I Have a Plan

Lara is clever at outsmarting anyone who causes trouble for

us.
A tough girl named Tracy, who is a year older than us,
came to our sixth-grade class. It was just before the
afternoon lesson began, so we were already sitting at our
desks.
In a threatening tone, Tracy says, “I’ll see you two after
school.”
Lara and I look at each other.
What does that mean? Is she going to try and fight us?
We pass notes back and forth in the afternoon discussing
the possible meaning of her words.
Do you know what this is about? Lara’s note says.
No idea, I scribble back.
When the after-school bell rings, Lara marches to my desk
with an assured look in her eyes. “I have a plan,” she says.
I stare, waiting to hear it.
She continues, “Let’s go to her class right now and show
her we’re not afraid.”
We quickly grab our jackets from the cloakroom. I feel
adrenaline pumping through my veins. The seventh-grade
classroom is right next to ours. Tracy is still sitting at her
desk even though most of the kids have left.
We stand in the doorway, waiting.
After a while Lara, in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, says,
“Tracy, we’re here. What did you want to see us about?”
Tracy’s face turns as red as her hair. Clearly, she didn’t
believe we would show up.
“How long will you be?” Lara asks.
“I have to stay late,” Tracy mumbles angrily and turns
away.
 “Okay. Well, we have to go,” Lara says and turns to leave.
I don’t know what else to do, so I give her a quick wave
and say, “See you, Tracy.”
Lara and I giggle as we make our way home in the crisp
winter afternoon. We are quite pleased with ourselves for
pulling one over on the school bully.
“We sure showed her!” Lara says, boxing into the air with
her mittens.
Lara always comes up with original ideas like that. One
time in fifth grade, I was whispering with a classmate when I
should have been listening to the teacher.
The teacher called on me to answer a question, even
though my hand wasn’t up. I hadn’t heard the question, so
how could I answer?
My classmates started turning to look at me, waiting for a
reply.
Lara’s desk was in the same row as mine but at the front.
Even she turned around. Go ahead, Mia, answer the teacher,
was what her look was saying.
The teacher allowed the silence to linger a bit longer to
make her point. Then she called on someone else, who
promptly provided the correct answer.
A few weeks later, the teacher called on Lara with a
question when she was in the middle of a conversation with
a classmate. She hadn’t been listening either. She looked
down at her textbook, then at the chalkboard, as if trying to
quickly figure out the answer.
Then she boldly replied, “I don’t know the answer.”
The teacher hesitated for a moment and then moved on
to another student.
After that it became a thing.
Anytime anyone is called on unprepared, “I don’t know
the answer” is the reply.
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 Go Back to Town

The incident with Tracy reminds me of when I was in second

grade and my mom and I unexpectedly up and moved to
Kitkatla. The furnace had conked out at our house, and we
didn’t have money to buy a new one. It was going to be a
long, cold winter, so my mom decided we needed a more
liveable place to stay.
I enrolled in school out there. That’s the way people talk
there—they say, out Kitkatla or out home. And they call
Prince Rupert in town.
We had moved in with my mom’s younger sister, her
husband and their three kids. This is my cousin Mel’s family.
She’s a year younger than me.
Girls my age joined Beaver Scouts, and I was fortunate to
have moved there the first week the program started, so I
joined as well.
I was already familiar with the routine of extracurricular
activities from living in town. We were all given white T-
shirts that had Beaver written across the chest in red
letters. We were assigned our first lesson, to memorize the
Beaver’s honor code for the next week. It was one
paragraph long. If we memorized it word for word, we’d get
our first badge.
I practiced and practiced with my mom. The following
week after the bell rang, us girls ran the short distance from
school to our Beaver meeting, which was held in an
adjacent building. As soon as we got there, our group
leader, who was the village priest’s non-Native wife, asked,
“Who’s memorized the assignment?”
I was the only one to raise my hand.
“Mia, stand up,” she said.
 I stood and recited the entire paragraph, just as we were
instructed to do.
The leader seemed impressed and arched a thin, almost
translucent eyebrow to show it.
I was then presented with my first badge.
