The Second Chance of Benjamin Waterfalls, page 10
“Benny,” Wendy says.
I stop and turn to her as I take my first bite.
“You didn’t have to do that.” She sighs and walks out of the room.
I look at my dad, who bites his bottom lip and sighs. “I know why you said it.”
“Oh, yeah, enlighten me,” I say.
“Hurt people hurt people,” he says, and walks off to join Wendy.
Hurt people hurt people. What does that even mean? I’m not hurt. I’m hungry. They’re totally different.
I slink back into the garage and try to sit on the bed. Half of my butt leans off it because of the three giant watch dogs. And ugh. They are snoring. Loudly too. I don’t care that I upset George. It’s his fault. He shouldn’t try to lay down the law on someone he doesn’t even know. But … I managed to hurt Wendy’s feelings multiple times today, even though she’s probably the nicest one in the house. My dad must really like sensitive women. My mom is the same way.
I break up the last few bites of pizza into three chunks and place one in each dog bed. All three watch dogs get up and take the bait. Haha. I got my bed back. I lie down and grab the piece of folded paper that Niimi gave me at the bookstore. I unfold it and read it: Mamiidaawendam. I try to pronounce it to myself. I wonder what it means?
I can ask my dad, but I don’t want him thinking I need his help. So I tiptoe to my Dad’s office, and am relieved that I can get on his laptop without a password. I search the internet for the definition. After I’ve misspelled it twice, the search results find one definition. Ha! There’s an actual Ojibwe to English translation site. That will come in handy around here. I read the translation and laugh. Mamiidaawendam: He who has a troubled mind.
Really? I have the troubled mind? My dad can’t stop telling unfunny jokes to save his life, Wendy is an always hungry female version of him, George is afraid to step outside, and the entire Grand Portage tribe of Ojibwe are going to be bloomed by a twelve-year-old girl who wears a mask. And what the hell does blooming people even mean? Flowers bloom. People don’t. I’m probably the least “troubled mind” out of everyone here. Including these three loud, smelly dogs.
Before I close the laptop, I see several emails from my mom to my dad, with “Benny?” in the message lines. I know she’s worried, but I’m still mad at her for sending me here. She can worry a bit longer.
CHAPTER 11
I MAKE SUPERHEROES
Splash! Water hits my face. I launch out of sleep and out of bed, drenched and confused. Niimi stands before me, holding a dripping red bucket. She’s wearing denim overalls today, and a white thermal shirt under them. I still can’t see all of her face because of the mask, but I see her smile. Normally smiles are contagious and make you smile back at them, but this girl just dumped a bucket of water on me, so I am definitely not smiling.
“Are you out of your mind?” I shout.
“Some have said so, but we’re running late, so I had to think quickly,” she says.
“Right. Instead of just waking me up like a normal person, you went and found a bucket, filled it with water, and dumped it on me. You do know that takes much longer than just ‘hey, wake up,’ right?”
“Yes. That’s why we’re running late. I couldn’t find the bucket right away. You ready?”
This girl makes no sense. I have some serious concerns for the tribe if she’s going to be the one running it someday. “Ready for what?” I ask.
“You’re working with me today. Chomp-chomp! Put these on,” she says, and picks up a folded stack of clothes, shoving it into my chest.
“It’s chop-chop, not chomp-chomp.”
“Have you had breakfast yet?” she asks.
“Obviously not. You just woke me up.”
“Then it’s chomp-chomp. Like you’re chewing. After breakfast it’s chop-chop.”
“Whatever. There’s no arguing with someone like you,” I say.
“Now you’re learning. I’ll be waiting in Jamaica. It’s warmer there,” she says, and walks out of the garage.
I look at what she picked out for me to wear: the black long-sleeve shirt my mom got me for my twelfth birthday, with a picture of a cat in an astronaut suit floating in space with the caption ASTROCAT written in neon green graffiti across it. It’s one of my favorites. I slap on my jeans and my black hoodie, put on my shoes, and notice all three dogs staring at me. Well, they are actually staring at my bed. “Fine. But don’t slobber on it,” I say, and all three dogs jump out from their dog beds and pile onto mine. Watch dogs. More like watch-me-sleep dogs.
