"Rez Ball" by Byron Graves, Chapters 1–9

I wipe a little bit of sweat from my brow, cup my hands together, and shout to the rafters.

He’s recording our players as they throw their arms into the air like boisterous preachers, summoning the crowd support.

They’re both shaking their heads in utter disbelief.

Our school has never beaten Bemidji before. Ever. I think until right now we all assumed it was impossible.

We are down by one point, and almost every Bemidji player swarms at Mason like a cloud of wasps, but somehow, he weaves his way out of them unscathed and heaves a shot from beyond half-court.

It ricochets hard off the rim.

No one on our rez likes people who brag. Even if you’re the dopest at something, people will only like you around here if you’re humble about it.

This weird mixture of happiness and pain percolates in my stomach.

The bass of a hip-hop song blares as we walk up to the party.

Their house looks like a lot of the homes on my rez—vinyl siding, faded paint job, a floppy front door hanging by the hinges, and a boarded-up window.

My stomach churns, hoping they’re not making fun of us for leaving the second someone said something mean.

In the corner are lights on makeshift stands made of sticks, a white sheet as a backdrop, a stool, and a tripod for his iPhone.

“Holy. Just touchy, this guy,” Wes says in a rez accent, and we all laugh.

After that it’s a half hour ride through dense forest, then flat farmland and past smelly cows as we get closer to the city of Bemidji.

I nod at Nate and Wes, who are sitting on a bench out in the mall concourse.

I’m barely out of the store when Nate prompts, “Well?”

“Have you been drinking? Or using any illicit substances?”

“I’m going to need you both to step out of this van. We are going to search it for drugs, paraphernalia, and alcohol.”

The older cop walks up. “All right, I’m all done with the field sobriety test. But I know if we search this van, we’ll find something. What jail do you guys want to go to?”

Our living room walls are covered floor to ceiling with family photos, paintings of jingle dancers and powwows by a local Ojibwe artist, and of course antlers from Dad’s hunting trips.

When Jaxon started playing basketball, which seems like it must have been as soon as he could toddle, Dad couldn’t wait to take him to basketball tourneys on the weekends, watch basketball games with him on TV.

Listening to my dad drone on about his scoring record for the millionth time

After a moment of deliberation, Dallas says, “Sure.”

Jaxon used to say that Kevin was one part Captain America, one part Jar Jar Binks. Someone who means well, wants to do good, but is a bumbling goof.

And I know what I want to ask her, but my mouth’s stapled shut and my hands feel all clammy.

“Here’s the syllabus for this semester. There are two open seats in the back. You haven’t missed much. As I was saying, we’ll be reading one of my favorite books, Apple in the Middle by Dawn Quigley.”

We pass by the water tower, the basketball courts and softball field, and the commodity hall, which is a big redbrick building where people go each month to pick up their commodities. This is the government-rationed food for families who qualify for food stamps.

“One of the main gangs here. They’re a faction of the Bloods. Their rival gang around here is the West End Mob.”

So, a couple of years ago my mom brought me to the Minneapolis Institute of Art, and they had a monster movie exhibit.

Nah, I don’t think I have the people skills or discipline to do all of that. But I do love making masks, crafting, painting, doing all kinds of makeup.

As soon as I come around the last corner of our road, I can see a campfire in our firepit and my uncle Liver’s pickup truck in our driveway, his wooden hunting scaffold in the back.

Smoke from the campfire wafts toward me, and my eyes are burning.

“I like cults,” Khiana says, and then launches into this giddy explanation of the first chapter of Apple in the Middle.

It’s all tasteless canned food or gruel. It’s like prison food.

She grabs the last fry, rolls her window down, and holds it out to a mangy rez dog that is lingering nearby.