The ringing phone interrupts my dad on his computer, and he impatiently says hello. Donald Malden's voice booms over the phone's speaker. "Hello, Fred. Everyone in Denaaka wants to honor your son James." He goes on and on about me pulling Earl out of the Yukon River and grossly exaggerates.

I find it hard to take. Exiting leaves my dad's thick eyebrows raised in a look of wonder. Dad is a big man with a square jaw covered by yellow whiskers. His shaver rarely goes into action except on Sundays before church. He's been that way ever since Mom died.

That thought brings me to a stop with my eyes fixed on a picture. My mother, with sunset colored hair and soft green eyes, stares at me as if a message lies between us. It is the same convincing look that forces me to tackle homework, but this time it hints at swallowing my pride. I take the photo off my dresser and say, "I'll give it my best shot, Mom."

I straighten CD's into a neater stack and put on a mellow tune. I open a math book to a trigonometry assignment, but don't grab a pencil. My mind zings from the Mt. McKinley poster over my bed to the shelf holding Dad's football trophy, a baseball with 49er signatures, a globe, and miniature cars.

One tap on my door and Dad steps in with a huge grin. "A big night is planned for you, my boy. A real potlatch, village style!"

"Oh boy, I can hardly wait."

Dad gets that I mean just the opposite and laughs aloud, until he catches his breath. "Don't worry. I'll go with you and hold your hand." I clobber him with a pillow and he chuckles his way out of my room.

The next couple of days at school I get questions and some surprising attention from different girls. Not one of the girls who wiggles or giggles for me is Brooke.

Saturday I get a hair trim next door at Mabel's kitchen table whose whole conversation centers around my bachelor dad. That night I dress up a little with a white shirt showing under a sweater. Dad and I zipper up our parkas, and tromp to the school together.

Dad pushes the school rec-room door wide open. With a chest swelling up, he says, "Everyone's waiting for you, James."

I hesitate with an urge to run the other way, but Dad's broad fingers tug on my arm. He hustles me into the school multipurpose room. People shout my name above the strains of fiddles and pounding drums. "That gives me the jitters, Dad."

"Welcome, James." Mr. Malden shouts above the noise. He crosses the tile floor and shakes my hand then Dad's. "We're mighty proud of your son, Fred."

The air fills with the smells of roasted moose and salmon. I swear every family in Denaaka is there. Musicians keep up the beat, and many people pound their feet on the dance floor.

"Looks like good eats here," Dad says as his stare settles on Mabel, who is passing out paper plates.

Earl, looking as fit as ever, joins us. "There's the boy I need to thank for saving my life."

"You've said that a hundred times already," I say and almost choke as he slaps hard on my back.

"My son did right by you, didn't he?" My dad towers over him and grasps Earl's shoulders with his big hands. "James keeps telling me it's not a big deal, but I've been waiting to hear your side of the story."

"Okay, Fred. Fill yourself a plate and grab a seat. I'll tell you the whole story," Earl says.

Food is not compatible with the bouncing bubbles in my stomach, so I leave them and make my way across the room. People give me big smiles and some say, "Good job." Others say, "Brave thing you did."

Walter is with a couple guys, who wear jeans, bright shirts, and vests. They are putting on beaded, caribou gloves.

"Walter, you leading the Bear Hunt dance?" I ask as the fiddles end a country tune.

"I requested it. You know Brooke got away from a bear. This dance is kind of for her." Walter flushes with a slight attack of shyness. "We're up next. Want to join us?"

"Hey, you're a real dancer. I'd get my hands and feet pointing wrong and stomp out the wrong beat."

"Amy's leading dances, too. Bet she's dying to get one going for you." He beams with his infectious smile.

"Oh no, I don't want that."

Drummers start the beat so Walter and two others stomp into the center of a circle. As from a culture that dates untold millennia, the drummers hold long, carved birch sticks and strike hide that is tightly stretched on full-moon hoops. The dancers hands and arms reach out searching for bears. The drums and the dancers' feet go thud, thud, thud. The story of a bear hunt begins to unfold.

Across the room Brooke is watching. Her dress is a kuspik trimmed in such deep red that her dark, long-lashed eyes look livelier than ever. The neck of her Native dress is open and the cotton fabric flows softly in a flattering way over her slender body. A fringe of white rabbit fur runs along the hem above her knees and tan legs taper to her feet. Her slippers are beaded with that same deep red, and rabbit-fur trim caresses her ankles.

She fidgets and my eyes sweep up to hers. We hold a stare.

The drums still beat thud, thud, thud.

She turns away, and so do I. A hot flash washes over me like I just did something wrong. Damn, I think, how dare her get me stirred me up like that.
A sweet voice hits me with, "Hey, James."

"Oh, Amy. Are you going to lead a dance or two tonight?" She's in a buckskin dress dangling with cowgirl fringe. Her hair is in long braids and a leather band crosses her forehead. She is definitely cute.

"Yeah, I'm dancing. You are such a hero tonight. How does it feel?"

"Embarrassing."

She giggles and three other dressed-up girls join her. They giggle together.

The musicians and dancers stop. After the applause, I grab Walter's arm. "Good dancing, Walter. Ready for a little chow?"

"I'm starved. Lead the way." His breath is pumping hard from all the wild dance steps.

Another Native dance starts and Amy and her friends are the first on the floor. A string of other people join them and the floor fills up.

When we get our fill of good food, fiddle players take over and play western tunes. People keep coming up to me with praise. I squirm but don't see a chance to walk out. At nearly midnight lights flash and that brings the potlatch to an end.

Dad and I walk under the stars to our house with little conversation. I stop in the back yard where there are rows of dog house. Barking and whining begins, but I barely notice. My mind is still back in that crowded room.

I keep imagining Brooke in that dress. I've never seen her look like she did tonight. Usually she's in a parka, boots, and snow pants. Sure, she wears regular jeans at school, but nothing like how she was dressed tonight. She looked different.

I check the doghouses for clean, unfrozen water and untangle one dog's rope wrapped around a leg.

A little guilt tells me I should have asked Brooke about the bear attack. She acted different tonight, didn't come near me. She was about the only one there who didn't congratulate me, didn't say one word to me. I saved her uncle, but no doubt she's still mad at me.

I stomp back into the house, and let the door slam. "What the heck. That's okay by me."

"You say something, son?" My Dad calls from the living room.

"No," I mumble since there is no way I'm going to share my thoughts about Brooke.