My Name Is Not Easy by Edwardson, Dahl (the reading list TXT) 📗

kind of money is that?”

I blurt it out without meaning to.

Donna looks at me, surprised, then looks down at her necklace like she just discovered it.

“It’s not money. It’s a Saint Christopher medal. He’s the patron saint of travelers,” Donna says. “Sister gave it to me the day she left.”

Seems odd to give someone a traveler’s medal when you’re the one leaving, I think. But I don’t say it.

“Did you live with her?” Rose asks.

“Yes,” Donna says.

“Did you sleep in the same bed with her?”

Donna gives Rose a funny look. “No.”

“Do nuns sleep in beds?” Evelyn asks.

I’m wondering about this, too, but when I look at Donna, she has such a lonely look on her face that I say, “Of course they do,” right away, glaring at Evelyn.

“I wonder if they even have hair,” Evelyn says.

“Well, obviously,” I say. Watching Donna.

“How would you know?” Evelyn challenges.

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M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y

I have to admit, she’s got me there. How would I know?

“You think you have to be bald to be a nun?”

“Yeah, but how would you know which ones have hair

and which don’t?”

“Easy.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Sure.”

“Prove it.”

“What do you want me to do, pull out a piece of their hair?” As soon as I say it, I’m sorry.

“Yeah,” Evelyn says. “A piece of hair. A piece of the tall one’s hair.”

Never let your opponent smell fear. Th

at’s what Swede

always says. I keep my face as blank as snow.

“Easy,” I say again.

“Bet she doesn’t have any hair at all,” Rose says.

“Bet she does,” I say.

Bet it’s the same color as mine, too, I think, but I do not say it.

Th

e nuns are all at chapel, and we’re supposed to be in bed. I fi nd Sister Mary Kate’s room in one shot because her name is on the door. It’s not even locked. Th

is is going to be easy.

Sister’s room is small, with no bunk bed. It has a bedside table just like ours. Th

ere are four things on that table: a book

that says DIARY on the front, another book that says Th e

Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson, a Bible, of course, and a funny-looking comb with a long, pointy handle. I pick up the 52

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S N O W B I R D / C h i c k i e

comb, and sure enough, there’s one strand of hair on it, one strand you can barely see, because Sister Mary Kate’s hair is blond as sunlight, just like mine.

I smile. I know I should go right back to our dorm room, but I am a curious person, and I don’t give up that easily.

Swede says curiosity killed the cat, but I am smarter than the cat. I pick up the diary and open it to the fi rst page.

Sister’s diary is fi lled with a cursive handwriting that is very pretty, but skinny and kind of hard to read. I have to squint to make it out, like someone who needs glasses.

The children looked so small and needy

sitting before me like a sea of dark faces.

It would be hard to tell the difference

between the Indians and Eskimos, except

for the fact that they seem to segregate

themselves into two groups.

I stop reading, surprised. Hard to tell the diff erence between Indians and Eskimos? Maybe Sister needs glasses.

Father Mullen told us that this animosity is

due to savage feuds. It will be our job to teach

them to behave as educated Christians, our job

to teach them that they must be the ones to

eradicate the rampant ignorance and poverty

that exists amongst their people.

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I do not know what to think about this. What do these words mean? Animosity, savage, eradicate, rampant, ignorance, and poverty. We do not use these kinds of words in Kotzebue.

“Well?” says Evelyn.

We’re sitting at breakfast, watching Sister Mary Kate, and now all four of us—me, Donna, Evelyn, and Rose—know that Sister Mary Kate has hair, and we all know it’s the same color as mine. Only longer. But Evelyn wants to know more.

“So what else she got?” Evelyn says. “How come you never say?”

She leans close to me when she talks because the boys are sitting right next to us and we both have agreed, without actually saying it, that Sister’s stuff is none of their business.

“Well?”

I look over at Sister Mary Kate, and she looks back like she knows we’re talking about her. My cheeks get hot, and I suddenly feel very, very guilty.

“She doesn’t have anything. Just a comb and a Bible and a book of poems written by some lady.” My cheeks get even hotter and the boys are starting to look at me, too. Me and my red freckles.

“Hey, Snowbird! How come you get so red?” says Bunna.

Bunna started calling me Snowbird because my name is Chickie and I am white like a snowbird. He thinks he’s funny.

Now all the boys next to him are chirping “snowbird, snowbird,” like a winter chorus of big, wild birds.

I wish I could melt right into my chair, but instead I sit up 54

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straight and stare right at my opponent, just like Swede says to do. Look ’em in the eyes,