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

said. Father Mullen did not like short matches.

“Sonny’s got a mean left hook,” Luke said, giving Sonny a sideways grin.

Sonny stood up, reached down, and grabbed Luke by the wrist, pulling him up, grabbing him hard. And that’s when it happened.

Mullen was saying something, and Sonny was saying

something else, and Luke understood that maybe he was supposed to be saying something back, but he couldn’t because all of a sudden his ears were echoing and the sound of their voices was receding.

We lived in the dark that time, underground. We lived underground because it was too cold on the surface, too cold to even go outside, some days. Th

e leader had to test the cold fi rst, licking a spot on his wrist and sticking it up and out the door, past the thick layer of mastodon skins, sticking it out for just a second to see how fast the spot turned white with frostbite. Testing to see if it’s too cold to search for meat that day. Th

at’s how we lived.

He saw it clearly.

Th

en he snapped back into the conversation, staring at Sonny and Father Mullen, who were still talking about boxing as if nothing unusual had happened.

I know this because I was there, Luke thought suddenly. I was the leader, testing the safety of the frozen world with my own skin. I was there.

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

“Your opponent will always have a weak spot,” Father Mullen was saying. “Remember that.”

Now, lying on his back in the woods, Luke thinks about this from all angles, his eyes still closed, his wrist stinging.

My wrist is a weak spot, Luke thinks. Or maybe it’s a strength, a secret strength.

Or maybe it’s both.

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Our Story

MARCH 1964

“Look, Father.”

Junior put the newspaper on Father Flanagan’s desk. It was wrinkled, like dirty laundry, but the headline still rolled across it, sturdy as a tank: “Project Chariot Still On.”

It was the front page of the fi rst issue of Tundra Times, a newspaper covering Native news statewide. Th

e editor was

Junior’s uncle. Junior had been saving it for just the right moment, the moment when he would have enough nerve to tell Father about the stories he wanted to write, now that they had started a school newspaper.

“Th

at’s very interesting, Junior,” Father said.

Father obviously didn’t know much about Project Chariot. Project Chariot was interesting the way a bear about to tear into somebody’s gut is a concern.

“Th

ey were going to do a nuclear blast up north,” Junior off ered.

“Ummm?” said Father, erasing a mark in his grade book.

Junior’s words did not carry the kind of force he wanted them to carry. Th

ey never did. Junior picked up the paper

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and shuffl

ed to his desk in the back of the class, where

he sat between Sonny and Amiq, an easy place for a person like Junior to disappear. He imagined a tape recorder rolling, the words he wanted to say, loud and clear and inescapable.

“Th

ey were going to blow it up,” Amiq said.

Junior frowned.

“Blow up what?” Sonny said.

“Cape Th

ompson, right south of Point Hope,” Amiq

said.

“What?”

Amiq leaned over next to them like he was sharing a state secret. “Blow it right off the globe,” he whispered. “With a bunch of A-bombs. Bigger than Hiroshima.”

Luke turned around to look. Some of the other kids turned around, too, wide eyed.

Bombs?

“Right where we always hunt,” Junior added, wishing he’d been the one to make them look.

“Operation Plowshare,” Amiq said, leaning back onto his chair with a smug smile. “Th

at’s what they call it.”

Junior looked at Amiq, annoyed. How come Amiq always had to know everything about everything? And how come everybody always heard what Amiq said but barely even noticed when Junior said the same thing? And to make matters worse, Amiq was right, too. Project Chariot had been part of a government program called Operation Plowshare.

“You know, plow- share,” Amiq said, emphasizing the 198

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O U R S T O R Y

word. “Th

ey drop some bombs to plow out a harbor, nice and

peaceful.” His voice was neither nice nor peaceful.

“Plowshare?” Sonny said.

“It’s in the Bible,” Luke said quietly. “In Isaiah.”

Amiq reached over and grabbed Junior’s newspaper right off his desk without even asking. Junior frowned and adjusted his glasses.

“Th

ey said they were gonna use Operation Plowshare

to demonstrate the peaceful use of nuclear weapons,” Amiq hissed, grabbing Junior by the shoulders so violently that he nearly fell off his chair. “Right here.” He stabbed at the paper with his fi nger, right where it said “Nuclear Blast” in large letters.

Junior wanted to punch him.

Amiq shoved the paper back onto Junior’s desk and slapped Junior on the back. Father turned sideways, eyeing the two of them and noticing, for the fi rst time, Junior’s newspaper .

Amiq smiled smoothly and lifted it up for Father to see.

“Th

e editor is Junior’s uncle,” he told Father. He nudged Junior.

“Can I do a story, Father?” Junior croaked. “For the school paper? About this one?” He looked down as he said it, his face growing warm, waiting for Father to dismiss the idea. Father probably wouldn’t think a person like Junior could write about something as important as a nuclear