issue of Teen Lifestyles --
The magazine reported: "'76% of 14-year-old girls who responded to our Heating Up Your Holidays' survey indicated that they had French-kissed a boy. "The next day was my fourteenth birthday, and I'd never kissed a boy-domestic-style or French. Right then, looking at that magazine, I decided to get myself a teen life.
Tradition was on my side. Among excuses for kisses, midnight on New Year's Eve outweighs mistletoe all Christmas season long. Kissing Galen would mark my new year, my birthday, my new beginning.
Or I'd chicken out and drown in a pit of humiliation, insecurity, and despair. Cassidy Rain Berghoff, Rest in Peace.
December 31
That night, Galen and I jogged under the ice-trimmed branches of oaks and sugar maples, never guessing that somebody was watching us through ruffled country curtains and hooded miniblinds. We should've known.
Small-town people make the best spies.
As we tore through the parking lot behind Tricia's Barbecue House, my camera thudded against my hip and I breathed in the chill, the mist, and the spicy smell of smoking beef. Galen's cold hand yanked mine past Phillips 66 Car Wash, Sonic Drive-In, and up the tallest hill in town to N. R. Burnham Elementary. Chewie, my black Lab, led us to the playground, and Galen grinned at me like we were getting away with something.
I thought we were.
Of course Grampa Berghoff hadn't given uspermission to prowl like night creatures on New Year's Eve. Earlier that evening, he'd shelled out twenty-five bucks for pizza delivery and movies, handed me the video rental card, and said, "Watch yourself."
But Galen drew his line at chick flicks, and I drew mine at Anime. Since Mercury Videos carried only about forty tides, we'd already seen everything else.
Galen and I had gone out after the third phone call from his mother: the first to ask if he'd gotten to my house okay, a whopping five blocks; the second to ask if my big brother, Fynn, could drive Galen home -- no problem; and finally to ask if Grampa and Fynn would be back from their dates before midnight. As if.
My high-tops smacked the playground asphalt, and I opened my mouth to catch a snowflake or two. Galen let go of my hand, and I dropped into the swing beside him.
We soared.
Below, Christmas lights outlined rooftops, shop windows, and the clock tower on the Historical Society Museum of Hannesburg, Kansas. Cottony smoke puffed out of chimneys and blurred into clouds. Plastic reindeer hauled Santa's sleigh on top of the new McDonald's.
Perfect, I thought.
Besides haunting the streets and swinging to the heavens, I planned to try out the filters Grampa had tucked into my Christmas stocking the week before. I hoped to compose some shots of my hometown in all of its hazy holiday glitter.
But that's not what I was nervous about.
Glancing at Galen, I could still see my field trip buddy, the one who'd tugged me away from Mrs. Bigler's secondgrade class to find turquoise cotton candy at the American Royal Rodeo. I wasn't a hard sell. With my parents' pocket camera ready, Id hoped to shoot whatever wasn't on the guided tour. When we finally got caught, Mrs. Bigler sentenced us both to keep our noses to the brick wall for a month of recesses.
Through lemonade stands, arcade games, spelling bees, and science fairs, we'd been best friends ever since. When Galen's rock busted out the new streetlight, we both got a tour of the city lockup. When Galen climbed the water tower and couldn't get back down, I'm the one who called the volunteer fire department.
But at Mom's funeral, he was the one who answered for me when people said they were sorry and what a shame. "Thank you for coming," he told them, just like a grown-up. And he'd asked Gramma Scott to check on me after I'd gone into the funeral home ladies' room and decided never to come out.
Galen was the one person who always understood me, the one person I always understood.
Over the past couple of years, though, something had happened. Something unexpected. Something that made me feel squishy inside. Galen's bangs had draped to the nub of his nose. His sweeping golden eyelashes made my stubby dark ones look like bug legs. He'd grown so delicious, I longed to bite the freckles off of his pink cheeks.
As Chewie barked at us from the playground below, I shivered on my swing and scolded myself for leaving the house in only my ladybug-patch jeans and the black silk blouse Aunt Louise had sent me for Christmas. But the silk made me feel sexy, more sophisticated somehow, and I'd worn it, figuring I could use all the attitude I could get.
My watch read twelve minutes until midnight. "Almost time," I announced.
"Hey, birthday girl," Galen called, "guess what I got you."
"I told you ten times that I give up," I answered, pumping my legs, trying to outswing him. "Besides, I'll find out tomorrow."
Galen and I had both been holiday babies, with birthdays outside of the school calendar, and so sometimes people forgot about celebrating us. That's why he'd promised to always remember my birthday, New Year's Day, and I'd promised to always remember his, the Fourth of July. We'd spit-shook on it.
Galen's taste in presents, though, was adventurous. Over the past few years, he'd given me a frog skeleton, a bag of rock-hard gum balls, and a midnight-blue Avon...
Rain Is Not My Indian Name. Copyright © by Cynthia Smith. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
