The next morning, Dad drove me the twenty-two miles to Reardan. 

"I'm scared," I said. 

"I'm scared, too," Dad said. 

He hugged me close. His breath smelled like mouthwash and lime vodka. 

"You don't have to do this," he said. "You can always go back to the rez school." 

"No," I said. "I have to do this." 

Can you imagine what would have happened to me if I'd turned around and gone back to the rez school? 

I would have been pummeled. Mutilated. Crucified. 

You can't just betray your tribe and then change your mind ten minutes later. I was on a one-way bridge. There was no way to turn around, even if I wanted to. 

"Just remember this," my father said. "Those white people aren't better than you." 

But he was so wrong. And he knew he was wrong. He was the loser Indian father of a loser Indian son living in a world built for winners. 

But he loved me so much. He hugged me even closer. 

 "This is a great thing," he said. "You're so brave. You're a warrior. 

It was the best thing he could have said. 

"Hey, here's some lunch money," he said and handed me a dollar.  

We were poor enough to get free lunch, but I didn't want to be the only Indian and a sad sack who needed charity. 

"Thanks, Dad," I said. 

"I love you," he said. 

"I love you, too." 

I felt stronger so I stepped out of the car and walked to the front door.