Free More Than Good Enough by Crissa-Jean Chappell

and ahhed, right on cue. Then Uncle Seth talked about the Miccosukee people, their hands-free style of wrestling, the skill it took to rope a gator and trade its skin for guns. Nobody listened. They were too busy gathering their purses and wheeling away strollers. A lady took out her cell and blabbed at ear-piercing decibels. “I can’t hear you,” she kept shouting. “Can you hear me? What do you mean, ‘Not really’? How about now?”
    I tuned the volume down inside my mind so I wouldn’t have to listen. All I heard was my breath, like a hurricane’s pulse, until the only thing left was silence.

seven
    “So tell me the truth,” Pippa said. “Your uncle wasn’t faking it, right? I mean, putting his life in danger so a bunch of tourists could have a Kodak moment.”
    I’d collected the tips and we were back in the parking lot. The breeze had picked up, carrying a hint of smoke. I always liked that smell, especially when it floated from somewhere far away, the burn you couldn’t see.
    “This isn’t a joke,” I said.
    The sun was in Pippa’s eyes, making her squint like she was hatching evil plans. “I just meant—”
    “It’s part of my culture,” I told her. “Didn’t you hear what he said at the show?”
    “For your information, I was listening. In fact, I was probably the only one listening.”
    “Oh, thanks. That makes me feel better.”
    “What the hell is wrong with you? I’m in the middle of freaking nowhere, just for this project.”
    “Is that the only reason you came?” I asked.
    Pippa reached into her bag and pulled out her sunglasses. The plastic frames were sprinkled with pirate skulls. “Geez, Trent. What do you want me to say?”
    “I wouldn’t call this nowhere.”
    “Okay. Fine. I guess everywhere is somewhere.”
    I tried to laugh, but it came out high-pitched and jumpy. “You’re wrong,” I said, tapping my forehead. “It’s all in the mind.”
    Pippa was definitely a weird girl. I wanted to get close to her again, but she kept blocking me out. In the distance, a car honked one long note that stretched and faded. There was nothing on the horizon, which circled us for miles. Just the chickee huts and a cloudless sky so bright it hurt to look at it.
    “Where are you going?” Pippa asked.
    I told her the truth. “Nowhere.”
    “Everybody lives close to their families,” I said as we drove through the Rez. “It’s all divided by clans.”
    We passed the burger shack right across from the Rez school, made a couple turns, and pulled up to the Little Blue House.
    “So how come you didn’t grow up around here?” Pippa asked.
    “Because of my mom,” I said. “She’s not Indian, remember?”
    Pippa was quiet for a moment. “Does that mean you’re not part of the tribe?” she asked.
    I turned off the radio. “Depends on who you ask.”
    Next door at Uncle Seth’s, the elder ladies were having a yard sale. The aunts had set up tables on the grass, each loaded with beaded necklaces, miniature canoes, and paper plates stacked with fry bread. We parked and walked over.
    Pippa grabbed the camera and started filming. She was really getting into it, practically kneeling down to get the best angle.
    “What’s this thing?” She held up a skinny wooden racket.
    “That’s for playing stickball,” I explained. “It’s super old-school. Nobody really does it anymore. It’s kind of like lacrosse.”
    “Have you ever played it?”
    I put the racket back on the table. “Nobody does. That’s what I just said.”
    Maybe I was making her uncomfortable. Actually, I was the one getting weirded out. It wasn’t because people stared (and, of course, they did). Everybody was really nice. The aunts nodded at me, but they didn’t talk to Pippa. Maybe it was a mistake, bringing her here.
    “They probably think I’m your girlfriend,” she said.
    My face heated up. I looked down and hoped she didn’t notice.
    “Are we going to your dad’s house or what?” Pippa