Background
Brook must train her dogs for the North American Junior Championship Race and figure how to win with her deaf dog, her beloved leader, Shemya. Her goal is to beat James, who enjoys taunting her.
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At the dinner table, everyone except me chatter like squirrels. I'm blank on how to change the subject to whatever does not center on the newborn hero, James. Repetitious praise of him mysteriously makes me uneasy. No way can I agree with them. Any word I say will only win me frowns and a reprimand. What I need is to escape and find ears that let me say what I think. Best friend, Amy Ivanoff, is perfect for that.
As soon as everyone consumes enough pilot bread and fish stew, I quickly clear the table and wash dishes. Mom and Uncle Earl get into a card game. Dad picks up the phone claiming all rights to it for potlatch planning so I can't use it to call Amy. I pull on boots but don't bother with a coat. Amy Ivanoff lives only one house away from ours.
I jog through a couple of inches of new snow and poke my head inside her door. "Amy, are you here?"
She appears with her thin body poured into stretch jeans and a bright yellow tee. Her beautiful, thick hair hangs in long coal-black strands.
"Walter was just here," she says without bothering to say hello. "He told me he saw you. I think he has a crush on you."
I step out of my boots and shake my head. "I doubt that. Did he tell you James rescued my uncle from an overflow?'"
"Oh, yes. Isn't it wonderful? Wow, James is one great guy." Amy swoons like a rock star fan, her skinny arms hug around her shoulders.
"Why do you say James is that great?"
"Brooke, how can you say a guy who pulls your uncle out the icy river is anything but?"
The living room has one log wall decorated with shimmering furs of beaver, wolf, ermine, and a white fox. I blow a kiss to her mom, Elsie, who is engrossed in watching TV and knitting needles at the same time. Her bright eyes are fringed with deep lines that are caused by working long hours in outdoor Native ways. Elsie's wide grin is welcoming.
The phone is pressed to Herman Ivanoff's ear as he sits in an oversized recliner. He winks at me. "Your daughter just walked in, Donald."
"Tell Donald I'll bring blueberry cake to the potlatch," Elsie calls.
I wiggle a few fingers in a friendly wave and resist an urge to yank his phone away. Amy pauses to listen to her father expound on the blessing James brought by saving the life of his best moose hunting partner. I tug on her arm so we move on to the kitchen. There I slump onto a stool at the counter.
"What potlatch is your father talking about?" Without a trace of her usual makeup, Amy's brown eyes shimmer under long lashes.
"Dad wants a potlatch to honor James. I know saving my uncle was commendable. But really, how can we honor someone as obnoxious as James?"
"Brooke, you know James is nothing but gorgeous and really cool." She opens the oven door and the scent of chocolate makes my mouth water. "Hmm, not done yet." She shuts the oven.
"How can you say he's cool?"
"Hmmm, let me see. Could it be that every girl in school glues eyes to the best hockey player, the high school president, winner of the senior essay contest, and now with a rescue...."
"Okay, Amy, I suppose now you'll be another one to root for James at the races, instead of me." My lower lip protrudes like a kid's denied ice cream.
"Uh, no, I'm rooting for you." Amy opens frozen lemonade thawing by the sink, and mixes it with water in a tall pitcher. "I'll also go to the potlatch for the village hero."
"Hero? That's going too far. Did he face down a bear like Shemya?"
"Well, that dog is a hero too. He saved your life and I'm so, so glad, Brooke." Amy's long black hair splatters across my face as she flings her bony self into me, hugging me hard.
"Trouble is, James doesn't even care that Shemya was hurt and left deaf. All he cares about is beating me at the Nationals."
She pulls away and frowns. "Honestly, Brooke, why do you always want to race those dogs?"
"It's a tradition with our people, Amy. Dog racing is in our blood."
With a graceful flounce, she almost dances back to the refrigerator. "Well, I would rather only watch dogs run than work hard at racing them." She pours lemonade in two glasses. "Tons of other things are a heck of a lot more fun."
"Like what?" I know she'll give me a long list. The theme tune on Wheel of Fortune wafts in from the TV in the living room.
"Movies, dances, shopping. I can't wait to go to the mall in Fairbanks." Hands with red and blue painted fingernails flutter before a radiant face.
"Those things are fine, but what's most important is that our people win dogsled races. You know, to beat people like James, who are not part of our culture."
"May I remind you that your very own father is not pure Athabascan, at least half English or something?"
"True, but my mother is. Besides, Dad understands why I want to race dogs. It's just different with James. He is so, so ......."
"So good at everything. Admit it, Brooke you're really glad he saved your Uncle Earl."
"Oh, of course." I sigh. "Amy, are your brownies done yet?"
She opens the oven door. "They're perfect." Carefully she slices up the chocolate into squares and puts a few on a plate. She whisks the plate out of my reach and carries it to her folks.
When she returns we munch on warm brownies and I confess they are delicious. After a while, I say, "Amy, do you think I'm crazy for being mad at James?"
"Definitely, but I'll still root for you to win."
Author Notes
In preceding chapters, Brook is saved from a bear by her lead dog Shemya that is deaf. James saves her uncle in a snow machine accident. Each chapter is first person told by either Brook or James. Both are determined to win the Junior Champion Dog Sled Race. Thanks to Lloyd Taylor for he snowy picture.
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