Running Barefoot (4 page)

I came running, fearing some disaster had occurred, and found him staring at my wall in outrage.

“Josie Jo Jensen! What in the world is this?” He threw his hand towards the wall behind my bed which was now partially covered in words.

“It’s my Wall of Words, Dad,” I supplied
meekly. When he glowered at me and folded his arms across his chest, I decided I’d better explain myself further.

“See, at night when I’m reading I don’t like to stop in the middle of the story and look up words I don’t know . . . so I write them on my wall and look them up in the morning. It’s very educational!” I said brightly, smiling at him hopefully.

My dad shook his head, but I saw a flicker of a smile across his lips. He walked over to the wall and read some of my words.

“Ameliorate?” he read doubtfully. “Now that’s one I’ve never heard before.”

“Ameliorate means to make better. My ‘Wall of Words’
ameliorates
my vocabulary,” I said smartly.

My dad laughed out loud. “It does, does it?” He shook his head and looked at me fondly, all traces of anger gone. “All right Josie Jo. You can keep your wall. But keep it up here, okay? I don’t want words written all over the kitchen when you run out of room.”

“Maybe I should start writing smaller,” I said, suddenly concerned at my limited wall space.

I heard my dad laughing as he descended the narrow stairs.

3. Overture

Sonja had made the difficult shift into maturity easier than it would otherwise have been, but I still had to endure the scrutiny that my changing body encouraged. By the time I entered the seventh grade, I was fully grown. Though I was slender, I was 5’6 and had breasts and curves when boys my age were still wetting the bed. Tara thought I was the luckiest girl alive and pestered me with personal questions and even asked me once if she could wear my bra “just to see how it feels to be a woman.”

Being the only girl in a family of boys made my wardrobe choices pretty limited. I wore my brother’s old t-shirts and hand-me-down Wranglers because that’s what we had. My dad had never thought to do anything different, and I’d never thought it important enough to ask. I’d outgrown Sonja’s underwear purchases the first year, and if it wasn’t for my Aunt Louise making sure I had a sturdy bra I don’t know what I would’ve done. The boyish clothing mostly disguised my figure, although I hunched my shoulders to hide my height and my breasts and was constantly self-conscious and awkward.

Sonja had insisted I get my eyes checked when I persisted in putting my face too close to the sheet music, “ruining my playing posture.” I needed glasses to read or play the piano and since my nose was constantly in a book, I tended to wear them most of the time. I used big words and blurted out deep thoughts, and I think my peers considered me extremely strange when they considered me at all.

The seventh grade was part of the junior high, and I was relieved to be leaving elementary school behind, hoping it would be easier to blend in with the older kids. But junior high was just a different kind of torture. The junior high was made up of grades 7-9, the high school consisted of grades 10-12, and we all rode the same bus into Nephi for school. I hated riding the bus. Johnny was a senior the year I started seventh grade. He drove Old Brown, our old farm-truck, into school most days because he played several sports and practices were after school. Sometimes he gave me a ride, but more often than not, he took his friends - leaving no room for his little sister. The bus was loud and slow with kids crawling all over the place. I hated the elbows in my sides, the fighting, and worst of all, finding a seat.

The bus stop by my house was one of the very last, and every day I would dread walking down the aisle of the full bus, looking for a place to sit down. I drew unwanted attention from the high school boys, snickers from the younger boys, and
confusing animosity from most of the girls. Tara, loyal cousin and friend, usually tried to save me a seat, but I almost preferred not to sit by her. At thirteen she was about as big as a nine-year-old, and our size difference made my discomfort all the more severe. Not only was she little, she was loud, and where I would prefer to shrink into the background, she would call attention to herself every chance she got.

