“Somewhere else,” Samuel enunciated slowly, his voice still smooth. His eyes stayed on Mr. Walker’s face for a moment, and then he moved out of the aisle and sat down next to me, turning his attention out the window. He didn’t say anything else.
Mr. Walker quietly pulled my name tag from the seat across the aisle, put it on the seat where I was now sitting next to Samuel, and directed Joby to sit down in my place. Joby pulled the sticker from his forehead, the tables having been completely turned. He stuck his name tag in some kid’s hair and laughed uproariously. He then slapped another in the back of the head, trying to downplay what had just happened. If I hadn’t seen it myself I wouldn’t have believed Joby had been knocked down and not responded with a fist and a few foul words. The only thing he said was “Damn! I guess Sammy doesn’t like me!” The kids around him giggled nervously, and Joby shot a look at Samuel again. Samuel just stared over my head out the window and didn’t respond or even appear to be aware of him at all.
Winter came early, and by the end of October, Levanites had their kids bundled in moon boots, hats, and puffy coats that made movement awkward. I had turned thirteen September 1, and in anticipation of the upcoming cold season, my Aunt Louise bought me a new coat in a bright periwinkle blue. It was the nicest thing I had ever owned. My dad told her we didn’t need her charity when she’d brought it over. Aunt Louise was my mom’s younger sister, and she proceeded to rip him up one side and down the other. It’d been a couple years since I’d had a new coat. I’d worn Johnny’s old jean jacket and layered flannel shirts all winter last year, and this year she wasn’t having any of it. Dad seemed stunned by her accusations, and looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time. I just patted his hand and said, “I liked Johnny’s jacket, Daddy. That’s why I wore it.” Lately, I had caught my dad watching me with a strange yearning on his face. I asked him about it once, asked him why he looked so sad. He’d smiled a little and shook his head.
“I’m not so sad, Josie Jo…I was just thinking about how fast you had to grow up... You weren’t a little girl for very long. Not nearly long enough.” He’d patted my back and made a quick exit out the back door, retreating to the horse corral and safer pastures.
That particular Monday morning there was new ‘Sunday snow’ on the ground. Sunday snow was the snow that had fallen on Sunday night, but hadn’t yet been played or walked in; it was a beautiful white blanket when I tromped through it in my old tennis shoes. Samuel Yates was already at the bus stop when I arrived, and he climbed on before me, walking straight back to our seat and sliding in against the window. He wore no hat over his glossy hair, and his quilted jacked was lined with that fuzzy sheep skin. He wore moccasins on his feet. I wondered if they were cold, but the moccasins seemed relatively dry, much dryer than my sneakers, so I didn’t worry about him too much.
Samuel hadn’t paid any attention to me at all - ignoring me and everyone else - since the day he’d knocked Joby into the aisle. We hadn’t been assigned a third person to our seat. Mr. Walker was probably a little apprehensive; maybe he had decided to leave well enough alone. So for the last week I had ridden back and forth from school sitting beside him, not saying one word. I was not a person uncomfortable with silence, so I usually just read the whole time. I had started reading all of Jane Austen’s books and was now working my way through Persuasion.
I was enmeshed in Anne’s longsuffering when Samuel spoke.
“You read a lot.” It sounded a bit like an accusation, his words clipped and soft.
“Yes.” I didn’t know what to say exactly, but to agree with him.
“Why?”
“I like books; don’t you read?”
“Yes, I can read!” His soft voice was angry and his eyes flashed. “You think because I’m Navajo that I’m stupid?”
I stammered in my defense, my cheeks flushing at his perception of my words. “That’s not what I meant! I didn’t think that…I just meant don’t you like to read?”
When he didn’t answer and resumed looking out the window, I tried to read again. But my thoughts swam wildly in my head, and I stared blankly at the page. I felt despondent that I had wounded someone who had so recently come to my rescue. I tried again.
“I’m sorry Samuel,” I said awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
He snorted and looked at me, raising one eyebrow. “I’m not a little girl. I don’t get my feelings hurt.” His voice was slightly mocking. He took the book from my hands and began to read from the page.
“‘I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever.’”
Samuel’s intent had been to prove his reading skill, but he stopped suddenly, embarrassed by the deeply romantic missive from Captain Wentworth to Anne.
We both sat unmoving, staring down at the book. I couldn’t help myself. I started to laugh.
Samuel scowled for a minute. Then his lips twitched and he seemed to exhale his discomfort.
“How old are you?” He questioned his eyebrows slightly raised.
“Thirteen,” I replied defensively. I always felt defensive about my age. I didn’t feel thirteen, and I didn’t look thirteen, so I hated being thirteen.