Mel and I usually bathed together before bed. If I went to
sleep with wet hair, as I often did, it was a wild mess in the
morning.
The mirror above the bathroom sink was too high for me
to see my reflection, so I didn’t usually pay much attention
to how I looked. Once in a while, I would stand on the toilet
and lean over for a quick peek. Like the time Mel and I went
to a boy’s birthday party. Otherwise, no one at school
seemed to care about that kind of stuff.
The day after I received my badge at the Beaver meeting,
I stopped to pick up my new friend Rachel on the way to
school.
Her older brother answered the door as usual and said
Rachel had left for school already. I continued making my
way, arriving just in time for the bell.
We had our Sm’algyax language class that morning. An
elderly lady from the village, Mrs. Roy, came in to teach us.
Our regular teacher was white.
Mrs. Roy taught us how to name our facial features like
eyes, ears, nose and mouth in Sm’algyax by getting us to
stand and sing a song.
At the end she’d say, “Wayi wansm,” which I quickly
learned meant “everyone, sit down.”
After that, I’d try to be the fastest one to sit, so Mrs. Roy
knew I understood what she meant.
I’d felt proud that I was catching on so quickly. At home
I’d show off to my family and say “wayi wansm” before we
ate dinner.
Then we had a spelling test. I liked spelling because it
was so easy.
 At recess, I walked outside looking for my friend. When I
spotted Rachel, I headed toward her. She was standing with
a bunch of girls from class. They were all leaning against a
metal railing. Rachel was kind of pretty and fair-skinned.
Something seemed off with her that morning. I started to
slow down, unsure about walking any closer.
Rachel yelled out to me, “When you call at my house, my
brother says, ‘The girl with the messy hair is here,’” and
started to laugh.
It was a gloriously wicked laugh. The other girls joined in.
I stood opposite them, with my unruly head of messy hair,
feeling like the last one to be picked in a game of Red Rover.
This meanness seemed to have come out of nowhere. The
day before, they were my sweet classmates. Now these girls
were more like a pack of wolves. Eyeing me like I was easy
prey.
I was skilled at concealing my emotions. I turned on my
heels and walked in the opposite direction.
They cackled even more.
After school I told my mom what happened. My mom
figured it was about the badge I’d received at the Scout
meeting the day before. “They’re jealous because they
didn’t get a badge.”
At the next Scout meeting, I walked in wearing my T-shirt
with my badge sewn on. I could see the other girls staring at
it, but everyone was on their best behavior.
This time around, almost every one of them had
memorized the honor code and got their badges.
Even the ones who hadn’t memorized it got a badge.
After that, I assumed everything would go back to normal
because we were all the same—we all had badges.
But it did not.
Rachel and I made up, sort of, but what she’d started with
the other girls stuck. What’s worse, their older sisters were
now picking on me too.
 I was suddenly considered a village outsider. When I
passed the girls they’d say things to me like, “Why don’t
you go back to town!”
It was mostly one family of sisters. It was never just one
of them either—they were always together. And these girls
were built solid, solid like trunks of trees.
I was a slim build. Like a twig in comparison, a twig they
wanted to snap.
But I was a fast runner. Those tree stumps couldn’t catch
me if they tried.
I was walking alone one day, and when I came around the
corner by the nursery school, there they were.
I hesitated but didn’t want them to think I was afraid to
walk past, so I took my chances and kept on.
Sure enough, they jumped off the monkey bars and
started after me.
I picked up my pace, but they followed.
They were getting close, so I ducked into the Church Army
building. I went directly to the basement, thinking I could
wait things out.
Then I heard the creak of the door.
They’d followed me into a church? What was wrong with
these people?
The vibrations from their feet rushing down the stairs sent
tingles up my spine. I was trapped.
I suddenly remembered there was a back door. I had
seconds to escape, so I ran for it.
As I exited through the back I heard Dawn, who was in
seventh grade, say, “Someone go out the front door and
we’ll trap her!” She was the alpha of the pack.
My mom had an uncle who lived across the street from
the church. He and his wife, May, were older, churchgoing
folks who often traveled to various communities preaching
the message. My grandmother and I had joined them on
those trips.