* * *
I exit the garage and rush over to the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth. After the pizza, Rice Krispies treats, grilled cheese, and brownies, I feel like my teeth are wearing sweaters.
I never actually agreed to hang out with Niimi, but if it gets this boot camp thing rolling, I’m in. I’m actually pretty excited to finally do something. Even if it’s labor. I just need to feel like this is all going somewhere. I have decided that I will even forget how mad I am at Niimi for taking part in my humiliation initiation last night.
My dad and Wendy are having breakfast at the table. The smell of waffles floats toward me. Niimi is not standing in Jamaica. She must have switched travel plans … She’s in Scotland.
“Good morning,” Wendy says to me, and hands me a golden, buttery waffle.
I take it and shove it into my mouth and muffle out “good morning” back to her.
“You and Niimi got an interesting case today. Should be fun,” my dad says.
“Case? What is she, a detective?” I ask.
“Aren’t we all,” he says, and chews. “We’re always searching for clues. But Niimi is gifted. She finds people who don’t know they’re lost.”
“She looks lost.” I point to her as she stands in Scotland, balancing on one leg as she tries to fit into a kilt that was hanging on the Scottish shelf.
“You think if I stand in here long enough, I’ll develop a Scottish accent?” she asks.
I turn back to Wendy and my dad. “See what I mean?”
“Never thought about that. I’ll give it a try and hang out in France today. I really need to brush up on Moi Francois,” Wendy says to her.
I roll my eyes.
My dad laughs. “Don’t pretend to have the world all figured out, Benny. You’ll close yourself off from all the magic that comes your way.”
“There’s no such thing as magic,” I reply.
“People said the same thing about lightning before they saw it,” Niimi says. “No matter how unlikely it sounds, bolts of electricity do shoot down from the skies. The only people who get struck by it are those who stay outside during the storm, refusing to believe it’s real.”
“Spoken like a true ogimaakwe,” my dad says as they fist-bump.
“No. Lightning is real because it’s proven by science. Magic is made up for fairy tales and movies and books,” I say.
“And where do you think fairy tales, movies, and books come from?” Niimi asks me.
“From people,” I reply.
“And are those people real?” she asks.
“Obviously.”
“Interesting,” my dad says, biting into another waffle.
“No. Not interesting,” I snap. “It’s called imagination. You think it up and write it down, but that doesn’t make it real.”
“Isaac Newton, Galileo, and Einstein thought up some pretty imaginative ideas and wrote them down. I guess gravity is not real to you?” Niimi asks me.
“Interesting,” Wendy says.
“Not interesting! That’s different,” I say.
“Just think about how silly the Left Sisters were, or is it the Wright brothers?” Niimi ponders aloud.
“Wright brothers. You were right,” Wendy says.
“Right. When the Wright brothers told everyone they were going to build a giant motorized bird and fly it through the sky … Were they just boys with wild imaginations?” Niimi asks.
“Or the person who invented peanut butter. Making peanuts spread like butter. Genius,” Wendy adds.
Naturally, Wendy is amazed by an invention involving food.
“Or the person who invented Velcro. Talk about a time saver!” my dad says, and shows us his feet, which are encased in pinstriped Velcro slippers.
“You guys are so frustrating. Can we go now?” I grab another waffle off the plate.
“Aye. Now that we have established magic is indeed very real, we can be well on our way to start our wee adventure,” Niimi says in a Scottish accent.
My dad and Wendy both widen their eyes, clearly impressed with her dialect. “Look at that—it works,” Wendy says.
“Welcome to Gullible City, population, you two. Let’s go,” I say to them both, and walk out of the house.
Niimi meets me outside. I see one bike, with a helmet resting on the handlebars. Niimi gets on it and looks back at me. “Hop on, lad,” she says.
“No way,” I say. “And you can drop the accent now.”
“Well, do you have your own bike?”
“No. But there’s one in the garage.”
“Yeah, a really nice one, but your dad says it belongs to George,” she says.
