Jan Bourdeau Waboose

“She did it. Kathy saw her. She’s awful. She did it.” I heard the
whispers. Then the snickers.

“Eunice, Eunice, Eunice.” It was like hissing. She’s worse than
those Pettch girls.” The words felt hotter and more prickly than my
woollen sweater. I bit my bottom lip to stop it from quivering and
my teeth held it there until it almost bled. The only ones not snick-
ering were the Pettch girls.

The heavy door opened and closed slamming behind me. The
silence in his office was pressing against my ears and making them
hurt. He motioned for me to sit in the large black leather chair.
I sat, not moving. My feet hung in mid-air, they could not reach the
floor. I wished the chair would swallow me entirely. I watched him
pull open his desk drawer and place the thick black piece of
leather on top of the desk. Then he removed his jacket, undid his
shiny silver cuff links and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He did not
look at me when he spoke. We both watched his fat hairy fingers
move up and down the black leather strip.

“Eunice . . . er, Janice. We don't tolerate thievery in this school.
1 can call the truant officer in, or we can deal with it here, now. You
will be taught your lesson. Stealing is a crime.” He rubbed the
strap some more. “Indian kids need proper direction, if they are to
make something of themselves. Now, I want to explain this, and
don't try to lie about this. Kathy Anderson saw you hiding these
things. These have been stolen from the students here and there
are other things missing, too.” He opened his desk again and
placed a gold pen, two red barrettes, a striped ball and a blue wal-
let with a pink dancing lady on it in front of me. “Now why don't
you start with the right words to explain why this stuff was found
in your desk!”

His words swirled in a fog making me dizzy. I clutched my
stomach. I felt like [ was going to throw up. Thief. I am a thief. What
is he saying to me and why is the pen, the barrettes, ball and the
wallet on his desk? They were given to me, in fair trade . . . and
then I thought of the Pettch girls.

The Pettch girls. The poor, dirty Pettch girls. No one liked
them. No one played with them. They smelled and their clothes
were dirty. Their short red hair was tangled and had cooties more
than once. Everyone stayed away from the Pettch girls. Of course,

24