Free More Than Good Enough by Crissa-Jean Chappell Page A

asked.
    I didn’t want to deal with him. Not after his little freakout this morning. At the same time, I was like, why can’t I bring somebody over? I live here too.
    “It’s part of my uncle’s place, actually. Or, my aunt’s, but she passed on. See, this is how it goes. When a guy gets married, he moves into his wife’s house. Basically, women run the show. They even get to pick your names.”
    “Names?”
    “You get a ‘baby name’ when you’re born. Only your mom knows the real name. When boys grow into men, they have a naming ceremony. It’s supposed to mean you’re an adult or whatever.”
    “Girls don’t get a new name?”
    I shrugged. “They don’t need it.”
    “So when are you getting yours?”
    I unlocked the door to the Little Blue House and kicked it open. All around the door frame were metal sculptures: a half-moon and a smiling sun, along with a polka-dotted lizard.
    “My what?” I asked.
    “Your grown-up name.”
    “Oh.” I flicked on the lights. “Most guys my age have theirs already.”
    “This is a big deal, right? The ceremony, I mean.”
    “Yeah, but I’m not in the tribe, officially. So it won’t be happening. Not for me, anyway.”
    “Maybe you can find a way in,” Pippa said.
    “Maybe.” I didn’t really feel like talking about it.
    “Is there, like, a test? Do you have to study for this naming thing?” she wanted to know.
    “You get to decide when you’re ready.”
    “That’s cool,” she said.
    “When you start asking questions, the elders say you’re good to go. It’s all about learning the songs. We’ve got a whole encyclopedia of them. Like, there’s songs to find herbs. Songs for hiding and protection. Songs to make people happy. You just have to memorize them.”
    “That wouldn’t be too hard. Music was always your special talent.”
    “Yeah, well, I’m not so special anymore. That’s why I need to pass this class, right? For the win.”
    Pippa sank onto the couch and sort of collapsed into me. I’m sure she was just tired, but it felt weirdly familiar, leaning against her. Weird in a good way. I kept glancing at the door, thinking Dad would bust in here, but he was probably getting wasted. The usual Saturday routine.
    “Let’s get some B-roll footage.” I took out the camera and aimed it at my open mouth. “I’m documenting my wisdom teeth before they get ripped out.”
    “You’re not smart enough to have wisdom teeth.”
    “Don’t say mean things to me. I might cry.”
    “Aren’t we supposed to be making movies about real life?”
    “This is real life.” I lifted my Native Pride T-shirt and pointed the camera at my stomach. “Now I’m documenting my appendix scar.”
    “Gross. If I fail, it’s all your fault.”
    I dumped the camera back in its case. “This thing is a piece of crap. It won’t even turn on. And the batteries look dead.”
    “You can’t tell by looking,” Pippa said. “Did you charge the extra batteries?”
    “Was I supposed to?”
    Pippa sighed. “We can’t film anything else until it charges.”
    Okay. Now we had to charge the stupid batteries. I needed to get Pippa out of the house before Dad got back.
    “Come on,” she said. “Pass me the worksheet. We have to make a shot list.”
    “A shit list?”
    “Oh, you’re so funny I forgot to laugh.” She gave me a push and my skin heated up again. I looked down at my sneakers, the thumbtack wedged in my heel. Maybe if I pried it out, I would fly around the room like a balloon.
    “Let’s work in the kitchen,” I told her. At least if Dad pulled up in the driveway, I would spot him through the window.
    The kitchen looked like it had been attacked by velociraptors. PlayStation games were scattered all over the table, along with a flattened bag of chips. Neon orange crumbs were smashed deep into a place mat. I flipped it over, finding a half dozen pennies and a wrinkled magazine— Winds of Change: Your Number One Source for Indigenous News .
    Pippa