Why the Star Stands Still (Gives Light Series) by Rose Christo Read Free Book Online Page A

said.  "I'll see you princesses later!  Michaela, don't be a brat in front of them."
     
    Zeke turned around and darted off.  Michaela didn't acknowledge him.
     
    I elbowed Rafael again.  No response.
     
    "Come on," I said to Michaela.  "You can come back to our house.  I bet Zeke didn't even give you a snack, did he?"
     
    "Are you really Indians?"
     
    "Uh," Rafael said.  He coughed.  "Yeah, we are."
     
    Michaela pointed at me.  "Why's he blond?"
     
    "My mother listened to a lot of pop music," I said.
     
    It was a joke, but I guess it wasn't a very good one.  It went right over her head.
     
    "Why's your voice raspy?" she asked me.
     
    "My father's Clint Eastwood," I said.
     
    "Who?"
     
    "Dirty Harry?"
     
    "Harry Potter?"
     
    What's wrong with this generation?
     
    "Uh," Rafael said.
     
    Michaela fixed him with a hard, unimpressed look.  "Do you talk, or do you just grunt?"
     
    "That's the thing," I said, hoping to spare Rafael's feelings.  "He's part bull."
     
    She didn't laugh.
     
    "Come on," I said.  "Bet you had a long ride."
     
    Michaela followed us in silence down the forest path.  The robins and the grackles were spirited in their treetops; occasionally I saw her looking around with what I thought might be curiosity.  Poor Rafael kept staring at the back of her head like he didn't know what to do with her.  I threw an arm around his shoulders when he wasn't looking.  He turned his head to glance at me and I winked.
     
    I threw open the front door--I hadn't locked it, but you don't usually worry about those things in Nettlebush--and Michaela stepped inside.  She dropped her backpack on the floor and looked around.
     
    "It's like a log cabin," she said.
     
    "It is a log cabin," I said.  "When this reservation first started, everybody lived in tipis.  Once they realized the arrangement was a little more permanent, they started cutting down trees."
     
    "Where's the bathroom?"
     
    "There's a door through the kitchen," I said, and pointed.  "Outhouse."
     
    Michaela gave me a very weird look.  I returned it with a silly one.  She shrugged and trundled off.
     
    "She doesn't like me," Rafael mumbled, after we heard the outhouse door slap shut.
     
    "Don't be silly," I returned calmly.  "She doesn't even know you yet."
     
    I heard the creaking of the water pump outside the cabin; and then Michaela walked out from under the kitchen archway, her eyes shifting.
     
    "Why doesn't it flush?" she asked.
     
    "It drains," I said.  "You're fine, hon."
     
    Rafael was dead silent.
     
    "Okay," I said.  "How much did Zeke tell you about this reservation?"
     
    Michaela scrunched up her face.  "The foster worker guy?  I never know what he's saying.  He always sounds like he's screaming in the middle of a mosh pit."
     
    Rafael suddenly stood up straight.  I suppressed the urge to groan.  Not another metal fan.
     
    "We're Shoshone," I said.  "And we probably do things a little differently from your last foster home.  Like dinner.  We all eat dinner together at nighttime.  I mean, all three hundred of us."
     
    "Not on Sundays, though," Rafael said.  I guessed he was feeling a little more confident now that he knew they both listened to the same crappy music.
     
    "Where's your refrigerator?" Michaela said.  "I didn't see it."
     
    "We don't have one," I explained.
     
    "Yeah, we use an insulated cellar," Rafael said.  "It keeps everything fresh, but it doesn't use electricity."
     
    Michaela raised her eyebrow imperiously.
     
    "Your bedroom's upstairs and on the right," I said.  "You can check it out later.  Do you want something to eat?"
     
    "My bedroom?" Michaela said.
     
    "What about?"
     
    "You mean, I'm not sharing with four and five other kids?  Or Touchy Uncle Sal?"
     
    Well, that was very...  "No," I said.  "No foster kids.  No Touchy Uncle Sal.  It's your room."
     
    Her eyes darting in her head reminded me of a fox's shrewd gaze.  No doubt she was