There was an 11
^th
-grade boy named Joby Jenkins who sometimes hung around with my brother Johnny. He liked being the class clown and thought he was the funniest kid on God’s green Earth. I didn’t like him very much; his humor was usually mean-spirited and always at the expense of someone weaker. The younger kids on the bus were his targets. My Dad said he was a “smart ass,” but mostly he was just an obnoxious bully. Above all, I couldn’t stand him because he stared at my chest whenever he saw me. Johnny seemed oblivious to this, as usual, and he thought Joby was hilarious and fun to be with. Because Joby didn’t play sports he always rode the bus, holding court way in the back, making many a kid’s life miserable.

One particular morning in early fall, I climbed on the bus, nervous and desperate for a seat as usual. Tara waved at me and pointed excitedly to the name tags stuck on each seat. Mr.Walker, the bus driver, had made seat assignments. I felt a rush of relief and started looking for my name. Assigned seating meant never having to find a place to sit,
and I was ridiculously grateful as I searched for mine. I began to notice that most of the younger, smaller, kids had been seated with older kids, making the three to a seat rule a little more comfortable. As I neared the back of the bus, red heat crawled up my face as an all too familiar voice rang out.

“Josie Jensen! Come to Papa!” Joby Jenkins called out in a sing song voice. Everyone around him burst into laughter. “Hey, we can play Cowboys and Indians! Don’t worry, Jos, I won’t let Sammy here make you his squaw.”

I’d found my assigned seat. My name was on the seat just across the aisle from Joby. Joby was sitting with his legs in the aisle so his knobby knees and big feet in unlaced Reeboks made it impossible for anyone to get by without confrontation. He patted the green plastic seat next to him. Sitting inside the seat beside him was Samuel Yates.

Samuel Yates was the grandson of Don and Nettie Yates who lived just down the road from me. Don and Nettie’s son, Michael, had served a Mormon mission on a Navajo Indian reservation twenty plus years ago. After his mission, he ended up going back to Arizona for some job. He’d married a Navajo girl and they had Samuel. A few years later, Michael Yates was killed when he’d been thrown from a horse. I don’t remember the details; it all happened before I was born, but in small towns everyone’s story becomes known eventually.

I’d heard about Samuel when several women, including Nettie Yates, had gathered in our kitchen to do some canning. Every year since my mom had died my neighbors would bring fruit and vegetables from their own gardens and can all day, filling our shelves with their labors. That August, the kitchen was uncomfortably warm and smelled of stewed tomatoes. I listened to the women visit as I wished for freedom from the endless canning, although my gratitude would not allow me to leave. I found myself drawn into the conversation out of sheer boredom. Nettie Yates was venting her concerns to the other women -

“He’s gotten so his mother can’t handle him. She remarried, you know. Seems Samuel doesn’t get along too well with his step dad and his step siblings. My opinion is there is some alcohol involved - the step dad drinks to much, I think. Samuel’s gotten in several fights this year and was kicked out of the school on the reservation. He’s an angry boy, and I’m a little worried about having him come live here.” Nettie Yates paused for breath and then continued. “I just hope people are good to him - it’s what Michael would have wanted. We’d have taken him when Michael died, but his mother wouldn’t hear of it. We told her to bring Samuel and come live with us, but she ended up going back to the reservation to live with her mother. Can’t say I blame her. It’s what she knew, and there is comfort in that, especially when you lose someone you love.

“We’ve barely seen the boy all these years. Don’s looking forward to having Samuel help with the sheep. Them Navajos know about sheep, you know. Samuel’s helped his grandma tend sheep since he was six years old. Anyway, he’ll attend school here for his senior year and hopefully graduate. Then he’ll be old enough to decide what he wants to do.” Nettie had finished the telling with a long sigh as she continued to slice ripe tomatoes into her bowl, never breaking rhythm.

Samuel looked up at me as I tried to slide past Joby into my seat. Samuel’s dark eyes and wide mouth were unsmiling, his eyebrows drawn together in an irritated slash against his warm brown skin. His shiny black hair skimmed his shoulders. I’d never said two words to Samuel Yates. In fact, I’d never heard him talk at all. His face was filled with hostility and his wide mouth turned down as he turned away. I inched past Joby, trying not to touch him as I sat down. Joby moved at the last minute, pulling me into his lap.