“Trust me. He isn’t going to use it anytime soon,” I say, and head to the garage.
Niimi is halfway down the block before I catch up to her. George’s bike is much nicer than hers. It still has the price tag attached to the handlebars. Wendy spent one hundred and fifty dollars on this thing, and it’s just been collecting dust. I rip off the tag and toss it into the neighbor’s trash can as I ride past it. I could easily get fifty bucks for this bike back home.
Niimi’s fast. She whips down the street, using the wind as her ally to pick up speed and drift into each turn. She looks as if she just robbed a liquor store and stole a bike to use as her getaway ride.
After thirty minutes, she finally stops in front of a small yellow wooden house. I have sweat dripping off me by the time I reach her. She hops off her bike and leans it against a white picket fence.
“You’re not afraid someone will steal it if you just leave it there?” I ask.
“Of course not. The thief will be with me,” she says.
I set George’s bike next to hers. I’m exhausted. I had no idea I was so out of shape. I take a few deep breaths and fall into the grass, letting the sun recharge me, until she stands directly above me, blocking it.
“No time to rest. She needs us,” Niimi says.
“Who needs us?”
“Her name is Lulu. This is Operation Nagamo Indigo Binesi,” Niimi says.
“Nagamo Indi-what?”
“It means ‘she sings like a bird.’ You ready?”
“Wait. Can I ask you something before we do whatever it is we are about to do?” I ask.
“Sure.”
“What does ‘blooming people’ even mean?”
She smiles like she was waiting for me to ask her this. “Benny, like a gardener tends to their flowers, my dad’s method is to turn everyone into a beautiful rose. My method is different, more like my mother’s. I help people become a different kind of rose … super he-rose. Get it? I make superheroes,” she says.
I laugh out loud. Her eyes shoot hot blades at me. “What’s so funny about that?” she asks.
“Seriously? You don’t see how that’s funny?” I glance at my feet. “That’s even funnier.”
“Nope. I don’t see the funny. Not one bit.”
“First, superheroes aren’t real. Those are people in comic books or movies who wear masks and capes while trying to save humankind from some poorly written villain who threatens to destroy the planet. Secondly, even if they were real, which they’re not, but even if they were, superheroes aren’t made by people. You have to be a mutant from another galaxy, or be a top-secret government experiment, or be bitten by a radioactive spider like Spider-Man.”
“None of those explain Batman or Iron Man.”
“They’re different. They’re rich,” I say. “But my point is, none of them are real. They’re just actors playing characters pretending to do good things.”
Niimi stretches her arms overhead as if she’s bored by this conversation.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Benny, but if someone pretends to do good, and people see their good deed and feel better about their lives from witnessing it, then go home and try to make their lives better … doesn’t that mean the superhero did their job? Wouldn’t that make it real?”
“No, because at the end of the day, the actor takes off the mask and cape and goes home to their regular life,” I say.
“Like Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Logan, I mean … Every superhero needs a disguise, Benny. That’s how it works. Thor is Thor, but when he’s not saving the world, he gets to go home and pretend to be boring old Chris, an Australian dad with a six-pack and a sore back.”
“That’s who he really is. He’s not really a superhero.”
“Not to you. But to other people, he is. And today, my job is to bloom Lulu,” Niimi says as she offers me her hand.
I accept it, and she lifts me up to my feet. Wow. She’s a lot stronger than she looks. She hands me a pen and a notepad. “What’s this for?”
“All I need you to do is write down what I tell you to,” she says.
I flip to the first page, dab the pen over my tongue to ready the ink, and look at her.
“Your body is a world. In that world there are three warriors. A superhero, someone who needs help, and a villain. But there can only be one leader of your world. My job is to wake up your superhero and help you slay the villain,” she says in a deep movie-trailer voice. “That’s it. Got it?”
I laugh as I jot it all down. “Got it. It’s a really good bumper sticker. Kinda long, though. How about just ‘If you believe in silly things like magic and superheroes, I’m your girl, Chief Niimi Whatever,” I say in an even deeper movie-trailer voice.
