Untraceable

Survival Skill #35

Asking yourself questions can’t lead you home; the answers matter most.

~

Tommy stands behind the counter conversing with a customer. He waves when I walk in the door.

As if nothing’s wrong, I pin on my nametag and begin straightening the new display of touristy crap. Hats, tomahawks, and moccasins. Since when did Tommy start selling this stuff? He must need money bad.

When Tommy heads to the back, I take out my notepad and scribble a few notes about everything I’ve learned in the last hour.

Mo’s dad was killed, and his dad knew my dad. His dad busted Al for hunting, and then he was killed.

Why wouldn’t Mo tell me about his dad, and how much of this does he really know? After everything I’ve confided in him, he just kept it from me? I try not to be angry because he didn’t really lie or anything. Guess I can relate to keeping secrets. Some things are too painful to say aloud.

Makes them real.

Confusion surfaces and, suddenly, I’ve accumulated more questions than I’ve answered. I jot them down, still trying to process all the facts jumbled in my brain.

1) Where is Sidehill, and who is the anonymous tipper?

2) Why are Al and Billy using homemade bullets?

3) Is Mo’s dad’s case related to mine? Is that why Mo is here?

The nagging questions rattle me. I bite on the end of my pen and stare at the pictures around the store.

Someone taps me on the shoulder.

I flinch.

Tommy smiles. “Little jumpy?”

“Guess I’m in my own world.” I shove my notebook into my pocket so he can’t see what I’m writing.

“What’s up?”

I frown. “Nothing. Why does something always have to be up?” I try to act normal, but I can feel myself unraveling after the morning’s events. I tidy a clothing rack, dropping a few fishing vests onto the floor. When I bend over to pick them up, my butt knocks over the display behind me, sending it crashing to the ground. I drop to my knees and gather the scattered items.

Tommy squats down to help. “You sure you’re okay? You seem on edge.”

I grab a fishing tin from him and place it on the rack. “Everything’s fine. I always knock stuff over.”

“Your mom called here last night.”

I straighten the same rack. “She definitely likes to reach out and touch everyone. Called the whole dang town. So what? Am I going to get the Spanish Inquisition from you too?” I shuffle between the displays, adding some distance between us.

Tommy follows me into the fishing tackle section. “Who’s doing that? What’s wrong with you?” He can usually sense when something’s off. He calls it his Indian intuition; I call it guessing.

“Your vibes must be getting a little rusty. I’m fine.”

“Come on, Elu. You can talk to me.”

Without thinking, I blurt out, as if the lid’s been blown off a boiling pot, “They found Dad’s shirt. It had blood on it.”

Tommy appears horrified and opens his arms to hug me. “Gaest-ost yuh-wa da-nv-ta.”

With my hands up, I back away from him. “Don’t be sorry. It doesn’t mean anything.”

He looks confused and answers me slowly. “Okaaaay.”