 I made a dash for their doorstep with the girls hot on my
heels.
Out of breath, my heart pounding, I knocked on their door
and, without waiting for them to answer, entered their
home.
I did my best to act casual, like I was dropping by to visit.
“Hi, Ya’as,” I said. It means “grandfather.” “How are you
guys?”
There was an old wooden chair that sat at the front door. I
collapsed into it, exhausted.
If Ya’as replied to my question, I didn’t hear him, as my
thoughts were on the pack of wolves outside the door,
waiting to tear at my flesh with their claws. At least, that’s
what I imagined they’d do if they ever caught me.
I peeked outside through the sheer curtains—they were
still out there.
My visit wasn’t fooling anyone. Great-Aunt May never said
anything at the time, but she saw it all.
A few weeks later Mel and I were walking around close to
dinnertime, and the girls were in the same spot. It must
have been their hangout.
The moment they saw us they jumped off the monkey
bars and walked toward us.
I nudged Mel. “Come on, let’s go,” I said as I turned in the
opposite direction.
Dawn’s best friend, whose name was Tina, was suddenly
standing in front of me, blocking me from walking any
farther.
“I need the washroom,” I blurted out. I’m not sure why. I
tried moving around her.
Tina was a basketball player with an athletic build. She
blocked me as if on the court. “Go right there,” she said,
motioning to a big puddle.
Everyone laughed, including Mel, but hers was a high-
pitched, overly nervous laugh.
 Tina didn’t take her eyes off me. I’d never even talked to
her before! But she was out for blood. She had me trapped.
I made a split-second-decision move. I bolted to her left
and ran for it.
I felt sick about leaving Mel behind, but I didn’t dare look
back.
I ran home without stopping. When I burst through the
door, I shouted, “They’ve got Mel!”
Uncle Bo looked up from his chair and quickly went to
throw on his shoes, asking, “Where are they?” as he tied his
laces.
“At the nursery school by the monkey bars,” I replied, out
of breath.
He grabbed his hoodie from the wall hook and was off.
Not long afterward, Uncle Bo and Mel walked through the
door calm as can be, like they were returning from an
afternoon stroll.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Mel said they didn’t say or do anything to her. Then she
laughed and said, “You looked so funny running that fast!”
Everyone settled into the living room to watch television.
I pretended like I wasn’t upset. I tried to ignore my heart
that was still pounding, my mind still racing. Why do these
girls dislike me so much?
I was tall for my age—maybe they thought I was older.
Mel was younger and short. And she lived in Kitkatla. She
was one of them.
It was me they didn’t like. Me they wanted to go back to
town.
When a commercial came on, Aunty Jean leaned over and
said, “Those girls’ mothers used to chase after me and try
to beat me up when I was your age.”
I nodded my head.
It was all I needed to hear.
That Friday, on lunch break at school, I was playing off the
school grounds but in a safe spot in front of a store. It
wasn’t really a store—it was someone selling homemade
goodies like bread, pies and popcorn balls from their home.
Suddenly my mom showed up, carrying a couple of bags,
and said, “Come on, we’re going into town.”
I was surprised but happy to go along, as we’d gone into
town for weekends before. We flew to Rupert by seaplane.
After enjoying the weekend in town, the following Monday
morning my mom informed me we would not be returning to
Kitkatla. At first I objected.
My mom said that Aunt May had gone on the CB radio a
while back and told my mom in Sm’algyax about me
running into their house because girls were trying to beat
me up.
She’d ignored it, thinking Aunt May was being overly
protective. But after what happened to Mel and me, my
mom said, “No way, we’re outta here.”
“But they never caught me! I’m a fast runner!” I said.
“I don’t care,” she responded.
I was sad at the news. I’d grown to love living on the
reserve. I loved everything about it, school, our Sm’algyax
language class, playing down by the beach, the smell of
woodstoves and, of course, all the delicious seafood.
I made one last attempt. “Mom, I’m fine,” I said, almost
begging. “I can take care of myself. Can we go back now,
please?”
“Drop it,” my mom said. “We aren’t going back.”
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