“It’s not Niimi Whatever. It’s Niimi Waatese … And I liked mine better,” she says.
“Fine. But don’t look at me when you get laughed at.”
“I won’t. And I want it memorized by nightfall. But for now, let’s go wake up Lulu’s superhero.”
So, is this the Native boot camp? Riding bikes with a wannabe superhero maker and writing down cheesy quotes while she pretends to bloom people? This is ridiculous. But it could be worse. I could be stuck in a bookstore.
“All right. Let’s go embarrass ourselves,” I say, and follow her up the walkway toward the front door.
She knocks three times on the wooden door. A woman answers.
“Are you Lulu?” Niimi asks.
“Yes,” she says.
Lulu is older than us. I’d say she’s eighteen or nineteen. She wears a black tank top and jeans, revealing two arms covered in tattoos. Her hair is short and dyed green and black and pushed all to one side. She has a nose ring and heavy eye shadow.
“You’re Niimi Waatese?” Lulu asks.
“I am, and this is my assistant, Benny,” Niimi responds.
Oh great, I’m now her assistant. I went from bookstore employee to assisting a twelve-year-old girl. I think I’d prefer a boot camp with a mean drill sergeant barking orders at me all day.
“I expected your father, but if you’re as good as he says you are, then I’m ready to rock and roll with you,” Lulu says as she welcomes us into her home.
Inside there are boxes lining the walls, stacked and taped and ready to go. An old acoustic guitar leans against her plaid couch.
“Are you moving?” Niimi asks her.
“I’ve been trying to for half a year now, but I can’t seem to get out the door. That’s why you’re here,” Lulu says.
Finally, some manual labor to kick this boot camp off. She doesn’t need to bloom. She just needs movers. “Want me to start carrying boxes out?” I ask.
They both look at me and smile. “Bless his heart,” Lulu says.
“He’s not the sharpest tooth on the jaw, but he means well,” Niimi says.
“What? This is my boot camp, right? I can carry her boxes.” Why they are staring at me like they just caught me trying to bite my own ears?
“How about you sit down, Benny,” Niimi says.
“Whatever,” I say, and lean up against the wall. “I’ll stay quiet.”
“Benny, please recite our mission statement to Lulu,” Niimi says.
“Our what?” I ask.
Niimi points to the notepad. Oh, that thing. I don’t have it memorized yet, so I flip it open and read. “Your body is a world. In that world there are three warriors. A superhero, someone who needs help, and a villain. But there can only be one leader of your world. My job is to wake up your superhero and help you slay the villain.”
I expect Lulu to laugh at what I just read, but she doesn’t. Instead, she takes a deep breath and nods, as if she’s processing the words. How does this punk-rocker-looking person take this seriously? Never mind the fact that Lulu looks like she’d make a pretty cool superhero, but come on, twelve-year-olds just don’t show up at doorsteps handing out superpowers.
“Why don’t you sit down and tell me what exactly cages your heart,” Niimi says.
Lulu nods and takes a seat on the couch. Niimi pulls up a chair from the table and sets it in front of Lulu. Before she sits, she stretches her arms, legs, and torso as if she was an athlete preparing to take the field. She points to the far end of the couch, signaling me to sit … So I do. I get a front row seat to this circus.
A part of me feels like this is just another prank being pulled on me. A punk rock Ojibwe singer asking a twelve-year-old mask-wearing girl for help?
Come on. This is the definition of gullible.
CHAPTER 12
LULU
“Even as a young girl, music was a huge part of my life. I didn’t care what was on, as long as it was playing. Classical, jazz, rap, country, punk … It never mattered. I grew up idolizing all the greats. So, I begged my parents for a guitar. I practiced every day. When most kids were outside playing tag, I was in my room, strumming away to Prince. When girls were out having crushes on boys, playing spin the bottle at parties, I was home, crushing on Siouxsie and Hendrix. When other teenagers turned sixteen and wanted a car, I wanted a Strat. But it didn’t matter how good I got, how badly my fingers bled, or how well I could sing, because there is one thing that holds me back from my dream,” she says.
