My Name Is Not Easy Edwardson, Dahl (ebook reader web TXT) 📖

was Luke, marching toward the bus with his gun at his side, the barrel pointed down. He was frowning—not looking at anyone in particular—just frowning at everyone and everything, I guess. He walked over to the back of the bus, where all the luggage was stacked, and slid that gun right in on top of all the duffl

e bags, very carefully. We all were watching him,

but nobody said a thing.

I turned around, without even thinking about it, to see Bunna’s reaction. But at the exact same moment I turned, Bunna leaned his head over the seat, and we collided midturn, his nose against my cheek. He hollered “ow,” and I turned beet red.

“Ooo,” said Evelyn, “Eskimo kiss,” and everyone laughed.

Everyone but me and Bunna.

Stupid Evelyn.

I stared straight out the side window, burning with embarrassment. Not wanting to face anyone.

Luke was walking back into the school real slow, and I envied the way he walked, so straight and sure, like he didn’t 156

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give a fi ddle what anyone thought. He never looked back. Not once.

When Father Flanagan turned the key in the ignition and let up on the brake and that old bus started to creak along on its rusty gears, Bunna turned to look out the window, quick, looking back at the school like he expected to see Luke come running after us. But Luke was gone, and in half a breath, so were we.

I just sat there, one hand clutching the other, still feeling embarrassed. Michael O’Shay was sitting all alone, directly across from me, and he kept looking at me like he thought we should feel some special kind of bond, us both being white; like maybe we’re family or something, which we most certainly were not.

“Where you from, again?” he asked.

“Kotzebue,” I told him. We’d had this conversation before, the two of us. Which Michael O’Shay should have remembered. But Michael O’Shay was from Fairbanks, and he was under the impression that the whole state, with the possible exception of Anchorage, was just some sort of big shadow Fairbanks made.

“I mean where are you really from?” he said, like Kotzebue was just some sort of excuse I always made.

“Kotzebue,” I said, turning away from him to watch the Sacred Heart trees sweeping by the window.

“But where’s your family from?” he persisted.

“Where’s yours from?”

“Fairbanks,” he said. “First generation.”

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All of a sudden Bunna turned around, glaring. “What the heck’s that supposed to mean?” Bunna said. But he was looking at me when he said it, not O’Shay. And he was looking with a protective sort of look, too, looking me right straight in the eye. I looked right back, very glad for the fact that it was starting to get dark and nobody could see me blush. Michael O’Shay never said another word.

When Father stopped for gas, I got off the bus and went over to the edge of the woods and just stood there, breathing in all the warm, starry darkness. And I don’t mean the air was warm, because it wasn’t. Th

e warmth came from someplace

inside me, someplace so deep and private, it made me feel like I was sparkling, too.

“You like that guy?”

Bunna’s voice came out of nowhere, and his words were just as surprising. He had walked over, away from the others, and now he was standing right next to me. His voice made his words sound more like an accusation than a question.

I was so surprised I said, “What guy?” which was a dumb thing to say because I knew perfectly well who he was talking about.

“O’Shay.”

Did I like O’Shay? Skinny know-it-all Michael O’Shay?

“No. I don’t like him.”

I guess I was supposed to say something else, something smart and funny, but everything smart and funny dried up in my mouth with surprise. Bunna was jealous!

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All of a sudden it felt like I’d grown extra limbs and didn’t know what to do with them. I shoved my hands into my pockets and stared up at the night sky. It was like I was seeing it for the fi rst time ever. Th

ere were so many stars! Where did

they all come from?

Bunna was watching them, too, now.

“What do you call that one, the one with the three stars right there in a row?” he said.

“Orion’s Belt,” I said. Swede taught me that one ages ago.

“Tuvaurat,” Bunna said softly. “Th

at’s three hunters, return-

ing from caribou hunting.” He waved his arms off vaguely into the direction where those star hunters might have been hunting.

“See the horns over there?”

All of a sudden I did. I really did. A pile of horns. And before I even knew what was happening, Bunna leaned down close and kissed me. Kissed me right there on the edge of the sparkling black woods halfway to Fairbanks, beneath stars that looked like caribou horns. And I kissed him back, too, kissed him for a long, long time.

Bunna’s lips were soft and warm, and he smelled like Palmolive soap and laundry detergent and hair grease, and right then and there I decided that mixture of Palmolive soap, laundry detergent, and hair grease was probably the best smell in the whole wide world.

Eskimo kiss, I thought, and that thought