I went home that night com­ple­te­ly con­fu­sed. And ter­ri­fied.

If I'd pun­ched an In­di­an in the face, then he would have spent days plot­ting his re­ven­ge.

And I ima­gi­ned that white guys would also want re­ven­ge after get­ting pun­ched in the ace. So I fi­gu­red Roger was going to run me over with a farm trac­tor or com­bi­ne or grain truck or runa­way pig.

I wis­hed Rowdy was still my fri­end. I could have sent him after Roger. It would have been like King Kong batt­ling God­zil­la.

I re­a­li­zed how much of my self-​worth, my sense of safe­ty, was based on Rowdy's fists.

But Rowdy hated me. And Roger hated me.

I was good at being hated by guys who could kick my ass. It's not a ta­lent you re­al­ly want to have.

My mo­ther and father weren't home, so I tur­ned to my grand­mo­ther for ad­vice.

Grand­ma, I said. I pun­ched this big guy in the face. And he just wal­ked away. And now I'm afraid he's going to kill me.

Why did you punch him? she asked.

He was bul­ly­ing me.

You should have just wal­ked away.

He cal­led me 'chief.' And 'squaw boy.'

Then you should have ki­cked him in the balls.

She pre­ten­ded to kick a big guy in the crotch and we both laug­hed.

Did he hit you? she asked.

No, not at all, I said.

Not even after you hit him?

Nope.

And he's a big guy?

Gi­gan­tic. I bet he could take Rowdy down.

Wow, she said.

It's stran­ge, isn't it? I asked. What does it mean?

Grand­ma thought hard for a while.

I think it means he re­spects you, she said.

Re­spect? No way!

Yes way! You see, you men and boys are like packs of wild dogs. This giant boy is the alpha male of
the school, and you're the new dog, so he pu­shed you around a bit to see how tough you are.

But I'm not tough at all, I said.

Yeah, but you pun­ched the alpha dog in the face, she said. They're going to re­spect you now.

I love you, Grand­ma, I said. But you're crazy.

I couldn't sleep that night be­cau­se I kept thin­king about my im­pen­ding doom. I knew

Roger would be wai­ting for me in the mor­ning at school. I knew he'd punch me in the head and shoul­der area about two hundred times. I knew I'd soon be in a hos­pi­tal drin­king soup th­rough a straw.

So, ex­haus­ted and ter­ri­fied, I went to school.

My day began as it usu­al­ly did. I got out of bed at dark-​thirty, and rum­ma­ged around the kit­chen for an­y­thing to eat. All I could find was a packa­ge of oran­ge fruit drink mix, so I made a gal­lon of that, and drank it all down.

Then I went into the be­d­room and asked Mom and Dad if they were dri­ving me to school.

Don't have enough gas, Dad said and went back to sleep.

Great, I'd have to walk.

So I put on my shoes and coat, and star­ted down the high­way. I got lucky be­cau­se my

dad's best fri­end Eu­ge­ne just hap­pen­ed to be hea­ding to Spo­ka­ne.

Eu­ge­ne was a good guy, and like an uncle to me, but he was drunk all the time. Not

stin­ky drunk, just drunk enough to be drunk. He was a funny and kind drunk, al­ways wan­ting to laugh and hug you and sing songs and dance.

Funny how the sad­dest guys can be happy drunks.

Hey, Ju­ni­or, he said. Hop on my pony, man.

So I hop­ped onto the back of Eu­ge­ne's bike, and off we went, ba­re­ly in con­trol. I just

clo­sed my eyes and held on.

And pret­ty soon, Eu­ge­ne got me to school.

We pul­led up in front and a lot of my class­ma­tes just sta­red. I mean, Eu­ge­ne had braids down to his butt, for one, and neit­her of us wore hel­mets, for the other.