“Josie!” He said in mock surprise. “I didn’t
really
mean come to Papa!” Everyone laughed again as he pretended to push me off, all the while making it impossible for me to get free of his long arms and big feet.

I felt tears spring to my eyes as he continued to tickle me and jostle me around. Someone in front of me must have noticed my mortified expression, because a voice called out, “Uh oh, Joby! She’s gonna cry!”

Joby whooped and looked down at me. “Don’t cry, Josie! I‘m just messin’ with ya. Here, I’ll kiss it better.” Joby stuck out his lips comically and smacked a big kiss on my cheek.

“Stop it, Joby!” I sputtered out and elbowed him as I fought my way out of his messy embrace. Suddenly, Joby pushed me onto Samuel. My head collided with the window, and my backpack slid down and pinned my arms behind me. I found myself face first in Samuel’s lap and yelped as he jerked me upright. The kids around us howled with laughter.

Suddenly, Samuel’s right arm lashed out and pushed Joby clean off the seat. Joby landed with a loud thump right in the aisle. Surprise whooshed out of his lungs in a startled grunt. Before I could register what was happening, Samuel maneuvered me across him and sat me down next to the window. He stood up slowly and leaned over Joby’s stunned person. The laughter dimmed to nervous titters, and then there was silence. The kids around us watched, their mouths and eyes wide. My face throbbed with humiliation. I felt faint, and I realized I was holding my breath. Samuel stared down at Joby, his arms braced on the seats on either side of the aisle. Joby stared back at him; his mouth was working but no words were coming out, as if he hadn’t narrowed down what to say next.

“Don’t cry, Joby! I’m just messing with you.” Samuel’s voice was deep and soft, his face completely expressionless. The kids who had been
laughing started laughing again.

The bus had just pulled up to the last stop when the confrontation in the back of the bus drew the driver’s attention. Samuel had pretty much ignored everyone since he started school two months ago. He hardly spoke, but he was tall enough and intimidating enough that everyone steered pretty well clear of him. Everyone, including Joby, stared at him incredulously.

“No fighting on my bus, boys!” Mr. Walker, the bus driver, yelled back as he threw the bus into park, engaging the brake and disengaging his seatbelt in a huff. He rushed down the aisle towards Samuel. Without acknowledging Mr. Walker’s approach, Samuel slowly bent down, extended his hand, and pulled Joby to his feet. Then, like he had all the time in the world, he turned and looked down at poor Mr. Walker. He reached over and pulled Joby’s name tag off the seat where I was now sitting. I flinched and ducked my head as all eyes flew to me.

“Joby needs a new seat,” Samuel said softly. He pressed the curling white label against Joby’s forehead, all the while staring at the bus driver calmly. Mr. Walker looked confused and Joby was, for once, at a loss for words.

“Can’t he sit there?” Mr. Walker questioned, pointing to the seat I was now occupying. I noticed how Mr.Walker’s voice had immediately softened to match the volume of Samuel’s quiet declaration.

“Somewhere else,” Samuel enunciated
slowly, his voice still smooth. His eyes stayed on Mr. Walker’s face for a moment, and then he moved out of the aisle and sat down next to me, turning his attention out the window. He didn’t say anything else.

Mr. Walker quietly pulled my name tag from the seat across the aisle, put it on the seat where I was now sitting next to Samuel, and directed Joby to sit down in my place. Joby pulled the sticker from his forehead, the tables having been completely turned. He stuck his name tag in some kid’s hair and laughed uproariously. He then slapped another in the back of the head trying to downplay what had just happened. If I hadn’t seen it myself I wouldn’t have believed Joby had been knocked down and not responded with a fist and a few foul words. The only thing he said was “Damn! I guess Sammy doesn’t like me!” The kids around him twittered nervously, and Joby shot a look at Samuel again. Samuel just stared over my head out the window and didn’t respond or even appear to be aware of him at all.