My Name Is Not Easy by Edwardson, Dahl (the red fox clan .TXT) 📕

C h i c k i e She’s praying so fast that the psalm takes off like a snow-ball down a hill, and I get so caught up in the momentum that before she comes to the end, I accidentally say, “Amen” ahead of everybody else.

Bunna laughs, looking right at me with that evil little grin of his.

I open up my diary and write “BUNNA A IS A DUMB

ANIMAL.” Th en, just for good measure, I underlined every word twice, pressing especially hard: “BUNNA A IS A DUMB

ANIMAL.” Th at’s when I realize I have accidentally added an extra A . But that’s okay; Bunna’s last name is Aaluk, so “Bunna A” makes sense.

I snap the book shut, happy in the knowledge that I have recorded a thing for all posterity, as Sister would say—last name and all.

Meanwhile, the bus limps along in the snow-bright darkness, headed down the mountain, straight for Sacred Heart.

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The Day the Soldiers Came

APRIL 5, 1962, 8:00 A.M.

LUKE

—

Bunna is standing by the window in the hallway of the dorm, his nose pressed up against the glass. Th

at white kid, O’Shay, is

leaning over top of him, and both of them are staring out the window without hardly moving. Like the yard’s full of moose or something. Bunna turns around when he hears me.

“Soldiers,” he hisses.

I go look out, and sure enough, it’s soldiers: jeeps, uni-forms, and all.

“What the heck,” I say.

“Maybe the Russians have invaded,” O’Shay says, grinning.

Bunna moves away from the window fast.

“Aw, c’mon,” O’Shay says. “You don’t really believe that stuff , do you?”

Bunna frowns like he thinks O’Shay is making fun of him.

I tell O’Shay, “Back home, when the sky gets real red over 108

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T H E D A Y T H E S O L D I E R S C A M E / L u k e the ocean, our mom always says it could be Russia burning.”

Bunna nods.

“No way,” O’Shay says.

“Way,” Bunna says.

Guess O’Shay don’t know what it’s like living on the coast across from Russia. He’s from Fairbanks, which is what they call the Interior, and it’s about a thousand miles from the ocean. Besides, he’s white.

“We got Russian subs out there in our ocean all the time,”

I tell him. “Just under the surface, like killer whales.”

“Killer whales,” O’Shay says. “Th

at’s a good one.”

“You aren’t supposed to joke about killer whales,” Bunna says.

“I wasn’t joking about killer whales,” O’Shay says.

“Yeah, ’cause the way it is with killer whales, they never forget the people who tease them,” I say. “Th

ere’s a guy

making fun of them whales one year, and two years later, whales surround his boat and he’s dead.” It’s true, too.

We look out the window. Th

e soldiers are marching right

up into the school.

“Least they’re on our side,” Bunna says.

I breathe deep. No kidding. Least they’re on our side. But what the heck are they protecting us from? It’s a question I don’t really want to think about, but I do anyhow. I think about it all through breakfast, and it follows me down the hall and into class, where it lurks just under the surface, like a killer whale. How can Father Flanagan stand there spouting Latin like nothing’s happening?

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M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y

“O fi lii mei boni bellifera, ” Father says loudly. “What does it mean? Anyone?”

Chickie giggles and Evelyn snorts because it sounds like he’s saying, “O feely me boney belly” with some kind of accent. Junior shoves his glasses onto his nose and clears his throat.

“Junior?”

“Oh my great warring son,” Junior says fast, his voice cracking.

“Good. Very good.”

Father writes those words on the blackboard in neat writing. Th

en he looks up over our heads toward the door. Seeing the expression on his face, we all turn around and stare. Father Mullen stands just outside the door, waiting.

“I want you to turn to chapter six, class, and get started,”

Father Flanagan tells us. “I’ll be right with you.”

Everybody makes a show of turning pages, but all of us are really watching Father Mullen and Father Flanagan talking together just outside the door. We can’t see no good reason for Mullen to interrupt the class like that, and we know that wherever Mullen goes, trouble follows sure as snow.

Father returns to the class, rubbing his hands like he’s trying to warm them.

“All right, then,” he says. “All right. Slight change of plans, boys and girls. Slight change. I need a few of you for testing.”

“You didn’t tell us there was going to be a test, Father,”

O’Shay says nervously.

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T H E D A Y T H E S O L D I E R S C A M E / L u k e O’Shay’s dad is real strict about his grades. Not like the rest of us. Th

e rest of us passed our parents’ grade levels about fi ve years ago, so our parents think we’re geniuses no matter what kinds of grades we get. But O’Shay’s dad is a lawyer, and O’Shay’s grades are never good enough.

“Not that kind of test, Michael,” Father says. “Th

is test is

more like an eye test.”

Evelyn looks at Junior’s glasses, suspicious. “Whatsa matter with our eyes?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” Father says. “I didn’t say it was an eye test, I said it’s like an eye test. And it’s only