He took the bundle of clothes and bedding. A man matron stood in the bedroom and showed the boys how they were supposed to make their beds. He was an Indian, like an uncle, but with little eyes and a hard, pocked face. The matron stripped the bed he had made and told all of the boys to make their beds that way. He was called from the room. The boys who were to share the room started pawing the sheets and blankets into shape.
Except a pale, hunched boy. He sat on the edge of his bed and said, in a low voice, Go to hell, Pits. He kicked the bedclothes on the floor and stamped his foot on them. So this was Romeo. At four or five years of age he had been found wandering beside the road on the same reservation where Landreaux grew up. Nobody knew exactly who his parents were, but he was clearly an Indian. He was burned, bruised, starved, thought mentally deficient. But once he was sent to boarding school, it turned out he was one of the smartest boys. He snarled to show he was tough, but he was not. He was in love with Mrs. Peace and was working in her class to make her notice him, take him home with her. Adopt him. That was his aim, maybe high but not impossible? After all, he had graduated from the pee boys.
Romeo had stopped pissing in his sleep because he’d stopped drinking water. Just a cup in the morning and a cup at noon. Was he thirsty? Hell, yes. But within a month of enduring this great thirst he was no longer a pee boy and it was worth it. Not a drop passed his lips after noon feed, even if he got too dizzy to run around, even if his mouth turned dry and tasted of rotting mouse. It was very worth it not to piss the bed.
He heard them talking in the other bunks.
Can’t have a top bunk, Romeo. Might drip.
But Landreaux looked at Romeo, gave an open, friendly smile, and said, Nah he looks steady. I’ll sleep under.
Landreaux put his bedding in the bunk below.
Romeo was flooded with a piercing sensation that started as surprise, became pleasure, and then, if he’d known what to call it, joy. No boy had ever stood up for him. No boy had ever grinned at Romeo like he might buddy up with him. He had no brothers, no cousins at school, no connections at home except a dubious foster aunt. This moment with Landreaux was so powerful that its impact lasted days. And it got better. Landreaux never wavered. Because Landreaux called him steady, Romeo became steady. Landreaux was instantly cool with his careless slouch and rangy confidence, and he acted, simply, as though Romeo had always been cool right along with him. Because of Landreaux, Romeo stood straighter, got stronger, ate more, even grew. He began drinking water later in the afternoon. Stayed dry. Landreaux was ace at archery, hit bull’s-eye every time. Romeo could do math in his head. They became known. Other boys admired them. Many times that year, Mrs. Peace took them home with her. She was the mother of a little girl named Emmaline, who seemed to adore them equally. Landreaux ignored Emmaline, but Romeo adored her back. He sat on the floor with her, played blocks, dolls, animals, and read her favorite picture book whenever she pushed it into his hands. Mrs. Peace laughed and thanked him, because, she said, the book was repetitive. Romeo didn’t care. The little girl hung on his every word. As they grew, his love grew also, but she forgot about him.
Mrs. Peace’s home had a yard with a knotted rope dangling from a tall tree. The boys took turns clinging to the ball of rags at the end of the rope. They twisted each other up tight and then swung out, untwisting in great loops, until they got sick. After their stomachs settled, they ate meat soup and frybread, corn on the cob. Mrs. Peace made them read The Hardy Boys, which she’d taken from the library just for them, sometimes out loud. Romeo was a better reader than Landreaux, but he hid that. He listened to Landreaux strain along, his whole body tilting as if each sentence was an uphill walk. The friends were contented all fall, all winter, all spring. They stayed two summers, and were best friends. Around year three, however, Landreaux began to talk about his mother and father. They had never visited. He talked about them in fall, then winter. In spring he began to talk about going to find them.
That’s running away, said Romeo.
I know it, said Landreaux.
This one girl? She run away by crawling under the school bus, hanging on somewhere under there. She sneaked out when it got to the reservation. She run back home. Her mom and dad kept her because of how she taken the chance. They were afraid of what she might do next if they sent her back.
The boys were talking back and forth in their bunk beds, hissing and whispering after lights-out.
I dunno, said Landreaux. You could fall out. Get dragged.
Flattened like Wile E. Coyote.
Ain’t worth it, said Sharlo St. Claire.
You’re too big anyway. Gotta be small.
I could do it, said Landreaux. This was before he started eating and got his growth.
I could do it too, said Romeo.
Couldn’t.
Could.