Wabanaki Blues by Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel Page A

of anyone’s stare—except when Beetle obsessed over my guitar-playing hands or my dumb cupcake-pink tee shirt. I don’t know how to behave when I’m nervous, especially without Rosalita by my side. I try to remember the reactions of pretty girls like Rasima when guys checked them out. I recall her focusing on a page in To Kill a Mockingbird when Brick Rodman couldn’t take his eyes off her. I pretend to examine my Indian legends book and continue to read a section of my bear story, subtitled “Animal Sacrifice.” Unfortunately, the subject matter reminds me of my parents’ stupid bear sacrifice trip and why I’m stuck here in the first place. I slam the book shut and shove it back on the shelf.
    Grumps speaks loudly enough to Del for me to overhear. “Did you know my granddaughter just finished high school? But college isn’t her thing. She plans to go on tour with her music as soon as she turns eighteen, next month.
    My tree bark hair falls over my cowering face. Why did Grumps tell Del I’m a musician? Why did he tell him I’m only seventeen? So much for me trying to impress my first admirer. Not only does this guy now know I’m underage and not headed for college, he can feel free to further disrespect me because I’m a musician chick.
    Del’s smile spreads wide, and I think I know why. I want to die of embarrassment.
    I return to the register, and he punches my arm, lightly. “Hey, since you play guitar, you should hook up with my band, The Blond Bear. I could pick you up on Saturday afternoon for practice.”
    Sometimes, it feels great to be wrong. His stupid red-lipsticked blond bear tee shirt finally makes sense. It’s for his band. It’s no stupider than my Dead Kittens tee shirt. The trouble is that I’m now mute. A smart guy, or leprechaun, or whatever he is, has invited me to his band practice. This is totally unexpected. It never occurred to me that I would run into another musician way up here, never mind one with a dream smile, teepee eyebrows, a buttery voice, and magnetic lichen eyes, who thinks I’m pretty. The trouble is that I can’t squeak out a sound. What I’m feeling is a lot like what I felt on that Goliath hypercoaster in Montreal: somewhere between terrified and terrific.
    Grumps rolls the grocery cart toward the exit. I have yet to reply to Del’s invitation. We’re leaving, and I’ve blown it because I’m too flustered to speak. My life can’t possibly suck more.
    â€œShe’ll see you Saturday afternoon,” Grumps calls back to Del, unexpectedly.
    â€œGreat!” he shouts.
    I know I should be angry at Grumps for speaking for me. But I’m not. I’m grateful.
    Once we’re back in the truck, I whisper, “Thank you, Grumps.”
    â€œMy pleasure, City Gal. I know what you’re going through. I had some awkward speechless moments myself, when I first met your grandmother.” His eyes drift away.
    Whoa. I’m not sure what to think about his comparison of Del and me to him and Bilki. I only met this guy half an hour ago.
    I start driving and try to stay focused on the road. A young moose leaps over the guardrail in front of me like a prize-winning filly, and I slow down to twenty miles an hour. A fluffy red fox skitters across the road, and I slow to fifteen. My mother’s obsession with helping animal accident victims finally makes sense. Human roads are nothing more than intrusions into shared animal trails. All living creatures walked these trails together in the days before pavement. No human creature has earned a special lethal right-of-way in these woods, or anywhere.
    A splash of canary-yellow sow thistles spills over the curb, as if someone has tossed a bucket of sunshine. Beside it lies a patch of wild strawberries wobbling their red heads in the wind. I hear Bilki whisper, “Strawberries are a natural love charm that Indian men give to