Trevor Cameron
Reunion

Pigs were squealing, trying to dig deeper into the mud to escape the
afternoon heat. My oldest brother Henry told me that pigs can’t sweat.
That’s why it’s dumb to say, “Sweat like a pig”. 1 shivered and
scratched at an imaginary bug crawling under my yellow t-shirt and up
my back. Pigs are gross, they will eat anything. That’s why feeding
them is not part of my chores. Jack says that having my hands near the
trough would be enough for them to start chewing them off. Ugh!

Henry says little Indian girls with green eyes are the yummiest
and that’s why I get bit more, even from the mosquitoes. Teenagers are
so dumb.

I had fed and watered the chickens and now they dotted the lush
green of the yard. They seemed to scratch around at nothing, probably
looking for little bugs. I ran towards one throwing my hands in the air
and making scary gobble-de-gook noises. I laughed and shook my
head. She didn’t try to run very far, just a loud squawk and a jump.

Oops! I forgot I was trying to be quiet. I took the softest steps I
could across the yard; my brown ponytail bounced against the middle
of my back like the finger of a friend egging me on. It was the middle
of July and my cousins were coming to visit for the reserve’s pow-
wow; I wanted to fix up my room. I skipped up the porch stairs, took
off my black rubber boots and inched the screen door open. Safe. Mom
and Jen weren’t in the kitchen. I had to be careful because lately,
conversations at our dinner table became a debate on how many
chores an eight year old was capable of doing. Jen, my older sister,
believes in child labour.

I slid down the hallway in my white socks, the slight breeze
brushed back my bangs. I jumped to hug the wall as I passed my
parent’s room. Mom on her bed with a small box in her hands. My
room is next door and I tiptoed to it. Carefully turning the doorknob
closed, I let out a breath.

“Mom. Mom!”

It was Jen yelling. Jen is a teenager, and Mom really likes to go
shopping with her. Jen says that it is unfair that she has brown eyes and
that I’m pretty ‘cause I don’t even care what I look like. One time, she
offered to paint my nails. I had so much dirt under my fingernails she
called me a heathen. I asked Dad what that meant and he said Jen was

28