My Name Is Not Easy (35 page)

C O U P O N S A N D B O M B S H E L T E R S / C h i c k i e
But I know about the Iñupiaq shaman who went to the moon. I heard Aaka Mae’s brother tell about it one time.

Swede says it’s just a story, all right, but there are some things Swede does not understand.

“Of course, if President Kennedy succeeds, the man in the moon story will take on a new meaning, won’t it?” Father says.

“If President Kennedy gets a man to the moon, that shaman’s house will have an American fl ag on it,” Bunna whispers.

His words tickle the back of my neck and make me itch.

“Why do we need a man on the moon?” Evelyn asks.

“We gotta have somewhere to go after the bomb drops,”

Amiq says.

Evelyn looks bombstruck.

“What’s wrong with bomb shelters?” Michael O’Shay

asks.

Everything,
I think. Bomb shelters give me the creeps.

Somewhere down south in the lower 48 there were two newlyweds who spent their entire honeymoon in a bomb shelter. We saw the pictures in
Life
magazine. President Kennedy has one, too, I heard. A great big bomb shelter for him and Jackie and Caroline and John-John.

Th

at honeymoon bomb shelter was six feet wide and four-teen feet long, which is barely bigger than a coffi n, and it was

so hot, the newlyweds spent most of their honeymoon taking Noxzema sponge baths to cool off .

If there were any bomb shelters in Alaska, they wouldn’t be hot at all; they’d be frozen solid, like ice cellars. I’ve been in
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M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y

ice cellars before, too. Some of them are big as houses, but I sure wouldn’t want to live in one.

In fact, the idea of being buried alive in the earth makes me feel dizzy, like somebody big is sitting on my chest. I think I’d rather take my chances with the bomb.

“All right girls and boys, it’s time for lunch,” Father says.

Kids are shoving books into their desks, and Junior is looking at me. “Th

ey’re still talking about blowing up bombs

in Point Hope,” he whispers.

Blowing up bombs in Point Hope? Th

at’s right next to

Kotzebue!

“Look.” He has a newspaper, a small one. Th

e headline on

the front page says “Project Chariot still on
.
”

“What?”

“Project Chariot, that’s what they call it. More bombs than at Hiroshima.”

Junior is still whispering, and I don’t know why. If it were me, I’d be hollering. But that’s Junior for you.

“Father?” I say. But Father is already out the door.

Me, Evelyn, Rose, and Donna are in the library because we’re supposed to do a paper on the race to the moon. Instead, we’re listening to Evelyn read “Can Th

is Marriage Be Saved?” from

the
Ladies’ Home Journal
and laughing at the way she reads it, her voice all high-pitched and girly-girly. Evelyn likes to read that kind of stuff because Evelyn is totally boy crazy. I’m not exactly sure when this happened, but if you ask me, it’s boring.

Bunna’s sitting one table over from us, trying to pretend
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C O U P O N S A N D B O M B S H E L T E R S / C h i c k i e
he’s completely absorbed in some book, which is totally silly, because Bunna is not a reader. He might have the others fooled, but I am not fooled at all: Bunna is eavesdropping.

He keeps glancing over at us sideways every few seconds, and whenever our eyes meet, he looks down quick at his book, trying to act like he doesn’t see me, which makes me mad.

I pick up a copy of
Life
magazine and start fl ipping through it to hide the fact that Bunna is really bothering me.

“Okay, so now here’s Jan’s side of the story,” Evelyn trills.

Bunna grins at his book in a way that makes me want to tell Evelyn to shut up, for crying out loud.

“I don’t know why Bill always thinks I’m threatening to leave him,” Evelyn reads, making her voice sound like she’s about to cry. “I wish he’d understand that I need to take care of my mother, too. It doesn’t mean I don’t love him. My mother is 73 years old, and she needs my help, but Bill doesn’t understand. He says it’s either him or her. . . .”

“Th

at doesn’t even make sense,” Rose says.

“You know how white people are,” Evelyn says.

Th

en she looks at me and says, “Oops, sorry, Chickie.”

I slug her hard anyhow, and Evelyn leans over toward Donna and says, “Help me Donna, I been attacked by a mean
White Woman.
”

Bunna hunches down lower into his book, and you can tell he’s trying hard not to laugh out loud. Th

is makes me so

mad, I want to walk right over there and punch him, too, but I restrain myself.

I’m beginning to blush, anyhow, so I grab that
Life
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M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y

magazine and start to study it page by page, ignoring stupid squawking Bunna as hard as I can. Th

ere’s a double-paged

spread of Elvis Presley, big as life, swaggering across the stage in a pair of tight white pants. I lay it out fl at on the table, which works to change the subject, fast.

“Mmmmm,” Rose sighs. “Elvis!”

“Th

e way he moves his hips,” Evelyn moans.

Th

ey have forgotten all about Bunna, sitting there next to us. Now he’s looking as embarrassed as I was, which makes me smile.

“Sister Sarah says that’s devil music,” Donna says.

“Looks like an angel to me,” Evelyn says.

Rose says, “Every boy looks like an angel to you, Evelyn.”

Evelyn smiles. “Elvis, he got Indian blood. Bet you didn’t know that.”

“Oooooh, Evie,” I say, rolling my voice for Bunna’s benefi t. “Could be he’s your
cousin
.”

“Kissing cousins, maybe.” Evelyn raises her eyebrows in a way that makes it look like she’s saying certain things without actually saying them.

“Eeew! Th

at’s yucky,” I say, slapping the magazine shut.

Why does Evelyn always have to fi nd a way to talk about boys and kissing? And other things.

On the back cover of
Life
magazine
there’s a picture of a pink convertible fi lled with big-chested blond girls in shorts.

Th

e one sitting up on the trunk of the car is holding a big armload of Betty Crocker cake mixes.

“I want one of those,” Evelyn says.

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